No Safe Place (46 page)

“Kerry,” she said again. Then the room went dark, and Lara could not say anything.

Afterward, she lay against him until she fell asleep.

When she awoke, it was close to two.

Kerry stirred beside her, restless. She felt shaken, adrift.

Everything had changed.

Her thoughts were a collage: Meg, and the guilt he must now feel, that Lara herself felt. All that divided them—his ambitions, her profession. The breach of her standards, the terrible risk if they continued. Even regret at all the insights into Kerry Kilcannon that she, as a reporter, could never use.

It was strange, Lara reflected, to believe that he could sense her thoughts. Just as she believed, without his saying so, that he had never before been unfaithful to his wife. As he must know that she had never been part of infidelity, and never wished to be.

If you want me tomorrow, or the next day, what will I say to you?

She lay next to him, unable to sleep, afraid to speak. In the darkness, she felt his fingers curl around hers.

Just before dawn, Lara awoke.

In the dimness of her room, the confusion of past and present, Kerry was still with her. She could feel the turmoil of his emotions, the touch of his fingers, the soft timbre of his voice.

I want to see you again,
he had said.

They seemed so innocent to her now. Fearful, but unknowing, blind to what awaited in the ambush of time.

Tell me about Meg,
she heard herself say.

Not “no.” Not “we can’t.” Not the things she could have said to spare them this.

Tell me about your wife. Give me a way to be with you. The plea of a million women, less smart and knowing than Lara had been. But not as knowing as she was now.

Rising, she went to the window, opening the blinds.

Not Washington at all. The sprawl of Oakland Harbor, green water, the distant towers of San Francisco appearing in the dawn, silver fingers in the wisps of morning fog. A city she had always loved.

In an hour, she would call her mother. Inez Costello’s voice would rise at the sound of Lara’s, and then the questions would come in her mother’s rapid cadence—about the promise of her new life in Washington, the excitement of the campaign, old reporter friends re-met. About whether her friend Senator Kil-cannon was still the same. Because she loved her mother, Lara would contrive answers, then ask about her sisters, her three-year-old niece, Marie. About them, there were no secrets.

She had held her own secret so close, for both their sakes.
And had been betrayed.

Tell me about the campaign, her mother would ask.

I’m afraid for him, she would want to say. Afraid that I’ll destroy him, afraid of what I saw him do yesterday. Afraid of fanatics with guns.

Where’s your brother?
the squat man had called to him. A voice swollen with hatred and unreason.

All it would take was one.

She could have stopped this, too.
Yes,
she could have said to Kerry,
if you’re willing to face this, I will.
But she had not, and now she was alone, and Kerry was here.

Turning from the window, she went to her suitcase for a fresh set of clothes.

Folding his clothes with one hand, Nate tossed them in the suitcase as he spoke into the phone. “What about his wife?” he asked.

“Ex-wife,” Jane Booth corrected. “And probably a good thing, given her reaction. Where are you, incidentally?”

“In my hotel room.” Nate glanced at the room service tray—coffee, the remaining crusts of wheat bread, half-eaten cantaloupe. “I ordered in, so I didn’t have to use the cell phone. Anyhow …”

“Anyhow, Sheila knocked on the door and asked Kil-cannon’s ex if she knew about Lara Costello. When Meg looked blank, Sheila spelled it out for her—right down to the date of the counselor’s notes. Apparently Meg got very quiet, and then said, ‘That explains it, doesn’t it.’”

Nate could not help but feel squeamish; the use of Lara’s counselor’s notes to confront an unwary wife might be good investigative journalism, but he could imagine Meg Kilcannon’s face, her feeling of betrayal. “Meaning?” he asked.

“The divorce. Kilcannon asked her one week later. It was a surprise, Meg said. I guess all he told her was that it was time.”

“But was it? With Lara on her way to Africa?”

“That’s what Sheila asked. ‘You don’t know Kerry,’ she says Meg answered. ‘He has an endless capacity for guilt.’” Jane’s voice became dry. “It sounds as if she’s bitter.”

“Well,” Nate said quietly, “I’m sure she is now. Probably enough to go on the record.”

“We think so.” Jane’s tone was willfully oblivious. “But she
doesn’t know anything except for what we told her—either Kil-cannon’s good at cheating, or the flames of passion were so dead that Meg never noticed. The pressure’s still on you, Nate.”
Not just me,
Nate thought. “I’ll get to Kit,” he answered. “This morning, if possible.”

