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Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful.
                                                                                                Proverbs 27:6

1

Dave O’Brien muted the sound on the television before speed dialing Karen Crutchlow. He knew she wouldn’t pick up for at least four rings, so he left the phone in hands-free mode and grabbed a blue felt-tip pen, then scrawled his signature on several letters that lay in front of him. Glancing out the window of his third floor office in the Rayburn building across Independence Avenue, Dave noticed the cherry trees laden with blossoms near their peak.

Finally, he heard Karen’s nasal voice, which always sounded like a bad imitation of Lily Tomlin’s Ernestine character. “Congressman Sebring’s Office. How may I help—”

He lifted the receiver. “Karen, it’s Dave. I need five minutes with the old man.”

She clucked her tongue—not a good sign. “His schedule is tight, Mr. O’Brien.”

Someone must have been standing near her desk for Karen to favor him with the title mister. An uneasy truce existed between them, since each was indispensable to the “old man,” as they had dubbed their boss. Dave supervised everybody in the office except the Congressman and Karen—the gatekeeper—who had worked for Sebring since his days in the Pennsylvania State Senate. She recited from the afternoon schedule: “He’s at the Defense Appropriations Sub-Committee now, followed by a brief appearance at the Manufacturers Association’s reception….”

Her tone was so calm and aloof, it was clear to him that she didn’t have a clue about the news bulletin.

“Then he has an appointment with Congressman Davis,” she continued, “and Parker’s on the schedule for fifteen minutes at six-forty-five.”

Parker? Dave scowled. Why did one of the new policy analysts have an appointment? Glancing at his watch, he said, “Think you could squeeze me in?”

“You’re officially on for seven o’clock,” she said, adding, “unless he gets called to the floor for a vote.”

“No more votes today,” Dave announced. He made a bet with himself that she wouldn’t ask him how he knew. He loved having vital information before she did; he pictured Karen sitting at her desk staring up at whoever stood next to her, twisting her lips into a curious smile.

“See you then,” she said crisply.

Dave hung up the phone.

“Ha!” He slapped his hand on the desk. I won. Fishing a quarter out of his pocket, he tossed his winnings into a glass jar on his desk on which he had taped a cartoon sketch of a bearded man on a palm-tree-shaded island. The marooned man held a bottle of rum, while in the distance a raft carrying a voluptuous young woman floated toward the island. The caption read: I hope she brought her own bottle.

Dave aimed the remote at the portable TV on the credenza beside his desk, turning up the volume on C-SPAN. The camera panned to a wide shot of the Speaker of the House presiding from the rostrum, while the chaplain—standing at a lectern in the well of the chamber—finished a prayer. “…and we humbly ask your blessing for Congressman Macklin’s family, his beloved wife Beatrice, and their daughter Grace. Grant them peace in their darkest hour, we beseech thee our Lord. Amen.”

Holding his chin in his hand, Dave studied the screen where a close-up of the Speaker now appeared. With eyes downcast and shoulders slumped, the Speaker announced, “Due to the death of our esteemed colleague and friend, Congressman Macklin, the House will stand in recess until Noon tomorrow. The chair will notify the members of any further delays in the schedule—”

Dave surfed for a channel with news of the crash, and paused when he got to MSNBC. It had been only five minutes since he first heard about the accident, yet on the screen above a “breaking news” graphic a crawl provided skimpy details, and above that, a Seattle station’s live feed of Congressman Macklin’s plane crash scene in the Olympic Mountains. Dave could see rain drops pelting the camera’s lens from the open cockpit of a helicopter, as it photographed the charred wreckage of an executive jet—similar to the kind he and Sebring had used many times on trips to the Congressman’s district. A chill shuddered through his body. Dave feared for the safety of the helicopter pilot in the driving rain. He wouldn’t have to wait a year or more for the National Transportation Safety Board to announce the cause of the Congressman’s crash. Weather seemed a sure bet.

Dave clicked off the TV. There was important work to do.

