"Of course," Inez told her. Together, the five Costello women retreated to Lara's bedroom.
Lara kissed Inez on the forehead, and then looked into her face. "I am happy," she assured her mother. "I know being married to a President won't be easy. But Kerry's the only man I've ever wanted."
Tears came to her mother's eyes. "I know your father and I didn't show you much in the way of happiness. I've worried that you . . ."
Gently, Lara placed a finger to her mother's lips. "That was all so long ago, Mom. I have a man who's smart and sensitive and gentle— someone I can relax with, and love, and even lean on if I need to." Hearing herself, Lara, too, felt close to tears. "I'm fine, now. More than fine."
Turning, Lara looked first at Joan. As their eyes met, Lara felt their thoughts converge: on this day of Lara's happiness, Joan's own marriage was a shambles, made public because of the unrelenting light which focused on the man Lara had chosen to love. "I'm so sorry," Lara told her, "for everything we've brought down on you. But, for me, it's wonderful you're here."
For a brief moment, Joan hesitated, then came to Lara and hugged her. "I know you'll be happy," she said. "We'll all be happier, soon."
Lara clung to her for an extra moment, and then kissed Marie and, last, Mary. Silent, Mary gazed into her eyes, and then gave her a brief hug. "I love you," Lara told them, and then paused for the last moment before her very public day began, to take in the faces of those closest to her. "I'm so lucky to have all of you."
The other Costello women smiled at the First Lady–to-be. And then, protected by the Secret Service, they and Lara's friends went to the waiting limousine and drove slowly through the streets, bright with sunshine and thick with well-wishers, some with small children on their shoulders, others waving or calling out to her, on her journey to meet Kerry at St. Mathew's Church.
* * *
To John Bowden, Las Vegas was a neon whore, its convention center as soulless as an airplane hangar. An American flag hung from the rafters; beneath it were hundreds of laminated tables and makeshift booths, many with placards advertising weapons, or handmade signs with sentiments such as "Is your church licensed by the federal government?" offering souvenirs, T-shirts, SSA caps and coffee mugs, flak jackets, fishing gear, Nazi paraphernalia, hunting knives, and row upon row of rifles, handguns, ammunition, high-capacity magazines, silencers, flash suppressors, and kits to convert semiautomatic weapons to automatic fire. The floor was jammed with thousands of people—lone men, families, bikers in motorcycle gear—and so many guns that some sellers hawked their wares in the aisle or the lobby, swapping dull metal for wads of cash. Bowden had never been to a gun show before; he experienced the confusing tumult as an assault, a physical force which deflected him from his goal. Then, beside a spacious booth with a sign which said "The Gun Emporium," he spotted a life-size cardboard cutout of Kerry Kilcannon and Lara Costello, dressed for a wedding, with the concentric circles of a target on both their chests.
Bowden approached as if in a trance, his copy of the SSA Defender clutched in one hand. With a dissociated smile, he stared at the image of Kilcannon, oblivious to the cacophony surrounding him.
"Can I help you?" someone asked.
Turning, Bowden saw a slender man with slicked-back hair and glasses, palms resting on a table loaded with semiautomatic handguns. Bowden went to the table and, clearing a space for The Defender, opened the magazine to the page he had marked with a scrap of newspaper. "I'm looking to buy this."
The man looked at where Bowden's finger rested. "The Lexington Patriot-2. Yeah, we carry the P-2—lots of firepower."
"How much?"
"Good price. Four hundred dollars."
"Show me the gun."
The man reached behind the table and produced a black metal gun about ten inches long. "Concealable," he said. "You can squeeze off ten rounds in split seconds—however fast you can pull the trigger."
Bowden picked up the gun. In his hand, it felt heavy, lethal. His throat was dry; for a long moment, his eyes focused on Lara Costello, and then moved back to the face of Kerry Kilcannon.
You don't know what pain is, you fuck. But you will.
"Do you want it?" the man asked.
Stunned back to the present, Bowden reached for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, stuffed with bills from his visit to the checkcashing store which had gouged him for the money he needed. Silent, he peeled off four hundred-dollar bills and slapped them down beside the P-2.
"I'll need ID," the man said.
Bowden's neck twisted to look at him. "Why?"
The man frowned. "We're a federally licensed dealer. We have to certify you're a Nevada resident, and run a background check."
Bowden felt a flush at the back of his neck. "I can't wait that long," he said.
* * *
Dressed in a morning coat, Kerry rode with Clayton to St. Mathew's in the Presidential limousine. The streets overflowed with men and women who waved or carried signs expressing their best wishes, including one that said, "We wish you seven children."
"A little excessive," Kerry murmured with a smile. He studied the faces as he passed, warmed by the love and kindness he saw, reminded, again, of the responsibility he bore for the welfare of others, for making their lives better. There was so much to do, and it was often so much harder than it should be. He had the will; he could only hope he had the wisdom to find a way, to leave the country he loved better for his Presidency.