Kerry faced them around the coffee table in Clayton’s suite—Jack Sleeper, Frank Wells, Kit Pace, Clayton. It was seven a.m.; the subject of Lara Costello hovered over the meeting, unspoken.

“For two nights running,” Clayton said abruptly, “the numbers show us soft with pro-choice women. It’s worst in San Francisco. Jack wants us to do an event, and Ellen Penn wants it too.”

“When?” Frank asked. “And what?”

“The what,” Clayton answered, “is a rally featuring Kerry and all the prominent women who support him. I’m not committed yet—I want to see another night’s worth of polling. But there’s a hole in our schedule the Sunday morning after the debate. We can start Kerry in a black church, then go directly to the rally.”

“On Sunday morning in San Francisco?” Frank shot Kerry a dubious look, as if to ensure that he was listening. “No one’s working, nobody’s downtown, and we’ve only got two days to organize a crowd. Advance and Senator Penn will have to do one hell of a job with turnout, or we’ve got a major embarrassment and the press will be all over it—‘Kilcannon Rally Fizzles.’” He faced Kerry again, speaking more softly. “It’ll become a metaphor, Kerry, for all your problems on choice. You don’t need that.”

Kerry was quiet for a moment, and then turned to Clayton. “What’s Mason doing?” he asked.

Clayton frowned. “Yesterday he spoke to women’s groups, hammering you on choice and Medicare reform—that you’re too big a risk to take. Today is back to basics: an endorsement from the state teachers’ unions, a speech to Silicon Valley execs, saving old-growth redwoods—”

“But without losing a single job,” Kit put in sardonically. “Don’t forget that.”

“What’s he supposed to say?” Jack Sleeper inquired. “‘I think that I shall never see a job as lovely as a tree’?”

Frank’s smile was thin. “Kit’s right, though—it’s pablum as usual. Where Dick’s playing rough are his new TV spots: Kerry’s not a grown-up; Kerry’s not pro-choice enough; Kerry’s too extreme. The whole pitch is that Dick’s calm, he’s tested, he’s ready. Like Ward Cleaver.”

And faithful to his wife, Kerry could feel him thinking. He thought of Jeannie Mason, trying to imagine her as a battered woman.

“So,” Clayton said, “any thoughts about this San Francisco rally?”

“Aside from great advance,” Frank replied, “you’re going to need the volunteers to turn out the crowd. If they can’t do it …”

Clayton nodded. “We can call the guy in San Francisco—Ginsberg. Mick Lasker says he’s pretty good.”

“Lay the groundwork,” Frank responded. “But don’t decide until you’ve checked this out. There may be other uses for that time.”

“That raises another problem—the Secret Service.” Clayton glanced at Kerry. “The more last-minute an event, the less Peter Lake is going to like it. He sets a premium on planning.”

Kerry picked up his coffee. “Wait a day,” he said to Clayton. “Until Tuesday, every minute counts, and we don’t need a bad event. The Service will have to roll with it.”

In Clayton’s silence, Kerry heard an echo of their argument the day before. Then his friend shrugged. “At least we can let Peter know we’re considering this. Maybe get some advice on a site.”

Kerry took another hit of coffee. “I’ll be over in San Francisco this morning. Any chance I can run by headquarters?”

Clayton frowned. “A spontaneous drop-in? We’d better ask Peter
and
advance. You’re flying to L.A. at one, and the speech in South Central is key. Meeting the converted isn’t worth a blown schedule.”

Kerry nodded. “I understand. These people work hard, though, and I don’t often get a chance to say I’m grateful. And if we’re asking them to build an event overnight …”

“This speech in South Central,” Jack Sleeper put in,
“what’s the theme?”

Sipping more coffee, Kerry watched Clayton over the rim. “Education,” his friend answered. “Inclusion. Economic security.”

“All good and worthy goals, Clayton.” Jack’s gaze and voice were level. “As long as it’s done right.”

“Meaning?”

“That Kerry’s getting squeezed here. Gun control drives men away, so Kerry has to get that many more votes out of minorities and women. But now we have a choice problem. And if Kerry seems
too
pro-minority, you lose more whites than you can afford.” Jack turned to Kerry. “Black voting tends to be matriarchal, so Head Start and nutrition are good issues. You don’t need to be stepping on land mines like affirmative action.”

