The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  "But I will not--cannot--allow her lies to deter our common quest." His voice became softer. "I ask you to sustain me with your prayers and with your votes. And when the reason for this trial is revealed in God's own time, His triumph--and ours--will be all the greater for it."

  "Not bad," Kate McInerny opined.

  Ford shrugged. "Don't matter, Katie dear. Watch what happens next."

  WITHIN AN HOUR, Rob Marotta appeared on the local Rohr station. "I'm deeply sad," he said in sober tones, "for everyone involved--Reverend Christy, his family, and, of course, Mrs. Ware.

  "I have nothing more to say about what is nothing less than a human tragedy."

  "Not for you," Ford said. "Only question is who gets to do your dirty work."

  "Simple," Corey answered. "Linwood Tate."

  "You're learning, boy," Ford replied amiably. "Got real promise as an analyst of local politics." Glancing at the screen, he added, "In fact, looks to me like you just materialized old Linwood."

  The former governor stood in front of his suburban McMansion, no less distinguished looking for his casual dress. "I've spent the morning," he told his interviewer, "talking to Republicans across the state, as well as some of our most prominent Christian leaders. To a man--or woman--they are saddened by these events.

  "But elections wait for no man. Come tomorrow, Republicans face a choice. Do we allow a takeover of our party by a fifth column of Democrats and liberals who reject our moral values, or do we support a candidate who stands tall in our defense?

  "Right or wrong, Reverend Christy has become too great a risk. Innocent or guilty, his judgment is in question--if only because he chose to be alone with Mrs. Ware." Tate gazed into the camera with an expression of deep sincerity. "The sound choice, the right choice, is Senator Rob Marotta. He bears no taint that could prevent him from protecting America's families, and a nation under God."

  "About now," Ford said, "the recorded phone calls ought to start."

  He switched to Rohr News, the cable network. "How much will taxpayers pony up," Frank Flaherty inquired acidly, "so the Secret Service can babysit Grace's girlfriend? Bet that pillow talk don't come cheap."

  Staring at the screen, Lexie still said nothing. Corey took her hand again. Though Ford turned off the television, the bus remained silent, the residue of a campaign that had turned too repugnant to be fun.

  LATE THAT NIGHT, Ford and Rustin left Corey's suite, at last giving Corey and Lexie some time alone. "You were great today," he told her. "No matter how hard it got."

  She leaned her back against the door. "Funny," she said softly, "on the other side of this door is a Secret Service agent. Wonder how much the next half hour is going to cost the taxpayers."

  Corey managed a smile. "Is that a proposition?"

  "Just keep watching." Reaching behind her back, Lexie unzipped her dress, her eyes on his face as the silk whispered to the floor.

  "It's been two months," Corey murmured.

  Lexie unfastened her bra. "And five hours. Seems like a long time."

  With a slow undulation of her hips, half sensual and half mocking, she let her panties slip on top of her dress. But when Corey went to her, Lexie's eyes were moist.

  Out of desire, and out of fear, Corey did not ask her why she was crying.

  13

  TUESDAY MORNING IN COLUMBIA DAWNED CHILL AND DAMP AND gloomy.

  Rustin's overnight tracking poll showed a tight but fluid race: as the bottom fell out from under Christy, Marotta surged among white Republicans, while Corey showed solid gains among blacks and independents. The result, it seemed clear, would rest on who turned out to vote. Cocooned in a studio, Lexie called black radio stations as Corey and Ford sped from mall to mall, meeting citizens and hoping that some snippet of film on the noonday news would draw more voters to the polls. But by eleven o'clock, as a volunteer drove them to yet another shopping center, Ford learned that Magnus Price was leaving nothing to chance.

  Snapping his cell phone shut, he said to Corey, "They've moved the polling places--just up and moved them."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Livid, Ford stared straight ahead. "In South Carolina, the party runs our primary. That means the party machine decides where people vote." He turned to Corey, biting off each word. "In almost all the black areas, they've moved some polling places, and flat shut others down. In some counties, blacks will have to drive fifty miles to cast a ballot."

  Astonished, Corey asked, "How can they defend that?"

