William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“Many prominent psychiatrists have said so. On the record. Even in these PC times.”

“Would these prominent psychiatrists be members of the Christian Congregation, by chance?”

“That’s neither here nor there. The Mark Foley scandal did incalculable damage to our cause. This could be even worse.”

Matera rolled the cigar between her fingers, still eyeing her companion closely. “You’re a stubborn man, you know that, Trevor?”

“I believe the same could be said of you, Senator,” he replied, with a tiny intimation of a grin.

“Did you by chance have a better candidate in mind?”

Trevor tilted his head to the side as if trying to decide how much was safe to say. “I prefer a national hero to a national disgrace.”

“Right. Haskins.” Matera was sad to see that her cigar was almost at its end. She really shouldn’t have a second, not at her age. Even during times like these. “Is Haskins on board with this?”

“I think he has made it clear that he would be willing to step in, if called, assuming he felt there was sufficient support for his nomination. But he wants no part of the effort to defeat the Roush nomination.”

“Understandable. So you’re sure he’s your man?”

Trevor stared at her through steepled fingers. “There is a…well, a test pending, if you will. A loyalty test. A measure of determination. Or character.”

“Stop talking in riddles. What’s he got to promise? To bury Roe v. Wade ?”

“He needs to prove he’s someone we can work with.”

“Someone who will take orders when given?”

“I liked it better the way I said it.”

Matera shook her head. “You’re a devious man, Trevor.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a clever strategist.”

“As you wish.” She ground her cigar butt into an ashtray. “Think this is going to get out of committee?”

“I’m not sure. But it doesn’t much matter. If it doesn’t get out of committee, that makes everything so much easier. But I have to be prepared for every contingency. That’s what clever strategists do. When they play to win. And I always play to win. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

“So that’s it, then. Never mind the qualifications, the record, the man himself. He’s gay, and you’ve decided that homosexuality is an unforgivable sin, so he’s going down. The sad thing is, I can’t even criticize you. I know you honestly believe what you say. For you, it’s a matter of faith.” She paused. “I just wish your personal faith had less to do with judgment and more to do with mercy.”

Matera sighed, stood, and stretched. It wasn’t the cigar smoke, but she nonetheless had a strong desire to take a bath. “I think this meeting is over, my friend. We both know where we’re going.” She shook his hand again, then clapped Trevor on the shoulder. “I really wish you’d have taken that cigar.”

42

Loving and Trudy sashayed into the back room, arm in arm.

“Will you stop that already?” Loving muttered.

“What’s that, sugar?”

“Don’t—” Loving bit back his words. There were a lot of people in the room. Mostly naked men and totally naked women. Not many of either were paying attention to the new arrivals. “You’re…swinging your hips.”

“That’s what girls like me call walking. ”

“Do you have to walk so…provocatively?”

“I am what I am.”

“Well, actually, you’re not.”

“Details, details.”

Loving swore silently. “Do you see Renny?” He’d been so concerned about winning the arm-wrestling match and getting in here, he’d almost forgotten the primary mission. They had to find the mysterious Renny, the man who had instructed Trudy to take Victoria to the Roush press conference. Which she didn’t leave alive.

“Not yet. Why don’t I work the room?”

“Okay. What’ll I do?”

“What you do best. Stand there and look tall and manly.” Trudy leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Loving’s reaction suggested he was about to resort to fisticuffs.

Trudy held up a finger. “Temper, temper.” She winked. “Sugar.”

She sashayed off to the right. And Loving knew this because he was watching.

He closed his eyes and mentally chastised himself. Ogling a guy! A guy who looked like a really spicy chick, sure. But still a guy!

Loving mopped his brow. He had to keep his attention on the matter at hand. Renny.

The back room was far more glamorously appointed than the club outside. Loving was no expert on furniture, but he knew this was stuff of a higher order. Plush satiny chairs and sofas, lots of mahogany and oak. Most of the men in here looked foreign. Collarless shirts. Accents he couldn’t distinguish. Eurotrash.

There was a lot of sex going down in the room, in all manner of positions and combinations, but that wasn’t the half of it. A couple of the men in easy chairs were getting lap dances. One had his pants down; the other was jerking off while he watched the lap dance one chair over. These women were clearly of a higher order: well groomed, fit, statuesque, beautiful. Many of them had a foreign cast to their features. Mail-order Russian women? Loving wondered. Lured over with the false promise of marriage, only to end up strutting and grinding in this high-class dive? He hoped not.

Loving turned his eyes away from the various performances taking place throughout the room and directed his attention to the wall. There was a painting hanging just beside him, a beautiful oil depicting an Old World wooden ship at sea caught in a storm and many men on board trying to bring it to rights. Loving didn’t know much about art, but he was certain he’d seen this picture before. But where?

Now that he noticed, there was a lot of art in the room, not only paintings, but sculpture and mobiles descending from the ceiling, and brightly colored Pop Art stuff that he hated. He had no idea if it was real or reproduced, valuable or Wal-Mart, but it certainly gave the room a different look from the usual illicit sex parlor. Why did Renny bother? Did he really expect anyone to notice an art show while he had a naked seventeen-year-old undulating in his lap?

He returned his attention to the painting, and a memory sparked. It was a Bible story, that was it. This was the Storm on the Sea of Galilee, and those men scrambling all over the boat—the fishing boat—were Jesus’s disciples. This depicted the scene before Jesus walked across the water. He’d heard the story a million times when he was a kid in Sunday school. Maybe that was why the painting looked familiar. Maybe he’d seen it in church?

No, there was something else, something more. He just couldn’t remember what it was.

Someone crept up from behind. “Found him, sugar.”

Loving pivoted. “I told you not to call me ‘sugar.’ ”

“I know. That’s pretty much why I do it.”

Stay calm, Loving told himself. You still need her. Him!

“So you found Renny?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t easy. He had his face stuck in—well, you probably don’t want to know.”

“You’re right.”

“Anyway, he’s done now. Let me introduce you.”

Loving followed Trudy across the room, trying to ignore the various forms of immorality and debauchery taking place all around him. He wasn’t normally that much of a prude, but this place was making him sick. All these people making out—if you could call it that—in front of a Bible-story picture! It just wasn’t right.

He glanced at the painting one last time. Why did that picture bother him so much?

Loving found his quarry slumped in an easy chair upholstered in what appeared to be a corded green brocade—very fancy. Renny had that slightly dazed, vacant expression that Loving knew as the sure sign that the man had recently emptied his seminal vesicles. Loving supposed he should be grateful for the opportunity to question the man while he was in a dissipated, semi-comatose state.