The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  Christy's amiable mask did not conceal the dislike in his blue-gray eyes. "It's not for me to ask, Rob. It's for you to offer."

  Price, Marotta noted, was as inscrutable as Buddha. Like his passivity, this was scripted: knowing that Christy loathed Price as a traitor, Marotta had resolved, despite their own rancor, to deal with Christy himself. "You deserve a platform," Marotta said carefully. "One that allows you to put your values into practice.

  "After Iowa, Magnus offered you secretary of education. You turned him down." Smiling, Marotta continued, "I understand--you'd just beaten me silly and were hoping to get the nomination for yourself. But I sent Magnus not just out of practicality, but out of respect. The offer stands: a cabinet position that empowers you to mold the lives of America's next generation."

  Even as he spoke the words, Marotta recoiled at the thought of Christy in the cabinet--too headstrong to control, too powerful to fire. Christy pursed his lips as though tasting a piece of sour fruit. "I'm flattered," he answered with a touch of irony. "But I'd feel like a man with no deed to where he slept, living at the sufferance of his landlord. I'd prefer to have some property of my own."

  Marotta hoped his smile appeared less anxious than it felt. "I'm not sure I follow your analogy."

  Sitting beside Christy, Dan Hansen shot Price a look of amusement. But Price seemed to have taken leave of his body, so absorbed in Christy that he noticed nothing else. "Of course you do," Christy told Marotta, as though encouraging a bashful child to speak up. "Name a constitutional office where the occupant can't be fired."

  Despite his tension, Marotta joked, "Chief justice?"

  "Let me make it easier for you. Confine yourself to the executive branch."

  Marotta frowned. "That's a big one, Reverend."

  "Not as big as president, Rob. That's what you're wanting me to deliver."

  Marotta leaned forward. "You know as well as I do what happens if I pick you before I clinch the nomination. The northern moderates--Costas and Blair--will put Grace roughly fifty votes from winning."

  "And Larkin would give you Mississippi," Christy rejoined. "In the end, his people won't stand for him supporting Corey. That puts you fifty votes from winning." He turned to Price. "Cat get your tongue, Magnus? Bet you got fifty undecided delegates in your little black book of sins and secrets. Real or imagined."

  Marotta felt apprehension grip him; Christy's pointed remark brought them perilously close to the unspoken subtext of the meeting, Mary Ella Ware. Price merely sighed. "You give me too much credit, Reverend. And there's a practical problem here--come November, Rob will need at least some of the moderate voters who are so attached to Grace. That argues for Costas or Blair."

  "If you help make me president," Marotta interjected firmly, "you'll have a very grateful and powerful friend. And a cabinet position to boot."

  With a half smile, Christy shook his head. "We've been here already."

  "Not quite." Price spoke with barely contained impatience. "Want to risk losing your delegates, Bob? Maybe they don't want to support a certain loser over a near-certain nominee.

  "You're the one who's at risk. If you delay much longer, your delegates will start deserting."

  Christy summoned a cold smile. "Thank you for that, Magnus. You don't usually tell me what's going to happen before it does." He stood abruptly, a worried-looking Hansen belatedly standing with him. "We've all said all we need to. At least for now."

  Marotta felt a sudden connection to Christy, more intimate and real than the pretense that had gone before: Christy felt cornered, the fear of irrelevance and humiliation gnawing at his core. "Keep in touch," Marotta said.

  "I will, Rob. Count on it."

  Christy left, the residue of his visit a heavy silence. Marotta stared at the door. "That woman," he asked Price softly. "What do you know about her?"

  "Nothing. The man's as angry at himself as he is at us. Once he cools down, he'll dread looking like a fool twice over. He's got nowhere to go but you."

  Silent, Marotta tried to penetrate Price's bland expression. "No rest for the wicked," Price said calmly. "Especially from the wicked. Sam Larkin's on his way."

