The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  Biting his lip, the boy with the crew cut looked down, briefly shaking his head, a study of polite resistance. But Kate McInerny's head snapped up in surprise. "As I understand Jesus," Corey went on, "morality is about far more than sex. It is about saving people from starvation, protecting the health of the young and the dignity of the old, and giving the next generation a safer and more peaceful world. And that means the practical kind of caring exemplified by Christ himself.

  "To put money in a collection plate, you need a job.

  "Though you pray for the sick, you need a medical system that works.

  "We may want our children to pray in school, but we also need them to learn in school."

  Standing straighter, Corey gazed out at his audience. "Professing faith without works is empty. That's why I believe that those who invoke religion to divide us from one another serve neither God nor man." Glancing toward Cash, Corey said firmly, "The terrible tendency to cheapen our public discourse with personal attacks will, like the slow dripping of water on a stone, erode our collective sense of decency and compassion. Martin Luther King was an adulterer, and he made our country far better than it was."

  The audience was still--perhaps because of Corey's challenge to Cash but also, he hoped, because he had challenged them to search their own hearts. "This school," he told the students, "condemns the religion of your recent guest, Senator Marotta, as 'a satanic cult.' As the senator chose not to challenge this, I will.

  "Mother Teresa was Catholic. Pope John Paul was Catholic. Robert Kennedy was Catholic. And so are millions of your fellow Americans who try to follow Christ's teachings every day of their lives." Pausing, Corey added wryly, "Any fault I might find in Senator Marotta lies not in his religion, but in his application of it.

  "Which, inevitably, brings me to another policy of Carl Cash University--its ban on interracial dating." Briefly, Corey smiled. "For those who may have missed it, I'm seeing a native of South Carolina who's a graduate of Yale, an Oscar-winning actress, and a woman of great compassion and intelligence. And whatever one thinks of me, I'm a United States senator and a veteran of the military, and I've tried to make some contribution to my country. Yet if Lexie Hart and I were students here, we would not be allowed to date."

  Without exception, the students in his line of sight seemed riveted. In a mild tone, Corey continued: "One can say, I suppose, that you chose to come here knowing about this ban. All I ask is that you ask yourselves whether it really represents the best in America, or whether this university should allow for the same change of heart and mind that has so enriched the South."

  Someone in the audience let out a hiss of dissent. Ignoring it, Corey said calmly, "There is so much that we share. We worship God; we love our families; we cherish our friends; we are all vulnerable; and we are all mortal.

  "What we need in this country is not more hatred and division. What we need is to heed the God of the New Testament, who told us to care for the weakest among us and for each other--striving always to leave our world better than we found it.

  "Thank you."

  After a moment, applause began--not quite enthusiastic, but more than polite. Turning to Cash, Corey smiled into his frozen face. "Thanks, Reverend. Think I'll visit with your students for a while."

  Wading into the crowd, Corey saw the boy with the crew cut extend his hand. Cameras flashed and minicams whirred, capturing the moment.

  ALONE IN HIS car, Corey answered his cell phone. "Tell me," Cortland Lane inquired, "where you came up with those lines about Martin Luther King."

  Corey smiled. "Improvisation. The Reverend Cash inspired me."

  Lane laughed softly, and then his voice became serious. "You probably haven't seen this, but the first reaction has been extremely good. In my amateur opinion, you've just gone from 'interesting' to 'presidential.' Moments like that are rare in politics."

  After the last few days, this praise warmed Corey more than he could express. "Thanks," he said. "If you and I keep talking, this may just work out."

  10

  ON THE DRIVE BACK TO COLUMBIA, COREY TOOK CALLS FROM RUSTIN, who was cautiously pleased, and Dakin Ford, who allowed that his political career might yet survive Corey's visit. Only then did Lexie succeed in getting through.

  "The day's been interesting," Corey told her. "I just passed a billboard for a personal-injury lawyer complete with a biblical quotation."

  Lexie did not respond to this. "Saw your speech, Corey." Her voice was warm. "Kind of liked it."

  "Did it come across that I miss you?"

  For a moment she was quiet. "I've been thinking--about all of this. It's up to you. But if you'd like me to, maybe I might fly back."

