According to Their Deeds

by Paul Robertson

  “John, are there any people in your office that you’ll have to take action about?”

  “There may be. That will take a great deal of judgment.”

  “Their careers are in your hands,” Charles said, pushing the stack of folders back toward John.

  “They’ve made their own decisions. My judgment will have to be what is best for the Department. And now, Charles, did you find what you were looking for?”

  Charles considered. “I think I did.”

  “Then I would like to show you something else that was in the hidden drawer of the desk.” He took a small wrapped package from a desk drawer. He undid the tape and brown paper and held out an antique book.

  “It’s a Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant,” he said. “But I’m sure you knew that.”

  “Yes, I know the book.” Charles held the book closed.

  “Which brings us to the subject of books. At first, when you came to me, I thought you might have been supplying Derek with some of his information, and you were offering to do the same for me. Then I went through the papers and I realized there were some missing. You’ve obviously noticed there is no mention among these of Karen Liu or Patrick White.”

  “Or you.”

  “Yes. Or me,” John said. “So I had to assume those papers were elsewhere. If you open that book, you’ll understand why I finally guessed that you had them.”

  Charles kept the book closed. “I really had no inkling there was anything in the books when I bought them at the auction.”

  “If I had known,” John said, “you can be sure that you would not have bought them. But please, open it.”

  “I assume it’s hollow.”

  “Yes, it is. But I want you to see what is in it.”

  “It was a shock, John, seeing the first one. I’m perhaps sentimental, but I don’t want to see another antique ruined.”

  John shrugged. “I guessed what a hollowed book might mean, and when Derek’s bookseller came calling, I felt my guess was confirmed. I knew the papers had to be somewhere—especially Patrick White’s. So, Charles, I would like to see the papers you have.”

  “I don’t have them with me, of course. I can tell you that Patrick White’s is just a title page copied from the University of Virginia Honor Court proceedings, with an interior page number written on it. A person would have to get those proceedings and look at that inside page to make any sense of it.”

  “Hardly incriminating at all if someone found it,” John said. “But if a newspaper reporter received a copy and knew it was important, he would quickly get all the details.”

  “Which is what happened,” Charles said.

  “With the consequences that everyone in Washington knows.”

  “And that brings me to the other reason I wanted to talk to you. Patrick White came to me this morning.”

  “More of the same, I suppose?”

  “More than the same. John, I need to warn you. I think he might try to take justice into his own hands.”

  An odd new look came into John’s eyes. It was mostly anger tinged with fear.

  “So it has gone too far,” John said. “What did he say?”

  “It was vague, but it was very threatening. Last week he told me that you killed Derek.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

  “Today he said you were planning to kill again. He said he would stop you. He also said he had someone who would help him.”

  “In that case,” John said, “I insist that you look inside that book.” He handed it to Charles.

  Charles held it for a moment, feeling its weight and balance. The lettering on the spine was still legible: Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason.

  Charles opened the book.

  The hole cut was smaller than the John Locke, but deeper into the thick volume. Resting in it was the black plastic object, a rounded rectangle, with the two buttons. It also had a speaker grill.

  “A recorder?” Charles said.

  “A small Dictaphone. A fairly common thing for an administrator to keep in his pocket.”

  Charles lifted it out of the book and pushed the Play button.

  “Tell me about him,” it rumbled.

  Charles jerked in surprise, dropping the device.

  “It’s Derek,” he said.

  “Yes,” John said. “Derek recorded a conversation. Go ahead. Listen to it.”

  He pushed the button again.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He called me last week.” It was Patrick White’s voice. “He read about me in the newspaper and he knew it had to be Borchard behind the scandal. He said Borchard’s been after him for a couple months, too.”

  “After him? For what?”

  “Something in the Justice Department. They’re rivals. It’s the same game—he’s gotten the letters, too.”

  “What is this man’s name?”

  “He won’t tell me. Maybe you could guess. You know everyone that Borchard does.”

  “I don’t know who it would be,” Derek’s voice said.

  “He says if he and I work together, we can bring Borchard down.”

  “How?”

  “That’s all we’ve said. He’ll help us, Derek.”

  “I have to know what he’s going to do. I have to know who he is.”

  “I’ll find out,” Patrick White said. “But he’s scared. He doesn’t want me to know who he is. But he wants to be part of anything we do.”

  And then there was silence.

  “That’s all there is,” John Borchard said.

  “It must be the same person Patrick White has mentioned to me. Who could they be talking about?”

  “That’s what I have to find out!” John said, suddenly vehement. “I have to know who it is. It isn’t just Patrick White. There’s someone else as well. It must be someone else that Derek was blackmailing.”

  “Could it be any of these people?” Charles put his hand on the stack of folders.

  “It isn’t. I’ve been through all of them. It must be one of the papers you have. That is why I have to see them.” He was standing, pacing in the narrow space of the office.

