Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) by Ryne Douglas Pearson Page A

name, but Bud had some calling that needed to come first. The first number he dialed was that of the president’s chief of staff. After a brief conversation requesting a meeting he dialed the other. It was answered by the supervising agent of the Secret Service presidential detail.
    *  *  *
    Cat and Dog . The title of the book John Barrish held while sitting in the overstuffed chair might have led one to believe that the subject was rudimentary reading skills for children. But it was not.
    There is the cat, an obvious hunter, difficult to domesticate and train, cunning, yet susceptible to the distraction of simple stimuli such as a string dangled before it. Then there is the dog, a thinker, able to follow commands to a much higher degree than the cat. It learns. It is loyal. It obeys commands of logic presented to it. It is discerning.
    The cat and the dog inhabit the planet together. They are each prolific breeders. Yet they have never mixed, never attempted to meld their distinct selves into one bastardized offspring. Why? Why?
    “Because they know better,” John said aloud, answering the question posed by the book’s author, Dr. Felix Trent, a social and racial theorist from the early part of the century whose writings and teachings had helped a very angry and a very confused young John Barrish find the proper way to channel his energetic convictions on the subject of race.
    Because they know better. The cat functions as a more primitive creature, successful in the environment it chooses. The dog functions at a higher level in its own environment. Logic tells the two not to mix. No biological reasoning need be added.
    For the African and the Aryan the question is the same, as it is for all other races defined by their bloodline and simpler cultures. The African is a hunter, a gatherer, a master of an uncivilized environment whereby its natural physical strengths and lack of inhibiting moral codes allow it to thrive. The Aryan is of a higher order, an organizer, a builder, an exploiter of tools and technology. There can be no dispute to this, nor can there be a dispute that any mixing of these races, whether by habitation in proximity to one another or by, in a more serious and tragic sense, relations that produce mixed offspring, will end in disaster. The animals know better. So should we.
    It was just the foreword to one of Trent’s many books, but it was powerful, John thought. So simple. Separation. Was it so hard a concept to understand? It was not for him. The Africans—why people persisted in antagonizing them by calling them niggers and the like was beyond him—could have Africa. The Aryans of pure blood could have America, the country built by white people, and parts of Europe, though he believed that so much mixing had occurred there that that continent was best abandoned, surrendered to the Gypsies and their cohorts. America would be for the white man.
    John closed the book with a satisfying slap that coincided with the opening of the front door. His eldest boy was back. Finally! he thought, hoping some questions would now be answered. “What happened?”
    “I don’t know, Pop,” Toby Barrish said, shrugging apologetically.
    “The TV said there was an accident,” Barrish said, the force in his words exceeded by the menace in his posture. His feet shuffled on the living room carpet like a bull’s before the charge.
    “Calm down, Pop,” Toby said. “I checked the stuff. It’s safe.”
    “But what the hell happened out there?!” Barrish demanded, his small neck bulging and his teeth gritted as short breaths whistled through them.
    “I don’t know. Freddy was supposed to take care of things after I picked up the stuff. When I left him he was going to go back in and do it.”
    Barrish rubbed a hand over his head and turned away from his son. Through the doorway to the kitchen he saw his wife looking at him, her face covered with that same, weak expression of what she thought was concern. He