company.
“I heard you had a meeting earlier today with Congressman Smith. How did that go?” Jones asked.
“You know Smith, all big words and fancy speeches,” Daniel said.
“Of course. And what were these big speeches about?”
The dryness of Daniel's throat became unbearable. He reached for the glass of water on his desk, gulping it down, some overflowing out of the corner of his mouth. He brushed his coat sleeve over his lips, wiping away the lingering droplets.
“I don't think it's a secret that Smith opposes your bill, Congressman,” Daniel said.
“No, I suppose it's not,” Jones said, smiling and patting Daniel on the back.
Then Jones bent down, whispering into his ear, loud enough for only Daniel to hear.
“But there are some secrets that others don't know. Secrets from our past. Secrets from the places we've been. Secrets from walks in the shadows. Secrets like yours, Congressman,” Jones said.
Daniel couldn't move his arms or legs. He was paralyzed. He wasn't sure if Jones was bluffing, but Jones didn't have the reputation of being a gambler. Gambling hinted at a chance of losing.
Jones pulled back from Daniel, laughing loud enough for the groups around them to hear, then started patting him on the back wholeheartedly as if the two had shared a joke.
“Well, Daniel, it's always a pleasure, and I appreciate your support,” Jones said.
The congressmen around Daniel started whispering. Daniel knew exactly what Jones was doing: making a last-ditch effort to try and break what resolve he had left. The only thing he wasn't sure of was if Jones had been successful.
Daniel shook it off. There was no way Jones could know about his past. That was buried. He'd taken the necessary steps to make sure no one found out. Jones was just grasping at straws.
***
The house Beth pulled up to, which straddled the Maryland state line, was dilapidated. The paint curled off the walls, leaving behind black strips of wood and concrete. Rocks and sand filled a yard surrounded by a sagging fence with broken and slanted boards. Pieces of jagged glass from the broken windows lined the porch. Beth peered inside, looking for any inhabitants.
The furniture, floors, and ornaments were covered in dirt. Trash littered the living room, and the only light that was shining into the house was the fading sunlight behind her.
There was no way anyone still lived here, but this was the address Beth had been able to find for Edwin Carlson, the original inventor of the process turning anything from salt water to toxic water into fresh, drinkable liquid. If he wasn't here, then Beth had no idea where to look. The road ended here.
The front door rattled when she pounded on it. Dust disturbed by the shaking fell to the porch floorboards and onto the tops of Beth's polished black heels.
“Dr. Carlson?” Beth asked.
She knocked on the door again, even harder than before.
“Dr. Carlson, my name is Beth Fryar. I'm with Congressman Smith's staff,” she said.
A gunshot sounded, and Beth instinctively ducked, covering her head. After a moment she looked up, checking her surroundings and patting herself down, making sure she wasn't hit.
Then another gunshot blast echoed through the air. It was coming from behind the house.
Beth's heels thumped on the wooden steps as she made her way from the porch to the side of the house. She unlocked the gate latch that separated the front yard from the back. Another gunshot sounded, this one louder, as she made it to the rear of the house.
The backyard opened up into a large field of dirt and mostly dead grass. Toward the middle of the field, she could see a man standing with a rifle, aiming at some objects lined up on a table ten yards in front of him.
“Dr. Carlson?” Beth asked, yelling and waving her arms.
The figure in the field lowered the rifle and turned toward her. She