Capitol Threat (27 page)

Without telling Ray first.

And now he was being hanged by one tiny thing he had kept to himself.

Ben had called three times today, trying to put together a strategy session. What was the point? He was smart, sort of, but naïve in so many ways. Ben still believed in him. Worse, Ben still believed he had a chance, when everyone else knew better.

Self included.

But then—he knew something Ben didn’t. He knew what everyone was thinking: it may look bad for Roush now, but at least it couldn’t get any worse.

But Roush knew that it could.

48

P
retty Boy slammed a fist into Loving’s face. Given the force of the blow, Loving should have fallen backward about ten feet, but the rope—Trudy’s rope, from the motel room—held him tightly to his chair. So Pretty Boy hit him again.

Blood gushed out of Loving’s nostrils. It looked as if the light in the storage closet at Action was blinking on and off, but Loving knew the only thing blinking was his tenuous grasp on consciousness.

This had been going on for almost an hour. His face was so cut, bruised, and bloodied that Loving suspected it barely resembled his usual handsome self. But at some point, even he had to worry about how much he could take. Or how long before Renny would get sick of the game and just kill him.

Renny stepped into the light cast by the low-hanging lamp descending from the ceiling. “Would this be a time when you would be feeling comfortable talking to me, my friend?”

Loving licked the traces of blood from his lips. He wanted to wipe away the blood dripping into his eyes, but his hands were tied behind him. “Never been much of a talker,” Loving managed. “But the ladies tell me I’m a great listener. Why don’t you do the talkin’, and I’ll just keep my ears open.”

“Fool.” Renny’s irritation was almost as pronounced as his cruelty. “You were tough and merciless when you had me strapped to your chair. Do you find torture for information so amusing now as you did then?” He snapped his fingers at Pretty Boy. “Hurt him some more.”

The next five minutes were not among the most memorable that Loving had experienced. Okay, they were memorable, he supposed, but nothing he’d remember by choice.

Could be worse, he tried to tell himself. Not too long ago, he’d been certain he was a dead man. He saw Max—no, Feodor—press the gun against his chest. He’d seen him pull the trigger, heard the action fire. When he’d lost consciousness, he felt quite certain it was for the last time. Except a funny thing happened. Turned out that gun wasn’t one of your garden-variety firing mechanisms flinging molded pieces of lead. It was a taser gun. About a trillion volts of electricity rocketed through his body. Renny was wearing a dog collar—an electronic homing device—on his ankle, like a criminal on parole, which explained how his paid assassins were able to find him so quickly. Loving woke up later in this tiny storage closet in the back of the club, with barely enough room for him and Renny and Pretty Boy.

“Perhaps I have not made myself clear enough to you,” Renny said, clipping off each word with a bitter emphasis. “These men here—they do not like you. My young son Wilhelm, he in particular does not care for you. It would seem that you have embarrassed my boy Wilhelm. Badly. At a public place. A shopping mall. In the ladies’ department, no less. It is all much too horrible to contemplate.” He leaned forward. “Confidentially, my friend, I am not surprised. I have tried to protect Wilhelm with experienced partners and big guns, but at the end of the day, some problems cannot be remedied.”

“Hey!” Wilhelm protested.

Renny waved a hand. “Do not bother. It is true and we both know it.”

“He’s not so great. All he did was sneak up behind me. Like a coward. He hit me with Alexander’s gun. It hurt!”

Renny shook his head, eyes closed. “Do not make it worse than it already is, my son. This man Loving—he has no need for surprise. Take away your gun and he could use you for a sledgehammer even now.”

“Not sure I could now,” Loving grunted. “But I like the sound of it.”

The corner of Renny’s lip turned up. “Let me cut to the chase, my friend, or we will be forced to continue cutting your face. Wilhelm would very much enjoy the chance to kill you, and I cannot say that this would cause me much pain, except for my own security and that of my associates. I would like to know how much you know and how you came to know it and who you have told about it. That is all. It could not be more simple. So there you have it. You tell me what I wish to know and you will live. You fail to cooperate and you will die.”

Loving spat out the blood dribbled between his lips. “Liar.”

“You do not believe me?” Renny said, a hand pressed against his chest. He feigned offense for a moment or two, then gave it up. “All right then. You are correct. There is in fact no chance that you will walk out of here alive. You have embarrassed me too greatly. Even if I was not concerned about the information you have learned—and I am—I could never let you leave. But I can very much rearrange the manner in which you die. One bullet to the cranium and it will all be over in an instant. Quick. Painless. Or we can make it a much slower, more protracted, more…memorable affair.” He leaned in close. “We will make you feel such pain that this simple torture you have undergone so far will be as nothing. It will seem like your mother’s sweet kisses compared to what will follow. So what will it be? The quick death, or the excruciating one?”

