The Cave Dwellers

by Christina McDowell

  FOR MARA AND CHLOE

  How could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?

  —Plato, The Allegory of the Cave

  The Cave Dwellers CHARACTER FAMILY TREE

  • THE MAIN FAMILIES •

  The Banks Family

  (Cave Dweller family)

  Genevieve + David Banks

  (husband and wife, deceased)

  Audrey

  (daughter, deceased)

  The Wallace Family

  (Political family)

  Betsy + Senator Doug Wallace

  (husband and wife)

  Mackenzie

  (daughter)

  Haley

  (daughter)

  The Bartholomew/Morrison Family

  (Cave Dweller family)

  Elizabeth Spencer Morrison

  (Meredith’s mother, deceased)

  Meredith + Chuck Bartholomew

  (husband and wife)

  Elizabeth aka Bunny

  (daughter)

  Cate

  (Bunny’s cousin, niece of Meredith and Chuck)

  The Montgomery Family

  (Military family)

  Carol + General Edward Montgomery

  (husband and wife)

  William aka Billy

  (son)

  The Williams Family

  (Media family)

  Linda + Chris Williams

  (husband and wife)

  Becca

  (daughter)

  • THE CLIQUE •

  Bunny Bartholomew

  (Billy’s girlfriend)

  Billy Montgomery

  (Bunny’s boyfriend)

  Stan Stopinski

  (son of the Russian Ambassador—aka “Putin”)

  Marty Robinson

  (son of Howard University School of Law professors—aka “Smarty Marty”)

  Chase Cowan

  (son of the director of the CIA and star football quarterback)

  Mackenzie Wallace

  (daughter of Senator Doug Wallace—aka “New Girl”)

  Part One

  The names in this book have not been changed so as not to protect them but rather to expose them.

  PROLOGUE

  He takes off his jacket and then his mask, lights a match, and dumps kerosene into the limestone fireplace—for ambience.

  * * *

  Dusk in this town is a distraction: broken Metro lines at rush hour, passengers covered in righteous martyrdom riding beneath replicated Parisian circles and monuments of men that smell like piss.

  Most burglaries happen in the middle of night: the beeping of alarm systems, the searching for bogeymen in closets. Not on this October day. Above the flooded tunnels where no exits are built, where blue jays fly in the autumn and carved pumpkins grin, a colonial mansion rests on the fringes of Rock Creek Park, a vast and dark wood next to a neighborhood that has no name.

  The garage door had been left open, Mr. Banks’s red Ferrari still ticking from the heat of the engine when the unknown man followed him inside. The mailman, just up the sidewalk, had his back turned, a satchel over his right shoulder, earbuds stifling the National Cathedral bells ringing from a tower named for the Christian hymn “Gloria in Excelsis.”

  * * *

  The unknown man places the bottle of kerosene on the mantel next to family photographs with Washington’s Very Important People: ambassadors from European countries, the US secretary of defense, Prince Bandar bin Sultan of Saudi Arabia, a senator, and members of the Walton family.

  * * *

  Mrs. Banks, the Bankses’ young daughter, Audrey, and the housekeeper have no idea anyone else is in the home. If not for the padded wallpaper the decorator installed weeks earlier to benefit the home theater, they might have heard the whoosh of the firelight, beyond the silence.

  * * *

  The unknown man approaches Mr. Banks first, watching from the shadows of the powder room as he removes his branded cuff links, heated marble below his bare feet, and climbs into gym clothes. He confronts Mr. Banks without a beat in his step, wrestling him to the ground, tying his hands with rope behind his back and then shoving a gag in his mouth, explaining what he wants and what he is going to do to get it.

  * * *

  “Dad?” Audrey yells from her bedroom down the corridor. “You ready?”

  She has been looking forward to test-driving the new BMW X5 with her father when he got home from work.

