No Safe Place (58 page)

“You’re not listening, Dick—”

“I’ve been listening,” Mason interrupted. “You say you’re pro-choice, but your real message is that women should be ashamed of choosing. How can they trust
you
to protect them?”

“Because I’ve committed myself,” Kerry retorted. “And I’m not in the habit of lying—”

Suddenly he heard himself, and stopped.

“Not in the habit of lying,” Mason repeated, his voice now quiet. “What if the choice involved you?”

Stunned, Kerry froze.

Mason seemed to hesitate, as if looking into an abyss. With a tense, terrible certainty, Kerry thought,
It was
you. The space between them seemed to have closed; the moment felt visceral, as if the studio, the audience, the press, no longer existed.

For a last instant, Mason looked as appalled as Kerry felt, and then he pressed on in a tighter voice. “Suppose
your
girlfriend wanted an abortion. What would you say to her?”

In a blinding instant, Mason’s intentions became clear to Kerry—to shake him so badly that he completely lost his composure.
And even if you don’t,
Mason had just warned him,
your only choice is to withdraw.
The sole question was whether Mason would end by asking,
What if the baby would damage your career, Kerry? What would you do then?

Sickened, Kerry drew a breath. The two men’s eyes met, and Kerry felt Mason stretch out the moment. “Is
she
entitled to choose, Kerry? Or would you insist on your own beliefs?”

He must stop this now, Kerry knew. Abruptly aware of the
audience, Kerry felt the feral atmosphere, a collective intake of breath. “Is this the level to which we’ve sunk?” he asked softly. “Should I ask if you still beat your wife?”

Startled, Mason blinked.

Kerry watched his face, just as he had watched Anthony Musso in a Newark courtroom. He saw doubt become fear, then certainty, sapping Mason’s energy like a blow to the stomach.

“No answer?” Kerry inquired. “Then let me answer
you
. I support a woman’s right to choose, period. But anyone with an ounce of compassion must acknowledge how hard that choice can be.

“That’s what I’d feel—compassion. And, I hope, love.”

Watching, Lara swallowed. She looked as sickened as Nate Cutler felt.

“Mason,”
he murmured, as much to himself as to Lara.

She could not answer, or even think.

“I’d be grateful that she
had
a choice,” Kerry continued, “and that it was safe. And deeply sorry for the anguish she—and perhaps I—might suffer.” Reining in his emotions, Kerry saw the sweat on Mason’s face. “If making something that can be so painful sound cut-and-dried is a qualification for the presidency, then I’m not qualified to serve. But I don’t think it’s a qualification, and I doubt many women do, either.”

Mason hesitated, the moment hanging in the balance. Then he drew himself up, turning from Kerry to the camera. “I don’t believe in code words,” he began. “I won’t hide behind vague statements about judicial philosophy to obscure my own beliefs. The first question I’ll ask any judicial nominee is whether he or she supports the right to choose …”

Kerry inhaled, more deeply now. Smoothly, Mason was back on message, scoring his usual points on choice. What lay between them would be settled elsewhere.

For Lara, the last few minutes were a blur.

The debate became mechanical, prescripted lines delivered to the camera, confrontation kept to a minimum. Mason’s closing statement focused on “experience, maturity, a tested
capacity to lead.” Only at the end of Kerry’s closing statement did Lara regain her concentration.

“I want to win this election,” he said. “I want to become your President.”

“But I’d rather you vote against me than not vote at all. Because that’s the first step to ensuring that your government belongs to you—not to special interests, and not to less than half of us …”

In the applause that ended the debate, Kerry waited for the sound system to switch off.

He stood first, extending his hand to Mason. With a wan smile, Mason took it, and then Kerry moved within inches of the Vice President, resting one hand on Mason’s shoulder as he looked up into his face.

“Pray, Dick,” Kerry said under his breath. “Pray you can put the genie back in the bottle. Because if you can’t, I’m going to take this very dirty stick and jam it up your ass.”

Tense, Nate Cutler followed Lara to the “spin room,” where the campaign spokespeople were stationed, ready to explain to the media why their man had decimated his opponent.

His mind was moving rapidly again. Tracing the letter to Mason would complete the story, exposing not only when personal issues become public ones, but how Mason had treated Kilcannon’s private life.
Then
let the voters decide.