But not today. Today, supported by his closest friend, Clayton, as well as by Chad Palmer and three old friends from Newark, he would begin his life with Lara.
"In about twenty-seven hours," he told Clayton, "I'll be on Martha's Vineyard. I'll let all this go for a while." Then he turned to the window again, smiling at a little girl who waved from her father's arms.
Clayton watched his friend: the ginger thatch of hair, the quickflashing smile, the penetrant somewhat brooding eyes which made him such a wonderful photographer's subject, filled with contradictions— to those who loved him, the most charismatic figure since John F. Kennedy; for those who opposed him, or despised him, a ruthless and dangerous man. But the man Clayton knew was driven by compassion; Kerry's anger was reserved for those who, in his mind, kept him from acting on behalf of the people who most needed help. For all the ink spilled, the endless analyses of what drove him, too few people knew Kerry Kilcannon as the man he really was. Now his friend was marrying a woman who did, and for that, knowing how it would lighten Kerry's heart and ease his burden, Clayton Slade was today a happy man.
* * *
The man at the table had thick glasses, slicked-back hair, and distrustful eyes which moved constantly in an expressionless face, taking in all that surrounded him. The only items on his table were P-2s and their accessories.
"You a dealer?" Bowden asked.
Fixing on Bowden, the man's restless gaze became a stare. "A collector."
Bowden drew a breath. "How much for a P-2?"
"Five-fifty."
Bowden's hand froze on his wallet. "The Gun Emporium said four hundred."
One corner of the man's mouth moved, less a smile than an expression of contempt. "The Gun Emporium runs background checks."
Bowden felt himself tense. "I don't have time for a background check," he blurted.
The man's stare hardened. To Bowden, his scrutiny felt so intense that he wanted to step back. Then, in a flat voice, the man said, "Neither do I."
Slowly, Bowden counted out the money and laid it on the table. Then he reopened his copy of The Defender. "Got these?" Bowden asked.
The man turned the magazine to read it. Beside an advertisement for the gun show was one for Lexington Arms. A photo of the P-2 was captioned "Endangered Species—Banned in California." Below that was the picture of a bullet with grooves carved in its hollow tip, described as "the deadliest handgun bullet available—the ultimate in knockdown capability."
"Eagle's Claw bullets," the man said. "Cost you extra.
They're made to rip your guts out."
Bowden flinched at the image of a bullet tearing through his flesh and bone and brain. In an ashen tone, he said, "Do I need those?"
"Only if you want to be sure."
Bowden was silent. And then, still mute, he slowly nodded.
The man glanced around him, eyes restless again. "What about a magazine?"
"What about it?"
Another flicker of the eyes. "I've got the old kind—holds forty rounds. Don't make them anymore."
Bowden picked up the P-2, cradling it in the palms of both hands.
"How much for the magazine?" he asked. His voice was almost a whisper.
* * *
At the moment they were married, Kerry gazed into Lara's face.
Her eyes met his, steady and sure. Kerry forgot the cameras, the countless millions who watched around the world. He thought only of this instant: Lara's family; their closest friends; the resonance of Father Joe Donegan's words, making this not just a partnership, but a marriage. There was a smile on Lara's mouth, a deep warmth in her eyes.
Yes, he silently told her. We've earned this. The past is done.
"I love you," she whispered.
* * *
On the screen, the little prick bent to kiss the ice queen.
Pen in hand, John Bowden watched in the crummy motel room. Next to him on the worn coverlet was a Lexington P-2, a forty-round magazine, and six cartons of Eagle's Claw bullets.
His hand began shaking. As the happy couple receded down the aisle, he picked up a spiral notebook.
He wrote in a fury, scratching out words, replacing them with more words as sharp as knives. By the end tears filled his eyes.
The letter was a commitment, a pact of love and hatred.
Folding the lined paper, he sealed it in the envelope he had already addressed. On the television, his brother-in-law and sister-in-law waved from the steps of the church. When his wife appeared, and then Marie, holding flowers, the cheers from the crowd became a shrieking in his brain.
In agony, Bowden switched off the picture.
Hastily packing his armaments, he left the hotel without paying and drove through the seedy streets until he saw a mailbox. Parking, he flipped open the lid and paused, letter suspended above the box in a final moment of irresolution. Then he dropped the letter into the iron maw and drove to the Las Vegas Airport.
TWENTY-TWO
For Lara Costello Kilcannon her wedding day became a blur, beginning with a dash from St. Mathew's to form a receiving line in the East Room. But for Peter Lake the day was a series of freezeframes, safety measures checked and rechecked. The concentric circles of security stretched as far as the Washington Monument; the area above the White House was a no-fly zone enforced by fixed-wing helicopters. The demonstrators were confined to a discrete area, their bitterness, expressed in slogans like "Mr. and Mrs. Baby-killer" and "Disarm the Secret Service," kept from view of the wedding party. Snipers on the nearby rooftops trained their sights on the South Lawn; others stared out from the roof of the White House at the area surrounding it. The guests showed identification before passing through magnetometers set up at the East Entrance. The White House itself was divided into five zones, each requiring a badge to enter; all five zones were monitored by a command center beneath the West Wing. Peter stood in the sculpture garden near the East Entrance, scanning his surroundings as he monitored security on a cell phone. Today the Kilcannons were as safe as he could make them, and their secrets were safe, as well.
