Political Science 101

Chapter Thirty-Three

THEY'D GONE too far — or at least, that's how Jeb Larkin began to see it. And as the days passed since the assassination of United States Congressman Arnold Jenkins, he steadily felt worse about what had been done. Sure, he had no control over the event; after all, it was Lenore Sable who organized and funded the murder, but that seemed to be little or no consolation to Jeb's nagging conscience and soul, which continued to tell him that he'd done something terrible.

The glass of scotch in his left hand chilled his fingers from the ice that was carefully dropped into the glass prior to the pouring of the drink. He loved the sound the ice made when it was dropped into the glass from just the right height. The black antique Colt Revolver in his right hand chilled his fingers from the death and freedom it held in its cold metal casing. The barrel of the gun rested on his tongue and bottom teeth, tasting predictably metallic and smelling of stale oil and sulfur.

With a deeply troubled sigh, Jeb tried to audibly mutter something. "Unbelievable," he said as his words attempted to make their way around the intruding firearm.

With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak mostly in vowels, Jeb thought to himself, recalling his favorite book.

Oddly, his finger had not yet touched the trigger. Though the gun was fully chambered, cocked, and aimed with a trajectory which would relocate the entirety of the back of his skull to the rustic animal-covered den wall behind him, Jeb knew in his heart that once he touched that trigger, he'd pull.

He pictured in his mind what it would look like to the unfortunate individual who found him — blood gushing from his mouth and nose; blood and brain matter on the wall; the gun resting in his lap, loosely gripped by his cold and lifeless hand; the smell of gunpowder and sulfur hanging morosely in the air like a demon stalking and tormenting its prey.

The air in the room was still, silent, heavy. Yet the silence was deafening and seemed to pulse with his rapid heartbeat, as though death was gently rapping, rapping at his chamber door.

The thought of death charmed and frightened him. Jeb Larkin had always been a man of influence and power, born into money and puzzle-fit into a world of slush funds, billion-dollar investments, and shady backroom deals. And now, the cold metal mechanism in his right hand told him that he held the ultimate power: The power of life and death. Was this how Lenore felt when she condemned United States Congressman Arnold Jenkins? For a moment, Jeb felt that the life that would end with the squeezing of the trigger was not his own life, but rather, was the life of a man with whom he'd been closely acquainted a lifetime ago, but who had been changed by years of money and influence — a man changed beyond recognition. And this man needed to die.

He took a deep breath.

He wondered if it would be his last.