Free Maps of Hell by Paul Johnston Page A

extra color to the already spectacular leaves on both sides of the freeway. Richard briefly thought of the more subdued shades in the fields back in Iowa, then concentrated on making the next exit for central D.C. He’d already missed one. The battered pickup stuck out like a Model-T among the pristine limos and SUVs that the capital’s inhabitants drove. Not for the first time, the farmer asked himself what the hell he was doing. He’d considered flying, even though he hated the dry air and unexpected bumps and bangs, but he wasn’t sure if his credit cards would have accepted the charge. At least with gas he could spread the cost around different bits of plastic.
    This time he saw the sign for the exit well in advance and had no trouble getting off the Beltway. Now the fun would really start. Richard had never been comfortable driving in unfamiliar towns. When they went into Des Moines, Melissa usually took the wheel—she had no problem imposing herself on other drivers. Even the twins were more confident than their father was, not that he let them sit at the wheel often. Randy had bent the pickup’s fender several times, while Gwen always drove like she was drunk. Richard shook his head as he remembered the twins, then set his jaw. He needed to concentrate on what he had come to do in Washington. The twins. He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter after four. He still had time to make a start today.
    To his surprise, he made it downtown without any problem. He was heading for Mount Vernon Square. He found a parking lot and left the pickup there, astounded at the rates he’d seen at the entrance. No wonder the politicians needed unofficial contributions to their income—then again, they no doubt got recompensed for their parking charges. He went onto the street and walked quickly down to New York Avenue. The newspaper office was only a few minutes away, perfect since it was nearly five o’clock. He was presuming they closed at that hour though, for all he knew, D.C. folks might work longer hours than people did back home.
    Richard stopped outside a large office block. The sign above the entrance said Woodbridge Holdings, which meant nothing to him. He went closer and examined the list of companies in the group. The Star Reporter was there. He was at the right place after all. As he was walking toward the glass doors, he saw his reflection. For sure, he was the only person within a mile wearing a plaid shirt, faded jeans and yellow work boots. Not to mention a faded John Deere cap. He took that off as he went inside. The security guards scrutinized him as he went through the metal detector. Then he felt the receptionist’s eyes on him as he approached the desk.
    “Can I help you, sir?” the young black woman asked, a smile playing across her lips.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Lister, please,” Richard said, his cheeks reddening. “Mr. Gordon Lister.”
    The receptionist nodded and looked at her computer screen. “Your name, sir?”
    “My…my name?” Richard stammered. He hadn’t expected that he would have to identify himself so soon.
    “Yes, sir. You do have an appointment, don’t you?”
    Richard made out that he was even more confused than he felt. He preferred not to give Lister any advance warning, catch him cold. Playing the hick out of his depth might just get the job done.
    “Can you…can you ask him if he’ll see me without an appointment?” he said, with a certain country drawl. “I’ve driven all the way from Iowa.”
    The receptionist gave him a puzzled look. It was obvious she had little idea how far away his home state was but, after a sigh, she tapped her keyboard and spoke into the microphone of her headset.
    “Mr. Lister, there’s a gentleman to see you. He says he’s from Iowa.” She paused. “All right, I’ll tell him.” She looked up at Richard. “He’s just leaving, sir. If you wait here in the lobby, he can give you a few minutes.”
    Richard nodded his thanks and