Opening his office door, he shouted, “Betsey!” But Dave didn’t spot her, or anyone else in what he had dubbed the pit; a group of four wooden desks shoved together just outside his office. Although they had quit calling them interns a few years back, the pit served as base for highly motivated college students eager to function as gofers for a few months in order to feel the pulse of Washington power. He had handpicked them, Sherry the blonde, Kate the redhead, and Betsey the brunette. To Dave’s eye, Betsey Beasley with her short curly brown hair was the most attractive of the three; though he wondered what her parents were thinking when they gave her that alliterative name.

He loved to ask Betsey into his office. It may have been his imagination, but on more than one occasion Dave thought Betsey must have enjoyed teasing his libido as she found an excuse to bend over in one of her short skirts. Then she’d flash him a knowing smile. But he resisted acting on animal impulses, and tried to remember the position he held.

Dave enjoyed playing the role of political mentor. At the end of a slow day he’d invite all the students to join him in his office, where they’d sit in a circle and talk about their Washington experiences. It gave him an opportunity to savor the curved calves and tight skirts on those buxom coeds—nothing wrong with feeding his fantasies. In addition to the eye-candy he’d also selected Walt, a six-foot-three African-American who played halfback for Pitt. No one would ever accuse Dave O’Brien of not providing equal opportunity gofer assignments.

Just thinking about Betsey was making him horny, and he called toward the gray fabric-covered cubicles lining the wall beyond the pit, “Betsey!”

“She never showed up today,” a voice replied from the other side of a partition. Dave recognized Parker Rouse’s superior tone, and an idea quickly formed in his brain.

He stuck his head inside the three-foot opening to Parker’s cubicle. “Where are all the collegiate assistants?” Dave asked, using the euphemism they’d adopted in place of interns.

“There’s a baby shower across the hall in Bainbridge’s office. For a secretary, I think. But, like I said, Betsey never showed. Kate tried to reach her at her apartment and on her cell, but no answer.”

Dave mulled that information before saying, “Hey Parker, you busy?”

Parker smirked. “Always busy, sir. But I can shift gears.”

Such a kiss-ass! Dave knew Parker must have kissed somebody’s ass to get the job, since Sebring had personally ordered his hiring, a responsibility usually reserved for him.

“Good,” Dave said. “I need your help with research. Congressman Macklin was killed in a plane crash this afternoon.” Parker’s eyes widened and his jaw hung slack, and Dave could see he had his full attention. “Get me a list…”

The policy analyst’s intercom buzzed, interrupting their conversation. “This is Parker,” he said toward the phone, after punching the button.

Karen Crutchlow’s voice had an edge to it as it filtered through the speaker, and Dave could tell she’d finally heard the news. “Parker, the Congressman would like to see you right now.”

Shit. Congressman trumps chief of staff.

 2

Dave scooped papers from his desk, shoved them into his monogrammed leather portfolio, and headed toward Sebring’s office at the opposite end of the congressional office suite. Even though Rayburn held the largest and most prized offices for House members—assigned on the basis of seniority—Dave missed their old suite in the Longworth building named for Speaker of the House Nicholas Longworth who married Teddy Roosevelt’s daughter, Alice. Not only did the Neo-Classical Revival-style building have more charm than the Rayburn, but there his office had an adjoining door to Sebring’s. While he couldn’t exactly eavesdrop on conversations, he’d had a better sense of the comings and goings—picking up a key word or two over the transom that made him feel more connected. Back then, Sebring would often tap on Dave’s door and invite him to join a meeting in progress, usually when he needed expertise on an issue or when a visitor became too persistent. Nowadays, at Rayburn, the Congressman was known to step out of a meeting and grab the nearest staffer he could find whenever he felt the need for reinforcements.

On his way to the closed door of the inner sanctum Dave breezed past Karen Crutchlow, avoiding her piercing gaze.

“You can’t go in yet,” the gatekeeper said, stopping him just as abruptly as if she’d grabbed the back of his suit jacket. “You might as well sit down,” she added, “the Speaker just called.”