  TO MAROTTA, EVERYTHING about Larkin inspired distrust, from his background as a lobbyist who dispensed girls like party favors to his appearance: razor-cut gray hair, soft manicured hands, expensive suits, and, above the red-veined drinker's cheeks, blue eyes that could shift from candor to venality in a nanosecond. Each part of Larkin's face seemed dedicated to a separate function: the raised eyebrows signaling skepticism, the red nose a beacon of sociability, the rubbery mouth stretching to convey whatever emotion the eyes did not. Marotta found it remarkable that any man could look pious, cynical, good-humored, and corrupt all at once, when in fact he was mostly the last. But Mississippi kept electing him. And so here he was, with his hands on the levers that could make Marotta president.

  "As they say in the federal government," Larkin opened with a jovial smile, "'I'm here to help.' Bet that puts fear in your two dark hearts."

  Smiling, Marotta awaited the latest declaration of interest in becoming vice president. "More like deep respect," he answered lightly.

  Larkin put a hand to his heart. "You flatter me, Robbie--you surely do. But you can stop now. 'Cause I didn't ask to see you on my own behalf."

  Marotta laughed. "That is refreshing."

  "At least not directly," Larkin corrected himself. "Looks to me like you're needing a vice president, and the delegates that come with him. Right?"

  Marotta glanced at Price, who, for once, looked as mystified as Marotta felt. "Looks like," Marotta conceded.

  "Can't go to Christy--that's for sure. Too wired to his own God, and who knows when this woman thing will rear its ugly head again. Anyhow, you need a moderate." Larkin paused as though imparting the answer to life's most perplexing question. "The man you want, Mr. President-to-be, is Governor Charles Blair."

  Marotta did not bother to conceal his astonishment. "You surprise me, Sam."

  Larkin smiled. "People don't appreciate my selfless nature. But Blair's the obvious choice, and you know it. You need a moderate, but not too moderate. Blair's not wildly pro-abortion, and he's good enough on gays."

  "Good enough for Mississippi?" Price inquired skeptically.

  "I can help you there, Magnus. I can help sell Blair to all the southern delegations." His tone became practical. "My people don't like Grace. And I don't want Christy poaching on my turf among the evangelicals. Looks to me like Marotta-Blair is both of our tickets out."

  Once more, Marotta glanced at Price. "I don't really know Blair," Marotta told Larkin. "Seems like he's closer to Grace."

  "They're not married, Rob. And I can vouch for Charles Blair. We've spent time together at governors' conferences. He may be a little callow, but he's bright, a quick study, and looks like the boy your mama wanted Sis to marry." Larkin nodded as though confirming his own words. "Best of all, and unlike Grace or Christy, he's squeaky-clean: pretty wife, adorable young kids, not a hint of scandal. Blair's the elixir for what ails us, and I'll help my confreres in the South to choke it down."

  Finishing, Larkin looked not at Marotta, but at Price. "The thought's occurred to me," Price acknowledged. "What hadn't was that you'd help sell him."

  Larkin threw his hands up in the air. "I'm the great undiscovered altruist," he said in mock dismay. "Blair can help you win over moderate delegates who would otherwise go for Grace--he might even give George Costas enough cover to be with you, at least once he recovers from his disappointment. Blair's what you need." Larkin spoke with the hush of a man imparting secrets. "But he's not what Grace needs. Grace needs someone more conservative, and Blair knows it."

  "So Blair also knows you were coming," Price said flatly.

  Larkin gave an exaggerated shrug. "Let's say I've come to see him as a younger brother, but with an inexplicably funny accent." With startling abruptness, Larkin's voice turned stony. "Grace won't go down easy--he's the fightinge
st man I've ever met, and he hates both of you worse than poison. Time for you to show some guts."

  The implicit comparison to Grace stung Marotta more than he cared to reveal. "Thank you," he said evenly. "Your advice deserves my deepest thought."

  "Then I'll leave you to it," Larkin said. "Not a minute to waste."

  "WHAT THE HELL was that about?" Marotta asked.

  Price's narrow gaze signaled his perturbation. "Not what Sam said it was. But if he helps sell Blair, this could be the best move for us."

  "So what's Sam want?"

  "I'd have sworn it was vice president--Sam's a realist about everyone but himself. Now I'm thinking he wants to go back to being a lobbyist." Price tilted his head back, contemplating the ceiling. "If that's what he's after, it's fucking brilliant. A man who'd made both the president and vice president would be the most powerful lobbyist in Washington. We'd owe him from here to doomsday."

