According to Their Deeds (21 page)

“He didn’t care about government. He cared about the individual and how we build societies out of individuals. Always based on the individual. Now you have his
Social Contract
. That is the one you should read, Derek.”

“It’s the one I least want to.”

“Because it will upset your own ideology?”

“No, Charles, I have no fear of that. When he first wrote it, it was fashionable in Paris to cry while reading it, and I don’t want to stain my desk.”

WEDNESDAY

MORNING

A few minutes past ten, and Charles stopped on the walk in front of the shop. A much nicer day than Tuesday with downy breezes and feathery clouds.

He opened the door and smiled at Alice behind the counter. Her return smile was not all it could have been and her eyes were a bit wider than even they usually were. They darted from Charles to another point in the room, and Charles’s eyes followed.

They were met by another pair of eyes, slitted beneath a brooding brow; the storms were inside the building.

“Mr. White,” Charles said. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I came to ask again. I want to know where you are in this.”

“Let’s go upstairs, why don’t we?”

Charles had to hurry to stay in front. In the office, he put Patrick White in Dorothy’s chair and himself in his own.

“Now,” he said, “Mr. White, I’m still trying to understand exactly what
this
is.”

“I told you Monday.”

“Yes, I know what you said. You believe John Borchard was behind the scandal that cost you your position. Then you said that he killed Derek Bastien.”

“That’s what he did.”

“But those are very serious accusations. I can’t just take your word for them.”

The reaction was calm enough, but still hostile. “It doesn’t matter to me what you think.”

“Surely, as a judge, you understand.”

“Former judge. And it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to find out what you think. I’m here to find out how you got yourself involved. And why.”

“I’m not sure why I should tell you anything,” Charles said. “I don’t know what you might do. I’m not even saying there would be anything of interest to you.”

With that, Mr. White left the room, though not physically. His face was blank, pointed generally in Charles’s direction. Charles waited. It wasn’t too long.

“So he’s gotten to you, too.”

“Mr. Borchard, you mean? I’ve only spoken with him a few times,” Charles said. “I mentioned that I’d met you. We didn’t discuss anything further.”

“That was enough. Now he’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“He knows I’m after him. First he’ll tell you not to talk to me. Then he’ll ask you what I know. Don’t tell him anything.”

“But that’s my point, Mr. White. What do you really know? Of the things you’ve said, what do you have real evidence of?”

“I have this.”

He leaned forward to take his wallet from his back pocket. He extracted a sheet of paper, folded small.

Charles took the paper and unfolded it.

Mr. White. Stop your efforts concerning the Sentencing Reform Act. University of Virginia Honor Court 1974.

“That was the first note,” Mr. White said.

“What is the Sentencing Reform Act?”

“That’s the proof it was Borchard. That was his project to strip every heartbeat of mercy out of the courts and replace them with his own hammer of stone.”

“But how do you know the note is from Mr. Borchard?”

“Who else would it be? It was his bill from the start. He lives to punish. He always has. His veins flow with vengeance.”

“What were you doing that he didn’t like?”

“I was going to stop it. Karen Liu knew it was wrong, but they made a deal. I showed her how terrible it was. She was changing her mind—she was so close—and then this came.”

“What happened?”

“I was ruined. And Karen Liu gave up. Borchard got to her! He was too strong. She had no choice. She let it through her committee and it went on and on, and now it’s law.”

“But what does the law do?”

Patrick White only shook his head. “It’s too late now. All I have left is bringing Borchard to justice.”

Charles handed the paper back. “You’re sure this was from John Borchard?”

“He was the one who forced it through Congress. He was like a fiend—pushing, threatening, bribing.” Then suddenly, he froze, off again to his other world.

“Mr. White?”

“How did you get involved in this?” The question was a sudden spotlight out of the dark.

“I would really rather not be.” The spotlight stayed directly on him. “Derek Bastien was a friend. That’s where it started. I don’t like where it’s gone.”

“Karen Liu told me you were asking about Derek Bastien. That’s how I knew you were suspicious of his death.” The ferocious intensity of his stare was nearly blinding.