Flopping into a nearby chair, Dave leaned back and exhaled. He gazed at the ceiling, all the while sensing that Karen was eyeing him. He heard faint voices, and realized they were from the radio on Karen’s desk, tuned to WTOP—Washington’s all-news station. Dave felt anxious, like the last time he’d waited for a root canal at the dentist’s office. He shifted uneasily in his seat, more than any previous time he’d spent waiting for the Congressman. Macklin’s death had changed everything, created opportunities. Then it dawned on him; Karen had mentioned the Speaker’s call, which meant she wasn’t holding a grudge because he hadn’t shared the news with her about the plane crash. He tipped his head forward and stared at her.

Her gray hair was pulled into a bun, with two ivory-colored rods skewered into the top that always reminded him of chopsticks. Fine wisps of hair fell out of the arrangement at her temples, and her eyes looked puffier than usual. A crumpled tissue lay on her desk blotter. With a wry expression, she said, “Too bad about Congressman Macklin.”

Dave nodded. Tilting his head toward the Congressman’s door, he asked, “How’s the old man taking the news?”

She stiffened in her chair, and peered at him over the top of her half-lens reading glasses. “I’m not sure he’s grasped the full significance yet.”

Karen’s answer surprised him. He realized she had offered her insight so he could anticipate the challenge. Karen was shrewd; she thought like him, and in the coming political battle Dave knew he could count on her as an ally. The late-Congressman Macklin had been the powerful chair of the House Appropriations’ Committee. Sebring was next in seniority—which in the pre-Gingrich days would have guaranteed him the chairmanship. Not any more. Victory on that front would require a lot of work, but first they had to make sure that the old man agreed with his plan. Dave smiled at her, and the steely look in her eyes told him that when it came to advancing Noah Sebring’s career he’d be marching second in line behind her.

Glancing toward her phone console, Karen said, “The light just went off. You can go in.”

Dave rose from his chair.

“Ah, hold on…” She puckered her mouth as she stared at her phone. “He just picked up his private line.”

Before he could return to his chair, Dave heard ominous music emanating from Karen’s radio, signaling an update on a major story. Karen turned up the volume, and Dave stood bracing himself with his hands on her desk. Both of them listened intently.

From CBS radio, here’s an update on the crash earlier today of the plane carrying Congressman Terry Macklin back to the nation’s capital from his district just south of Seattle. CBS News has learned that in addition to the Congressman and two members of the flight crew, two key members of his staff—Lori Middleton, executive director of the House Appropriations Committee and Ron Jaffe, his administrative assistant—were also killed. The twin engine Gulfstream IV-SP, which according to a congressional spokesman had been leased for the trip, went down at approximately 1:40 p.m. Pacific time in the mountains west of Seattle.

Dave felt like he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He knew both Lori and Ron, and recalled playing tennis once a week with Ron Jaffe when they worked on the fourth floor of the Longworth building. Ron had the same job as Dave did; the only difference was that Macklin, whose background was in business, preferred calling Jaffe administrative assistant rather than chief of staff.

Late this afternoon, the National Transportation Safety Board dispatched a team of investigators from Washington, DC to Seattle. The NTSB declined to speculate on the cause of the accident, promising that they would explore all possible causes. Meanwhile, an official with the Department of Homeland Security said that a terrorist attack was unlikely as the cause of the crash, which ended the legislator’s 37-year career in the House. Local observers note that weather conditions were marginal at the time of the crash, with heavy rain and wind gusting to forty miles per hour.

Dave’s thoughts turned to Lori Middleton. In addition to looking for a new chair of Appropriations, there was also a vacancy as the committee’s executive director. It raised the stakes for him personally. Ever since American Government 101 at Duquesne University, Dave had dreamed of heading a legislative committee’s staff.

“Dave, come in.”

He heard the Congressman’s firm voice behind him. Dave turned to face him, noticing the tan from his recent tour of military installations in Southeast Asia.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sebring said, glancing at his watch, then added, “Karen, there’s no need for you to stay.”

