GEN13 - Version 2.0 by Unknown Author Page B

causes, coupled with the time lags between the deaths, meant that no one had spent much time trying to connect them before. Not to mention the fact that it was only four people. However, when Lynch and J. B. compared the Congressional death rate to other six-month periods, they found that four deaths was at least twice as many as had occurred during any comparable period in the last ten years.
    “Of course, with numbers this small, ‘twice as many’ only means two more than usual,” J. B. reminded Lynch.
    Still. Lynch felt he was onto something. Three of the four victims also shared something in common: They all sat on budget allocation committees.
    “Sure, but that’s only three out of four,” J. B. saicl “What about the other one?”
    “Wong was eighty-four years old,” Lynch replied.
    “So you think that one really was natural causes?”
    “A stroke at eighty-four? It’s certainly possible. If so, someone could have taken advantage of it to break the pattern and throw off suspicion.”
    J. B. rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know, Jack. Everything you’re saying is possible, I suppose. But what you’re basing it on, well, calling it slim would be a compliment. You might be able to get the conspiracy nuts in your comer, but you’d have a hard time convincing anyone else.”
    “You’re right,” Lynch admitted. “That’s why I’m going to gather more evidence.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Lynch rose from the chair and walked to the door. “Cheswick died here in New York.
    “I’m going to examine the scene.”
    CHAPTER 6
    Bobby was sitting on the sofa with his feet up, an unplugged electric guitar on his lap. He accompanied himself quietly as his soft voice carried the lyrics and melody to a song of his own creation:
    “Been down
    This road so many times before I’ve found
    Don’t wanna be here anymore This world
    Is filled with dross dressed up as gold This girl
    Could mean salvation from the cold
    “So hold me
    And tell me
    Can you understand
    The little boy
    Behind the face
    Of the angry young man ...”
    Abruptly, Bobby stopped playing. He left the guitar sitting on his lap as he reached over to pick up the pencil and yellow legal pad that lay on the sofa beside him. Chewing thoughtfully on the pencil’s eraser, he studied the crossed-out lines and the scribbles upon scribbles that filled the top sheet of the pad.
    Needs work, he thought.
    There were days when Bobby still allowed himself to dream rock star dreams. Sometimes, in his fantasies, he would play to packed arenas of fans who would sing along with every memorized word. At other times, he would imagine himself playing clubs small enough to watch the faces of the crowd as they gave themselves over to his music. But Bobby was also realistic enough to recognize the idle fantasies for what they were: pleasant daydreams to pass the time, rather than concrete action plans for the future.
    To tell the truth, after years of practice, Bobby had actually gotten pretty good on the guitar. He didn’t kid himself, though. He might be good enough to play for friends or his own amusement, but he knew he was no Dave Navarro or Jon Spencer. Not to mention the fact that his lyrics weren’t nearly as strong as his playing.
    “Dross?” he thought, scanning over the page of verse. He scrunched up his face in distaste and crossed out the offending line. When have I ever used a word like “dross?”
    Bobby was pondering a replacement when Roxy slowly made her way into the room, yawning and stretching. She was still wearing the oversized pink t-shirt with the big picture of a puppy that she’d used as a nightshirt the night before. “Yo,” she said in mid-yawn.
    “Hey.”    ’
    Roxy scratched her hair roughly to clear her head. She looked around through tossled hair and bleary eyes. “So where is everybody?”
    “Sarah’s in the kitchen. Grunge got up a little while ago, but then he looked around, screamed, and booked back into his