Ahead of him, Lara still looked shaken. Never, Nate was quite certain, could she have imagined that her affair with Kerry Kilcannon would be used in a veiled public threat by Mason himself. And there was a second threat Nate could not miss:
Print this, or we’ll go to someone who will.

“So,” Lee McAlpine said, catching up with him. “What was all
that
about?”

Nate considered how best to conceal what he knew. “Hard to say,” he said finally. “It was out of character for Mason to be so overbearing—it was like the ‘what if someone raped Kitty’ question Bernie Shaw asked Dukakis in the ’88 debates. And Kilcannon handled himself well.”

Turning, Lee looked at him with sudden directness. “What’s the story you’re working on, Nate?”

Nate flashed a reflexive smile, still glancing at Lara. “Kil-cannon’s affair,” he answered. “With Jeannie Mason.”

Lee gave him a narrow-eyed glance, unamused and unde-flected. Together, they entered the spin room, where Lee made a beeline for Bob Kerrey and Ellen Penn. Turning quickly to ensure that Lee was occupied, Nate resumed following Lara, to see how she did her job.

For the cameras, Jeannie gave Kerry a perfunctory handshake, her blue eyes grave and deeply troubled. “What are you
doing
, Kerry?” she murmured. “Is it what I think?”

Suddenly Kerry felt tired, drained. Glancing around them, he saw that they had a moment’s privacy. “This doesn’t just involve me,” he answered. “There’s someone else he could hurt, quite badly. Do you know what
Dick
’s doing?”

She gave a brief shake of the head. “No,” she said in a flat voice. “But he’s frightened. He never thought you’d come this far.”

Kerry exhaled. “And you never thought I’d stoop this low?”

For a moment, her eyes shut. Then she opened them, looking into his. “He never did it again, Kerry. You should know that.”

Heart heavy, Kerry nodded. He watched her return to Mason’s side, smiling for the cameras.

Watching Kilcannon on the screen, Sean felt isolated, as if the enthusiasm of Kate Feeney and the others came from a party he was watching through a window.

When Kate took his hand, he flinched.

“Don’t you think Kerry was good?” she asked. “He’s so human, and Mason’s like this stiff.”

Sean said nothing. Rick Ginsberg emerged from the celebrants, suddenly quite businesslike.

“You two,” he said to Sean and Kate. “Stick around—we’ve got a countdown meeting with the advance team and the Secret Service to plan tomorrow’s rally. We can celebrate on Tuesday.”

Sean could only nod.

“Based on a preliminary sampling of two hundred Califor-nians,” the anchorman said, “forty-five percent of viewers feel that Senator Kilcannon won the debate, thirty-nine percent feel the Vice President did better, and sixteen percent called it a draw. Critically, women choose Kilcannon by forty-six to thirty-six …”

“You pulled it out,” Frank Wells told Kerry. “The bastard’s really hurting now.”

They were huddled around the television screen in Kerry’s suite—Frank, Kit Pace, and Kerry. But Frank’s tone was more worried than elated; he knew too well what Mason had threatened, but not how Kerry had stopped him.

“Well,” Kerry said, “we’ll see how it affects Jack’s tracking polls. If at all.”

“Oh, it will.” Kit’s look mingled affection with a sadness that Kerry understood: at the height of his achievement, Kerry might be driven from the race. “You were gutsy and compassionate, Kerry. It’s not in Mason to match that.”

The last phrase had a bitter undertone; the one unalloyed emotion in the room was hatred of the Vice President. “Perhaps the most dramatic moment,” the anchorman was saying, “was when the Vice President confronted Senator Kilcannon on the issue of choice …”

The picture switched to Mason. In a thick voice, the Vice President demanded,
“Suppose
your
girlfriend wanted an abortion …”

Softly, Frank asked, “Where’s Clayton?”

“Don’t know,” Kerry answered. On the screen, he told Mason,
“If making something that can be so painful sound cut-and-dried is a qualification for the presidency, then I’m not qualified to serve. But I don’t think it’s a qualification, and I doubt many women do, either …”

“You were so good,” Kit murmured. To Kerry, the words seemed retrospective, as if his campaign were already over.

Kerry smiled faintly. “It sounds like a eulogy, Kit.”

She turned to him, shaking her head, her mouth set in a determined line. “Not to me.”

The door opened, and Clayton walked in.

Everyone looked up. “The networks are saying you won,” Clayton informed Kerry. “Dick looked too shrill, and unhappy doing it. Someone should have told him what any trial lawyer knows—don’t try to be someone you’re not.”