As Dave headed toward their meeting he saw Karen Crutchlow straightening the papers on her desk blotter before she lifted her purse from the bottom desk drawer. Then he felt the old man’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the office. Dave, still gripping his portfolio of papers, sat in his usual chair to the left of the Congressman’s desk.

“I understand the Speaker called,” Dave began, after his boss had lowered his six-foot tall athletic frame into the cushioned chair behind the desk. Dave hoped he would look as well when he reached the age of seventy-two.

“Don’t ever have children,” Sebring grumbled.

Where did that come from, Dave wondered, as he thought about his own thirteen-year-old son from whom he was estranged? “I’m sorry, sir?”

“You might want to buy a dog,” he said, while searching through the top drawer of his desk. “You can play with a dog, feed it, take it for walks, and it won’t ask for anything more.”

Dave remembered the call Sebring made after he talked with the Speaker. The one Karen noted on his private line. It must have been from his son, and clearly had upset him. Dave tried to picture Sebring’s son; it had been several years since he’d seen him. Tom Sebring was a few years older than Dave, with dark brown hair, and a runner’s physique. But it was his tepid personality that had stuck in Dave’s memory. He expected the son of one of the most gregarious members of Congress to have more, well, oomph. Dave hesitated before asking, “Did you talk with your son?”

Sebring brought a checkbook to his desktop, pulled a fountain pen from the engraved silver holder on his desk—a gift from his staff on his twenty-fifth anniversary in Congress—and began filling in the blanks on a check. He frowned. “Yes. He calls me whenever he needs money, and not just fifty or a hundred. This time it’s $3,000. For car repairs.” He tore the check from the book. “Or so he claims.”

Dave had never seen the old man—usually the most even-tempered of men—quite as peeved.

“Even asked me to overnight it to him” Sebring said, shaking his head. “Well, damn it,” Sebring muttered, “he’ll get it when Karen has time to send it,” adding in a strong voice, “Give me a minute, Dave.”

The Congressman scribbled a note. Reading upside down, a talent that served him well in congressional intelligence, Dave thought he saw an address in Tampa, Florida, and watched as Sebring clipped it onto the check he’d written and placed it in Karen’s basket on the corner of his desk.

“The Speaker called,” Sebring said, seemingly refocused, as if the act of depositing the check in his “out basket” had shed him of the problem. “He’s asked me to serve on the committee to organize a memorial service for Congressman Macklin. Our first meeting is in the Speaker’s office tomorrow morning at ten. I’d like you to go with me.”

Dave nodded, and asked, “Who else is on the committee?”

“Six of us. In addition to the Speaker, and the Majority and Minority Leaders, Congressman Miller from Washington State—he got his start on Macklin’s staff before his election in a neighboring district—and Representative Reynolds.”

Dave winced. He knew Reynolds would be vying for the Appropriations Committee chairmanship too, and her inclusion meant the Speaker wasn’t ready to take sides. Her gender and age would be an asset, he figured, especially for a party trying to attract more voters to their so-called big tent for the next general election.

“Did the Speaker say anything about Appropriations?”

“No. And with Reynolds on the memorial committee, I knew it was too early to ask for his support.”

Dave smiled. They were on the same wavelength; there was no doubt Sebring had already thought about moving up as Appropriations’ chair. Dave would have to figure out a way to advance his boss while neutralizing Reynolds’ assets.

“We’ve got work to do,” Dave said, opening his portfolio. “I’ve researched the most likely contenders.” Handing Sebring a couple of sheets of paper, he added, “The first page shows the committee members by seniority. You’re the most senior, followed by Reynolds. I think we can expect Drew McCarren to vie for the position, as the highest ranking southerner on the committee he’d draw significant support.”

Sebring nodded.

“Tawney might be interested,” Dave continued, “but he just won the chairmanship of the Defense Committee back in January. The second page has a breakdown of the last round of committee leadership decisions, which were based mostly on party loyalty and PAC assistance to fellow members—seniority came in third.”

Dave watched as the old man leaned back in his chair and studied the briefing materials.

The Congressman laid the papers on his desk. “Dave, it’s times like this when I wish you were my son.”