  "And that makes you feel better?"

  "Only if I'm right. What makes me feel worse is sensing there's an angle I don't quite understand. This is too important to get wrong."

  "Sam, or Blair?"

  "Both. And I'm still worried about Costas."

  No longer hungry, Marotta contemplated his half-eaten Danish. "Can't we dangle VP in front of both Blair and Costas?"

  "Yes and no." Restless, Price stood. "Tomorrow night, we win or lose the Alabama delegates. As matters stand, my sense is that Costas's and Blair's delegations would vote to seat Grace's delegates. But if we commit to Blair before then, he'll tell his people to vote with us. That gives us a chance of adding Alabama's forty-eight to Illinois's seventy-three.

  "At that point, we're only a hundred delegates short. If we name Blair, sooner or later Larkin will throw Mississippi's thirty-eight delegates our way. Once Costas sees we're sixty votes from winning, he may well crack."

  He finished this scenario with more conviction than he'd started with, sounding to Marotta like a man seduced. "That's a lot of ifs and angles," Marotta pointed out.

  "This isn't geometry," Price rejoined. "More like an impressionist painting. So let's add another color to the palette." Price's eyes half-shut, as if seeing a vision too sensual to share. "Suppose we designate our vice president and then call for a vote of the convention, requiring Grace to name his vice president. At that point, he might crack and pick a VP. If not, the convention could force him to.

  "Picking someone--anyone--is bad for him. He alienates the also-rans. If he picks a conservative, he alienates moderates; if he picks a moderate, he alienates conservatives--including Christy's people. That way there's no downside to us naming our guy, because he suffers the bigger downside of naming his." He began tapping his foot as though listening to the Allman Brothers. "I'm beginning to like this painting."

  "A painting," Marotta said, "or a house of cards. It all rests on Blair, and what we know about him. Or don't know. How well have we checked him out?"

  "Not as well as I'd like--we've put most of our resources into investigating delegates. But our preliminary work came up with someone more pristine than a Ken doll."

  "There is no such person."

  Price smiled. "There's you, Robbie. After all, you've never been unfaithful to Mary Rose."

  "No," Marotta answered stiffly. "I haven't. But Christy came as a surprise."

  Price exhaled. "Okay," he said slowly. "I'll make some further inquiries. But if for no other reason than humoring Sam, we'd better see this guy."

  After a moment, Marotta nodded. Then he walked to the window, gazing out at Central Park, a gathering place for the young demonstrators who had come to protest the war, global warming, and the power of the Christian Right.

  "Governor," he heard Price ask, "can you clear time for Senator Marotta?"

  SITTING ACROSS FROM Charles Blair, Marotta reflected that he knew him in the way that any politician knows another--from party functions, or sharing a podium, or passing encounters at a convention. Which was to say, not well. The meeting felt like speed dating, in which Marotta was called upon to determine another man's character, and perhaps his own fate, with indecent haste.

  Blair was attractive and obviously smart, a Harvard MBA who had made a fortune in the high-tech industry before venturing into politics. But, at forty, there was something unfinished about him, a boyish eagerness to please that kept piercing his veneer of self-possession. Still, the first half hour of discussion showed Blair's assets to good advantage--his answers were clear, informed, and displayed a perfect pitch for nuance. When Marotta observed that Sam Larkin seemed very fond of him, Blair answered with a smile. "Sam's the only fifty-year-old scamp I know. But that makes me like him more, even when I'm afraid that he's swiping my wallet.

  "At bottom, though, Sam's a serious man with first-rate judgment and a laser eye for human weakness. I'm fortunate to have earned his respect."

  It was a fair response, Marotta thought. In his laziest drawl, Price inquired, "Don't you ever curse, Governor? It's been damn near forty minutes and I haven't heard a single swearword stain your lips."

  "Darn," Blair said with a self-deprecating laugh. "You nailed me, Magnus. I'm a grown-up Eagle Scout who still hears the chiding voice of his Pentecostal mother. If salty language makes the man, I'm not your man. But a lot of sincerely religious people seem to like me for it."