“A prick?” Kit asked. “He’s much better at it than he looks.”

“So are we,” Clayton answered, and glanced from Kit to Frank. “Mind if I take a few minutes with Kerry?”

Frank looked at him a moment, questioning and perhaps a little annoyed. Then he and Kit congratulated Kerry again, and left.

Unknotting his tie, Kerry felt tired. Faces flashed across his mind—a startled Mason; Jeannie with her eyes shut; and, most of all, his imaginings of Lara watching the debate. Then his thoughts returned to the present, the practical.

“Finnerty?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.” Clayton sat across from him. “I spelled it out for them. They’re very sorry, of course.”

Kerry leaned forward, fingers tightly interlaced. “How sorry?”

“They’re laying off you and Lara. They’ll return the counselor’s notes, with no leaks to anyone else.”

“A little late,” Kerry said with fresh, cold anger. “The story’s pretty close to the surface, and
Newsworld
spreads it just by digging. And Mason can’t control that counselor, either.”

Clayton frowned. “At least they’re motivated. I told Finnerty that if this hits print, we’re giving Dick’s police files to the tabloids.” He paused, eyes meeting Kerry’s. “He believed me.”

Kerry examined the rug. “I don’t think I could,” he said slowly. “Not for Dick’s sake, but for Jeannie’s. Though I was careful not to tell her that.” He looked up again. “How did the counselor’s notes get to them, and how did they leak this?”

“They got them through the Christian Commitment. Fin-nerty didn’t want their fingerprints on it, so he gave it to
Katherine Jones—the executive director of Anthony’s Legions.” Clayton’s voice was soft. “Jones is a lesbian, by the way. I hope her man’s performance tonight left her at least a little embarrassed.”

Kerry felt his stomach clench. “Jones isn’t the problem,” he answered. “If I’m the nominee, where else are pro-choice groups like Anthony’s Legions going to go?” He stared at Clayton again. “You already know what the problem is. You explained it to me two days ago.”

“The Republicans.” Clayton puffed his cheeks. “Likely the Christian Commitment went to someone in the party with this, and
they
decided they’d rather run against Mason than you …”

“Which means that they can use this to cripple me in the general election. I’d be a ghost at the age of forty-two, I think was how you put it. And I’d have shafted my own party.” Kerry’s voice softened. “So it’s over. We pull our ads off television and, if I still manage to win, I find an excuse to withdraw.”

Clayton’s face took on a stubborn cast. “There’s nothing we can do right now,” he finally answered. “Let’s think about it overnight.”

Despite his gloom, Kerry felt empathy for Clayton, and fondness—it was his pragmatic, earthbound friend who, for once, did not want to face reality.

“Somehow we’ll go on,” Kerry told him. “I’ve got the Senate, and you’ve got Carlie, two great daughters, a fat bank account, and a rather promising career.”

Clayton shook his head, shoulders slumping with the weight of his own weariness and disappointment. “Well,” Kerry said with an ironic smile, “at least you and I have come a ways since we worked for Vincent Flavio.”

“Vincent Flavio,”
Clayton said, and then looked up at Kerry. “Did I tell you Frank Wells still wants to try and find John Musso?”

Kerry smiled without humor. “That won’t be so easy. A few months after John moved away, his aunt decided that if she changed his name, he could leave the past behind. As if any of us can do that.” Kerry’s voice grew quiet. “Don’t bother telling Frank. If there’s one thing I can do for John Musso, wherever he is, it’s to make sure he’s left in peace …”

The telephone rang.

Slowly, Clayton rose to answer it. To judge from the clipped dialogue—a series of pointed questions, clearly directed at Jack Sleeper—Clayton had managed to sound much like himself.

Hanging up, Clayton turned to Kerry. “Jack has you up three points,” he said with dispassion. “And now you’re holding among women.”

In frustration, Kerry stood, hands jammed in his pockets. “Shit,” he said. “Mason doesn’t deserve this nomination.
I
do.”

“It sucks.” Kerry felt Clayton watching him, trying to read his thoughts. “Your life just caught up with you, Kerry. The whole thing—your marriage, and Lara.”

Kerry turned to him. “I have to see her,” he said at last. “If she’s willing.”

It was not a question. With a level gaze, Clayton answered, “You know what I think.”