3  

Dave trudged across Independence Avenue; the tension from the long day hung around his shoulders more tightly than the trench coat he wore.

The sun had set, and the sky filled with the deep blue of twilight. It was that time of year when his workday began in darkness. When he got out of the office early enough he’d get home in time to see green grass on the ten by ten-foot plot of land next to the driveway of his townhouse. Maybe this year, he thought, he’d find time to plant a few flowers.

The cool spring air felt good, but as he breathed deep he groped for a handkerchief to cope with a sneeze. Damn pollen!

Dave made his way past the east front of the Capitol, pausing to gaze at the majestic white dome bathed in spotlights. He still had vivid memories of his first trip to Washington to interview for a Senate page position when he was fourteen years old. He and his dad had arrived by Amtrak—his first train trip—on a January night. Emerging from Union Station the sight of the illuminated dome had stirred lump-in-the-throat patriotism and plain old wow. When he joined Sebring’s staff—hard to believe it was twelve years ago—Dave vowed that if he ever walked by the Capitol and failed to appreciate the wonder, it would be time for him to leave Washington. As he glanced back over his shoulder at the shining symbol of American democracy, he found himself softly singing: Oh-o say can you see…

Dave quickened his steps as he reached Union Station and headed down the escalator toward the Metro. As he stood on the tile-lined platform, beneath the honeycomb-style concrete vaulted ceiling that characterized all of Washington’s underground Metro stations, he glanced at his watch. 7:30 p.m. Most evenings, following his walk across the Capitol plaza, he would start to relax, but not that night. His brain kept pinging with competing ideas and strategies.

The Red line train rolled alongside the platform, shiny cars with Metro’s color-scheme of blue and burgundy vinyl seats, gradually replacing the 70’s-era yellow and orange ones. As the doors slid open about a third of the passengers got out at the busy stop, a transfer station for Amtrak and commuter rail trains into Maryland and Virginia. Dave quickly boarded, plopped into an empty seat, and loosened his tie while unbuttoning the top button on his pale blue shirt. “Doors closing,” a recorded-voice announced, then after several chimes she warned, “Please, stand clear of the doors. Thank you!” The doors shut and the train rumbled out of the station.

Dave prized his evening commute—a chance to decompress and do nothing—the buffer between work and what little other life he had. He knew that at 6:30 the next morning, heading in the opposite direction, he would once again speed read The Washington Post and Washington Times, paying close attention to the issues affecting Sebring’s committee assignments—defense appropriations, judicial oversight, congressional ethics. Arriving at the office he’d find a copy of the New York Times, so that he could see their view of the world, then he’d read the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, followed by a dozen local papers to keep his finger on the pulse of the Congressman’s district.

Thinking about the media gave him an idea. As he transferred to the Green line train platform at Fort Totten, Dave pulled out his cell phone and called Deborah Stahl, Sebring’s communications director. Deb was a top-notch PR professional that he had lured away from a junior Senator’s office. Not many staffers willingly made the trip from the Senate to the House side of the Capitol, but Sebring had power—an aphrodisiac for an ambitious political staffer—more power than her junior Senator, from the minority party, would likely see in a decade.

“Hey, Deb, it’s Dave,” he said, when she had answered.

“I wondered when I’d hear from you. I’m watching a special on CNN about Macklin. The man hasn’t been dead for three hours and they’re already speculating about his replacement at Appropriations,” she said.

“Did they mention Sebring?” Dave asked.

“Yeah, but not before touting Marilyn Reynolds’ prospects,” Deb said.

Dave felt his jaw tighten; he’d feared just such a scenario.

Deb Stahl added, “We gotta do something about that.”

She took the words right out of his mouth.

 4

Dave reached for the garage door opener clipped to his car’s visor, and punched the button. The garage door rose at his command and he eased his Grand Cherokee inside, and then turned off the engine. Another push of the button and the door ground noisily shut behind him. He climbed out of the car. Dave quickly disabled the security system as he entered the ground floor of his townhouse using the numbered pad next to the door—1-2-1-9. He’d selected the code because of Sean’s birthday, December 19th; it was a way to ensure that, twice a day at least, he would think about his son.

