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Short Stories by David Baldacci
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 By Rudy Baldacci
The man's body was found in the alley at two A.M. on the eve of the new
millennium. He had been dead for one hour, the coroner said. Sheriff
Paul Postle noted, with great surprise, wounds to the hands and feet,
and a bullet hole to the forehead. The dead man had long brown hair,
and darkish skin, his features finely drawn. Postle touched his arm.
There was a tingling in Postle's fingers when he removed his hand. "Do
we know who he is?" Postle asked. His deputy, John Baptiste, handed him
a slip of paper that had been found near the man. Postle read, "J
Carpenter."
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 By Rudy Baldacci
It was noon on a day God built for
children to run through from first light to pitch dark. That's when I
saw this homeless person. You couldn't help but notice him because he
was cradling a pigeon. I followed him because I was concerned for the
bird's welfare. I'm as cautious as the next urban dweller but there
comes a point when even our feelings can be aroused.
"Don't
you think it would be prudent to let it go?" I asked, thinking that my
directness might startle him enough to allow the pigeon to escape. He
just smiled and continued to stroke the bird with burnt-looking hands;
they were even, methodical strokes, which impressed me.
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 By Rudy Baldacci
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Originally Published in In Good Company in 2001 (see full publication details at the end of the story)
As I sit down beside her, I don't give the
resemblance much thought, for there are many old women in the world.
And it has happened to me before, especially on trips like this one
where I am traveling alone. I decide that this time I will not be
fooled.
I snuggle down in my seat and
watch the stewards make their rounds offering pillows and corralling
oblong, skittish baggage. Across the aisle a small, old man rests his
slippered feet on a case of Rocky Mount Spring Water, his belongings
piled around him. I think this casualness odd, but trains are new to
me, and the stewards let it go. The Rocky Mount man leans far back in
his seat, so far that his torn sweater slides up over his stomach. It
is flatter than mine, and I just turned nineteen and run track for the
University of Virginia. I'm probably in the best shape I will ever be.
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 By Rudy Baldacci
The bespectacled, middle-aged man
entered the White House, a lumpy litigation bag banging against his
blue-clothed leg. He seemed calm, but with a heightened sense of
alertness in his eyes.
In another room, a buzzer sounded.
A man opened the door to the Oval Office. "He's here, sir."
The
president nodded at the three attorneys and four political advisers.
"Let's get this done so I can get back to the work the American people
elected me to do." He paused and then looked at each of them. "You
know, this is beneath this office. This is beneath me. The
world is falling apart and the president of the United States of
America has to take the time to testify about an intern. This is a
great wrong to the American People. This, this is a day of infamy."
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