  When the unknown man walks into Audrey’s room, she stands staring at him in her St. Peter’s Academy sweatshirt and Kate Spade leggings, confused. They’re both startled by the sudden gust of wind, branches slamming against her windows; then the unknown man lunges for her, grabs her by the face, cheeks bulging between his fingers. He ties her to her favorite chair, the one with little fairy-tale scenes sewn into the fabric, and keeps her mouth ungagged. The walls are too thick—the house is too large for any neighbor to hear the echoes of terror soon gifted to her parents.

  * * *

  Mrs. Banks notices the shriveled petal on her white orchid, French doors open to the loggia behind her as photographs of the family’s Christmas card photo shoot at their château in the south of France slide across her computer screen. She is at her desk scrolling down her contact list, the setting sun creating shadows of wild tree branches climbing the walls, when she hears the first round of Audrey’s primal screams.

  * * *

  In the laundry room, down the basement steps next to Audrey’s playroom, the housekeeper loads bottles of Cakebread Chardonnay into the second refrigerator. She can hear nothing but the tumbling of washer-dryers and the clanking of glass against plastic shelves.

  * * *

  It isn’t known whether or not Mrs. Banks made it into her daughter’s bedroom to see her, touch her, smell her, love her one last time. The only retraceable steps at that hour are those outside of the mansion. The minutes between darkness and light no one ever seems to notice. Where did the light go?

  * * *

  A neighbor swishes through dead leaves walking his French bulldog, inhaling the crisp smell of a distant fire, and thinks: It’s my favorite time of year. A private security car cruises by, as smoke rises from Audrey’s chimney like a misty ghost. The security guard waves to the neighbor, then heads toward the bridge in the deep valley of the park, scanning the woods for female joggers. He stops. Shuts off his headlights. Cracks his window. Waits. Hears the sound of his running engine, the hooting of an owl in a distant tree. Then cruises back up the hill, just missing a young girl riding her bike behind him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  EARLIER THAT DAY…

  Doug Wallace pants while struggling to reach for the remote control on the edge of his desk. He fails. He lowers his head and wipes sweat with the back of his forearm, then tries again. His tailored J. Press suit pants, which make him feel superior, are around his ankles as he takes Cate, his new press secretary, from behind. She’s sprawled out on his mahogany desk. Yes. Blond, a good Christian girl from San Diego, small breasts, but he doesn’t care, her face, oh her face is fucking beautiful. He flips her over, so young and sun-kissed; he doesn’t want to break her spirit, but he can’t help himself, this compulsion—he feels he needs her. He’s tired of looking into the dispassionate eyes of his wife, which are now tattooed with eyeliner. He can’t believe he’s been made senator of the great state of North Carolina, can’t believe this is his life now: the pounds of mahogany wood, brass doorknobs, a view of the Capitol. People want to hear what he has to say. The cliché would be unbearable if state officials and politicians had never coerced young interns into having sex with them in what was simply “the conference room” throughout history: drawn curtains, empty walls, a
cold wooden table. At least Doug had a leather desktop; this is progress, not perfection! A photograph (when Doug still had a full head of hair) with two college buddies at President Ronald Reagan’s inauguration stares him down on his bookshelf: Look how far you’ve come.

  On the television screen in Doug’s office—a millisecond: WARNING: This footage contains explicit content. Viewer discretion is advised. Static, then a shaky camera before interspersed sound bites of civilians: “Is that gunshots?… OH MY GOD, IT’S GUNSHOTS!” The sound of bullets like thundering raindrops, probably an AR-15. Civilians cast guttural screams that melt into sobs, beer cans and red cups scatter on top of what is becoming a bloodbath of average citizens that, let’s be honest, we don’t really care about. Perhaps the sound of a ticking bomb is nearby. No one knows. Not even the FBI agents. The broadcaster: “LIVE! From our nation’s cap—!”

  Mute.

  Doug drops the remote. It hits the side of his desk and falls to the floor with a pathetic thud.

  “What’s wrong, are you okay?” She speaks. She’s worried about him.

