No Safe Place (14 page)

Sean could see her frightened green eyes, could imagine her describing to the police artist a killer who had babbled nonsense while the receptionist bled on the carpet. Soon they would show the sketch to members of Operation Life.

Who would be the one to give him up? he wondered. Which one would see a reproach to his own cowardice and, out of shame, look up from his portrait and put a name to Sean’s face?

Perhaps Paul Terris. He would remember their disagreements
and, in tones of false reluctance, say, “It’s a little like Sean Burke.” And then the police would go to Father Brian and find that Sean had vanished.

The plane ticket would bring them here. His last hope was that he had vanished in the maze of a new city, under a new name, long enough to do what must be done.

Seven days, and he could not make himself cross the street.

Hands in his pockets, Sean felt the cool drizzle on his face and hair, smelled the exhaust fumes of a hundred cars. San Francisco was ugly, he decided: low-slung buildings, cheap restaurants, no trees, an anonymous dirty six-lane avenue that could have been anywhere.

A patrol car stopped at the curb beside him.

Sean stepped back, looking for a place to run. There was nothing but a grid of streets he did not know.

Heart racing, he looked back at the police car. It had only stopped for a traffic light; the cop in the passenger seat gazed ahead, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. This was a warning, Sean realized. The lining of his stomach felt bloody and raw. His pocket seemed empty without a gun.

When the light changed, Sean crossed the street and forced himself to enter Kilcannon headquarters.

The building felt as vast as a church, was as shabby as an old hotel. Voices issued from behind cheap partitions and echoed from tile floors to fifty-foot ceilings, filigreed with fading gold.

A receptionist of indeterminate race and age sat at a cafeteria table. Her skin looked dry, her face severe; her black eyes were opaque as obsidian. Remembering the eyes of another receptionist in her last moments of life, Sean looked away.

“I’m here for Senator Kilcannon,” he said.

“All right. Please have a seat and fill out a volunteer form.”

It took some moments. With the awkwardness of a child learning cursive, Sean wrote the name “John Kelly.” The only address he gave was “Golden Gate Motel.”

The next section asked for his activity preference. The list of tasks meant nothing to him; all Sean cared about was that Kil-cannon would come to San Francisco, that headquarters must surely know his schedule. He put a check mark near any job that might keep him in this building.

The last question was “Best times to volunteer.”

Carefully, he wrote “Every day until next Tuesday” and gave the form to the receptionist.

Silent, she read it. “Looks like you’ve got some time for us,” she said, and picked up the telephone.

As the plane took off from San Diego, Kerry murmured to Kevin Loughery, “Miles to go before we sleep.”

He was tired yet fully awake, like someone on a coffee jag. He had already done
Good Morning San Diego
and given his first speech. Ahead for the day were stops in Sacramento, then Oakland, then Los Angeles, and finally a cocktail party in Beverly Hills, where film stars and studio heads would lecture him on public policy. “All most of them want is proximity to power,” Clayton told him. “Maybe a sleepover in the White House. Just worry about the ones who want to sleep with
you
.”

Tomorrow morning, Kerry realized, Lara would be in the rear of the plane.

Somehow he would make himself meander through the press section, chatting with the others, until he reached where Lara was sitting and, as twenty reporters listened, say how nice it was to see her. The moment would feel like death—pretending that he had never looked into her face and wished their lives were different …

He stared out the window.

Kerry did not know how much time had passed before he noticed that the ground beneath was green and fertile, rich fields of crops bisected by irrigation ditches. It was no longer two years ago, when Lara and he could still make choices: the only question he faced now was “Are you good enough?” That was the question he asked himself in the privacy of flight, watching the lights of a city at night; or crossing the gray, jagged Rockies; or, as now, passing over farmlands that fed so many so well.

Are you good enough?

Twelve years ago, tomorrow, Jamie had died before he could find that out.

Next to Kerry, Kevin Loughery was quiet.

For another moment, Kerry watched the earth below them, coming closer. “Have you been back to Vailsburg lately?” he
asked.