  "History," Ford said with a bitter smile. "Historically, blacks don't vote in Republican primaries. So our hack of a party chairman, Linwood's boy, shut the polls as a 'cost-cutting measure.' The fact that the vote counts are bound to be funky is just mustard on the hot dog. Like the flyers that have popped up in black neighborhoods, directing folks to where the polling places aren't.

  "Course, we can go out right now and file a complaint about a civil rights violation and raise hell about voter suppression, making Price's point that you're the black folks' candidate. But why not?" The anger in Ford's voice was tinged with disgust. "Magnus just filed his own civil rights complaint--seems like we've got people out there 'coercing' blacks to vote. The bigots they're appealing to are just gonna love that--turning the civil rights law on its head."

  "So how do we respond?"

  Ford sat back, arms folded. "I can't live with this," he said. "If these fuckers get you, they'll come after me. It might take a while, but I'm going to figure out how they pulled off their secret campaign. Right down to arranging Christy's failed blow job.

  "But that's not for today. So let's go get you on TV--some station Rohr doesn't own--so you can complain about this underhanded plot against democracy." His tone was quiet and bitter. "For all the fucking good that's gonna do."

  BY FIVE P.M., Corey, Ford, Rustin, and Lexie had gathered in his suite.

  The portents were troubling: though voting was heavy along the coast--favorable to Corey--Linwood Tate's apparatus was generating an even higher turnout in the white strongholds to the west. From the areas dominated by blacks came more reports of misdirection and phantom polling places. "I need some sleep," Corey told the others. "Win or lose, I've got to say something upbeat, then catch a plane to Michigan."

  Rustin and Ford left--Rustin virtually silent, Ford mumbling a few halfhearted words of encouragement. As the door closed, Lexie said, "I'm staying with you, okay?"

  They lay on top of the bedcover, each looking into the other's face. Her eyes, though luminous, seemed troubled. "What is it?" he asked. "Everything?"

  Taking his hand, she tried to smile. "It'll keep. Right now, we need to sleep."

  After a moment, Corey did. But even as he drifted off he sensed that she would not. When he awoke, Lexie was still watching his face, her expression sadder than before.

  THE POLLS CLOSED at eight o'clock. Shortly before nine, CNN projected a narrow but decisive victory for Rob Marotta. "Even with all the alleged irregularities," Bill Schneider said, "Senator Grace attracted a substantial crossover vote among blacks, white Democrats, and independents. From that, one can divine a potential sea change as the race goes on, based on the breadth of Grace's appeal and the star quality Ms. Hart brings to his campaign."

  Conjuring a smile, Corey squeezed Lexie's hand. Blake Rustin, he noticed, seemed to watch them closely.

  "But in South Carolina," Schneider continued, "the Republican primary is still dominated by self-identified Christian conservatives. According to our exit polls, these voters give Senator Marotta a thirty-nine percent margin over Senator Grace--a mass migration to Marotta that reflects the charges against Bob Christy ..."

  "It's like watching a play," Ford said. "With Magnus as the director. Too bad the sonofobitch won't come out for bows."

  As Corey scribbled his concession speech, Marotta appeared, circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes, his smile barely distinguishable from that of a loser. "Tonight," he began, "the voters of South Carolina
have marked the turning point in this campaign, a victory for the values that made America, in the words of Ronald Reagan, 'a shining city on a hill.'"

  "You will never be president," Corey promised aloud. "Not as long as I'm alive."

  Silent, Rustin watched him.

  AFTER COREY'S CONCESSION speech, he faced Lexie on the darkened sidewalk, watched by Secret Service agents, the state troopers who would drive her to Johnny Hart's, and, at a greater distance, the media, supporters, and the curious. Touching his arm, she said, "We tried, Corey. We really tried."

  The ambiguity of her words unsettled him. "I love you, Lexie."

  "I know. Me, too."

  "Then maybe I rate a good-bye kiss."

  She smiled a little. "In front of all these people?"

  Firmly, Corey kissed her. "I'll call you tomorrow," he said.

  SHORTLY BEFORE ELEVEN P.M., Corey and Rustin took a limousine to the airport.