  “Nothing, nothing.” Doug’s focus reverts to Cate. He puts his hand over her mouth, cupping those plump lips, a loving gesture, because he doesn’t want to be reminded by the look of horror that will soon encompass that sweet face, a young Republican who surely must believe in sensible gun control. When she sees the young and slaughtered, she might not understand that his stocks are rising. AR-15 semiautomatic weapons are selling up to a total of fifteen every hour scrolls at the bottom of the screen.

  * * *

  “Yes,” Cate groans, turning her baby face from left to right, grabbing her breasts, assuming Doug is catching glimpses of her ripe nipples, watching her. But Doug isn’t looking at her at all. In fact, neither one is looking at the other. Cate, lost in her own fantasy of what she believes this is, reminds herself that she is worth it, worth losing his marriage, his children, his reputation, his self-respect—this is love, she tells herself. But really, she’s confused. She thinks about how she’s going to start her public relations firm after they publicly declare their coupling—Doug will be her first client. They will build a political empire together. Spend winter weekends hidden at the new seaside mansion in Nantucket; maybe she’ll buy him pants embroidered with baby whales on them for Christmas, he’ll love that.…

  * * *

  Doug humps like a pubescent boy, sweating profusely now, watching the TV as his gun stocks rise. Cate notices he’s not looking at her; she wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him into her with his tie, their noses touching. But Doug can’t bring himself to look at her. He closes his eyes, imagines the prostitute he met on a business trip to China, the porn star from the Pornhub video he watched in his home office last night before bed. He knows he’s made a mistake. He opens his eyes. He looks up. Closed captions on the screen: The AR-15 is the country’s most popular rifle, now a symbol for all sides of America’s gun debate. Gun advocates say the problem isn’t the weapon—it’s the shooter.

  “Oh God, I’m going to…”

  * * *

  It’s one of those damp fall sunsets when red and brown leaves stick to the street as the new season descends upon the nation’s capital. The barricade outside the Russell Senate Office Building, which blocks pedestrians from getting anywhere near the parking garage, lowers into the ground, releasing Doug in his black Porsche 911 out onto the streets of Southeast DC. Bureaucrats scatter toward the Metro like little windup toy soldiers—they have no opinions. No identities, no ability to see any kind of truth other than a biweekly paycheck. Several white vans with FEDERAL POLICE: HOMELAND SECURITY written across the side blaze past. Doug doesn’t notice. He’s too busy searching for the hand sanitizer in his glove compartment while he’s calling Tim on speakerphone. Goddamn it. Doug slams the glove compartment closed, unable to find it. He sniffs his fingers.

  “Hello?” A voice on the other end of the phone.

  “Hey, Tim, it’s Doug,” he says, panicked.

  “Hey, Doug, how are you? Haven’t heard from you in a while.” Tim’s serenity is unnerving.

  “I thought about our last conversation, maybe I do have a problem. I suppose… Cate could be anyone.” Doug waits for Tim to respond, but there is only silence. “It’s just… I understand that she could be anyone from an intellectual place, but I just don’t feel that, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying.” Doug lets out a chuckle dabbled in shame.

  “Uh-huh.” Tim doesn’t offer advice. “Well, I’m about to walk into Al’s right now. You are always welcome back.”

  Doug tightens his grip around the steering wheel. “I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Doug speeds down Rock Creek Parkway, the remains of Oak Hill Cemetery climbing the hills above him, passing hundred-year-old tombstones, stone crosses, weeping angels, cenotaphs, and mausoleums. One day I will be buried there, he often thinks—with the generals, mayors, bankers, and senators who came before him. Famous men! With the Corcorans and the Grahams! Doug is completely unaware of his delusions of grandeur, just like most people he encounters. He is only certain that he was born a “well-mannered” southern boy, son of the district attorney of Durham, North Carolina. His mother ran the local Sunday school while his father was busy locking up Black and brown people. (Doug doesn’t really get this, of course.)