* * *
The airport bristled with police and National Guardsmen in combat gear, standing guard against Al Qaeda and Mahmoud Al Anwar. Passing them, John Bowden showed his ticket to a security guard before entering the magnetometers.
Somewhere in the labyrinth conveying baggage was his suitcase filled with weaponry. He had filled out a form describing it precisely; on the way to his destiny, Bowden was in full compliance with the airline's regulations. It was astonishingly simple—now he need only pray that no one who saw the form would recognize his name.
• • •
The dignitaries and other guests filed through the reception line, a tableau which, for Kerry, melded moments of warmth and friendship with the more stilted greetings of obligatory invitees.
Nowhere was this more true than among the principals in the Masters nomination. With genuine pleasure, Kerry greeted Chief Justice Caroline Masters, whom he had not seen since her investiture: as regal in appearance as her wit was arid, Caroline allowed that life on the fractious but cloistered court was rather like "The Intifada confined to a monastery." Senator Charles Hampton, the scholarly but tough-minded leader of the Democratic minority, alluded to the corrosive battle, combining his felicitations with hope that the President's honeymoon extended to the Senate. But it was Senator Frank Fasano, the new Republican Majority Leader, who brought the fallout from Caroline's nomination most vividly to mind.
Barely forty, Fasano had ascended after Kerry had engineered the political destruction of his predecessor, Macdonald Gage, for Gage's apparent role in the ruin of Chad Palmer's daughter Kyle. While colleagues in the Senate, Kerry and Fasano had barely spoken: though they were superficially alike—young, ethnic Roman Catholics from a bluecollar background—the forces which backed Frank Fasano, and now hoped to make him President, despised Kerry with a vituperation rare in public life. Beneath his dark good looks and skilled media persona, Fasano was as deeply conservative on social issues as Kerry was liberal: Fasano's genuine distaste for supporters of choice was, in the President's case, exacerbated by his belief that Kerry had betrayed Catholic teachings on the sanctity of unborn life. Shaking Fasano's hand, Kerry pondered an irony—that by eliminating Macdonald Gage, Kerry had moved up Fasano's timetable for the Presidency, making himself Fasano's target. "Congratulations, Mr. President," Fasano said. "We wish you all the joys of family. As well as the blessings."
The remark could have been a veiled, faintly ironic allusion to Kerry's failed marriage and annulment; or to Fasano's stay-at-home wife, pregnant yet again, and their five well-groomed children; or to Fasano's primacy as an exponent of the traditional family—anything, the President felt sure, save for a straightforward expression of sentiment. Pondering whether a sixth child in nine years might induce psychosis in Bernadette Fasano, tipping the scales toward infanticide, Kerry inquired dryly, "How many 'blessings' does the joy of family involve?"
Fasano flashed his teeth in a smile which managed to convey their differences. "As many as God wishes, Mr. President."
The President returned his smile. "I'll mention that to the First Lady," Kerry assured his putative successor.
* * *
John Bowden walked toward the gate without noticing the passengers around him. Somewhere beneath them, his suitcase moved toward its final destination. If they lost it, he could not fulfill his mission.
Stopping at the bar, he ordered one Scotch, then another.
Bowden counted on this now—the cauterizing glow which numbed his misery and narrowed his vision to the task ahead. He lapsed into a fugue state until he envisioned nothing but the agony on Kerry Kilcannon's face. He barely made his flight.
The tent was filled with flowers, food, and a corps of waiters bustling to keep glasses full. At the head table, Kerry watched his best friend rise to propose a toast.
"The New York Times," Clayton said with exaggerated self-importance, "once called me the most influential person in the White House." Smiling, he inclined his head to indicate the new First Lady. "Well, folks, welcome to the first day of the rest of my life."
There was an extended ripple of laughter. Joining in, Kerry nonetheless acknowledged the underlying truth—Clayton was still adjusting to the idea of someone as close to Kerry as only a much-loved spouse could be, let alone one as strong-minded as Lara. Beside her husband, Lara Costello Kilcannon gave Clayton her own cheerful smile of acknowledgment.
"When I first met the groom," Clayton continued, "he
was a scrappy Irish kid who threw a mean elbow in touch football games—and in the courtroom. I wasn't sure what would come of him." He smiled at his wife, a slender bright-eyed woman, still handsome after twenty-two years of marriage. "But from the beginning, Carlie and I knew that no one could be a better friend.
"When you have a friend like Kerry Kilcannon, you wish the very best for him." Turning, he raised his glass to Lara. "Today, in Lara, our wish came true . . ."
Balance of Power Page 13