Read Darwin's Children for Free Online Page B

twenty years ago—and Mitch had been gone a lot lately.
    Kaye entered the store through the glass double doors. The clerk, a thin, tired-looking woman a little younger than Kaye, had out a mop and bucket and was grimly spraying the counter and floor with Lysol.
    “Excuse me, did you see a girl, tall, about eleven?”
    The clerk raised the mop like a lance and poked it at her.
    10
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    A tall, stooped man with thinning white hair sauntered into the office carrying a worn briefcase. Gianelli stood up. “Congressman, you remember Mitch Rafelson.”
    “I do, indeed,” Wickham said, and held out his hand. Mitch shook it firmly. The hand was dry and hard as wood. “Does anybody know you’re here, Mitch?”
    “Dick snuck me in, sir.”
    Wickham appraised Mitch with a slight tremor of his head. “Come over to my office, Mitch,” the congressman said. “You, too, Dick, and close the door behind you.”
    They walked across the hall. Wickham’s office was covered with plaques and photos, a lifetime of politics.
    “Justice Barnhall had a heart attack this morning at ten,” Wickham said.
    Mitch’s face fell. Barnhall had consistently championed civil rights, even for SHEVA children and their parents.
    “He’s in Bethesda,” Wickham said. “They don’t hold out much hope. The man is ninety years old. I’ve just been speaking with the Senate minority leader. We’re going to the White House tomorrow morning.” Wickham laid his briefcase down on a couch and stuck his hands in the pockets of his chocolate brown slacks. “Justice Barnhall was one of the good guys. Now the president wants Olsen, and he’s a corker, Mitch. We haven’t seen his like since Roger B. Taney. A lifelong bachelor, face like a stoat, mind like a steel trap. Wants to undo eighty years of so-called judicial activism, thinks he’ll have the country by the balls, six to three. And he probably will. We’re not going to win this round, but we can land a few punches. Then, they’ll lash us on the votes. We’re going to get creamed.” Wickham stared sadly at Mitch. “I do love a fair fight.”
    The secretary knocked on the door jamb. “Congressman, is Mr. Rafelson here?” She looked right at Mitch, one eyebrow cocked.
    Gianelli asked, “Who wants to know?”
    “Won’t use her name and sounds upset. System board says she’s on a disposable cell phone using an offshore line. That’s no longer legal, sir.”
    “You don’t say,” Wickham said, looking out the window.
    “My wife knows I’m here. No one else,” Mitch said.
    “Get her number and call her back, Connie,” Wickham said. “Put it on the puzzler, and route it through, oh, Tom Haney’s office in Boca Raton.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Wickham gestured toward his desk phone. “We can link her line to a special scrambler for congressional office communications,” he said, but tapped his wristwatch. “Starts and ends with garbage, and unless you know the key, it all sounds like garbage. We change the key every call. Takes NSA about a minute or so to break it, so keep it short.”
    The secretary made the connection. Mitch stared between the two men, his heart sinking, and picked up the receiver on the desk.
    11
    SPOTSYLVANIA COUNTY
    S tella sat in the shade of an old wooden bus shelter, clutching her book to her chest. She had been sitting there for an hour and a half. The Gatorade bottle was long since empty and she was thirsty. The morning heat was stifling and the sky was clouding over. The air had thickened with that spooky electric dampness that meant a big storm was brewing. All of her emotions had flip-flopped. “I’ve been really stupid,” she told herself. “Kaye will be so mad.”
    Kaye seldom showed her anger. Mitch, when he was home, was the one who paced and shook his head and clenched his fists when things got tense. But Stella could tell when Kaye was angry. Her mother could get just as angry as Mitch, though in a quiet way.
    Stella hated anger in the