  As Doug slows down to look for the entrance he’s seeking, he remembers his older brother, Ken. Ken was born blind, and Doug blames his mother: despite her religious beliefs, she loved a dirty martini, a Marlboro Red, and Elvis. But Doug’s mother blamed the doctors. During a difficult labor, Ken was pulled out with metal tongs, crushing his soft head. This is the story his mother told, but he never tells. Ken died just before his eighteenth birthday after numerous health problems. His organs were weak. The memory of his mother’s phone call flutters through Doug’s brain—the sound of her rocking on her knees, her sobbing groans letting him know, “He’s dead, he’s dead”—as it often does while he’s alone, driving in his car. The rage he holds for his mother rises in his chest. Ken’s death, the neglect Doug suffered as a child, his father’s empty bottles of bourbon are the instruments of his so-called intimacy issues, Doug’s undying need for power, achievement, and attention from women. The problem was first addressed long before he married Betsy. When Doug was seventeen and he discovered that his mother was having an affair, he decided to fuck the family housekeeper. Days later, his father’s name and paycheck sent her back across the Atlantic to her family in Ghana. They never spoke of it again. And neither did Doug.

  He looks down at the address in his phone, then squints at the gold numbers clinging to the side of a redbrick post anchoring two arches of a towering wrought iron gate. Wait a minute. He knows this property! A Vanderbilt, a Mellon—he can’t remember, but it’s tucked high above the park where various gruesome and innocuous things have happened: the rotted flesh of a White House intern found, rape, impassioned lovers, tourists, the laughter of schoolchildren running around Peirce Mill, an old flower plantation where Black people were enslaved and later escaped. The horror and the glamour feed off each other in some diseased symbiosis necessary for making the town of Washington all at once riveting and disturbing.

  Doug’s Porsche follows the beaming headlights to the front of the estate, beckoning him as if it were the solution. Tim stands illuminated in between enormous Doric columns with his arms folded: gold Rolex, boat shoes, argyle sweater. Doug parks, gets out, walks up, and shakes his hand. Tim pats him on the back as he leads him inside.

  The walls of this mansion are covered in law books, encyclopedia collections, and photographs of foreign diplomats, kings, queens, and presidents—and Jeff Bezos. An original Chagall hangs above the library’s green marble fireplace, near which seven men are seated in Chippendale chairs that form a circle. The men are hard to differentiate from each other, rich white men who are undoubtedly power players. But you’d have to know what kind of car each one drives or the n
eighborhood in which he lives to truly know who he is: Kalorama, McLean, Chevy Chase, Georgetown. You probably wouldn’t find any of them in Silver Spring, Bethesda, Arlington, or Old Town; those neighborhoods are for the average man at the Pentagon, or worse, the Chamber of Commerce. You might find one in Potomac or Great Falls, but only on acres of land on the cliffs above the Potomac River, and he’s retired and well into his seventies and refuses to admit he’s lost all his money and will soon file for bankruptcy and settle for a condo in Reston, Virginia.

  More than half sit in J. Press suits, others in polos and khakis, maybe a red sweater tied around the shoulders. Glasses or mustache or clean-shaven—all have their legs spread, rubbing their hands up and down their knees.

  They look up at Doug. “Welcome,” a few mutter, some nodding to acknowledge his existence because he’s important enough to be there. The hero, the lawyer! The man who, before taking office, bailed out the economy (AIG specifically), the man who saved their bonuses! Hear! Hear! The man who knows they’ll return the favor with political funding.

  But Doug can’t believe he’s back in this room, and the self-hatred consumes him. His cheeks turn the color of his Nantucket-red pants that are folded in his wife’s cedar closet. He sits in an open Chippendale chair. There’s a book resting on it for him with the engraved initials SAA. But the first thing Doug notices is the tufted ottoman in the center of the circle with various pamphlets fanned out on top of it. It’s the same ottoman his wife circled for him to review in the Kellogg Collection catalogue earlier that morning. He’d forgotten. It was supposed to be confirmed for the dinner they’re hosting tonight. The dinner. Doug panics. The meeting begins.