William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

6

Ben had never before visited Montgomery County, Maryland, a well-heeled suburb outside D.C. He didn’t much care for it; it didn’t seem so much like a real town as it did an overgrown, overpriced housing development—or several housing developments absorbing one another like a multicelled bacterium to create the semblance of a community. Prefab cottages and sprawling McMansions stretched as far as the eye could see, huge spreads located far enough away from the urban centers that they remained affordable to the upper middle class in a way that anything older or closer would never be. There were neighborhoods like this back in Tulsa, Ben knew, especially as you moved south of midtown, where more square footage could be obtained for less. The distance from the notoriously high crime districts of D.C. probably worked in the neighborhood’s favor, too. Still, he didn’t like it. There was something creepy and artificial about it. Like a Stepford town. An overgrown theme park. Not a real city.

But of course, that was the opinion of a guy who lived in the upstairs apartment of a semi-seedy boardinghouse, so what did he know? Christina’s eyes lit up like a pinball machine as they pulled into the driveway. She had been urging Ben to look at houses. They would need something larger, she said. She understood Ben’s attachment to the boardinghouse, to the legacy Mrs. Marmelstein had left him, but they would need more space after they were married.

After they were married. He still couldn’t say it, or even think about it, without picturing a fleecy word balloon above his head reading “Gulp!”

Judge Roush’s front lawn was so encrusted with reporters that Ben couldn’t tell whether he liked the exterior of the house or not. But the interior was definitely to his taste. Lots of wide open spaces, not much clutter. Ben hated houses that were filled to the brim with tchotchkes, a never-ending array of doodads. He didn’t do that with his place. Of course, he didn’t really own any doodads.

If Christina moved in, she would bring all of hers. The ceramic pig collection. The knickknack tribute to all things French.

Was it a bad sign that shivers ran up his spine?

This house appeared to have been decorated sparely by choice, and that said a lot about its occupants. It had a modern feel: straight lines, white paint, lots of light flooding in from the wide windows, flat ceiling—almost Frank Lloyd Wright flat—and modern art on the walls.

“Is that a Chagall?” Ben asked, pointing to a predominantly pink and blue watercolor above the sofa in the living room.

“Indeed,” Senator Hammond answered. “You have a good eye, Ben.”

Well, a good eye for the signature at the bottom. “I’m going to assume it’s a print.”

“Actually, it’s a page removed from an art book. But the signature is genuinely Chagall’s. One of the last things he did before he passed away. It’s quite valuable.”

“And this,” Ben said, pointing to the spot-illuminated painting on the opposite wall, “is a Dalí?”

“Right again. From the Paradise Lost series.”

“Wasn’t there a problem with forgeries after Dalí’s death?”

“It wasn’t forgeries, exactly. It was the difficulty of distinguishing actual Dalís from the work of his students, which he sometimes signed, particularly late in life. But this is the real thing. Thaddeus knows his art. He’s been collecting for many years.”

“It’s my passion.” Ben turned and saw the new Supreme Court nominee standing behind him. “One of them, anyway.”

Ben shook his hand. “And what are your other passions?”

“Truth. Justice.” He motioned Ben toward the nearest sofa. “And unicorns. I love anything with a unicorn on it.” He smiled. “That last part was a joke.”

“Thank goodness.” Ben eyed the man sitting opposite him. He looked different up close than he did on television, or even on a somewhat distant brightly lit dais. He supposed anyone would. He was tall and trim, dark-haired—just a hint of gray—with prominent brows and a crescent nose. Roush was dressed casually in a polo shirt and khaki chinos, but he had clearly paid close attention to what he was wearing. Probably obsessed over exactly what image he wished to convey, Ben suspected. He knew he would. And now Roush had the added problem of having to dress in a manner that was attractive but not…fussy. Dandified. Or any of the other euphemisms his opponents would be using to remind everyone that he was gay. “You must be exhausted. Bob tells me you’ve been talking to senators all morning.”

“I’d rather be grilled by senators than by that horde amassed on my front lawn.” Ben didn’t doubt it. “I haven’t had so many people around my home since we hosted the block party. The press conference isn’t until four in the afternoon. They started setting up their equipment at four in the morning. Can you believe it? I’m the scourge of the block. I’ll be lucky if they don’t drum me out of the neighborhood association.”

Ben doubted that was much of a threat. “Looks like you have quite a spread here.”

“Oh, two acres. Honestly, I only bought the surrounding lots to prevent them from being developed. This town was in danger of becoming a little too cookie-cutter, if you know what I mean.”

Ben raised an eyebrow.

“Then Ray got into gardening and, well, you can see for yourself.”

“Where is Ray, anyway?” Hammond asked. He turned to Ben. “Did you know this man’s partner used to be my law clerk? About a million years ago.”

“Small world, huh?”

“So it seems,” Roush said. “Anyway, after Ray put his green thumb to work, this little house became the tail that wags the dog. Can I show you around?”

Roush took Ben through the rear sliding doors and gave him a guided tour of the grounds. The backyard reminded Ben of the Philbrook mansion in Tulsa—which had the most magnificent garden he had ever seen in his life, until now. What Roush had called the “backyard” was actually a rectangular expanse that stretched almost to the low horizon, all of it planted, all in excellent shape. The lawn was virtually manicured. The flowering plants were clipped, the bedded flowers were in bloom. Roush identified each for Ben as they passed, usually offering the Latinate name as well as the common. As they strolled down the cobbled path, Ben marveled that a garden could seem so rich and wild, yet simultaneously seem perfectly planned and ordered. Even if Roush wasn’t the primary gardener, it was clear he took great pride in it. Ben wondered if all the senators who were visiting today had gotten the backyard tour, and what effect Roush imagined that might have on them. He couldn’t help thinking of Pride and Prejudice: Elizabeth Bennett initially rejects the presumptuous Darcy, but her feelings change when she sees the artistry and majesty of his estate, Pemberley. Perhaps Roush was hoping for a similar transformative effect.

After the tour, Roush took Ben into his private library; the walls were lined with beautiful Folio Society editions of the classics. The man Ben recognized from the press conference as Roush’s partner, Raymond Eastwick, was sitting on the sofa reading a magazine.

“Ben,” Roush asked, “have you had a chance to meet Ray?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Ben said, extending his hand. As he did, he couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the two. Eastwick was larger, a little heavy, stronger-looking. He was dressed in jeans, and one of the knees was soiled. Early morning weeding, perhaps.

“Pleasure’s mine,” Eastwick said, “and I mean that. Been with Taddy for seven years, and I think this is the first day in all that time there’s been another Democrat in the house.”