Loving grimaced. “Geez, I don’t know. I’ve always been a choosy shopper. Can I have some more time to think about it?”

“I think not.” Renny lunged forward and pinched Loving’s nostrils closed with one hand, covering his mouth with the other, squeezing so hard it hurt. Loving’s senses were immediately overwhelmed by the loss of air. He wanted to gasp for breath, but the fingers on his nose remained firmly in place. He soon depleted the remaining air in his lungs and worse, had no way to release the carbon dioxide building in his system. His head felt as if it might explode; his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. Blood trickled down his throat.

Just at the instant he was certain he would pass out, Renny removed his hands.

Loving lurched forward—or at least his head did, the only part of his body that wasn’t tied to the chair. He coughed and wheezed and gasped for air, desperate to get something circulating through his lungs.

“A nasty way to die, isn’t it?” Renny said. “But even at that, much too quick. Much too painless. I want something that you will experience with more…extended pleasure. Unless you are perhaps ready to tell me what I wish to know.”

Loving wanted to be defiant, but found he was unable to form the words necessary to do it. How much longer could he hold out? He knew every man, no matter how tough, had a breaking point. And he feared he was very much approaching his.

“This is your last chance, Mr. Loving. Talk to me!”

Somehow, some way, he managed to find words. “No, thanks. I’ll go with Option Two.”

“Idiot!” Renny threw up his hands, enraged. He grabbed the lamp behind him, jerked the electrical cord out of the base of the lamp—without unplugging it—and peeled back the rubber coating. Once he was able to reach the wiring beneath, he pulled the two threads apart, careful not to let them touch.

“Americans,” Renny swore under his breath. “You have such stupid notions, these preposterous ideas of what it is to be a man. Where did you learn your lessons, from the James Bond movies? Let us see if your little secrets seem so important after this.”

Loving felt a surge of raw electricity delivered to his chest. His entire body lurched up and down; his heart beat wildly. Renny had only begun his work. He touched the exposed wires to Loving’s forehead, his cheeks, his damaged nose. He ripped apart Loving’s T-shirt and touched the wires to his nipples, and when that wasn’t enough, he touched the wires to his crotch. Loving fought to stay awake, fought to avoid cardiac arrest, fought to keep his lips closed a little longer.

What would it hurt to talk? he heard the evil voice in his head saying. Ben and Christina could take care of themselves. He didn’t even like Thaddeus Roush. Who was he trying to protect? His investigation had come to a dead stop. What was it he was trying to save this time? What exactly was it he was going to die for?

And then the answers crystallized in his head. He wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to take Option One or Two. He was going to live—live for the chance to turn the tables on Pretty Boy and Renny. He had to pull through. If nothing else, for that.

And perhaps for that beautiful painting of the disciples on the Sea of Galilee.

“Damn you!” Renny shouted. He continued electrocuting Loving, but Loving had removed his mind to another place, had focused on thinking, not feeling. Nursery rhymes, country music lyrics, the Pledge of Allegiance, anything to distract him. He couldn’t even be sure which parts of his body had been electrified. All he knew was that he had survived it.

Renny was furious. “We need something better. Something that hurts even more! Something this monster can’t ignore!”

“I’ll get to work on it, Father,” Pretty Boy said.

“Don’t bother. I have had all of this one that I can stand. If he has told what he knows to someone else, they will soon show their hand. And then we will kill those people. We will kill that senator for whom he works and everyone in his office. We will kill everyone he knows, if necessary. But we will start with him.”

He clasped his hand tightly around Loving’s throat. “Play time is over, my oversized friend.” He squeezed even tighter. “Your death is now upon you.”

49

T
he radio spot began with a voice-over in the usual clipped stentorian tones over a driving electronic beat that had been sampled from an action-picture sound track.

“Do you believe liars should be trusted?”

DUH-duh, duh, ta-da, the electronic heartbeat boomed in the background. DUH-duh, duh, ta-da.

“Do you believe sex offenders should be running the justice system?”

DUH-duh, duh, ta-da. DUH-duh, duh, ta-da.

“Do you believe a murderer should be on the highest court in the land?”

The music swelled, adding a pizzicato electric guitar riff that elevated the tension level of the music to the magnitude of a slasher flick. Then, all at once, the music disappeared. And after a moment of silence, the chorus of baby cries began, a mass cacophony of infant pain.

The stentorian voice returned: “Then tell your senator you don’t want Thaddeus Roush on the Supreme Court.”

“Paid for by the—”

Christina switched the car radio off. “You know, I was hoping for some Sarah McLaughlin or Alicia Keyes. Maybe John Mayer. Radiohead.”

“I’ve got a Susan Herndon CD in my briefcase,” Ben said, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated the winding avenues of Montgomery County.

“Thanks, but no. Upon reflection, I realize that great music shouldn’t be wasted on a sour disposition.”

