"A Lexington Patriot-2."
Slowly, Kerry looked up at Monk.
Though the man's face was impassive, his yellow-green eyes betrayed a deep compassion. "Tell me about the Patriot-2," Kerry demanded.
"It's not a sporting weapon." Pausing, Monk seemed to decide on candor. "You wouldn't use it for target practice unless the target's a refrigerator. What it does is what Bowden bought it for—spray a lot of bullets in split seconds."
"Where did he get it?"
It was Lara's voice, coming from behind them. Kerry looked up, startled. Awkwardly, Monk stood, straightening the creases of his pants. Lara did not extend her hand; watching her, Kerry was certain that she had viewed the film.
"Where?" she asked again.
Hesitant, Monk gazed at her in sympathy. "There's no evidence of a purchase," he answered. "Lexington claims they lost the record of whatever dealer they shipped it to, and we can't find any record of a background check. All we know right now is that he traveled to Las Vegas . . ."
"The inspector," Kerry cut in with muted anger, "found this in Bowden's room."
Lara walked over to the coffee table. Spread open was a copy of the SSA magazine; on the page, beside a notice for a gun show in Las Vegas, an advertisement described the features of the Lexington P-2. "Endangered Species," the bold print said. "Banned in California."
"Remember George Callister?" Kerry asked.
FOUR
The next morning, Kerry and Lara sat in the walled Italianate garden of the mansion. It was orderly and quiet—the flowers and bushes carefully pruned and tended, water spilling from a marble fountain the only sound—and would have seemed the perfect urban refuge save for the Secret Service agents on the rooftop. Lara picked at a plate of fruit.
"Kit sat down with me last night," Kerry said. "We talked about the funeral."
Lara looked up from her plate, her long, cool gaze more focused than at any time since the murders. "Mary and I have already decided," she answered. "We want the funeral to be as private as we can make it. I need you to be there as my husband, a member of our family."
But not as President, she was clearly saying. In the silence which followed, Kerry thought of his meeting with Kit Pace.
Kit had arrived the night before, after Lara had retreated upstairs. It was the first time they had spoken since the shootings: Kerry sensed that Kit, as others, had been waiting for clues about how and when to approach him. He had waved her to the chair across from him, accepted her condolences. A few awkward moments passed before Kit addressed what could no longer be avoided. "This is your tragedy," she said with unwonted hesitance. "But it's also the country's. My sense is that people need you to help them mourn, and to help them know how to feel."
Fruitlessly, Kerry wished for a respite from obligations. "Compared to Lara," he answered, "it's not my tragedy at all."
Kit lapsed into contemplative silence. "Does Lara plan to speak?" she asked. "It might be enough for people to see her . . ."
"See her?"
"I know how you'll feel about this, but I think you should consider letting television do its work." To ward off a quick response, Kit had reached out to touch Kerry's wrist. "A funeral where you speak could be the best memorial. It would allow the nation to participate, and reflect on how the victims died, like in Columbine or Oklahoma City . . ."
Now, Lara put down her fork. "Kit wants to televise the service?" she
repeated with an air of muted incredulity. "What a tribute to my family that would be. Perhaps we can read Bowden's letter, explaining how television pushed him to the edge."
Kerry could say nothing: to Lara, these deaths were so enmeshed with his decisions, the cost of being President, that he could not give voice to his own guilt, nor penetrate her sense of complicity. "I don't want to mourn them as symbols," Lara said more evenly, "but as three people I loved, who will always be a part of me. Even if I felt otherwise, I could never push Mary to bastardize the funeral. She's the one who saw them die, and she's all the family I have."
I'm your family, as well, Kerry thought. But all he ventured was, "If you want, Kit can help Connie Coulter with the media. Like it or not, they're out there."
Lara looked around her at the garden. "I'll ask Mary if she minds a press pool," she said with a faint sardonic undertone. "Perhaps in the rear of the church, as they did at our wedding."
I didn't kill them, Kerry wanted to say. We didn't kill them. But he could not even persuade himself. "We're the President and First Lady," he said in measured tones. "We'll be that at the funeral, like it or not. We're also two people who've been married for five days, three of them so hellish that neither of us knows what to do. Once we leave here we'll need to begin to find our way." Reaching across the table, he took her lifeless hand. "You can start with the fact that I love you."
Silent, she gazed at their intertwined hands. "Then let me have my family back," she answered softly. "At least for the funeral."
* * *
An hour later, after Lara left to be with Mary, Kerry and Clayton watched CNN: in the unspoken protocol of Kerry's mourning, Clayton Slade was the only person—except as absolutely required—whom the President wished to see. The broadcast showed a collage of national mourning—cards and bouquets left at the base of the iron bars surrounding the White House; a deluge of letters to the President and Lara; impromptu memorial gatherings in scores of American cities, and several in Asia and Western Europe; interviews with women who wept for three victims they had never known; a commentator weighing the impact of these deaths against that of Princess Diana. Then Wolf Blitzer began reading a statement from George Callister:
"All of us," Blitzer began, "are shocked and saddened that the murderer of seven innocent people used a gun and ammunition manufactured by Lexington Arms. On behalf of all the employees of Lexington, I've conveyed to the President and First Lady our profound sympathy and sorrow . . ."
