William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

Just at the instant he was certain he would pass out, Renny removed his hands.

Loving lurched forward—or at least his head did, the only part of his body that wasn’t tied to the chair. He coughed and wheezed and gasped for air, desperate to get something circulating through his lungs.

“A nasty way to die, isn’t it?” Renny said. “But even at that, much too quick. Much too painless. I want something that you will experience with more…extended pleasure. Unless you are perhaps ready to tell me what I wish to know.”

Loving wanted to be defiant, but found he was unable to form the words necessary to do it. How much longer could he hold out? He knew every man, no matter how tough, had a breaking point. And he feared he was very much approaching his.

“This is your last chance, Mr. Loving. Talk to me!”

Somehow, some way, he managed to find words. “No, thanks. I’ll go with Option Two.”

“Idiot!” Renny threw up his hands, enraged. He grabbed the lamp behind him, jerked the electrical cord out of the base of the lamp—without unplugging it—and peeled back the rubber coating. Once he was able to reach the wiring beneath, he pulled the two threads apart, careful not to let them touch.

“Americans,” Renny swore under his breath. “You have such stupid notions, these preposterous ideas of what it is to be a man. Where did you learn your lessons, from the James Bond movies? Let us see if your little secrets seem so important after this.”

Loving felt a surge of raw electricity delivered to his chest. His entire body lurched up and down; his heart beat wildly. Renny had only begun his work. He touched the exposed wires to Loving’s forehead, his cheeks, his damaged nose. He ripped apart Loving’s T-shirt and touched the wires to his nipples, and when that wasn’t enough, he touched the wires to his crotch. Loving fought to stay awake, fought to avoid cardiac arrest, fought to keep his lips closed a little longer.

What would it hurt to talk? he heard the evil voice in his head saying. Ben and Christina could take care of themselves. He didn’t even like Thaddeus Roush. Who was he trying to protect? His investigation had come to a dead stop. What was it he was trying to save this time? What exactly was it he was going to die for?

And then the answers crystallized in his head. He wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to take Option One or Two. He was going to live—live for the chance to turn the tables on Pretty Boy and Renny. He had to pull through. If nothing else, for that.

And perhaps for that beautiful painting of the disciples on the Sea of Galilee.

“Damn you!” Renny shouted. He continued electrocuting Loving, but Loving had removed his mind to another place, had focused on thinking, not feeling. Nursery rhymes, country music lyrics, the Pledge of Allegiance, anything to distract him. He couldn’t even be sure which parts of his body had been electrified. All he knew was that he had survived it.

Renny was furious. “We need something better. Something that hurts even more! Something this monster can’t ignore!”

“I’ll get to work on it, Father,” Pretty Boy said.

“Don’t bother. I have had all of this one that I can stand. If he has told what he knows to someone else, they will soon show their hand. And then we will kill those people. We will kill that senator for whom he works and everyone in his office. We will kill everyone he knows, if necessary. But we will start with him.”

He clasped his hand tightly around Loving’s throat. “Play time is over, my oversized friend.” He squeezed even tighter. “Your death is now upon you.”

49

The radio spot began with a voice-over in the usual clipped stentorian tones over a driving electronic beat that had been sampled from an action-picture sound track.

“Do you believe liars should be trusted?”

DUH-duh, duh, ta-da, the electronic heartbeat boomed in the background. DUH-duh, duh, ta-da.

“Do you believe sex offenders should be running the justice system?”

DUH-duh, duh, ta-da. DUH-duh, duh, ta-da.

“Do you believe a murderer should be on the highest court in the land?”

The music swelled, adding a pizzicato electric guitar riff that elevated the tension level of the music to the magnitude of a slasher flick. Then, all at once, the music disappeared. And after a moment of silence, the chorus of baby cries began, a mass cacophony of infant pain.

The stentorian voice returned: “Then tell your senator you don’t want Thaddeus Roush on the Supreme Court.”

“Paid for by the—”

Christina switched the car radio off. “You know, I was hoping for some Sarah McLaughlin or Alicia Keyes. Maybe John Mayer. Radiohead.”

“I’ve got a Susan Herndon CD in my briefcase,” Ben said, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated the winding avenues of Montgomery County.

“Thanks, but no. Upon reflection, I realize that great music shouldn’t be wasted on a sour disposition.”

Ben briefly took one hand off the wheel and gave her knee a squeeze. “It was inevitable that the extreme pro-life lobbyists would emerge as soon as the news about Roush’s past broke. But that’s not going to sway everyone. Polls show a plurality of Americans still think abortion should not be criminalized.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Beauregard.”

“Well, if you hold a bad penny long enough, you’re bound to turn a little green.” Christina giggled. “I spoke to him earlier. He’s not ruling out the possibility of more backlash. People are tired of judicial appointments turning into political footballs. This has only made it worse.”

“Ben.” She looked across the car at him, her big blue eyes glistening. “I know you like Tad, but—honestly. Alan Ginsberg’s nomination was derailed because he admitted he once experimented with a marijuana cigarette. Remember the big fuss when it was discovered that Justice Roberts advised a gay rights group? He came very close to losing the support of his President over that one. Here we’ve got not only gay rights but the only other political football that could possibly be more controversial—abortion. People are still split all over the map on abortion and gay rights. Put the two of them together, and I don’t see your man getting onto the Supreme Court. Certainly not when the Republicans control the Senate.”

“He’s a good man, Christina.”

“I know that, Ben. But Senator Matera’s speech notwithstanding, that’s not really the primary qualifier for the Supreme Court, is it?”

“It should be.”

“But it isn’t.”

“But it should be.”

“But it isn’t!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him as hard as she possibly could without causing an accident. “Ben, you have to live in the real world.”

“That’s what people say when they’re giving up.”

“Well—”

“Don’t.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his expression was fixed. “We’ve been through tough cases before. We never gave up.”

“But this isn’t a case, Ben. That’s just it. There’s no courtroom. We can’t control public opinion.” Her face turned downward. “Better to let it go and forge ahead. Concentrate on your reelection campaign, if that’s what you’re going to do.” She lightly touched the ring on her finger. “Maybe even give some thought to your personal life.”

Ben paused at a stop sign and turned to face her, his expression stern. “Christina, we are doing the right thing. I will not give up.”

The wheels screeched as he pulled away from the stop. “I know,” she said wearily. “That’s what I love about you. Sort of.”

Ben admired the sunroom overlooking the expansive garden in the rear of Roush and Eastwick’s home, but he had liked it better the first time he’d seen it, when it was filled with people and excitement, fraught with anticipation and intrigue. Today, with only Eastwick present, and he barely speaking, the excitement was subdued to the point of extinction.