Capitol Threat

7

Half an hour later, Ben conferred with Minority Leader Hammond in the foyer. Roush had moved on to another senator, Eastwick was at work in his garden, and a few select reporters and photographers had been admitted inside. The place was buzzing like a beehive, swarming with people, disturbing much of the charm and all of the ambience. Nonetheless, Hammond found a semiprivate corner and pulled Ben aside. “So?”

Ben shrugged. “What do you want to know? He’s a charmer. He opposes the death penalty. He’s on what I believe is the morally correct side of many critical social issues, and he’s at least reasonable about the others.” He paused. “Roush is either an incredibly slick con man or the best nominee we could hope for from the current administration.”

“And which do you think it is?”

Ben pursed his lips. “I think he’s the best nominee we could hope for from the current administration.”

“What did I tell you?”

“But I’ve been wrong before. I’m really not that good at judging people.”

“Stop waffling. Can I assume you’re on board?”

“On board what? It’s not like I’m going to convert the Senate Judiciary Committee. I’ll be lucky to get a seat in the gallery.”

Hammond looked at him levelly. “Once the far right is mobilized, and the Christian Congregation begin their inevitable attack ads, he’s going to need all the friends he can get. A voice of support—especially one with a high approval rating from the buckle on the Bible Belt—will be very welcome. I’d like to be able to tell Thaddeus you’ve got his back. What do you say?”

Ben considered for a long time. This would not be a prudent move, especially for someone who was contemplating an imminent Senate race. But when did he ever do the smart thing, anyway? “Tell the man I’ve got his back. Now how can I get a seat for this press conference?”

“Seat?” Hammond took Ben by the arm and smiled. “You’re going to be standing just to the left of the podium, Ben. Let’s get your nose powdered.”

Roush locked the bathroom door behind him, sat on the toilet, put his head in his hands, and breathed deeply. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic out there. He’d never been in the eye of the hurricane before and he didn’t like it. Normally judges don’t attract that much attention. All these people swarming over the grounds, thinly veiled enemies looking for any scrap of information that might be used against him—it was overwhelming. Nightmarish. His asthma was acting up, and he couldn’t have that. By the time the cameras were rolling, he had to be calm and utterly in control.

He hated this business of trying to win over the Senate, one senator at a time. It was as if he were auditioning for the job. Totally inappropriate. But essential, if he was going to survive the tidal wave he had started. The toughest conversation had been with the new guy, Kincaid. He was smart, and so utterly without any political agenda or ambition that he remained free to act according to his conscience—the kind of person Washington feared most. The look that man had given him when he asked if Roush had any secrets! It sent chills down his spine. Or maybe it wasn’t the look. Maybe it was the fact that Roush knew how disastrous it would be if the truth ever emerged.

He and Ray still hadn’t talked, exchanging nothing more than a few casual pleasantries. First, the man is publicly outed on national television; then, the next day, his home is invaded. His private nest. No wonder he was hiding in the garden. Roush would have to think of some way, of any way possible, to make it up to him. He could just imagine the rage that must be boiling behind that gardening apron. When Ray lost his temper—

“Judge Roush?”

“Yes?” Camilla was on the other side of the door. She was the housekeeper three times a week, but on this day her job description had mutated into gatekeeper and bouncer.

“There’s a woman outside the gate who wants to speak with you. She buzzed me on the intercom.”

“Reporter? Politician?”

“Neither. She says she called you yesterday.”

“Just tell her—”

“She insists that you will want to see her—before it’s too late.”

“Did she give a name?”

“No. But she said to tell you—it’s about Savannah.”

Every muscle in Roush’s body stiffened. Every nerve tingled. He stopped breathing.

“If you want, Judge, I’ll just tell her—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure? You’ve got so much—”

“I’m sure. It’s nothing serious, Camilla. Just a reporter trying to play on your good nature to trick her way in. I’ll take care of it. You go help Ruth in the kitchen, would you?”

“If—if you’re sure.”

Roush waited until she was gone before he did anything, before he even moved.

Victoria had waited this long to try to contact him. She could surely wait a little longer.

So it had finally happened. What he dreaded most. The one thing that could ruin his plans, his entire future. That was the problem with having your face splashed all over the airwaves. People remembered. People knew where you were.

The front yard was still cluttered with media. He would have to send her through the garden gate. Even that was hardly secluded—a crew was setting up for the press conference. And Ray was back there gardening.

He would have to get this over with as soon as possible. No one could know. Not the press. Not Ray. Not anyone.

His future depended on it. His life depended on it.