Paul Robertson: According to Their Deeds

The weight was pulled off. He sputtered, forcing water out of his lungs but filling them only with poison air, and he was still blind.

He found what he had run into. A chair, against the door. He pushed it aside and the broken door that had fallen on him, and crawled on, faster now.

The lights were behind him, just dim, dull spears into the Cerberus of smoke.

He reached the desk. A portion of the black air had drained out and clear air had begun to fill in, up to a foot now above the level of the water; but still no light could pierce the smoke.

He felt his way around the desk. He could sense the other men behind him.

Finally a shaft of white cut through the clear air between water and smoke and found the wall.

“Look at that,” a voice said, a voice that sounded like sound through smoke.

Like light through smoke, only faintly more than shadows, a dim row of ghostly books stood silent above the ruin of the room.

“I don’t believe it,” said another voice.

But Charles didn’t care. The chair was all important. It meant more than all the books.

His hand in the water touched something else solid, but not hard.

“Here!” Then he coughed again from breathing in enough air to speak. “Down here!”

The lights found him and what he was holding up out of the water, a hand.

Movement became urgent. He pulled the hand, and arm, and he saw black hair. Angelo’s black hair.

Angelo’s black hair. Angelo’s black hair. Charles touched the hair.

Stronger arms and shoulders again took hold, and he slid through the water, getting out of the way. His back found the desk and he sat against it. There was only one more thing.

Pulling and lifting, the men drove, burdened, toward the door and stairs. For one moment a light passed over the black hair and closed eyes and white teeth, and the jaw convulsed and choked in the wicked air.

He was alive. That was the one thing.

The men staggered away up the stairs, and the room went black and still.

Then Charles rested. The water was cold and he was soaked. The air was foul but could be breathed. Slowly his eyes could see thin gray light from the doorway, from the street or the beginning of morning. Even here, the night was not absolute always.

The light touched the walls and the books, or Charles could see them without light. They had also survived for a while longer, even if nothing would last forever, and what a story they must have seen played out in the smoke.

“Hey! Buddy! You still down there?”

The lights came back and the air was clear.

“I’m here,” Charles said.

“You all right?”

“I will be.”

“Your wife’s throwing a fit up there.”

They helped him stand but he wouldn’t leave yet. Through the weird girders of light, he grabbed a book and then the package he’d left last night. Only then they slogged through the debris and murk and up into the world of the living.

Charles walked slowly out into the open air and light, gray from ash and dawn. Dorothy ran to him.

“Charles.” She buried her head in his soaked, sooted shoulder. “They have Angelo.”

“He was in the basement.”

He put his arms around her and they fell onto the front steps to sit and weep together. They sat alone together and ignored the ruins behind them.

But not for long. In the street, still blocked by barricades, two paramedics were kneeling and Charles stumbled over beside them. Angelo was propped between them, breathing at least, a living man.

“How is he?” Charles asked.

“Okay, maybe,” one said. “Smoke, but that’s probably all.”

“Could we just take him to my house? It’s very close.”

“He should go to the hospital.”

“I want to take him to my house,” Charles said to the driver. “It’s just three blocks.”

“You what? Wait a minute.”

Now there was a swarm around Angelo, and a stretcher, but Charles pushed in. “Does he need to go to a hospital?”

The paramedics were talking. “Are you related or anything?”

“I’m his probation supervisor. I can sign papers.”

“Let me just check him out.”

Charles stepped back. But then another voice interrupted.

“Mr. Beale?”

“Detective. Yes? I don’t remember your name.”

“Mondelli. That’s somebody you know?”

“My employee. He lives in-lived in the top floor.”

“Anybody else would have been in the house?”

“No one,” Charles said. “No one should have been.”

“So, you have any idea who it was? Um, we don’t have a lot left of him to work with.”

Charles breathed in the clear, cool air. “There is a man named John Borchard.”

“Spell that?”

Charles did. “He works at the Justice Department downtown. He lives out in McLean. Or it might be someone else.”

The detective was staring at the name. “So why would he be in your building?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mondelli. If it’s him I’ll tell the whole story. But I have to get my wife back home.” He turned away to find a fireman. “Sir. The books in the basement. I have to get them out.”

“We’ll have an inspector look at it. He’ll tell you if you can get anything out.”

“They’re rare books. It’s ten million dollars.”

“Uh, okay, we’ll have the guy here in a couple hours. I’ll get the water pumped out.”

“Thank you.”

Angelo had not been moved. A pillow was under his head and Dorothy was beside him.

A pillow was under Angelo’s head, and Charles and Dorothy were still beside him. Daybreak pierced the lace curtains.

“Look at him,” Dorothy said.

The suspicion and hardness had receded from him and uncovered a tranquility that was natural to his still features. “That’s who I always thought he was.”

A clock chimed six times.

The telephone rang.

“I’m so tired,” Charles said. “And it’s going to be such a long day.” He picked up the telephone. “This is Charles Beale.”

“Detective Mondelli. Okay, tell me your story.”

“Mr. Mondelli. Yes. I don’t remember what I said before.”

“What would this Borchard be doing in your building at three in the morning lighting fires?”

Charles closed his eyes. He set the receiver on the side table for a moment, then picked it up.

“Was it John Borchard?”

“We can’t find him and we’ve got some forensics that match and I have Detective Paisley from Fairfax on the other line who wants to talk to you.”

“You’ve done quite a lot.”

“So why was he in your place? And you were at his place Tuesday when the judge blew himself up.”

Charles spoke slowly and wearily, keeping his words straight. “There are some papers. Important government papers. He didn’t want anyone to see them and he thought I might have them.”

“Okay, wait. Government papers. What kind of papers?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Why would you have them?”

“That’s what we were talking about at his house. He thought a former employee gave them to me.”

“Okay, we’ll get to that. What about the fire? So what you’re saying is, he would have broken in to your place to what, burn it down just to get rid of these papers?”

“I don’t know,” Charles said. “I don’t know what he was doing.”

“You have sprinklers?”

“We have fire sprinklers and an alarm.”

“Did any of it go off?”

“I haven’t heard that it did.”

“Okay. So he went in to burn the place and he cut off the alarm and water somehow. We’ll get a report from the fire chief, but he already says it was gasoline. Maybe he used too much and the fire was too fast and he got caught. Okay, Mr. Beale, I’m going to need to find out about these papers, but this is enough for now. I need to get a statement.”