The Caucus Room erupted. Not just the press, but almost everyone in attendance gasped, whispered, cheered, booed, or raced for the door. On a side monitor, Ben could see that the camera was moving in for a close-up of Roush. He was trying to remain calm, but for perhaps the first time in the entire proceeding, he was losing the battle. Sparks of anger seemed to leap from his eye sockets.
“I have been instructed by counsel not to discuss the tragic death that occurred at my home—”
“I don’t care what your lawyers said,” Matera snapped back. “A woman was found dead in your garden, and it looks like your longtime homosexual lover killed her.”
“He did not,” Roush replied, clipping off each word.
“How do you know? Were you with him in the garden?”
“I know.”
“If he didn’t,” Matera said, “the only other person who could’ve done it was you.”
“That’s not true, there were hundreds of—”
“Listen to me, both of you,” Ben said, snatching the microphone away. “You are not supposed to be discussing this. We have been told not only by counsel but by the police—”
“I think the American people have a right to know!” Matera said, pounding the bench. “They have a right to know who we’re putting on the Supreme Court. A murderer’s accomplice? Or the murderer himself!”
Roush leaped to his feet. Ben tried to pull him back, but it was no use. He had totally lost it. “I have known Ray Eastwick for seven years,” Roush shouted. “He is not a murderer.”
Matera scoffed. “Love is blind.”
“He did not kill that woman!”
Pandemonium ensued. The chairman pounded on his bench, but the uproar was not quelled. Ben tried to object in his most fiery attack-dog manner, but no one was listening. Despite their best precautions, the murder had been dragged into the hearings, dragged into the living room of every American watching. Matera would be criticized tomorrow in the press, but what did she care? She was retiring at the end of this term, and now she would retire the hero of her party and her President. Roush would go down in flames. Haskins would be nominated, and a week later, no one would remember who Roush was. A hard-liner would replace a man with a conscience.
And it was all Ben’s fault.
27
Once again, Loving fought traffic on the elevated Whitehurst Freeway, wondering how a nice Oklahoma boy like him had ended up in D.C. Sure, Ben had helped him when he needed it most, and he would do anything for the guy—within reason. This East Coast relocation was really pushing it, though. At least the Potomac was quiet tonight. He’d come from the south, near the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, and the engine noise of the police patrol boats was happily absent. He took the usual crisscross of highways and byways to Georgetown, then parked near a rather dilapidated neighborhood. Loving could tell it had once been a thriving commercial center, but apparently the rise of the nearby Georgetown Waterfront Complex had stolen the tourists and the shoppers. He didn’t know who might be having a meeting in a neighborhood like this. No one he wanted to meet.
Except for Trudy, of course.
He walked parallel to the waterfront, then took a shortcut through Francis Scott Key Park. Nice place, especially for a guy whose main accomplishment was writing the lyrics to a song no normal human could sing. Loving tried to pretend the neighborhood wasn’t giving him the creeps, but it was, and no degree of self-disciplined self-denial was going to make him forget it. As the environment grew worse and worse, it became harder and harder to believe he was still in the nation’s capital. Granted, you only had to travel half a mile from Capitol Hill to be in the slums, but even the slums weren’t as bad as this sleazy, dirty, depopulated neighborhood. The street itself seemed to reek; the stink rose from the waterfront, the abandoned buildings, even the pavement. The only people he saw were pimps and prostitutes. He couldn’t even retreat to the alleyways, as was his usual wont, because every time he tried he bumped into a drug deal in progress. He couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Loving had taken the DocuPen back to the office, and Jones—when Loving could pry him away from the C-SPAN coverage of the hearing long enough—plugged it into a USB port and brought up the calendar pages he had scanned. The listing for that night didn’t give any indication of what Nadya was planning to do, but it did give an address, which in the long run was far more valuable. He’d find out what Nadya and her friend Trudy were up to when he got there.
He rounded a corner and saw three white punks huddled around a fire set in a metal trash can. It was not a cold night; he supposed this had been done just for dramatic effect. Didn’t take a genius to figure out they were gang members. He kept his eyes focused front and center and hoped he could pass without incident.
“Whatchoo doin’ on mah street, bee-otch?” one of the punks sang out.
Loving had to suppress a grin. He loved it when white boys tried to talk black. It was so pathetic.
“Just passin’ through,” Loving said, with a nod of the head. He didn’t stop walking.
“Betchoo I know whatchoo want,” another offered. “I’ll give ya some,” he added, wiggling his ass.
Loving sighed. It would be so pleasurable to stop and beat the living crap out of these kids. But he supposed he’d best stay on task.
Halfway down the street, a bullet whizzed by, just above his head. Damn!
Loving ducked and ran. Crouched but still in motion, he made tracks toward the street corner. None of the shops were open; there was no place to duck into for safety. Another gunshot, and even the street punks scrambled. Loving saw a bullet hit the brick wall just beside his head. Judging from the angle of deflection, it was coming from somewhere above him.
Sniper. And him with no place to hide.
This could be a problem.
