Renny ignored the question. “If that woman had any real talent or intelligence, she’d have been working the stock exchange. Or robbing payroll shifts. Box-office proceeds. Instead, she made do with podunk palaces like that five-and-dime museum in Boston. And she practically screwed that up. To her eternal detriment. Failed to notice what rich fathers she might offend.” He shook his head. “After that, the doors to the art world were closed to her. She was limited to penny-ante crime. Convenience stores. Liquor stores. Running petty errands for politicians and their cronies.”
“But what was she doing at the Roush press conference?” Loving asked again, even more insistently.
“You have too many questions. Now I do not believe you know anything. And even if you do, I do not believe you have told anyone.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? We have cut your face—tortured you with electricity. Where is your cavalry, eh? Where are your saviors? I think they are not coming. I think they do not exist.”
The door to the storage closet opened and Wilhelm entered the room. He was carrying a space heater and a long iron rod with a sharpened tip. He plugged in the space heater. And waited.
“Do you know what it feels like to have a red-hot iron shoved into your body?” Renny asked.
“Happy to say that I don’t,” Loving grunted.
“That is about to change. I do not suppose this would be the time when you would like to talk?”
Loving shook his head.
“I thought not. Pity. I have almost grown to—well, if not like, then at least respect you.”
“I’m ready, Father,” Wilhelm said. The red tip of the iron rod illuminated the barely lit storage closet.
“Very well. Proceed.”
Wilhelm did not hesitate. He jabbed the red-hot iron into Loving’s exposed gut. Flesh sizzled. Loving cried out, unable to stop himself. And then Wilhelm jabbed him again. And again.
Loving slumped, all his strength oozing out of him. If he hadn’t been tied to the chair, he’d be a puddle on the floor. Renny said something, but Loving’s brain was no longer able to process the language.
Loving fought as hard as he could to hold it together, but it was useless. His body needed a release from pain more than his brain needed to register understanding. In a matter of seconds, blackness enveloped him.
51
Ben was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the top of the three-tiered marble steps outside the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals building. After convincing the weekend security staff to let him in, he found the elevators inoperative—budget cuts required shutting off some of the interior systems during the weekend. After mounting three more flights of stairs to get to the top floor, he was near exhaustion. By the time he located Judge Roush’s office, he was limping and clutching a stitch in his side.
Perhaps Christina was right. Maybe he did need to get more exercise.
He found Judge Roush in his chambers, a wonderfully ornate room reflecting the Federal architecture of the era in which it was built. Rococo crown molding linked all four painted wood walls to the ceiling. Roush’s desk looked as if it was at least two hundred years old; it had a sliding removable lap panel for writing upon and a secretary’s rack for sorting correspondence. Judge Roush looked as if he belonged in this Old World environment—far more than he ever did in the brighter, more modern Senate building or the Rose Garden of the White House.
“So,” Roush said, barely looking up, “you found me.”
“Yeah,” Ben said, leaning against a high-backed chair and wheezing. “And it took me all day. Next time leave a note.”
“I didn’t want to be found.”
“That much seems clear.” Still gasping a little, Ben slid into the chair. “So what gives?”
Roush leaned back in his desk chair. There was a tranquillity on his face that belied the fact that he was in hiding. “Wonderful office, don’t you think? I still remember the first day I came here. Thought I’d reached the pinnacle of my career, the summit. Beautiful office, nice home in the suburbs, good salary—what else was there? I’d made it to the federal court of appeals. The only position higher would be the Supreme Court—and that was so unlikely it didn’t even bear consideration. I mean, what were the odds? Not even worth thinking about.” He sighed. “I would’ve been better off if it had stayed that way.”
“Don’t say that,” Ben replied. “You were chosen for a reason. I sincerely believe that. And I don’t mean a political reason.”
Roush smiled, but Ben knew it was a smile that meant his words had been mentally brushed aside and ignored. “I’ve been happy here. Always. Love my work. Love my colleagues. Would’ve been perfectly content to spend the rest of my days working in this office.”
“You could,” Ben said, even though he didn’t want to. “It’s not as if you’ve resigned. Withdraw from the Supreme Court confirmation process and just stay.”
He shook his head slowly. “No. Much too late for that. Thomas Wolfe was right—you can’t go home again.” He stared at the green ink blotter on his desk. “Especially not after all the scandal. Wouldn’t be fair to the other judges. I’d be an object of suspicion and mistrust, a blight on the court.” He inhaled deeply. “No. Like it or not, this part of my life is over.”
“Then let’s work together to start a new life. On the Supreme Court.”
Roush pursed his lips. “I know you’ve been to see Ray. I assume he told you.”
Ben chose his words carefully. “He confirmed my suspicion that the woman who was murdered at your home was also the mother who conceived the child that was aborted.”
“Do the police know?”
“I haven’t heard anything. But it’s only a matter of time. Both the press and the Republicans are pouring millions into investigating this new aspect of your past. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t already made the connection. But for that matter, I’m surprised they haven’t been able to identify the victim.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Roush said, but he left it hanging, without explanation.