  Startled, Corey tried to sort out his emotions--doubt, delight, confusion, fear. "Even before this," he said, "you've wanted to stay away. The last three days are the most vicious I've seen in politics. And somebody's rummaging through your life."

  Corey waited through another silence, watching the pale winter sun slide behind a scrim of clouds. "I'm scared," she acknowledged at last. "But I'm even more angry.

  "It's your call whether I'd help or hurt. But South Carolina's my state, too--not just Magnus Price's. My uncle's a congressman with his own organization. I've got a whole bunch of friends--from growing up, from church, from college." Her cool tone did not conceal her outrage. "After I won the Oscar, Governor Tate invited me down and made me Citizen of the Year. He gave a lovely speech about me as a symbol of how people's hearts had changed. If Tate's people have a right to draw an X across my face and trash you for being with me, then I've got a right to ask people--including my people--whether that's how our state's going to be. Seems like the least a Citizen of the Year can do."

  Her last words were etched in acid. Corey tried to weigh, as a practical politician must, the risks and rewards of Lexie's offer. But two reflexes kept colliding: pride in Lexie and fear for her. "I'm afraid, too," he said softly. "We'd be putting you in the crosshairs.

  "And politics is the least of it. I'm afraid for us. I'm afraid for you if they keep digging." He hesitated, then spoke aloud his deepest fear: "The reason Cortland didn't run," he told her, "is because his wife was afraid some racist would kill him. There are a lot of folks down here with guns."

  "I know," she said. "Don't think I haven't thought about that. But when Mama was close to my age, she still couldn't vote. When I turned eighteen, I could. A whole lot of people sacrificed, and some died, to make that happen. I don't want to be histrionic, but they didn't do that so I could hang my head."

  Watching his driver--a polite young college student who had said little in response to Corey's occasional questions--Corey wondered what the young man might have gleaned from his side of the conversation. In a lower voice, he told Lexie, "I don't have a Secret Service detail yet."

  "Then maybe you should, baby. Who's to say I'd be the one they'd shoot?"

  The fatalism in her tone betrayed her sense that tragedy was commonplace. Though his own life might have argued for this, Corey knew that he, as a white man, could not grasp the depths of her foreboding. "I need to think about all this," he said. "Can I call you in a couple of hours?"

  "Sure. I'll be here."

  This, Corey felt, was no way to end this conversation. "The most important thing, Lexie, is that I love you. Please know that."

  He waited for her answer. "Yes," she replied, "I think I do." Only then did Corey realize that if his driver had had any doubt about whom Corey was speaking with, his last words had erased it.

  When they reached the hotel in Columbia, Corey thanked the volunteer. "I'm usually more talkative, Jeff," he apologized with a smile. "Some days, running for president is more distracting than others."

  The young man gazed at him with deep sincerity. "Sir," he said, "it's been an honor. I mean for politics to be my life."

  "Leave some time for girls," Corey said, and went to find Blake Rustin.

  "JESUS." IN HIS astonishment, Rustin nearly moaned. "Please Go
d, no."

  Though startled himself, Dakin Ford said dryly, "Lighten up, Blake. It's only a liberal black lady, not a plague of locusts."

  "Bring on the fucking locusts." Facing Corey, Rustin said vehemently, "You been sniffing airplane glue? The only time blacks down here even dream about voting for a Republican is when he's pitching more God, less gays, and a whole lot of prayer in school. For every black voter Lexie pulls in, you'll lose twice as many whites. Defending her is one thing--sticking her in their faces is another."

  Corey stared at him. "Let me get this straight: Magnus Price can draw an X across her face, but she can't show her face in her home state? Those ads with snippets of her movies aren't in their faces--but she would be? Don't you think by now every racist who's not brain-dead knows to vote against me?"

  "There are still people on the fence, Corey. Don't push them." Rustin picked up a sheet of paper. "Here are the latest tracking numbers: Marotta at thirty-four percent; you at twenty-nine percent; Christy at twenty-seven. That's after you got a bump for New Hampshire that put you and Marotta in a statistical tie, and after you and Christy kicked Marotta's ass around the block in that debate. And do you know why? Values. And values down here means Lexie Hart."