Ben briefly took one hand off the wheel and gave her knee a squeeze. “It was inevitable that the extreme pro-life lobbyists would emerge as soon as the news about Roush’s past broke. But that’s not going to sway everyone. Polls show a plurality of Americans still think abortion should not be criminalized.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Beauregard.”

“Well, if you hold a bad penny long enough, you’re bound to turn a little green.” Christina giggled. “I spoke to him earlier. He’s not ruling out the possibility of more backlash. People are tired of judicial appointments turning into political footballs. This has only made it worse.”

“Ben.” She looked across the car at him, her big blue eyes glistening. “I know you like Tad, but—honestly. Alan Ginsberg’s nomination was derailed because he admitted he once experimented with a marijuana cigarette. Remember the big fuss when it was discovered that Justice Roberts advised a gay rights group? He came very close to losing the support of his President over that one. Here we’ve got not only gay rights but the only other political football that could possibly be more controversial—abortion. People are still split all over the map on abortion and gay rights. Put the two of them together, and I don’t see your man getting onto the Supreme Court. Certainly not when the Republicans control the Senate.”

“He’s a good man, Christina.”

“I know that, Ben. But Senator Matera’s speech notwithstanding, that’s not really the primary qualifier for the Supreme Court, is it?”

“It should be.”

“But it isn’t.”

“But it should be.”

“But it isn’t!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him as hard as she possibly could without causing an accident. “Ben, you have to live in the real world.”

“That’s what people say when they’re giving up.”

“Well—”

“Don’t.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his expression was fixed. “We’ve been through tough cases before. We never gave up.”

“But this isn’t a case, Ben. That’s just it. There’s no courtroom. We can’t control public opinion.” Her face turned downward. “Better to let it go and forge ahead. Concentrate on your reelection campaign, if that’s what you’re going to do.” She lightly touched the ring on her finger. “Maybe even give some thought to your personal life.”

Ben paused at a stop sign and turned to face her, his expression stern. “Christina, we are doing the right thing. I will not give up.”

The wheels screeched as he pulled away from the stop. “I know,” she said wearily. “That’s what I love about you. Sort of.”

Ben admired the sunroom overlooking the expansive garden in the rear of Roush and Eastwick’s home, but he had liked it better the first time he’d seen it, when it was filled with people and excitement, fraught with anticipation and intrigue. Today, with only Eastwick present, and he barely speaking, the excitement was subdued to the point of extinction.

Eastwick was seated in a footed chair with red upholstery and arms that extended into an eagle’s beak. He hadn’t moved from the chair since Ben and Christina arrived.

“I really don’t see how I can help you,” Eastwick said, speaking slowly and almost as if his voice were detached from his body. Ben noticed that there was a half-full brandy decanter on a table not far from his chair, and a small glass beside it bearing a trace of the dark, smoky liquid. “Tad never tells me anything.”

Christina tried to seem sympathetic. “I’m sure he’s trying to shield you from the worst of the media blows. He’s been taking some serious hits.”

“What am I, a child? I don’t need to be protected. I need to—” His voice caught. “I need to be able to pretend that I’m his partner. A true partner. Not just a political football.”

“I can imagine how you feel,” Christina replied, moving to the chair nearest his. “But let me say that I admire the courage you’ve displayed throughout all this. Not only during the police interrogation but even before, having the courage to come out during the acceptance speech and be forthright about—”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Eastwick snapped.

Christina hesitated. “Well, I know you weren’t the one making the speech, but still, you understood—”

“I most certainly did not. Thaddeus never told me he was planning to mention his sexual preference. We didn’t even discuss it.” His eyes shrank until they were almost the same color as the liquid in his glass. “I was outed.”

Ben’s lips parted. No wonder Eastwick had remained so distant from the confirmation campaign.

“He—He didn’t consult you?”

“Not even a hint.”

“To be fair,” Ben said, doing his best to defend the clearly indefensible, “Tad did tell us he didn’t plan to reveal his sexual preference. But when he stood before all those people and all those cameras—”

“Yes, I know. His sense of propriety overwhelmed him. Doesn’t that make him a wonderful person? And doesn’t that make me—what? A prop? A tool?”

Christina touched his hand sympathetically, but he acted as if he did not even feel it. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. How did he explain it to you?”

“We haven’t talked. Not really. Not since the disastrous press conference when the body was found and the police hauled me away. Nothing. Not even a ‘Hi Ray, glad you’re not sharing a cell with Big Bruno.’ ”

Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. The resentment threshold in the room was so high it was palpable. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “I understand that you may be having some negative feelings right now. Still, can you give us any information about the baby he lost?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking Tad that question?”

“Believe me, I have. He’s not answering. It’s like some kind of wall. Someplace he won’t go.”