"He called," Clayton told the President, "while you were with Lara."
Kerry did not turn. "Callister? What did he say?"
"How sorry he was. I didn't want to interrupt you."
Kerry let a brief, harsh laugh escape through tightened lips. He did not respond in words.
On the screen, Blitzer continued reading. "We must remember," Callister went on to say, "that a gun in itself is neither good nor bad, and that millions of Americans use guns safely and responsibly, from hunting to sportshooting to protecting their home and family from people like John Bowden. The essence of this tragedy lies not in the fact that Lexington makes guns, but in the recesses of this man's demented mind . . ."
"Tell Callister," Kerry said quietly, "that he'll be hearing from me. In my own time and way."
* * *
That afternoon, the President materialized before a startled press pool, speaking briefly and without notice in the circular driveway. He took no questions; Lara was not with him. This was his first public statement since the murders.
He looked weary, but composed. "On behalf of the First Lady and her family," he began, "I would like to thank all Americans for their understanding and compassion in this very private time . . ." He did not mention Callister, or guns.
FIVE
The funeral mass was held in a simple Roman Catholic church in the Sunset District, near the stucco home where the Costello family had lived since Lara was born. The mourners filling the church were parishioners and other friends. The sole public official besides Kerry was Vice President Ellen Penn, who had represented the district before advancing to the Senate; the press pool was limited to ten reporters, consigned to the rear and confined to pads and pencils. Kerry sat with Lara and Mary, Carlie and Clayton Slade beside him. A few times Carlie touched Kerry's hand, as if she knew that Kerry felt alone. He did not know what Lara would say, or how she would manage to say it.
The caskets holding Inez, Joan, and Marie were draped in cloth. When it was time, Lara walked toward them. Instead of pausing at the altar, she went to her mothe
r's casket, gently resting a palm on the cloth. And then, softly, Lara spoke to Inez Costello.
"You always believed in me," Lara began. "You always believed, in the mystical way that mothers do, that I could meet whatever challenges awaited me.
"You didn't ask me to succeed for you. You didn't look at me, and see yourself, or see a surrogate for your own dreams. You just saw me." Lara paused, tears coming to her eyes. "And so, Mama, I saw myself as you did. Because I so believed in you."
Once more, Lara gathered herself; watching, Kerry could feel the depth of her loss.
"You gave that gift to all of us." Briefly, Lara smiled at her sister. "When I look at Mary, I remember all the stories you told me about her teaching, and about the children—sometimes troubled—whose lives she was making better. Because you just believed so deeply in all that she was doing . . ."
* * *
Minutes passed; the passage of emotion between Lara and those who listened, at first worried for her, settled into a calm communal sadness. As Lara finished speaking to Joan, the church was hushed.
"You saw our mother raise us alone. You saw how hard it was. But when it mattered—when you saw Marie at risk—you determined to protect her in every way you could." Fighting back tears, Lara said clearly, "And in every way you could, you did . . ."
* * *
Standing beside Marie, Lara spoke of watching her at Dulles Airport, walking away from Lara toward her future, as if now reminding the child of her past.
"You were our future," Lara said softly. "We imagined your graduations, your achievements, the life you might create. For us, one of the joys of growing older would be watching you become the person you were meant to be . . ."
Briefly Lara faltered; only the impossibility of doing so kept Kerry from reaching out to her. Then, once more, she regained her selfcontrol. "Now," she told Marie, "too soon, you are at peace. And those of us who love you, and whom you have left behind, must find a way to give your life the meaning you would have given it by living . . ."
* * *
At last it was done. The black limousine bearing Kerry, Lara, and Mary led the funeral cortege from San Francisco to Colma, a suburb whose primary purpose was to serve as a final resting place for those who, because San Francisco had banned new cemeteries, could no longer be buried in the city. The featureless miles of grey monuments struck Kerry as Arlington without the grandeur, lending a bleak symbolism to what, the involuntary skeptic in Kerry feared, was an eternity of nothingness, the common indistinguishable fate of all who rested here. But all that had been left to him was to secure for the murdered women and child the rarest of Colma's blessings, a resting place beneath a tree, on a modest bluff some distance from the marble rows.
Her arm linked with Mary's, Lara stood beside her husband, watching the three caskets descend into a common grave. As the last dirt was scattered, it began to rain. Only then did Lara take Kerry's hand.
* * *
Their day was far from done. Before the funeral, Lara had called grieving parents in Illinois, whose nineteen-year-old daughter had flown to San Francisco to begin her sophomore year at Stanford; now they drove to the Richmond District, where one of the two security guards had lived with his family.