Kevin shook his head. “Not since Christmas,” he answered.
“I took my mother to Mass at Sacred Heart, and things were so different it brought tears to her eyes. When she lived there, she said, the church was overflowing; even the balconies were full. Now it seems like a ghost town to her—rows of empty pews, and only a few of the old faces, the ones who couldn’t leave.”

Kerry thought of Liam Dunn, now buried near the church; Kerry had taken Kevin on the journey of politics much as Liam had, towing Kerry to the bars on Sunday. “It was a fine place,” Kerry answered. “If only we could have adapted instead of moving away. I wonder about that, now and then.”

He fell quiet again. Then the wheels touched down, bounced once, and settled onto the runway. The motorcade was waiting.

The man who emerged from behind the partitions had curly hair, a high forehead, and a pleasant, easy smile. In T-shirt and blue jeans, he was loose-limbed, lean; he could not have been much older than Sean. He glanced at the form and then gave Sean a firm, dry handshake.

“Rick Ginsberg,” he said. “It’s great you’re giving us so much time.”

Sean stared at the tiles. “I’m kind of on vacation.”

“You’re not from here, I guess.”

Sean shook his head. “New York City. Since I was twelve.”

Ginsberg smiled again. “Yeah? I went to NYU. Which borough you live in?”

This morning, Sean had studied the guidebook again; the name of the traditional Irish section was as close to truth as he could come. “Manhattan,” he said with hesitance. “Yorkville.” The word had no more meaning to him than a name on a Monopoly board.

Ginsberg cocked his head. “Really changed, hasn’t it. Yuppified.”

Sean thought of his own childhood. “They’re all like that.” His voice was soft, a monotone. “People move away. But maybe I’ll go back …”

The sentence trailed off. As if concerned that Sean felt tentative, Ginsberg said, “Not for seven days, I hope. Kerry Kil-cannon
needs
us.”

Sean shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ve always liked him.”

Ginsberg nodded vigorously. “The first time I saw the senator,” he told Sean, “he was trying to sell a roomful of college kids on compulsory national service. ‘This country’s given us so much,’ he said. ‘We owe it more than paying interest on our charge cards.’

“Afterward, I talked with him. He has this quiet way of listening, like he’s taking in everything you say, and his eyes never leave you. It sounds intense, but there’s something almost gentle about him, and he has a terrific sense of humor.” Ginsberg shrugged, as if helpless to explain. “It makes you wish that everyone could meet him.”

Slowly, Sean nodded. “I want to. Sometime.”

Ginsberg paused, letting the hope linger, and then touched Sean on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s find you something to do.”

It was not until Kerry Kilcannon finished his speech—a call for expanded day care—that Nate was able to phone his editor.

He stood outside the filing center, a makeshift tent by the landing strip at Mather Field, speaking into his cellular as softly as he could.

“Lara Costello’s coming here,” he said. “The regular NBC guy broke his ankle.”

For a moment, Jane Booth was silent. “I just can’t believe her arrogance, Nate. Or her lack of integrity.”

Nate looked around him; about thirty feet away, Lee McAlpine had emerged from the tent, squinting in the sun. “Maybe Lara was stuck,” he murmured to Jane. “Who would want to do this … ?”

“No one
should
do this. Period.” Jane’s tone was cool, insistent. “You’re not doubting it’s a story
now
, are you?”

The question did not require an answer. “Have you gotten to her counselor?” Nate asked.

“Sheila Kahn is out in Maryland now, trying to talk to her.” Jane paused again. “When is Costello showing up?”

“This afternoon.”

“Because
you’re
going to sit down with her. A drink after hours—two old colleagues meeting on the road.”

Nate hesitated, imagining Lara’s face as he slid the
memorandum across the table. Still quiet, he asked, “You want me to confront her? This soon?”

“I won’t know how soon until I hear about this counselor. Call me at home, as close to nine eastern time as you can make it.” Jane’s voice slowed a little. “You know, I really can’t believe she let them send her. Not if the story’s true.”

Lee McAlpine was watching him, Nate realized. “If the story’s true,” he answered, “how could Lara tell anyone?”

Sean stood with Rick Ginsberg in a vast open area where perhaps twenty volunteers sat at long tables with telephones in front of them. The volunteers placed call after call, reading from a script; these were the disembodied voices Sean had heard in the reception area.