Loving raced across the street and dove toward a small grocery on the corner, hoping it would be open. It wasn’t. He considered breaking in, but he knew that by the time he managed that, even the clumsiest of snipers would have nailed him. He kept running, dodging in one direction, then another, hoping that if he stayed sufficiently serpentine and unpredictable he might last a little bit longer. He had almost made it to the end of the street when he saw a black sedan pull up on the opposite side.
A rear door opened. Pretty Boy appeared.
He was carrying his machine gun.
Someone else was getting out of the back of the car, too, but Loving didn’t stop to take notes. He backtracked a few steps and then turned left, hoping to get as far as possible as quickly as possible. As soon as he saw an alleyway, he raced into it. He didn’t care who was in there; he needed cover, fast. He flung himself between two sleazy-looking old men who were taking something down, knocking away everything they held in their mutual hands. Might be a trillion dollars of heroin hitting the pavement for all Loving knew, and for all he cared. He had to stay safe. He searched for a trash Dumpster, anything that might shield him. There was nothing. Probably just as well. If he stopped anywhere, Pretty Boy and his new playmate would close in quickly.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, wondering if he were still within the sniper’s range. Another gunshot rang out, ricocheting off the walls and burning into the pavement not a yard from his foot. Well, that answered that question.
He resumed running, wondering how close the killer really was. It was entirely possible he was not pinned down to a sniper’s nest but mobile, moving from rooftop to rooftop, able to follow Loving almost anywhere. If that were the case, he was a thousand times more dangerous.
Loving wasn’t safe in the alley, obviously, so he plunged out the opposite opening and kept running. He started right, but another bullet burned a trail before him. He whipped around and started in the other direction. He’d been lucky so far, given that the sniper had an obvious advantage on him. In fact, he’d been far too lucky. There was only one possible conclusion.
The sniper wasn’t trying to kill him. He was trying to herd him. Pro
bably toward Pretty Boy.
Sure enough, at the end of the street, well before he arrived, Loving saw Pretty Boy and his new companion whip around the corner, arms at the ready. The new guy was probably a professional, but Loving could tell he wasn’t in Leon’s league. They’d fired Leon to punish him for his previous failure, which was mostly Pretty Boy’s fault, and now they were suffering for it. This man was older, more haggard, tall and too relaxed for modern-day murder, especially when the target not only knew someone was after him but had some experience at avoiding trouble. Definitely not a Leon; more like Max von Sydow in Three Days of the Condor. Who, Loving recalled, never did manage to plug Robert Redford. But Loving supposed he couldn’t expect this story to have the same happy ending. This wasn’t a movie, and besides, he was much better-looking than Robert Redford.
He had about a third of a second to make a decision. The two hit men were in front of him, the sniper was behind, and the only other thing on the street was a flight of stairs leading to the subway.
Loving hated to do it. He knew that once again going into a crowded place would endanger innocents, especially given Pretty Boy’s proven penchant for firing his weapon in public. But there was no alternative.
He hit every other step on his way down the metal stairs, then plunged into the throng. He pushed his way through the crowd and leaped over the turnstile. He didn’t have time to pay the fare. He realized that it might get him arrested, but at the moment, that would be a good thing. If he could attract some law enforcement attention, it was just possible the killers might back off. He tore down another flight of steps and moved toward the trains.
A bullet whizzed just in front of his face, this time so close there could be no question in his mind: these people were trying to kill him, no matter who else got hurt. Some of the people around Loving realized what had happened and ducked or screamed, but the station was so crowded and so noisy most people didn’t notice at all.
Where were they?
When he looked up, Loving got his answer—one he didn’t like at all. Pretty Boy and Max were perched on the upper level. They’d found an overlook, a balcony of sorts, and it gave them a perfect view of everything below. There was no way he could escape them, especially if Pretty Boy opened up his automatic weapon on the crowd. It wasn’t nearly packed enough for Loving to get lost in the melee. And there was no telling how many people might die if serious gunplay ensued.
He didn’t have time to deliberate at length. He just went for what seemed like the smart thing at the time. Loving cupped his hands to his lips and bellowed: “Look out! Sniper!”
As if in answer, another shot rang out, and the crowd went crazy. Everyone was screaming at once, moving a dozen different directions, colliding and fighting with one another. Despite all the movement, no one was getting anywhere. It was a frenzied crowd. Men, women, and children panicked. Loving felt bad about creating terror in these terror-filled times, but his actions had the desired effect. Now there was far too much activity for the assassins to get a clear shot. Pretty Boy might not care if he hit a stray bystander or two, but apparently he drew the line at wholesale slaughter.
Good. Keeping a crowd packed tightly around him, Loving managed to slide down the passageway until he was out of sight of the balcony. He ran up another flight of stairs, but instead of crossing to the trains moving in the opposite direction, he kept going to the street level.
Loving emerged gasping, desperate for air. He looked both ways down the street, then above to the rooftops. As far as he could tell, he’d lost the assassins. But how could he be sure? And what if he was still within the snipers’ range?