Eastwick laughed, a short, bitter cackle. “And for good reason.” He rose from his chair, moving as though he weighed a thousand pounds. He poured himself another brandy, downed it in a shot, then walked unsteadily toward the bay window that overlooked the green expanse behind the house. “What you may not know is that for the first thirty years of his life, Tad was perfectly straight.”

No, Ben thought, I didn’t know, but what else is new?

“That’s probably partly why the President’s investigators didn’t trip onto the truth. There was plenty of evidence of heterosexual affairs in his past. He claims he always was gay, deep down, but he was trying to sublimate it, trying to overcome it. Never quite worked, which might explain why he never married. Might also explain why he tended to favor women from the…seedier side of the tracks. No one who would ever make a suitable wife.”

“When did he, ummm…” Ben could feel his face coloring. How do you put these things?

“When did he realize he was gayer than
La Cage aux Folles
? Later. When he started going to those gay hangouts, more in an effort of self-discovery than because he was stalking action. He claims he was never really sure—until he met me.” Eastwick stared through the sunroom window, as if wishing he could bury himself in the loveliness of the peonies and the stately hedges. “At least that was when he first openly acknowledged it. I had had male lovers before, but not Tad.” He pressed his palm against the glass. “Despite what you heard at the hearing, I was his first.”

“How did you meet?”

“At an art gallery. A showing for one of the Maryland Court of Criminal Appeals judges who painted on the side. Talented woman, actually. I was there because I was clerking for Senator Hammond and I love art, and Tad was there because, well, it came with his job. He brought a date, a homely little thing from the poor part of Annapolis, but I could tell there was nothing between them. Between Tad and me, however, that was different. Instant chemistry, just like in the movies. Instant.”

“That’s nice.”

“It was more than nice. It was fantastic. It was a miracle. It was quite literally what I had dreamed of my entire life. Our first few months together—” He shook his head. “That’s when my life began.”

“And you’ve been together seven years?”

“Until now.”

“You’re not thinking about—about—”

“Can’t quite think of a word for it, right? Can’t call it divorce, because we’re not allowed to marry. But after seven years, there should be something.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating the problems,” Christina said reassuringly. “It must seem overwhelming right now. I’ve often said that these times of stress—trials, hearings, what have you—they’re tough on the subject, but they’re even tougher on the—the—”

“Still can’t think of a word for it? Partner, Tad usually says, but that makes us seem more like lawyers sharing an office than lovers sharing a bed. The law, that sacred cow to which Tad has devoted his life, won’t give us a word for what we are. You want to say, ‘It’s even tougher on the spouse.’ But you can’t. Because I’m not a spouse.”

“Maybe some counseling…”

“When? Tad’s too busy with this interminable and increasingly impossible quest to get on the Supreme Court, so he can sit on a bench with a bunch of no-life losers and decide the fate of people they’ve never met. That’s all he cares about. Not me.”

Ben drew in his breath. If this went on much longer, he was going to be pouring a brandy for himself. “But getting back to the subject of the abortion…”

“That happened before we met. Well before.”

“I understand, but I still thought he might’ve mentioned it to you.”

Eastwick turned suddenly, and his face was streaked with tears. “He did. And how do you think that made me feel? To know that he’d had a child with someone, someone he didn’t even…” He covered his face with his hand.

“But why won’t he talk about it? We need details to prepare a response.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eastwick said with a wave of the hand. “It will all come out. Soon.”

“No doubt, but we have to prepare, think ahead, and we can’t unless—” Ben stopped mid-sentence. A cold chill enveloped his heart. “What do you mean, it will all come out soon?”

“It’s inevitable. So many people have been looking into it. For so long.”

Ben was confused, but his brain was beginning to work its way out of the muddle, and the only explanation was one he didn’t like at all.

“What are you talking about?” Christina asked. “The FBI investigation of Tad’s background?”

“No. Well, yes. But—no.”

“If you could perhaps be just a bit clearer.”

“I’m talking about the police.”

“The police?” Christina shrugged.

“The
local
police,” he snapped. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. But that’s what I’m talking about. Not the feds. The locals. Lieutenants Fink and Albertson.”

“But they’re looking into the murder of the woman at the press conference. The one no one can identify.”

Eastwick collapsed forward, his head practically in his lap. “Don’t you see?
She’s
the woman.”

“Who is?”

“The woman who was killed. It’s her! I knew it the moment I saw her. Even though I’ve only seen photographs. Even though she’s done everything imaginable to alter her appearance.”

Christina threw up her hands, then turned to Ben. “Do you understand what he’s saying? Because I sure don’t.”

“I fear I do.” Ben edged closer. “I think what he’s saying is that the murdered woman…is the mother.”

“The mother of who?”

Eastwick looked up at her with red-streaked eyes. “The mother of the child Thaddeus chose not to have.”