  Except for the driver, they were alone. On the radio, Bob Christy told a reporter from NPR, "I love the people of South Carolina. But this primary was less a campaign than a vision of hell. I hope this country never sees its like again."

  "But you will," Rustin said. "We all will."

  Corey turned to him. "All right, Blake. Spit it out."

  Rustin grimaced, a man reluctant to deliver still more bad news. Instead of answering, he handed Corey a computer printout.

  Corey stared at the numbers. "Who told you to poll this?"

  Rustin inhaled. "She lost this race for you, Corey--by this morning, her image among Republicans was negative by two to one." He paused, steeling himself. "She's not Cortland Lane or Condi Rice. To our right-wing base, she's a left-wing nightmare in an Afro."

  Turning to him, Corey spoke softly. "In other words, she's got to go."

  Rustin looked down, eyes half shut, then slipped a second document onto Corey's lap. "What is this?" Corey asked.

  "She hasn't been unfaithful to you," Rustin said bluntly. "It's worse than that. She used to be a heroin addict."

  Corey felt numb, and then fury overcame him. "You prick--you're the one who hired some creep to crawl through Lexie's life."

  "Opposition research," Rustin said tightly. "All we did is beat Price to the bitter ex-boyfriend, a failed actor who can barely afford to see her movies.

  "Fame is a poison, Corey. So before you express your outrage, take a minute to imagine the day when Price hands something like this to Alex Rohr: the magazine covers, the sneers on talk shows, the reporters in her driveway. Imagine the mass shiver of delight as Price strips her bare in public. Then maybe you'll do the gallant thing and dump her before it happens.

  "If not, the question is, Do you want to be president or do you want her? Because you sure as hell don't get both."

  For a long moment, Corey stared at the darkened highway. Leaning forward, he told the driver, "Pull over."

  Glancing at Corey in the mirror, the man complied. Only when they had stopped did Corey turn to Rustin. "Got a credit card?" he asked.

  Rustin flinched. "Sure."

  "Then you can book your own flight home." Reaching into his wallet, Corey pulled out two twenty-dollar bills. "Here's cab fare. Try to flag one down."

  Stunned, Rustin reached for his briefcase. In that moment, Corey saw his campaign manager face the ruin of his own dream: he would never be the one to make Corey the next president. But this was no time for compassion. In the same cool voice, Corey said, "My statement will announce your resignation over 'tactical disagreements' with the candidate. That should absolve you of blame for my poor judgment." Folding the report, Corey slipped it into his suit coat. "Better kill this stuff, Blake, any way you can. Because if any of this gets out, I don't care who the source is. If I become president--and I mean to--I'll make very sure that you never work again. Now get out."

  Without another word, Rustin did.

  AT MIDNIGHT, COREY'S coat around her shoulders, Lexie sat with him on her uncle's porch. "I'm ashamed," he said.

  Bending forward, Lexie touched her eyes. "You didn't plan it," she answered dully. "And I knew. I always knew.

  "Rustin's right. Fame breeds pathology, and envy metastasizes like a cancer. What can I say? I'm not going to deny my addiction, and I'm not going on Oprah to weep and offer up those two rapists as my excuse."

  There was nothing he could say. Silent, he tried to read her face in the shadows. "There's something else," she told him. "Remember my movie project, the story about the young black kid trying to break free?"

  "Sure."

  "Late last year, I sold the rights to New Line. At the time, it seemed like a good deal--if the studio made it, I got to produce and direct." Her tone flattened. "Two days ago, for more money than New Line could turn down, RohrVision bought the rights.

  "Their message is clear enough. Screw with our world, girl, and we'll damn well screw up yours. My movie's never getting made."

  Corey felt too many emotions--compassion, fury, heartache, guilt--to express any of them clearly. "It's all screwed up," he said helplessly. "I keep trying to say that I don't want to lose you and I don't want you hurt. And I don't even know whether that's saying the same thing, or two different things."

  Lexie turned from him, staring out into the night. "This isn't meant to be," she said at length. "Not if you want to be president. Politics is consuming us, like I always knew it would."

  Heartsick, Corey turned her face to his. "Can we wait until the campaign's over?"

  Tears came to her eyes. "For what, Corey?"