“I did warn you,” Ben said, trying to fill the silence. “I advised you to tell me everything. Better to give me the bad stuff up front and let me prepare for it than to allow me to be blindsided.”
“You feel as if you’ve been blindsided?”
“I feel as if I’ve been sucker-punched by a Mack truck.”
Roush nodded. “I really thought that maybe, just maybe, I could slip by. Especially since the Republicans were in such a hurry. I thought it was possible it wouldn’t come out.”
“I must say,” Ben replied, “that there’s something odd about the way it was never revealed during the committee hearings, but was revealed the instant you got out of committee. It’s as if someone was holding it back, waiting to use it only if it became necessary to derail your confirmation.” Ben waited for some explanation. He got none. “But you were naïve to think there was any chance it wouldn’t come out. And you’re talking to someone who more or less majored in Naïve.”
Roush smiled but said nothing.
“Tell me what happened, Tad. Please.”
He looked up abruptly. “You mean about the murder? I have no idea. You don’t think—”
“No. I mean about your past.”
“It’s all dead and gone. Over with. A long time ago.”
“Evidently not. There must be some reason she came to see you on the day of your press conference.” Another interminable silence. “Tad, please.”
“No. I…can’t. I’ll just withdraw, that’s all. And then it will be over and I can retreat into obscurity and—”
“Listen up, buster,” Ben said, his voice acquiring a new and unaccustomed strength. “Do you have any idea how many people have poured hours and hours of their time, not to mention thousands and thousands of their dollars, into your nomination?”
“I know you’ve worked very hard.”
“Forget about me. There are literally hundreds of
us. Hundreds of people who put their necks on the chopping block for you. Do you know how many phone hours Christina has logged, working for you instead of that Wilderness Bill that means so much to her? Or the Poverty bill? What about Senator Hammond, the Democratic leader backing a Republican appointee—how often does that happen? You can’t just crawl away in a fit of self-imposed martyrdom.” Ben’s lips tightened. “You haven’t got the right. You owe them better.”
“Ben,” Roush said, spreading his hands wide, “there’s nothing more I can do.”
“Of course there is. You can tell me what happened. Everything, this time. Every single bit. Then we’ll see where we can go from there.”
Roush sighed, weariness etched in his brow and the creases circling his face. “All right,” he said, finally. “But you aren’t going to like it.”
52
Was he still bleeding? Loving wondered, as his eyes lolled around in their sockets. Was he awake? He was fairly certain he was awake, because not in his worst nightmare had he ever felt like this, as if a huge gushing hole had been opened in his stomach, a hole punctured by a very hot, very sharp stick. Because it was true.
But still bleeding? He wasn’t sure. He liked to think that the heat had cauterized the wound. But he was still tied to the chair. How long had it been now? Hours? Days? It seemed like days, but he knew time moved slowly when you were being tortured. One of those great truths of life, he supposed. One he had never hoped to experience.
He knew he had blacked out at some point, and that made establishing a timeline all the more difficult. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been unconscious. For all that Renny talked about wanting to kill him, he sure as hell wasn’t in any hurry about it. Even after he came back around, Loving kept his eyes closed. After a while, Wilhelm threw down the hot iron in disgust. Renny had tried to comfort him, saying that Loving would wake up soon and Wilhelm could start his fun up all over again. Such a loving father! You could see why the bond between them was so strong. The family that plays together, stays together…
The iron rod was lying on the floor, just a few feet to Loving’s left. It was still glowing hot. That meant he couldn’t have been out too long. Presumably, any moment the Torture Twins would return and resume their activities. And there was nothing Loving could do about it, not as long as he was tied to this chair. He was helpless, pinned down like a butterfly in a collection, barely able to move.
His attention returned to the glowing iron. Still hot. Not far away from him…
Could he do it? His brain was so addled that making any kind of coherent plan was difficult. He certainly couldn’t be assured he would fall where he needed to fall, and if he missed, it would be over. Renny would find him lying on the floor and he would be enraged. Loving wouldn’t get a second chance.
On the other hand, this storage closet was very narrow. It wouldn’t be possible to go too far wrong. Even if he hit the wall, he could ricochet back into place. In fact, it might be best if he hit the wall…
There were times in a man’s life when careful planning was advisable, Loving mused. And there were other times when the best damn thing a person could do was just go for it. Too much thinking would make it all the less likely it would ever happen.
Loving turned to the left, which predictably twisted his insides into a knot and made his perforated stomach burn as if it were on fire. He’d have to overcome that if he was going to get anywhere. He clenched his teeth, took his mind to a better, kinder place where he wouldn’t feel the incredible pain he was about to experience, and threw himself down, chair and all.
He flew off to the left of the storage closet, clattering against some rickety metal shelving. Something sharp punctured his arm, but it was nothing compared to the agony he was already experiencing. He slammed down on the hard concrete floor, hoping the noise hadn’t been heard by anyone outside.
The fall knocked the breath out of him. He inhaled deeply, quickly, trying to regulate his breathing and gather some strength.