“We’ve been open since January,” Ginsberg explained. “But with only seven days to go, our job is to identify the Kilcannon voters and get them to the polls. This is where we need you.”

Sean was silent. That the volunteers were as young as he made him feel even more apprehensive, and many were Asian or Latino or black, the ones his father had despised. It was like the first-day-of-school feeling when he was eleven—wondering what the others knew about him, or thought they knew. The loneliness had never left him.

“You have a lot of people here,” Sean said. It was part observation, part argument; perhaps Rick would find him something else to do.

Ginsberg nodded. “We have more people come in at night, the ones with jobs. But our outreach coordinator has done great at finding college kids and minorities, which is something the senator wants.”

Sean stayed quiet, looking restlessly around him. But Ginsberg did not seem to notice. “Anyhow,” he went on, “it’s pretty simple. Each volunteer is given a list of voters, coded by precinct, neighborhood, party registration, and, if possible, ethnicity. By election day every precinct captain should have a list of identified Kilcannon voters to get to the polls—either by mail or in person.

“This election is too damned close. But if every volunteer in every headquarters does his or her job, I think Kerry Kil-cannon’s our next President.” He turned to Sean, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Once you’re up and running, the goal is twenty calls an hour. All you need is to follow the script we give you.”

Sean fought his desire to recoil, felt desperate to leave. He would never get close to Kilcannon
this
way, trapped making calls like some salesman.

Behind the volunteers, a slim Asian man stood watching them. “Who’s that?” Sean asked.

“Jeff Lee, the phone bank supervisor. He’ll show you what to do.”

Still Sean hesitated. Rick studied him a moment, then said, “I’ll start you out, John. It won’t take but a minute.”

Walking across the room, Sean felt like a prisoner. It was like joining Operation Life, he tried to tell himself; after that, people started to accept him. At least for a time …

Rick found him a seat at the end of a long table, next to a slender strawberry blonde with a ponytail and a sweatshirt with “USF” in red block letters. Hanging up the telephone, she made an entry in her log; in profile, her face was delicate, like china, her eyes cornflower blue.

“Okay,” Rick said, pointing to Sean’s place. “By every telephone is a computer list of names to call; a form to total up the number of contacts for that day and who’s for Kilcannon or Mason; and a script. Just place the call, follow the instructions, and record what happened—contact, no contact, who each contact’s voting for.” Ginsberg angled his head toward the supervisor. “Any problems, Jeff will help you.”

He patted Sean on the back and left.

Motionless, Sean read the script in front of him, line by line.

“Hello. My name is [volunteer name] and I’m calling from the Kilcannon for President campaign.

“Is [voter’s name] home?”

If no, “May I leave a message?”

If yes, “Great! I’m calling to see whether you intend to support Kerry Kilcannon for President …”

Yesterday, Sean thought, he had executed three people in the name of life. Now he was about to shill for an immoral man who sanctioned killers like Dr. Bowe.

Sean felt the eyes of the Asian man, watching. Next to him, the blond woman placed another call. “Hello,” she said brightly. “I’m Kate Feeney …”

Sean picked up the telephone, stabbing out the first number on his list.

The phone screeched, the sound of a misdialed call. Sean put down the phone and dialed again.

Screech.

Sean slammed down the telephone. His face was red, his anger like a pulse.

Kate Feeney seemed to hesitate, then turned to him. In a pleasant voice, she said, “I guess Rick forgot to tell you about the phone system. You dial nine first.”

Caught in his frustration, Sean did not know what to say. Smiling, Kate reached over, hit 9 on the phone pad, and listened for a dial tone.

“Here,” she said. “It works.”

Sean took the phone from her hand. Her skin, grazing his, was cool. “Thanks,” he managed to say. “That was stupid.”

“The phone system’s stupid,” she answered. “What are we supposed to do—call each other?”

Reluctantly, Sean turned from her and dialed the number again: Robert Walker, 2406 Miles Avenue, Oakland.

“Hello?” a black voice answered.

Sean swallowed. “This is John Kelly. I’m calling to see if you’re supporting Kerry Kilcannon for President.”