  Standing at the bar in Corey's suite, Dakin Ford poured himself some bourbon. "Let's do the math," he told Rustin. "It's late Friday afternoon--come Tuesday morning, people vote. And even you've got Corey five points down.

  "Where's he gonna make it up--Christy voters? If they go anywhere else, it's to Marotta, not Corey."

  "And they will if she shows up," Rustin said sharply. "That's Marotta's pitch--he alone can save the believers and the bigots from Corey Grace."

  "Then it seems like you're stuck." Ford took a hasty swallow of whiskey. "Want God's honest truth, Blake? I'm pretty sick of living off whites and kissing off blacks. I've been working to change that. But it's a long, hard slog, and that fucking lizard Magnus Price will set it back two decades.

  "Lexie's uncle is as hard-shelled as they come--we're polite and all, but the last thing Johnny Hart wants is to be telling blacks it's okay to vote for Corey. Hell, next time they might vote for me." Ford took another swallow. "Race cuts both ways: Johnny remembers pissing in 'coloreds only' bathrooms, and he likes starting an election with a shitload of black voters in the Democrats' hip pocket. He doesn't trust us worth a damn--I don't know that he'd turn out votes for Corey if Lexie begged him.

  "On top of that, I wish she were a missionary rather than an actress--our stay-at-home moms would swallow that better. And the country clubs are full of white people who think blacks have 'caught up' and don't cotton to hearing that it ain't so. But still ..." Sitting down with the drink cupped in his hands, Ford said, "You got nothing much to lose, Blake. I'm the one who's got to live with this after Tuesday. If Corey wants to be the first canary in the mine shaft, I'm kind of curious to see what happens."

  Corey put his hands in his pockets. "I just don't want her killed, Dakin."

  Ford gazed up at him. At length, he said, "I think I can get our new governor to lend us some state police. But the pros are in the Secret Service. Might be good if you called your great pal the president."

  Rustin emitted a mirthless laugh. "Can I listen in?" he inquired mordantly. "When the man said 'Wanted dead or alive,' he wasn't just talking about bin Laden."

  Corey picked up his cell phone.

  Within the hour, time enough for him to consume some room service soup and a sandwich, the White House switchboard called back. A few moments later, the president listened in silence to Corey's request. "I'll call the Secret Service," he said with bluff humor. "Truth is, I'd rather see Marotta kick your ass than go to your memorial service. The shape our politics is in, I couldn't afford the satisfaction."

  The surprisingly amiable call ended with the president's good wishes. "I guess that's it," Corey told Rustin. "You've been wanting me to start showing up in churches. What about Lexie's?"

  When he called Lexie, she had already chartered a private plane.

  RETURNING FROM A church meeting where the preacher had prayed for his success, Rob Marotta watched Magnus Price in the back seat of their limousine, listening to the Allman Brothers on his headphones and tapping his feet to a beat only he could hear, eyes half shut, a dreamy look drifting across his face. "Dickey Betts," Price murmured. "Best fucking lead guitarist God ever made."

  The comment, Marotta knew, was not meant to elicit a response; nor was it directed at Marotta in particular. Listening to southern bands was Price's way of letting his subconscious work for him unimpeded. When the cell phone vibrated in his pocket, Price said, "Must be the fucking Dixie Chicks, calling to spoil a good time."

  Watching Price listen to his caller, Marotta saw his keen expression reappear. The moment induced an uneasy, sour feeling--too often now, Marotta felt that the forces that controlled his destiny operated beyond his reach. His cold comfort was that Mary Rose was not here to witness this.

  "No shit," Price was saying into his cell phone. "I almost can't believe it--except it's Corey fucking Grace."

  "What is it?" Marotta asked.

  Getting off the call, Price shook his head in wonder. "One man's courage," he said, "is another man's death wish. She's coming back here to campaign."

  "How do you know?"

  Price laughed. "Don't think I left staffing Grace's campaign down here to Rustin, do you? There are plenty of idealistic young people just dying to work for a man like that. One or two might hear things. Anyhow," Price added, "Lexie just drove out to LAX. So now we know it's true.

  "Gotta look in my iPod. Somewhere I've got a cover of 'Fool for Love.'"

