Insatiable Appetites

53

Elton Hills had an early lunch in his son’s study and watched C-SPAN, which was featuring a live session of the House of Representatives. He watched as the House minority leader spoke against a bill sponsored by the other party. Elton knew that face from the newspapers he had begun reading, and he knew the man’s voice from the tape Bruce Willard had played him of the meeting that Evan had attended and, later, exposed. The voice grated on his nerves.

Elton looked up the number of the House in the phone book and, when it was answered, asked for the office of Representative Evan Hills.

“Good morning,” he said to the young man who answered. “My name is Elton Hills. I am the father of Congressman Hills, and I wonder if I might speak to his chief of staff?”

“Just a moment, Mr. Hills.”

He was kept on hold for about a minute, then a young woman came on the line. “Mr. Hills?”

“Yes.”

“This is Elaine Tozer. I’m Congressman Hills’s chief of staff. May I express the sincere condolences of all of us in his office on your terrible loss?”

“Thank you, Miss Tozer,” Elton said. “That is very kind of you.”

“Not at all. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Actually, there is. I wonder if I could come to the Capitol and see my son’s office? I’d like to know where he worked.”

“Of course you may, Mr. Hills. I’d be delighted to receive you here and take you to his office.”

“Is there a room number?”

She gave it to him. “How will you be arriving?”

“In my car, with a driver.”

She told him how to get to the garage and said she would arrange a visitor’s parking pass. “I’ll be happy to meet you in the garage and bring you to Evan’s office. When would you like to come?”

“Would an hour from now be all right?”

“Of course. I’ll meet you in the garage at that time.”

Elton thanked her, then he packed his things, left the housekeepers a note and a hundred-dollar bill, and went to his waiting car.

Elaine Tozer was a small, trim woman in her forties, dressed in a business suit. She greeted him warmly and led him to the elevator. Once aboard, she clipped a plastic tag to his coat pocket that read: VIP GUEST. “That will get you through security and anywhere you want to go in the building,” she said.

She kept up a running chatter as they got off the elevator and walked to Evan’s office. She took him into the handsome room. “I’m so glad you could come today,” she said. “Tomorrow we have to dismantle the office and prepare it for an appointed successor, who will serve out Evan’s term.”

“Do you think I could spend some time here alone?” Elton asked.

“Of course. We won’t be needing the room this afternoon. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you. I’d just like to sit here quietly and commune with the spirit of my son.”

“I’ll leave you alone, then.” She left the room.

Elton had a look around the office and found it much like his son’s study. There were no photographs of him with politicians or celebrities as he might have expected to find in a politician’s office. He sat down at the desk and idly opened a drawer or two, and in the right-hand top drawer he found something he had not seen for a long time: it was the small 9mm semiautomatic Walther pistol that his elder son had bought somewhere. It had apparently been the World War II sidearm of some German officer. The elder boy must have given it to Evan, he thought.

As he held the gun, a television set across the room came to life, apparently on a timer. The channel was C-SPAN, and the camera was directed at the floor of the House of Representatives, where a man stood at a podium, speaking. He recognized the Speaker from his pictures in the newspaper. A thought came to him. He went to the door leading to the reception area and locked it, then returned to the desk.

He found a book about the Capitol building, and inside it, a plan of the House wing. He noted that Evan’s office was quite near the House floor. The route from one to the other was simple.

Elton field-stripped the weapon, and cleaned it, as he had the .45, then he wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it into his coat pocket, thinking hard. He glanced back at the TV set; the House was adjourning. It was a wild chance, but as long as he was in the building and armed, why not?

Elton found a roll of tape in his son’s desk and walked to the rear door of the office, which opened into a hallway. He opened the door, pressed back the spring-loaded bolt, and taped it into place. He looked both ways up and down the hall, then let himself out and pulled the door closed behind him. He reckoned he had a walk of less than a minute. His VIP GUEST pass got him deference from everyone who might have questioned his presence. After all, he was an ordinary-looking elderly man in a tailor-made suit — not the sort to attract interest.

As he reached the House chamber the doors opened and people began to stream into the hallway, the session having ended. He stood by the door and looked inside; he saw the minority leader standing in the aisle, talking with some people, then the man left the others and walked toward the main doors.

“Excuse me, Mr. Speaker,” Elton said to him.

The man’s eyes went to the pass, then to his visitor’s face. “Yes? Can I help you, sir?”

“I am Elton Hills, the father of Congressman Evan Hills.” He watched the man’s expression change from solicitous to stone cold. “I have no time for you,” he said.

“I have a message for you from my son. He asked me to deliver it in person. Is there somewhere we could be alone for a moment?”

The man looked annoyed. “This way,” he said, leading Elton through the doors and making a turn. They appeared to be in the House cloakroom. The man led him to a curtained alcove and pulled the velvet drapes shut. “Now,” he said, “what is it?”

Elton gave him a little push that caused him to fall into a chair.

“Now, see here, Mr. Hills.”

Then Elton had the gun in the man’s mouth. “This is my son’s message,” he said, and pulled the trigger. The pistol was not as noisy as the .45 had been. Elton quickly wiped the weapon and saw that the man’s fingerprints and blood were put on it, then he turned and walked back to the main doors and left with the last of the congressmen leaving the session.

Elton dropped the handkerchief into the first wastebasket he saw, then he walked back to his son’s office, not hurrying, and, after ascertaining that no one was watching, entered through the taped door. He stripped off the tape and closed it behind him, then he unlocked the front door of the office and went and sat at his son’s desk. He could hear alarms going off somewhere. He went into his son’s private powder room, washed his hands thoroughly and made sure there was no trace of blood on him, then he went back to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed Bruce Willard’s cell number.

“Hello?”

“Bruce, it’s Elton. I’m back home in Pennsylvania, and I just wanted to thank you again for your kindness to me last evening.”

“Elton, have you heard what happened at the hotel while we were there?”

“No, what happened?”

“A man named Creed Harker shot himself in the men’s room, about the time you were there.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Elton said.

“Is there anything you need to tell me?” Bruce asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I just wanted to thank you again. Oh, here comes my lunch. I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up and sat down at his son’s desk. He was still sitting there when Miss Tozer returned to the office.

“I’m sorry to have left you alone for so long, but we had an incident in the members’ cloakroom that’s had us pretty busy for the past hour.”

“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed soaking up the atmosphere here,” Elton replied.

“The halls are clear now. May I walk you back to the garage?”

“Thank you, yes.” They returned to where Manolo sat in the Bentley, waiting. He gave her back the badge. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Miss Tozer,” Elton said.

“I’m so happy to have been able to meet you,” she replied, shaking his hand. “Your son was a wonderful man.”

“I know,” he said. Manolo opened the door, and he got into the rear seat. “Let’s go home,” he said, and relaxed into his seat.

His last thought before he dozed off was that, perhaps, he should have strolled over to the Senate and shot Henry Carson, too.

As he got out of the car in his driveway at home, he spoke for a moment with Manolo. “If anyone should ask, we got home about three hours ago,” he said.

“As you wish, Mr. Hills,” Manolo replied.