The house was stifling. Dave remembered he’d turned up the thermostat that morning just to take the chill off, and forgot to lower the temperature before he’d left. Now it felt like a sauna. He began shedding his clothes as he passed through the empty family room in which he had piled still unopened moving boxes, past the unused fireplace, and trotted up the steps toward the main living floor. After draping his coat and tie over a dining room chair, he lowered the thermostat to 67 degrees, then opened a kitchen window.

Dave grabbed a Michelob Light from his refrigerator, and dashed to the third floor where he flipped on a light at his bedside and opened another window. Unbuttoning his shirt, he peered out onto the empty parking lot of Eleanor Roosevelt High School, lit in the pale-yellow of sodium vapor lights. The historic city of Greenbelt, Maryland began as one of the first planned communities in the nation, committed to providing green space for its residents—thus the name—and fostered by the First Lady after whom they had named the school. He had bought the townhouse in a new section of Greenbelt a decade earlier, after Emily left him. The real estate agent kept emphasizing the value of the “end unit.” At the time Dave only wanted to try and pick up the pieces of his life, and never stopped to think that the school’s parking lot view was hardly worth the few thousand extra he paid.

Dave stripped off his shirt, tossing it into a hamper in his closet. Then he doused the light next to his bed before slipping off his pants, and folding them neatly onto a hanger. It didn’t matter to him that he seldom made his bed, but hanging his suits carefully and occasionally pressing them saved on dry cleaning bills. Dave returned to the open window wearing only a pair of white boxers. He popped open the beer and took a sip.

A cool March breeze wafted over him as he rolled his shoulders to shake the day’s tensions. Deb Stahl may be his most important ally in advancing Sebring to the Appropriations chairmanship, he thought. Politicians lived by perceptions; knowing who’s up or down was more than a cottage industry in Washington, where spinners earned big bucks crafting images for their candidates. Deb had said what they both knew, that Sebring had the strongest resume. Deb told him she thought Reynolds’ image was “spun like cotton candy,” and that she’d find the reporter who could take a bite of the sugary confection and “melt it in her mouth.” Her imagery worked for Dave, and he congratulated himself for bringing Deb Stahl on Sebring’s team.

Spotting a car driving into the deserted school parking lot, Dave stepped back from the window lest the car’s headlights reveal his presence. Another car followed and soon the two cars were parallel-parked, driver’s door opposite driver’s door. Dave knelt down so that only his head remained above the windowsill, hiding his white boxers rather than let them flash a signal like a semaphore flag. He guzzled more beer as he watched the scene twenty yards from his window. He heard voices, a man and a woman’s, he thought, but he couldn’t make out words; then a high-pitched giggle—one was definitely a woman. After a few minutes the engine stilled on one of the cars, its lights went out, and a young woman emerged. Illuminated by the nearest light pole, fifty yards to her left, Dave could tell she had long dark hair. He watched as she turned to lock her car door, and in the process aimed her ass—clad in tight jeans—toward the man’s window. It seemed to Dave that she lingered in that slightly bent over position fumbling with her keys at the lock, all the while shaking her booty at her friend. He wondered about their relationship: a man and his mistress, two people who’d hooked up on the Internet and had just met, or teenagers who found a way around their parents’ prohibition that they see each other. Dave could only imagine the hypnotic effect the swaying of the woman’s tail was having on the guy in the other car, but it stirred the horn dog in him and he adjusted his boxers.

Having concluded her pre-show and successfully locked her car, the woman hitched the strap of her purse on her shoulder and sashayed in front of the man’s car enroute to the passenger door. Dave appreciated her curved silhouette as she passed the car’s headlights. Once in her seat, Dave watched as she leaned into the driver and their lips met, not in a quick peck, but a lingering kiss that seemed like a prelude to a passionate evening. Moments later the car pulled out of the parking lot.