Loving fell facing away from the wall, so he couldn’t see the hot iron. But he could feel heat emanating against his bound hands. Thrusting with all his might, he moved himself and the chair ever so subtly backward until the iron was within reach. Then he placed the rope that tied his wrists together directly on the iron.
The problem with having a red-hot iron between your bound wrists was that, no matter how effective it might be at burning the rope, there was no way to prevent it from also searing the flesh on those same wrists. He could feel his skin melting, peeling away. Flesh burned so much easier than rope. By the time his wrists were free, there might be nothing left of them.
Loving squeezed his eyelids tight. Tears crept out of them. The pain was excruciating, but that had been the case for a long time. And that would be the case again, if he didn’t get free.
In the end, he couldn’t wait until the iron had severed the ropes completely, but he got them weakened sufficiently that he could pull them apart. Good enough. Once he had his hands back, the rest was duck soup. He still hurt like hell. But he was free.
Of course, that was just the start. Now he had to get out of there, which would be a challenge, since he had only the vaguest notion of where “there” was. If he could get to a phone, he could call Lieutenant Albertson. Boy, did he have some information to share with the man now! Or he could call Ben. Or both. Get some help and get the word out. He already had a pretty good idea of what had happened, why Victoria had gone to the press conference, what Ben needed to know to clear Thaddeus Roush and his partner once and for all.
Slowly, carefully, Loving pushed the closet door open. The hallway outside was dark, but he could hear the thumping sound of dance music not far away. He was somewhere in Renny’s club. Someplace even more private than the room he’d had to arm wrestle his way into. If he wandered around long enough, he was sure to find one of the public areas. And from there, it would be just a short walk to the—
He froze. There was noise in the corridor. The sound of swishing. The swishing of corduroy slacks. And the only person he knew who had been wearing cords…
“It seems I have arrived just in time.”
Pretty Boy. Wilhelm. Whatever you wanted to call him, he wasn’t a welcome sight.
Loving knew that the space of a second could be critical. He raced forward, hoping to clock the creep before he had a chance to respond.
Wilhelm pulled a gun. And it wasn’t a taser.
“This is a shame. I had hoped to prolong the amusement for ever so much longer.”
Loving felt his throat clutch. Pretty Boy’s father might be a delusional sadist, but at least he was sane. Wilhelm, he was not so sure about.
“Your daddy doesn’t want me dead.”
“You are mistaken. He sent me back here for that very purpose. As much as we have enjoyed our little fun with you, he has determined that you are too dangerous to remain breathing.”
“You’ll regret this.”
“The only thing I regret is that I won’t have any more fun with the iron. But all good things must come to an end. I doubt that I could get you tied up again without the taser.” He sighed heavily. “So I will just have to kill you and be done with it. Pleasant dreams, Mr. Loving.”
He raised the gun and pointed it directly at Loving’s face.
53
“Ray was absolutely right,” Roush explained to Ben. “I was bottom-feeding. Trawling the seamy side of the street. Looking for Ms. Goodbar in all the wrong places. I hadn’t come to grips with my sexuality yet—wouldn’t let myself admit it. So I dated women, or tried. Even slept with them. But I always made sure it was someone utterly inappropriate. Someone I would never be tempted to marry. Someone who would never be tempted to marry me.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m not sure some of them even liked me.”
Ben cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Are we talking about…prostitutes here?”
“Oh no, no, no. I never paid for it. Nothing like that. We’re just talki
ng, um, what’s a polite term?”
“Women of low repute?”
“Very good, Ben. What a way you have with words! English major?”
“Music.”
“Close enough. Anyway, yes, in my spare time, which was never that extensive, I was cavorting with trailer trash and barflies, and on at least one notable occasion, a thief.”
Ben frowned. “You mean, like, a shoplifter?”
“Please. Give me some credit. I had better taste than that. I’m talking about an art thief.”
“Oh,” Ben said, arching an eyebrow. “Well, that is better.”
“Nothing but the best for young Thaddeus Roush. Okay, maybe she actually stole art only once, but I like to think the job improved her entire résumé.” He closed his eyes and continued his story. “I met Vickie, short for Victoria, at a bar in Georgetown. On the outside she seemed eminently trashy—exactly the sort of woman I was drawn to at the time. Ripped-up jeans, tight T-shirt. Fourteen different tattoos, some of them in places that are…unmentionable. She was a piece of work, no doubt about it. But the more time I spent with her, the more I realized that she was, well, not as dumb as you might’ve guessed. The outward appearance was more show than tell.”
“Like maybe she was slumming, too.”
“Exactly. Of course, that made her all the more intriguing. A little frightening, too. And she was tough, very tough. Exactly how I didn’t feel, at the time.”
“So I assume this led to a relationship between the two of you. And that eventually this relationship led to the two of you becoming sexually involved.”
“I think we became sexually involved the first night I escorted her out of that bar. In time we developed something that you might be able to call a relationship.”
“And this tryst eventually produced a pregnancy?”
“Not at first. We were on again, off again. I had my world, she had hers. And the more I knew about hers, the more I realized it could have nothing to do with my judicial work. We hooked up when we could, when we wanted. Sex, that is. When we wanted sex.”
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