“I wasn’t.”

“Then you can’t see.”

“What would I even be able to do, Mr. White? What do you want?”

“I want revenge on John Borchard.”

“I will not help you with that. I cannot, and I would not.”

“He’s killed once. He could do it again.”

“Who would he kill?”

“Anyone who knows too much.”

“I passed Patrick White in the showroom,” Dorothy said. Charles looked up from his reverie.

“A moment sooner and you would have found him in your chair.”

“What did he say this time?”

“Mostly the same. He accused John Borchard of being vengeful—rather ironic. Although he had a certain florid articulacy.”

“I hope he doesn’t make a habit of coming here,” Dorothy said.

“They aren’t pleasant visits.” He returned to his meditation. “But I have to understand him. And what happened to him. And how it happened.”

Dorothy began opening mail.

“It had to be Derek,” Charles said.

“Derek who told the
Washington Post
about Patrick White?”

“It had to be.”

Dorothy opened another few envelopes.

“And Patrick White says he went to Derek and told him about it.”

“But Derek would already have known?” she asked.

“What a game he was playing.”

Dorothy waited.

“And rather ruthless concerning John Borchard,” Charles said.

“How did that work?”

Charles returned his full attention. “I don’t know what Derek expected at first, but somehow Mr. White got the idea that John Borchard was the blackmailer. From then on, Derek apparently encouraged him in that. I wonder what John even knew.”

“That does sound rather ruthless.”

“But no more than the original attack on Patrick White. And now I wonder about Karen Liu.”

“Do you think she was part of it, too?”

“She seems likely to be an additional victim,” Charles said. “And Mr. White finally described more of what his original conflict with John Bor-chard was. It was some bill he was pushing through Congress, and which Mr. White didn’t like. It was called the Sentencing Reform Act.”

“What was it reforming?” Dorothy asked.

“Sentences. Perhaps they were simplifying English grammar. I wouldn’t mind legalizing run-ons and comma splices, they’re quite useful sometimes.”

“That would not be a reform. That would be a travesty.”

“That’s what Mr. White considered it to be. He said it would remove every drop of mercy from the heart of the courts. And in a similar vein, he said John Borchard’s blood flowed with vengeance.”

“Mr. Borchard seems to be rather ruthless himself,” Dorothy said. “We know he had some kind of problem back in Kansas.”

“He seems to have intimidated Karen Liu enough to get the bill through her committee,” Charles said. “So I wonder what form that intimidation took.”

“It must have been the copy of her checks.”

“That does seem likely, doesn’t it? And she has a very negative opinion of John Borchard. But it was Derek who had the paper, and we don’t know if John Borchard even knew that he did.” Charles glanced at his telephone. “I think I need to talk to her.”

“She might be back sometime soon to return the book you loaned her.”

“I don’t think I’ll wait. I’ll just call her.”

“What if she won’t talk to you?”

“I’ll leave a message. It will be a test to see how anxious she is to hear what I have to say.”

“My name is Charles Beale. I’d like to get a message to Congresswoman Liu.”

“I’ll take a message, Mr. Beale.”

“Thank you. Please tell her I asked if she was enjoying the Wisdom Garden I loaned her and I had a question about Derek Bastien and a man named Patrick White.”

“Yes, Mr. Beale. I’ll give this message to her chief of staff.”

“Thank you.”

Charles leaned back in his chair.

“And now, dear, if you aren’t too busy,” Dorothy said.

“I’m never too busy for you, dear.”

“We really should spend a few minutes discussing business.”

“Business. Business? Oh, of course. The bookshop! How is that doing these days, anyway?”

“It is feeling neglected. I would like to discuss the fall catalog with you.”

“Fall catalog. What did we say? We’re featuring European literature, and travel literature, plus the usual.”

“Yes.”

“So I need to pick some.”

“We need the pictures and the text to the designer by Monday.”

“Monday. All right. We have sixty pages?”

“Sixty.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice chirped. “You have a phone call. Congresswoman Karen Liu.”