He leaned against the wall, trying to slow his heart, trying to get a grip on himself, wiping the sweat from his brow. Twice now he’d managed to escape what looked like certain death. How long could he realistically expect to keep this up? He had to find out what was going on, and not just for Thaddeus Roush’s sake—for his own sake as well.
Loving limped to the corner until he could read the street sign by the poor illumination provided by a nearby lamp.
He had to laugh. Maybe it was just the emotional release that follows periods of great anxiety, or a final kick of adrenaline, but he found himself laughing and crying all at once, so hard his sides shook.
He’d ended up exactly where he’d been planning to go in the first place. Even the right city block.
He’d have to remember to send Pretty Boy and Max a thank-you note for helping him find his destination. He was usually so poor with directions.
And then a thought hit him, one that sent shivers right up his spine.
Was it possible the killers already knew where he was going? Is that why they were able to have a sniper in place before he got there?
Loving raced down the remainder of the street, even though his side and his sore leg ached, until he found the number he wanted. He ran up the short porch steps and down the hall to a door and peered through the window at what appeared to be the backstage of a small auditorium. What kind of criminal operation took place here? he wondered. Drugs? Is that what this case was about? Is that why someone was so determined to kill him—to protect his stash? Maybe the place had been converted into a bordello. Maybe some kind of gambling ring. A gangland hideout.
There was no way for Loving to know. The only thing of which he was certain was that he was better off inside than out, so he stepped into the dark auditorium.
He took a cautious step forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could hear someone on the stage talking. As he approached, he realized that there was not only someone on the stage, but several rows of people sitting in the audience.
What was this? An underworld crime boss meeting? A perverted sex show? What kind of den of iniquity had he stumbled onto this time?
He took a tiny step closer—and that was when the man on the stage spotted him.
“Ah—here he is!” he said, gesturing offstage toward Loving. The audience burst into applause. “And what kind of poem will you be reading, sir?”
28
Thaddeus Roush waited until he heard the click that told him the door had opened.
“Ray?”
No answer. He set down his gin and tonic and made his way toward the front door.
“Ray.” He held out his arms, but his partner did not accept the embrace. The only thing he gave Roush was a long look. Then he turned away and directed his attention to the winding staircase.
“Ray, how long is this going to continue? You can’t sulk forever.”
Roush could almost see the short hairs on the back of his lover’s neck stand at attention. “Sulking? Sulking? Do you know what I’ve been doing all day while you’ve been the center of attention on national television, playing mind games with senators? I’ve been in a crappy little hellhole of an interrogation room surrounded by six detectives accusing me of all manner of crimes, while my lawyer sits there instructing me not to answer, and the chief of police threatens to have me thrown in jail. I’m lucky I got to come home tonight! Eventually they’re going to get sick of this tap dance and lock me up. Probably would have done it already if it weren’t for those hearings of yours. So excuse me for sulking.”
Roush stood at the foot of the stairs clinging to the newel post. “You can’t blame me for this, Ray. I had nothing to do with that woman’s death.”
“I wish to God you did. Until the police figure something out, I’m their best suspect.”
“That’s absurd. You wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“I know,” Eastwick said, eyes like daggers. “You’re the one with the dangerous past. Maybe I should tell them that.”
“Ray…”
“You’d think they might dig it up on their own, but I guess not. If the FBI didn’t get it, what are the chances that these clods will?”
“Ray, please.” Roush held out his arms, his eyes welling. “Come here.”
“No. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“I need you.”
“Do you? Do you really? Apparently you don’t need me enough to consult with me before you throw our lives out in the open.”
“You knew I was talking to the President.”
“I didn’t know you were planning to out me! On national television! One day you say you’re going to meet the President. The next day I’m on the cover of People!”
Roush looked at him helplessly. “Ray…I didn’t know myself. I didn’t plan it. I just—When I got up there, behind the podium with the big bright presidential seal, and I saw the cameras, I thought—my face is going to be all over America. I don’t want that to be the face of a liar.”
“So you just did it. Without so much as a thought to how it might affect other people. Like me!”
“I’m sorry. I was as surprised as anyone.”
“Really? Were you as surprised as…say, my mother? Who had invited her whole Baptist book club over to see me at the White House? How do you think she felt when all of a sudden her friends realized I wasn’t standing behind you because I was your research aide? How do you think that made my seventy-six-year-old mother feel?”
“Ray…I can only say I’m sorry so many times.”
Eastwick marched down the stairs, then stopped and turned back, as if he were torn between wanting to give Roush another piece of his mind and not wanting to come anywhere near him. “Next thing I know, I have people calling me wanting to know all the intimate details of my lurid homosexual relationship with the great almighty judge. I’m tabloid fodder.”
“We always knew we might be exposed one day.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think my lover would be the one to do it! I didn’t think he’d do it without telling me!”
“Ray—”
“I’m still reeling from that, from the calls, the snickers, the gasps, my mother, and the next day, you’re entertaining guests! In my house! My garden!”
“I had no choice.”
“Don’t you dare try to tell me that! That’s a cop-out and we both know it. You had a choice and you chose. You chose to hang me out to dry!”
Capitol Threat Page 17