  To Marotta, Price's half smile hovered somewhere between skepticism and satisfaction. Almost carelessly, he said, "Hear you're close to Corey Grace."

  Blair nodded promptly. "I'm comfortable with Corey--personally and, in general, politically. I imagine that's part of why I'm here."

  The man was facile enough, Marotta had to concede. "It is," he said bluntly. "Up to a point."

  Blair regarded him with a gaze so serious that he reminded Marotta, somewhat unnervingly, of an avid first-year law student responding to a professor's barb. "I'm not a knee-jerk moderate," he answered in the same forthright tone. "Sometimes Corey's too cavalier, especially with evangelicals. I'm committed to keeping them in the fold."

  "How do you propose to do that, given that you're pro-choice?"

  "Pro-choice 'to a point,'" Blair responded. "I'm for the parental-consent laws and against partial-birth abortion." He paused, then added quietly, "If we're discussing the possibility I think we're discussing, I know there's only one leader. No one loves abortion, least of all me. In my own life, I'm pro-life."

  "And stem cells?"

  Briefly, Blair paused. "Again, I defer to you."

  "What about gay rights?" Price interposed, slowing his speech to emphasize each word. "That's a deal breaker for Christy's people. Can you sign off on a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage?"

  Blair had already begun nodding. "In a word--yes."

  "Got a position for us on civil unions?"

  Blair met Price's gaze head-on. With surprising steel, he said, "Do you have a position for me, Magnus? Vice presidents don't make policy."

  The glint in Price's eyes betrayed his interest. "That was admirably forthright, Governor. So let me be equally forthright. With stakes this high, only a fool tries to conceal things a normal man would conceal." He paused for emphasis. "Is there anything--anything at all--that we should know about your life before making this decision? Because if there is, and you lie to me now, I'll cut you off in politics like a dead stump."

  For an instant, Blair seemed to bristle. With cool civility, he told Price, "I'll give my answer to Senator Marotta." In the silence, he turned to Marotta; then he spoke as slowly as Price had. "There is nothing in my life that will keep you from the presidency."

  His gaze was resolute. Either this man was wholly sincere, Marotta thought, or he was a far more practiced liar than his public profile would account for. Standing, he extended his hand. "Thank you, Charles. You'll hear from us very soon."

  "Well?" Price asked when Blair had left.

  "He's good." Marotta tried to articulate the nagging doubt that dogged him. "But not good like Corey Grace. He's so
damned good he bothers me."

  3

  AS COREY AND DAKIN FORD LEFT THE HOTEL, DEMONSTRATORS called out from across the street, "Stop gay marriage" as others formed prayer circles beneath placards reading "Stem-Cell Research = Human Cloning." Following Corey into the limousine, Ford quipped, "What about gay clones?"

  Corey did not answer. Watching the faces through the glass--some mournful, some angry, some yelling--he wondered how any leader could rally a country so badly riven as this. Then his mind turned to the problem at hand. "What do you think of Blair?" he asked.

  "Never liked him. He wants too much to be liked." Turning to Corey, Ford added briskly, "But all is not lost. Long time between now and Wednesday night."

  "If I'm still alive by then. Every decision I face feels like a ticking bomb."

  Ford stretched his arms across the back seat. "By the way, we're still working on Mary Ella Ware," he said. "The key to that particular mystery is the lawyer she hired, Dalton Frye.

  "Frye's not only a protege of Linwood Tate's, he's also a sleazebag--only time he's honest is by mistake. But his being a lawyer makes his dealings with Ware 'confidential.'" Ford shook his head. "Always said the bar exam oughta include a Rorschach test. Any fucker who looks at a bunch of flowers and sees a wolf's head ought not be armed with a law license.

  "Maybe Christy wagged his weenie at her. If he didn't, bet you a mess of barbecue that money isn't going from Ware to Frye, but from Frye to Ware."

  "How do we figure that out?"

  Ford's smile did not alter his determined air. "Devious methods, my son. Just hope they work--we got no time to waste on due process of law."

  Corey decided it was better not to ask.