Kerry smiled. “But how will people know which one’s
me
and which one’s Dick? Unless I keep on being as reckless as he says I am.”

“Which people, Kerry? South Central’s still volatile. To a lot of voters, it still reminds them of Rodney King and that white trucker who got beaten up, even how they felt when O.J. was acquitted. Isn’t it enough you’re going there?”

Kerry sat back, looking at the others. For a moment, he had an image of five bright people trapped in a vacuum, mapping out reality as if it were a game of chess. “If our leaders can’t campaign in South Central,” he said, “where are we as a country? I’m not in this for just the pleasure of beating Dick Mason. When was the last time a candidate for President talked honestly about race instead of mouthing platitudes?”

“Honesty is one thing,” Frank Wells interjected. “But suicide helps no one—not you and not the people you want to help, black or white. Just how well would affirmative action fly in your old neighborhood? And most opponents would tell you they’re upholding the most basic American value—fairness.”

“Oh, I know,” Kerry said softly. “And you know. And Dick Mason knows. Everyone in the world knows.”

“So hold your base,” Jack Sleeper responded. “But don’t let any more white votes slip away. Especially women.”

“Oh,” Kerry rejoined, “I’ll try not to throw them overboard. We’ve worked so hard to
be
white, after all.”

To the side, Kerry saw Clayton’s smile. “I’ll call San Francisco,” he said at length.

Kerry nodded. “Good. And when you do, tell them I may be dropping in.”

Putting down the telephone, Sean Burke felt a hand on his shoulder.

Sean flinched. All his fears assaulted him—failure, prison, claustrophobia. Being locked up with animals and sodomites, loathed by a world indifferent to the death of children. He turned, expecting the police.

Rick Ginsberg smiled down at him. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said, “but Senator Kilcannon may be coming
here
. To headquarters.”

Still flushed with apprehension, Sean stiffened, unable to speak. “Really,” Ginsberg told him. “Today.”

Next to him, Sean felt Kate Feeney turning. “What time?” she asked.

Four o’clock, Sean thought. That was what the street punk had told him. “If it happens,” Rick told them both, “around noon.”

“God.” Kate sounded crestfallen. “I’m signed up to be at our outdoor table. In Union Square.”

Rick gave her a rueful smile. “Sorry, Kate. One of us has to be there. If you can find somebody else …”

Instinctively, Sean patted the inside pocket of his army jacket, feeling for the knife. “Of
all
the days,” Kate groaned, “Kerry would have to pick this one.”

From the press section, Lara watched Nate Cutler stalk Kit Pace.

It was nine o’clock, Kerry’s first event of the morning. They
were in an auditorium at Boalt Hall, the law school at U.C. Berkeley. Kerry was speaking to minority students; Nate was among the pool today, in a cluster of reporters at the side of the stage trying to edge toward Kit. Seemingly unaware of him, Kit busied herself whispering to local reporters, no doubt dispensing the favors—a piece of information, a slot to interview Kerry—she had reserved for them. But what this meant, Lara noted, was that Kit was never alone, and that there were always several bodies between her and Nate. Lara was torn between apprehension and admiration—Kit’s performance was a small piece of art, as intricate as dance.

As for Kerry, he was challenging his audience. “As a country,” he told them, “we ask very little of our brightest young people. Except, of course, that you repay your student loans.”

There was a ripple of laughter. “Isn’t that enough?” a young black man called out.

Kerry grinned. “Too much, for some of you. When John F. Kennedy asked what you could do for your country, he wasn’t thinking about compound interest.”

The laughter grew. “But that’s the point,” Kerry went on. “When you graduate from this school—a publicly supported school, by the way—most of you with loans will be able to repay them. For many of you, the cost of your education will be a down payment on a place among America’s elite—the wealthiest, the best educated, the most respected. Whether you are white or a person of color.”

Sitting behind them, Lara watched the students stir in their folding chairs. Next to her, Lee McAlpine whispered, “There’s something absolutely perverse about Kilcannon at times. Shouldn’t he be talking about racial justice?”

“I don’t think he will,” Lara murmured. “They’re too comfortable.” Quickly, she glanced at Nate; he had paused to take notes. As if sensing this, Kit Pace stopped moving away from him.