  “Karen Liu?”

  “It’s a man. White said he. And this man, he must know more than Patrick White does. He knew that the papers were in Derek’s desk. He’s the person who was bidding against me.”

  “Maybe . . .” Charles said, “maybe I could get Mr. White to tell me.”

  “Even if he doesn’t know, he might have some clue. Something that could help me guess. Maybe the man at the auction who did the bidding. He was from New York.”

  “Edmund Cane.”

  “He might know. But I need to see the papers you have. That might be enough.”

  “I’ll show them to you,” Charles said. “And I’ll talk to Mr. White.”

  “Do you know where he is?” John asked. “I haven’t been able to find where he’s living.”

  “No, I don’t know where he liv—”

  First, shaking.

  Just afterward sound. Then the sorting of sounds—glass shattering, heavier objects falling. A percussion of air and then heat.

  “Get down,” Charles said. John collapsed to the floor.

  But there was no more of the sound or motion. Charles stood enough to see out the window. John didn’t move.

  The neighboring house was buried in smoke. Charles watched in shock as the gray cleared. An upstairs window was gone, and also most of the wall that had held it, and the hole was black edged and jagged. Flames wavered inside.

  “Call the police,” Charles said, but John was immobile. Charles grabbed the telephone and pushed three digits.

  “There’s been an explosion,” he said. “The house behind us—what is the address here?”

  John didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know the address. Whatever this phone number is.”

  “Who is calling?” the voice said.

  “Charles Beale. I’m at the home of John Borchard
in McLean. I don’t know the address.”

  “We have your address. What happened?”

  “Behind us. The house exploded—something in it—there’s fire and smoke. It was a big explosion.”

  “We have help on the way. Has anyone been injured?”

  “I don’t know. I think—” The window that had looked directly down on John Borchard’s office was destroyed. “I think someone must have been.”

  “Do you see anyone injured?”

  “No. I’m calling from the neighbor’s house. No one here was hurt.”

  “Mr. Beale, we have help on the way. Stay clear of the fire. Don’t try to go into the house.”

  “I won’t. We won’t.”

  “That’s all we need now. You can hang up.”

  Charles set the telephone down. “John. Are you all right?”

  John Borchard was still not moving or speaking. He was on his knees, his mouth was open, his face was paper white, shining with sweat, his breath jerking, his eyes wide.

  “John!”

  Charles took his shoulder and shook it. The blank eyes suddenly moved.

  “It was meant for me,” he said, finally speaking.

  “Who lives in that house?”

  “Where?”

  “The house right behind you!”

  “They’re gone. They’ve been gone.”

  Charles bent down, face-to-face with John Borchard. “Are you all right?”

  John’s face was a sagging ruin. “It was for me! They want to kill me!”

  “You’re fine,” Charles said. “Sit up here.”

  John heaved himself up into his chair. His face was regaining color and his breath was becoming normal.

  “The police!” he said.

  “I called them.”

  “They’ll see the files.” John staggered to his feet. He pushed aside a small table and groped at the wood paneling behind it. The panel clicked open, uncovering the gray front of a safe.

  A bitter smell had infiltrated the room.

  “Hey, boss.” Angelo’s voice startled Charles. “Come on, get out of here.”

  “No. We’re all right,” Charles said.

  John was on his knees, fumbling with the safe door. Finally, sirens were sounding.

  “Who did that might come here,” Angelo said.

  Charles untangled the words. “No, I don’t think anyone did it. It went off from inside the house.”

  “Come on, go!” Angelo’s hiss was urgent and angry. “Get away.”

  “We’ll wait for the police, Angelo.”

  “Boss, no police!”

  “No police,” John Borchard said, suddenly aware of them. The safe was still not open. “Not until I put the files away.”

  “Boss,” Angelo pleaded. “Come! The police can’t find me here!” His eyes were wide and white.

  “Why are you so afraid?” Charles shouted at him.

  A shudder passed from head to feet, and a thin sigh escaped the clenched mouth.

  “I am not afraid.”

  “Then sit down.”

  Slowly the tense body settled into a chair, not sitting but perched.

  John was back at the safe, trying to open it. The sirens were close and car doors were opening.

  AFTERNOON

  “Mr. Beale?”

  “Yes, Officer?” Charles was in his car in John Borchard’s driveway. Angelo was beside him. The dashboard clock said 1:30.

  The policeman leaned into his open window. “You can go.”

  “But I haven’t spoken with anyone yet!”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long. Detective Paisley may call you later.”

  “I really need to discuss this with him.”

  “I’ll make sure he calls.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “We’re not giving any information yet.”

  “Then please have your detective call me as soon as possible.” Charles started the car and pulled out onto the street. “There,” he said, angry and frustrated, to Angelo. “There was no reason to get away before the police came. We couldn’t even get them to notice us.”