Inspired by the scene he had just witnessed, Dave went next door to the guest bedroom, a large spacious room the same size as his bedroom. He had divided the room with a partition, in front of which he had placed a futon for use by the occasional guest. Dave headed for the desk behind the partition—where he kept his computer. He fired up the PC intending to find a hot adult chat room and get his rocks off. It would be a fitting end to a long day, and help him sleep.

The 19-inch LCD monitor came to life with an image of a slot machine showing cherries, bars, and a lucky seven. A friend had given it to him for his birthday, knowing his penchant for making penny-ante bets. A different combination appeared each time the computer started, and if any three-way match appeared Dave pitched a quarter into a brass spittoon that had once belonged to his grandfather, and which he kept under his desk for that purpose. If three lucky sevens appeared, he would allow himself to empty the spittoon and splurge on a fancy meal. It hadn’t happened yet. 

He connected to the Internet using a broadband connection, and logged into a Maryland Over-21 chat room using an alternate screen name—not MOBrien35, representing his name and age when he changed Internet service providers three years earlier, and which he used to e-mail friends and family—but one where he could be anonymous. He had discovered that the capital “I,” small “l,” and the number “1” all looked similar. He combined seven of those with a small “i” and his initials - lI1l1Ilimo. Looked like he might be a limo driver in his spare time.  

A quick view of the participants’ list told Dave that there were thirty-four fellow chatters, but those participating in open chat were sparse, which suggested to him that lots of people were either curious lurkers or else were exchanging instant messages, enabling one-on-one chat between two interested parties.

AndyinBalto posted a message in the chat room: Stats? M here, 28, 5’8”,160, br/gr

Within seconds a half a dozen similar replies popped up on the screen. All from guys. Some adding that they were looking to “hook up” while others freely shared their penis size—7” hard here. Dave suspected the more fantastic braggarts used the inch symbol when they meant centimeters.

Wanda4hotfun wrote: anyone for phone sex? im me

Dave double-clicked on Wanda’s screen name, curious to see if she had a profile. She didn’t. Wanda wouldn’t be hearing from him anyway. Dave couldn’t imagine simulating sex over the phone. He couldn’t get through it without chuckling.

Dave looked down and noticed how pale his legs looked, only a shade or two darker than his white boxers. His arms and chest looked equally white, an occupational by-product of working twelve to fourteen-hour days indoors. Still, he thought, his stomach was flat and he had a full head of dark hair. He might not be able to compete with Ben Affleck for women, but he figured he was moderately good looking.

He took another sip of his beer as he scanned the list of chat room participants looking for possible females. LaurelLady seemed like a good prospect, and he checked out her profile. “Angela, 32, professional, considered attractive by friends. Divorced. No kids. Enjoy walking on the beach or through the mall.” Sparse on information, he thought, but he gave her high marks for spelling, capitalization, and punctuation, which had all but disappeared in Internet chat. He clicked on the icon to send her an instant message, writing, “Hi. Lonely guy here in Greenbelt. Enjoy chatting.” He paused before clicking the send key, and decided to edit his IM, taking out the lonely guy part. His new message said, “Hi from Greenbelt. I’d enjoy chatting with you.” Satisfied with the revision, he sent it.

No sooner had he sent it than a message popped up on his screen: LaurelLady is not currently online

Shit. It’s gonna be a long night. He scribbled her screen name on a tablet next to the computer. Maybe he would find her online again sometime.

Dave had resumed scanning the list looking for prospects when an IM appeared on his screen from UGetItNowDunChu, “hi dont ignor me i no u”

Dave frowned and deleted the message. He wasn’t in the mood for games.

He finished the last of his beer and crumpled the can. He smiled, realizing what he had just done. It must be all that fresh testosterone, he thought, which had made him mangle the can.

People came and went from the chat room. As quickly as names dropped off the list, new ones entered. He clicked on the profile for the newest chatter, 368MaidStreet: “single, female, looking for LTR.” Dave knew that meant long-term relationship, but it was a long haul from hot online chat to the altar, and sending her an IM didn’t constitute a proposal. Maybe he was just getting hornier, but this time his IM was more pointed. “Hello. Looking for hot chat here in Greenbelt. Your profile looks interesting to me.” Not exactly the cyber equivalent of what a great perfume you’re wearing, he thought, but it would have to do. He clicked to send.