His widow was puffy-eyed with grief. "This is the President," Felice Serrano told her twelve-year-old son.
Manfully, he shook Kerry's hand as Felice expressed sadness for Lara's loss. "Tell me about Henry," Lara requested softly.
Felice glanced at her younger children, two dark-haired girls ages seven and four, as though to pluck a detail from memories too copious to summarize, emotions too complex to express. "Every night," she answered, "Henry read to the children. He wanted them all to go to college."
"Like my mother," Lara answered. "And so we did."
Felice nodded, less from conviction, Kerry thought, than from the hope of reviving her own shattered dreams. Then, as though concerned for him, she told her son, "Maybe you could show the President your father's wood shop."
"Could you?" Kerry asked the boy.
Self-consciously, George Serrano led Kerry to the garage, leaving the others behind.
The workbench was immaculate, the implements neatly put away, the signposts of a man who taught his son order, responsibility, and a respect for one's possessions. Their current project had been a bookshelf: to Kerry, there was something desolate about the shelfless frame, a symbol of a life which would never be completed.
"What part did you make?" Kerry asked.
The boy touched a wooden board, leaning against a wall, which would have become a shelf. "Everything," he answered. "This time, Dad let me use the saw."
"Show me," Kerry requested. "My father could never find the time."
For the next half hour, talking as needed, the President and George Serrano sawed and inserted the wooden shelves. When at last Felice and Lara came for them, conversing quietly between themselves, the bookshelf was complete except for varnish.
At the door, Lara clasped Felice's hands. "Thank you," Lara said. "This can't have been for nothing. None of us will let it be."
* * *
In the limousine, Kerry turned to Lara. Her face was etched with sadness.
"All day," he told her, "I've been watching you pay tribute to your family, comfort Mary, and give Felice Serrano at least a measure of peace. The word that comes to me is 'grace,' in all its meanings."
As if exhausted, she rested her shoulder against his. In quiet despair, she answered, "In the end, being with them helped me. But what do we do now?"
* * *
The next morning, Kit Pace announced that the President and First Lady would return to Martha's Vineyard, for several days of rest and seclusion. Among the staff, the decision was controversial, though none had a voice. But Kit was more than satisfied. Lara's eulogy, widely reprinted, had touched the vast public which wished to mourn with her, as had her calls and visits to the victims' families who, when asked, had remarked on her kindness and concern. As for their planned retreat to Martha's Vineyard, Americans would admire a man, even a President, who subordinates all else to supporting his wife in her time of loss. If the country waited a few more days, Kit believed, the Kilcannons' reentry into public life would be all the more compelling. She wondered if they understood this perfectly.
SIX
On CNN, James Kilcannon lay on his back, a pool of blood beneath his head, dying as the crowd around him screamed its horror and grief. And then he vanished, replaced by a percussive pop as Inez Costello fell.
In the wake of the Costello murders, Bill Schneider reported, support for stricter gun laws has swollen to over ninety percent . . .
As Marie Bowden toppled backward, Kerry hit the remote.
In numb silence, he and Clayton gazed at the darkened screen. Lara had vanished upstairs: the two men sat alone. Quietly, Clayton asked, "Will Martha's Vineyard help, I wonder?"
"I don't know." Kerry's tone commingled irony and sorrow. "I have to comfort her—if I can—and be seen as comforting her. It feels like I'm trapped in a silent movie, as Lara's husband and as President."
Clayton narrowed his eyes in thought. "The husband part may be beyond me. But the politics of this won't keep."
Kerry turned to him. "I have to do something, Clayton. You know that."
"Because of Lara?"
"Because of me. Because it's time." Kerry stood, hands jammed in his pockets. "Standing up to the SSA is part of what I ran on. First I lost a brother. Now guns have decimated Lara's family. What's the point of becoming President if I don't use the office to accomplish what I've fought for ever since Jamie died."
"You have to do something," Clayton agreed. "The question is, what?" He puffed his cheeks, exhaling. "You can put in a bill to change the law, then push it symbolically, knowing you'll lose in Congress but gain an issue against the GOP when you run for reelection. Or you can go all out, split the Democratic Party, and put at risk the rest of your agenda . . ."
"An 'i
ssue,' " Kerry replied with scorn and anger. "Is that what those three caskets were? An 'issue'?"
Clayton's voice was soft. "You hired me to be straight with you. I've watched you go over the Bowden file, obsessing about what more—or less—you could have done, as if the whole thing turned on you.
"You're not God, Kerry. You didn't abuse Joan Bowden. You didn't stalk her child. What choice did she have but to leave . . . ?"
"I convinced her to leave, dammit. I exposed Bowden on national TV . . ."
"Because the Chronicle was going to. So who killed Lara's family? The media? You? Maybe Bowden did . . ."
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