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

rejected that, from her or from anyone. John Barrish did not need sympathy. He did not need pity. Both offerings were from and for the meek, and he could be characterized as nothing if not the total opposite of that.
    “Pop, there’s no way they can trace any of what happened to us,” Toby assured him. “I was careful with Freddy. Real careful.”
    Barrish faced his son again. “I knew you would be. This just shouldn’t have happened.”
    “I know.”
    It had to be Freddy the federal pig was talking about on TV when he mentioned a dead fugitive. Freddy was that, to be certain. But then the pig from the Internal Robbery Service had it coming, John believed. It hadn’t been done cleanly, but some resistance actions were bound to be messy. Freddy simply came from a group that subscribed to the belief that the dirtier the action was, the better.
    “I’m glad he’s out of the picture,” Barrish said. “You did good keeping him at arm’s length, Toby.”
    “I knew he didn’t fit into our group, Pop, but he served a purpose. Means to an end,” Toby added as an afterthought.
    “That’s right,” Barrish agreed. “When is the meeting?”
    “Monday,” Toby answered. “Stan and I are going to meet them at the zoo.”
    Barrish’s eyes looked down in thought briefly. “Keep an eye on Stanley. He’s still young.”
    “He just needs a little toughening, that’s all,” Toby said. “This’ll help.”
    Barrish nodded acceptance of his eldest’s belief. “And you watch the Africans. You hear me?” He tapped his temple with a single finger. “They may be feeble up here, but they have centuries of genes on their side in the muscle department.”
    “I’ll be careful.”
    “Make sure Stanley understands that, too,” Barrish admonished his son.
    “I will.”
    The heat of the moment was subsiding now. Barrish let several breaths loose to unwind further. “I want to see it.”
    The words took Toby by surprise. “That’s not a good idea, Pop. You should be as far away from the stuff as possible.”
    “I want to see it,” he repeated, his wish obviously not up for further discussion. “Tonight.”
    “Okay, Pop. Tonight.”
     

 
    THREE
    Relations
    Darren Griggs wondered how one man could hate so much. He had puzzled over the same question more than a year before, when the name of John Barrish sparked images of a pitiful man who was so fearful of those whose skin was of a darker hue than his that he would champion their removal from “white” America. Now, as the head of a family torn apart by the actions of that same man he had pitied, Darren Griggs knew that he could hate even more.
    Yet his hate was more profound. It came from a place inside that used to be filled with a contrasting emotion. Now there was a blazing inferno there. His rage was burning, aching for vengeance, consuming its host as it searched for a target of opportunity. It had tempted him to strike out at his own family, but he resisted, burying it deeper. His wife, already destroyed by the vicious murder of her little girl, was little more than a shell of the woman she had been. His son, who had doted on his little sister like any big brother would, was now more of an adversary in their family structure than a member. He thrived on conflict, savoring it, even in the smallest amounts. Arguments with his defenseless mother. Defiance of his father. And, even though Moises was of age, this devastated his father, who had always been the closest of friends with his son. Now the rift could hardly be wider.
    And what could Darren do? He himself was teetering on the brink, ready to succumb to destructive urges, which would destroy the last vestige of shaky stability in his family. And that knowledge had guided him to the logical answer to the question. There was something he could do. Something he had to do.
    Darren left his car a block and a half from La Brea and began walking east, his right hand curled around the rolled-up flyer. He had