  DESPITE RUSTIN'S PROTESTS, Corey met her at the airport shortly after three A.M.

  Alone in the car, he waited at the curb. She hurried out of the dark, threw her roller bag in the trunk, and slid inside.

  "Hi," she said. "Want to go parking?"

  Though her face was in the shadows, he could see her eyes and smell her hair. Seeing her after two months apart gave him a buzz of wonder and surprise. "I just want to look at you," he said.

  With a swift, darting movement, she kissed him, then let her lips linger so that he felt their warmth. Pulling back, she said, "This is so dumb, Corey. It's like we're kids with a million chaperones who want to ground us."

  "Fuck 'em."

  "No," she corrected airily. "Not them. Wish we could." Her voice softened. "This is a funny time to tell you, but I miss that like I never thought I could. You, Corey Grace--of all the people in the world--seem to have made that a whole lot better. Sure didn't see it coming when I came to beat on you about stem cells." She gave a rueful laugh. "But then, we didn't imagine a lot of this."

  "Nope. All I knew was that I liked you."

  "Hmm," she said. "Guess you didn't run that one past Mom."

  Once again, Corey contemplated his shame and frustration. "It's been years, Lexie, since I ran anything past Mom. To me 'family values' are just a rumor." Softening his voice, he said, "Sorry about her."

  "Oh, I'm about to make it up to you. Tomorrow you get to meet Uncle Johnny. He couldn't be more thrilled if I were bringing home Pat Buchanan."

  The remark, though delivered lightly, carried an undertone of doubt. "I don't know how this is going to work out," she admitted. "Any of it. All I know is you were out here on your own, and I didn't want to hide. Maybe that's selfish, or maybe just stupid--whatever, it sure goes against my grain. But I wanted us to be together." Touching his face, she softly asked, "Was I wrong?"

  Uncertain, Corey searched for words of reassurance. "No," she said, "don't answer. In some way or another, this is bound to go wrong. You already know that, don't you?"

  Yes, Corey thought, I know that. "What I know for sure," he told her, "is that we had to choose. And this is our decision."

  She leaned her forehead against his. "Tomorrow," he told her, "there will be Secret Service all around me. They can't be assigned to you--only me. So the safest
place for you is to be wherever I am. They'll watch out for us both."

  For a moment she was still, and then, very gently, she kissed him. "Curfew time," she said. "Better drive me to Uncle Johnny's."

  AT FIVE A.M., bleary-eyed, Magnus Price studied the infrared photographs. "This is all you got?" he asked. "Two shadowy heads in a car, maybe kissing. For all I can tell it's a fucking sonogram."

  "Look," the photographer said testily, "all I do is take the pictures. I can't tuck them into bed."

  Price gazed at the useless photos. "I'd like to think they were just too tired," he said wearily. "Keep on them. Judging from those swimsuit pictures you took, that boy's an absolute fool for love."

  11

  AT SEVEN A.M., COREY SAT AT CONGRESSMAN JOHNNY HART'S KITCHEN table, drinking coffee as the first morning sun lit a corner of the room. Already dressed for church in a brown suit and tie, Hart faced Corey as Lexie, to one side, looked wary but composed. To Corey, the dominant expression on the grizzled congressman's otherwise implacable face came from his large yellow-brown eyes, filled with disbelief that this upstart was proposing to reorder his corner of the world.

  "So," he said to Corey, "now that they've whopped you and Lexie with the race stick, you're expecting me to turn out droves of offended blacks."

  Johnny Hart, Corey saw at once, would not respect him for kowtowing. "I'm here for advice," Corey answered crisply. "No one thinks you can push a button."

  "Well, I can't," Hart answered in his rumbling voice. "And won't. I love my niece dearly--if you're what she wants, so be it. But that doesn't make you black South Carolinians' new best friend."

  "I've got a record," Corey said. "You can look it up--"

  "I have, Senator. The chambers where we work are only a hundred yards apart. Funny we've never met, isn't it?" Hart leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Except it isn't. Your party is where southern racists stampeded to when black people got the right to vote. The only way those people try to do business in my community is by saying that Democrats aren't Christian enough."