Another IM arrived from UgetItNowDunChu: “i no who u r dave”

A chill crept up his spine.

Scanning the list of chat room participants, he realized that UgetItNowDunChu was not in his chat room. Dave typed in the name to do a profile search, but as he suspected there wasn’t one. It didn’t surprise him that someone knew his first name. He’d chatted many times using the same screen name, and if asked, especially by someone with whom he enjoyed chatting, he had freely shared his first name. Dave had dealt with people who wanted to play games before, and he’d learned not to give the player the satisfaction, so he once again ignored the message.

A reply popped up on his screen from 368MaidStreet: “hi! kathy here… in bowie  not that far  you seem nice i bet your cute” She knew how to make a guy feel good—even if her caps key didn’t work—and he tugged on his boxers to make room for his growing erection. “Hey, Kathy,” he wrote in reply. “You seem nice, too. What are you wearing tonight?” He sent his message back to her. When she would reveal what she was wearing, he planned to mention that he was nearly naked at his computer.

 Another IM popped up from UgetItNowDunChu: “SEBRING MIGHT WANT TO KNOW WHAT U R UP 2?”

Oh, God. He pushed his chair back from the screen. Dave had heard of people having panic attacks, but now he knew what they felt like. His head spun and he could barely catch his breath. He had to think. What did this guy want? He debated turning off the computer entirely, but worried what might happen next. It wasn’t a Federal crime to troll for fun on the Internet, but Dave reminded himself that within the last hour he had been the one ruminating on the power of perception in Washington. The wrong word to Sebring and his career would be toast. Dave kept telling himself to solve the problem. He managed dozens of crises in the office each day. If he kept a cool head he could get past this one.

He responded to the message with, “What do you want?”

While he waited, he thought about the previous messages, all lower case, misspelled words, no punctuation, and then the most recent one in all caps—the Internet equivalent of shouting—“no” in the previous messages had become “know.” Maybe more than one person was jerking his chain, or maybe, and a smile came to him as he contemplated it, his best friend Brian who knew all about his alter-Internet identity was playing a joke.

Dave composed a second reply: “Hey, Brian. You had me going for a minute.” He was about to hit the send button when a chime signaled the arrival of e-mail. It was from UgetItNowDunChu. Cautiously, Dave opened it. It contained no text, but a jpeg attachment. He clicked on it half expecting to see a cartoon from his best friend. Instead, the image of a nearly naked young woman materialized on his screen. Her hands and feet were tied together, like she’d been hog-tied at a rodeo; her mouth covered with duct tape. She wore only bra and pink panties. Dave felt his stomach churn when he recognized the chestnut eyes—wide and radiating fear—and the short curly brown hair of his favorite intern, Betsey Beasley.

Another IM arrived from UgetItNowDunChu, all Strunk and White proper this time; “Do I have your attention yet?”

Oh, Christ! His hands trembled as he typed, “Don’t hurt her!”

“Does that answer mean, yes?”

Dave hurriedly wrote. “Yes.”

Click on links above to order this book.

Congressional chief of staff Dave O’Brien is salivating at the prospects for advancement in the wake of a tragic plane crash that has opened the way for his boss, Congressman Noah Sebring, to take over the powerful chair of the House Appropriations Committee. But Dave has a problem:  he's received a threatening e-mail accompanied by a photo of a young intern, bound and gagged.

The missing girl's father, unhappy with Dave’s explanations about his daughter's whereabouts, hires a reporter, Nick DaPrato, to go to Washington and “shake things up.” DaPrato has his own credibility issues, since his newspaper fired him for making up sources on an exposé of local corruption.  As the battle for the chairmanship heats up, Dave tries to protect his job, while Nick struggles to keep the search for the intern on the front burner in this epic tale of duplicity and deceit in the nation's capital.