  Corey found he could not answer. She kissed him gently, a silent goodbye, and slipped back inside her uncle's house.

  14

  THE NEXT MORNING, COREY FLEW TO SAN FRANCISCO.

  Alone, he imagined Lexie on her flight to Los Angeles--quiet, controlled, as gracious to others as Corey tried to be. And, like him, desolate. As with Corey, no one would sense the feeling of solitude that she had carried with her from childhood. For him their separation was a physical shock that left him without appetite. But he was running for president, and the survivor at his core kept pushing him forward.

  He knew what awaited when he landed: news reports of Rob Marotta's resurgence; pundits dissecting the disarray in Corey's campaign; new questions about his temperament and judgment. But he could not--would not--let South Carolina doom his candidacy. Winning was all that Price had left him.

  He hoped that Hollis Spencer wanted one last challenge.

  ON A STRETCH of beach near Spencer's home in Seacliff, the two men trudged across the sand, unpeopled on a bright, cool weekday. Spencer stopped to admire the Golden Gate Bridge. "It's the architecture," he said. "Two spans, perfectly spaced, crossing the mouth of the bay. I never tire of studying it."

  Spencer looked much older now: his hair was sparse and white, his belly sloped, his shoulders slumped, his face more deeply seamed. "I haven't run a campaign in years," he told Corey. "Like I said when you asked before, a lot's changed since I helped you get elected to the Senate."

  "Yeah," Corey said. "It's gotten worse."

  "Magnus Price." Spencer stopped, hands in his pockets, still gazing at the bridge. "I could see it all coming, even before he left my shop to take on Christy as a project.

  "Magnus doesn't care about history, or policy, or the future. He's the epitome of the twenty-first-century man. To him, making Marotta president is a marketing exercise, where the only point is to prove that he's smarter than any strategist alive--that he can elect anyone he wants, take down anyone he decides to.

  "Magnus thinks he's much more interesting than Marotta. That unshakable belief defines their relationship: Price's ultimate triumph is not just to elect Marotta--it's to own him." Spencer turned, facing Corey. "Magnus's special talent is to see other people without sentiment or illusion. He believes he knows Rob Marotta better than Mary Rose does. If he worries at all about Marotta's qualifications to be president, his consolation is the belief that Marotta can be as ruthless as a president needs
to be."

  "As Price is, you mean."

  Spencer shrugged. "I saw Christy calling Magnus 'evil.' That's the error of a man to whom morality matters. The truth is that Price's amorality has a certain purity: the problems of race, for example, are simply logistical--inspiring racial hatred is the same to Magnus as promoting racial amity. His only bias is that the human species responds more viscerally to fear and hatred. That's the darkness he brings to American politics."

  "The country can't go on like this," Corey said. "We've stopped believing in one another--more and more, people vote out of anger, or stop voting out of disgust. Price's 'marketing exercise' is remaking America in his image."

  Spencer studied a starfish at his feet. "While I'm busy writing books. In my day, I surely was no virgin; you can't manage two candidates who became president, as I did, without doing things you regret. But the biggest weight on my conscience is giving Magnus Price his start.

  "South Carolina was vintage Price--it's like he sneaks in at night, and by sunrise the guy running against his guy would be dead and in a body bag. And no one can prove who it was that cut his throat."

  "So will you do this?" Corey prodded.

  Spencer smiled, a brief movement of his lips. "As penance?"

  "I won't quibble about motives. But I hope because I'd make a decent president."

  "Well," Spencer said wryly, "I'll say this much--you're a world different than the thirty-year-old hotshot I foisted on the Senate, with no qualifications beyond the fact that you'd remembered how to open your parachute."

  Despite the pain associated with Joe Fitts's death, Corey could not help but laugh. "Good thing I didn't come here for flattery."

  "Actually," Spencer said, "one of your finer compliments comes from Magnus.

  "Two years ago or so I ran into him at Reagan National and asked how he sized up presidential possibilities. When we turned to you, he got this dreamy look. 'A natural talent,' he said. 'Charisma to burn, with the reflexes of a leader and first-rate political instincts. Love to run him. But the sonofabitch is too unpredictable.'