“That was fast,” Dorothy said.

Charles shook his head.

“Too fast. She is too anxious, Dorothy.”

“Go ahead, dear. That is probably more important than catalog text.”

He picked up his telephone.

“Well, Mr. Beale.”

“Ah, Congresswoman. Thank you so much for calling back—I hardly expected it.”

“I had to,” she bubbled. “I’ve been looking through this garden book and I had to tell you how much I’ve been enjoying it.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

“I think I might even buy it.”

“Whatever you like! Please don’t feel at all obliged.”

Charles waited.

“And, Mr. Beale,” she said finally, with many fewer bubbles, “did you have a question about Pat White?”

“Well, I did. The only reason I’m bothering you with it is that he’s mentioned you now a couple times. I wanted to make sure that you knew he had been.”

“And what has he been saying?” There was no expression. Her voice had gone completely flat.

“I suppose you know what he’s been saying about John Borchard?” Charles asked.

“What has he said to you, Mr. Beale?” Still flat.

“Some very serious things. I don’t want to repeat them unless you’ve already heard them from him yourself.”

“I have.” The voice tried to perk up. “Mr. White has been under a great deal of pressure.”

“I know he has,” Charles said. “And I suppose that, in your position, you often are, too.”

“This book you’ve loaned me has been a nice help with that.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. I wonder if I could ever be of more help?”

“With another book?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But I hope you aren’t under the same pressure that Patrick White was.”

There was a pause of several seconds, then Karen Liu’s bright, happy voice was back. “I do hope I have a chance to get back over there to look at your other books. Maybe again this Saturday?”

“I’ll be here,” Charles said.

“Good! I will look forward to it!”

“What did that mean?” Dorothy asked.

“I think it means she has been under the same threat as Patrick White, and they’ve discussed it together.”

“But she isn’t unbalanced, is she?”

“No,” Charles said. “She is still holding up. She will come Saturday, and I have to figure out what I will say.”

“Will you tell her about Derek’s papers?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve only met her twice. I don’t know her well enough to be able to tell.”

“Tell what?”

He tapped his eye. “If she is the real thing.”

“The real what?”

“I don’t know if I trust her. Anyway.” He smiled and used his own bright, happy voice. “The fall catalog!”

“Well . . . you should start thinking about European literature and travel books.”

“European travel—oh my!”

“What?”

“The UPS man will be here in an hour.”

AFTERNOON

“Mr. Beale?” Alice asked. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Is it obvious?” he said.

“You’ve been looking out that window for twenty minutes.”

“And I couldn’t even tell you what’s out there. I think I’ve been somewhere else entirely.”

“Anyplace nice?”

“I’ve been wandering the Mediterranean.”

“That would be nice!”

“Well . . .” He looked wistfully out the window. “It’s been twenty years of war and dangers, and I’d really rather be home. And I don’t know what to expect when I get there.”

“I see.” Alice nodded, very sympathetically. “Twenty years is a long time. They might think you’re never coming back.”

“I know my beloved will always be true.” Suddenly he was alert, focused on the window. “There! There it is!”

The delivery truck came to a stop and the quick young man bounded up the steps. Charles had the front door open.

“Afternoon, Mr. Beale! Sign here.”

“Thank you, Roger. I’ve been waiting for this one. Alice, could you ask Morgan to come downstairs?”

“What do you think?” Morgan asked.

“I’m not sure. It’s very nice,” Charles said. Both of them were just inches above the front cover. “Very, very nice. We’ll open it.”

He put his gloved finger against the page edges and lifted, opening it in the middle. “The typeset is at least 1800s. And the . . . oh my!”

“What?”

“Look close. At the paper.”

“Is it parchment?”

“Vellum, even. This was a very expensive book.”

“What about now?”

“I don’t know yet.” He turned back to the beginning. “Not much of a title page, is it?”

“No date, no publisher, no city,” Morgan said. “Just the title and author.”

“It could maybe be a half title if there were a regular title page after it.” He shook his head. “But the book is still very nice.”

“But you don’t recognize it all?”