  Angelo didn’t answer. He seethed.

  “And then we just watched,” Charles said. Dorothy’s chair was close to his, and the office door was closed. “Police cars, fire trucks, ambulances. Everything. The electric company, the gas company. We finally just waited in the car.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” she asked.

  “They wouldn’t say. They didn’t bring anyone out of the house while we were there.”

  Dorothy waited. “Charles. It can’t have just happened by chance.”

  “No, I’m sure it didn’t.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “It was Patrick White.”

  Dorothy was shocked. “How? What would he have been doing there?”

  “When he was here this morning, he said wild things. I think he was making an explosive—and it exploded.”

  “I don’t understand, Charles. Do you mean it was . . . that he—”

  “I don’t know. He might have been trying to kill John, or maybe himself. I don’t know.”

  “But did he live that close to John Borchard?”

  “At least for the last days or weeks. Maybe he was renting, I don’t know!”

  “What did John Borchard say about it?”

  “We didn’t talk. He was with the police detective the last I saw him. Maybe that was why they couldn’t talk to me.”

  “And what about Angelo? What did he think?”

  Charles buried his head in his hands. “I called him a coward.”

  “You what?”

  “He wanted to go. He was out in the car when the explosion happened and he came in to get me. He wanted to leave.”

  “But why would he want to go? He wouldn’t have had anything to worry about.”

  “I suppose his instinct was too strong, to get away from the police, or from anything like this. So I asked him why he was so afraid. I was too upset! John was panicking, and Angelo was panicking, and I guess I panicked, too. I need to go talk to him.”

  “Angelo?”

  The door opened. Angelo faced him, closed.

  “I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Angelo didn’t answer.

  “I know you weren’t afraid,” Charles said. “You were trying to get us both out of danger.”

  Angelo answered. “Do you want anything else?”

  “No.”

  Angelo closed the door.

  “Mr. Beale?” Morgan was waiting for him in the office. “The information you wanted just came up on the computer.”

  “I’ll come,” Charles said, and Dorothy followed. They looked at Morgan’s screen.

  Former Judge Killed in McLean House Explosion—Patrick White, who resigned last year from the Federal bench over a law school cheating scandal, was killed this afternoon when an explosion occurred in his rented house in McLean. Police have not released any details about the cause of the explosion, except that it was in an upstairs bedroom and that Mr. White was in the room at the time. Washington Gas has confirmed that the explosion was not gas related.

  “That’s enough,” Charles said.

  “Wait,” Morgan said. “This is new. It says the police think he was building some kind of explosive and it went off.”

  EVENING

  “Charles?” Dorothy opened the basement door.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “It’s nine o’clock. Shall we go home? Everyone else is gone.”

  “Did the police detective ever call? His name was Paisley.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you seen Angelo?”

  “No, his door’s been closed.”

  Charles looked back down at the book open before him. “In the middle of life I find myself within a forest dark, for the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

  “It isn’t lost, dear,” Dorothy said. “He found it again.”


  “The path he found only lead to the door.

  Through me the way is to the city dolent;

  Through me the way is to eternal dole;

  Through me the way among the people lost.”

  “Charles …”

  “All hope abandon, ye who enter in!” Charles said.

  “No! Charles. If you must be reading Dante, read Paradise instead.”

  He tried to smile. “Then be Beatrice and lead me.”

  “I’ll take you home at least.”

  He did smile. “Yes. Let’s go home.”

  “I saw in the newspaper there had been some burglaries near here, Derek.”

  “Yes, the neighbors. They really should get better alarm systems. Apparently you have hired your own guard. Is that why you brought that young man?”

  “Not exactly, although living in a city always has its worries. And working for the government, too. When I saw you back in April, you mentioned a situation in your office. I hope that’s resolved?”

  “Actually not, Charles. In fact, I’m afraid it’s gotten quite a bit more difficult.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The stakes continue to rise. I threaten your pawn, you return with an attack on my bishop, and suddenly the queens are face-to-face, and the whole game hangs in the balance.”

  “But in real life, Derek, we have other choices than defeat or victory.”

  “That reminds me, Charles. Which of us is winning at the moment?”

  “Winning? Oh, of course! You mean your challenge from last time.”

  “Our views of life.”

  “I’m quite content at the moment, Derek, so I must be winning.”

  “I’m in a fight that takes all my wits and cunning, so I must be winning.”

  “Then let’s call it a draw.”

  “But, Charles, for me, a draw is a loss.”

  “For me, it’s a win.”

  “Exquisite, Charles! I like this game better than any of the others.”

  “It seems easy enough. Even though I don’t know what I’m playing. All I do is be who I am and—Is something wrong, Derek?”

  “No. No. I just had a thought.”

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing exact, Charles. Just that, if somehow I lose the game playing by my rules, you might win it playing by yours.”

  WEDNESDAY

  MORNING