The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  A creeping dread fogged Spencer's thoughts. "What's the count in Illinois?"

  "Senator Tully thinks we're one vote short."

  "Call their wives," Spencer snapped. "People don't just disappear."

  WATCHING MARY ROSE Marotta, Corey thought of Lexie.

  He longed to call her. But there was little he could say, and nothing he could fairly ask of her. And so he watched as the camera panned the delegates: a couple of Jews in yarmulkes; a few well-dressed blacks nearly lost amid the affluent whites; senators and congressmen basking in their own prominence, grandees among their subjects. But he could already feel the sweat and tension emanating from the delegates, beset by so many vote counters that their nerves must feel raw. Side by side, the Ohio and Pennsylvania delegations--the former Corey's, the latter Marotta's--brandished their signs like primitive weapons. The sound system blared R&B and soul music chosen ostensibly to demonstrate the Republican Party's funky and festive heart, but more likely to agitate delegates already wound too tight. Then the speaker's podium caught Corey's eye: by some visual wizardry, the klieg lights angling toward it materialized a faint but discernable cross.

  Corey felt a shiver pass through him: in an instant, the convention morphed from the Las Vegas Strip to a megachurch. He called Spencer in his skybox. "I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

  "Nope. This is Magnus's symbolic gift to evangelicals. The party of Rob Marotta is their spiritual home."

  On the giant screen behind the podium, a cartoon elephant appeared, emitting a screech so frightening that one of Marotta's kids shrank back. "Sounds like its testicles are in a vise," Corey told Spencer.

  "Ours, too," Spencer said. "Gotta find those missing delegates."

  Corey had never felt more useless.

  SUSPENDED BETWEEN PAST and future, he watched an American Legionnaire recite the Pledge of Allegiance, stressing the words "under God" so vehemently that some delegates burst into applause. Then the Garden went dark and silent.

  On the giant screen behind the podium appeared the Golden Gate Bridge. Beside the podium itself, a young violinist, caught in a single spotlight that again materialized the cross, began her haunting rendition of "Amazing Grace." In the darkness, delegates held lighters aloft; across the screen a sequence of photos showed San Franciscans with tear-streaked faces, a mother and child at a funeral, a young woman holding a picture of her father. The last photograph, taken at the memorial service, was of Marotta embracing a woman who had lost her husband.

  "A touching tableau," Frank Flaherty intoned.

  Corey switched the channel.

  WHEN THE LIGHTS came on, CNN's camera scanned delegates in dueling caps, red for Marotta, blue for Grace; Texans in cowboy hats and denim shirts; well-groomed young women who looked like former sorority girls or debutantes; middle-aged whites who conformed to the rules as they understood them, proudly and, on occasion, bitterly; a smattering of blacks, Hispanics, Asians. And all of them would determine, perhaps as early as tonight, whether Corey Grace would become their nominee.

  His cell phone rang. Certain it was Spencer, Corey anxiously pushed the talk button. "Hey," she said. "What are you up to?"

  Despite his anxiety, Corey laughed with pleasure and surprise. "Channel surfing," he answered. "Life's pretty dull without you."

  She was briefly silent. "I know this must be hard."

  "Yeah. It is."

  He imagined Lexie with him, her discerning look as she assessed his moods, at once affectionate and astute. "Would you have done anything differently?" she asked.

  It was the right question. "There are things I wish I'd done better. But differently? I don't think so."

  "Not even us?"

  "Especially not us." He searched for the words to tell her. "How many chances do we get to love a person who's so right that she feels like home? In my life, I count just one."

  "And where is she now?" Lexie asked. "Watching Mary Rose Marotta practice her First Lady smile."

  "For Godsakes, Lexie--you were never meant to be like her. You can't be, and I don't want you to be." Corey spoke more softly. "You and I came to each other as adults. I fell in love with the woman you'd fought damn hard to be--with experiences very different from my own, a life of meaning that is your own. Politics is parasitic; it sucks the life out of everyone but the candidate. I don't want that for you, any more than I wanted to drag you through the past.

  "South Carolina was a wake-up call for us both. I chose to run for president--not you. The price for that is mine to pay."

  "Ours," she answered. "Don't you know I miss you? And worry for you."

  "I'm not Marotta," Corey insisted. "Losing won't destroy me."

  She was silent again. "I hope not, Corey. But I want you to win."

  His cell phone buzzed, indicating another call coming in. Looking at the caller ID, Corey said, "I need to take this. Can I call you later?"

  "My life will keep," she said with a rueful laugh. "No one's voting on it."

  "I miss you, too," Corey told her, and pressed the flash button.

  "We've lost Illinois," Spencer reported bluntly.

  AS THE ROLL-CALL vote on Alabama began, Dana Harrison and Jack Walters showed up to watch with him.

  On CNN, the party's schism was on display, the anger and distrust palpable among delegates too closely packed together or trapped in aisles jammed with security guards, police, reporters, big donors with VIP passes, and delegate hunters barking into cell phones. Answering a question, a frazzled Grace delegate snapped at Candy Crowley, "The Alabama vote is about racism. Marotta's showing America who he really is."

  Jack Walters emitted a soft whistle. "Amid the pandemonium," Jeff Greenfield said on CNN, "the convention must decide which set of delegates will cast Alabama's critical forty-eight votes. And even that is complicated. Within some delegations, individual delegates are free to vote as they wish; others--such as Illinois--follow the unit rule, under which every delegate must vote with the majority regardless of his preference. So what we're seeing in many delegations are contentious mini-roll calls.

  "The bitterness this generates is as obvious as the results are unpredictable. But an early clue to the outcome will be the pivotal vote from Iowa, the first delegates among Christy's disciplined cadre to tip the reverend's hand."

  Walters turned to Corey. "Hollis still doesn't know which way they're going?"

  "Nope. But neither do the delegates from Iowa. They're awaiting a cellphone call from on high."

  On the screen, the roll call began. "Alaska," the chair of the convention called out in her rough-edged voice.

  Corey's antagonist Carl Halprin, Alex Rohr's chief supporter in the Senate, proclaimed loudly, "The great state of Alaska casts its twenty-nine votes to seat Senator Marotta's delegation."

  On the right corner of the screen, the number 29 appeared beneath the name Marotta. Through to Idaho, the vote proceeded as expected, with California's 173 delegates accounting for Corey's margin of sixty votes.

  "Illinois."

  A raddled-looking Charles Blair, shaken by the near loss of his delegation, summoned a reasonably strong voice to answer, "Illinois casts seventy-three votes to seat the Marotta delegation." At his shoulder, Senator Tully shook his head in disgust.

  The tally showed Marotta thirteen votes ahead. "Indiana."

  The head of the delegation, an NRA loyalist, said tersely, "Thirty-two votes for the Marotta delegation."

  Marotta, Corey saw, was now ahead by forty-five. "It all comes down to Christy," Corey said. "If he votes with us, maybe New York will. If not, Hollis thinks Costas may cave in to Marotta."

  "Iowa."

  Waiting, Corey felt his fists clench. The head of the Christy delegation, a minister who looked dazed by his sudden prominence in politics, said in a shaky voice, "Iowa casts all thirty-two votes to seat Senator Grace's delegation."

  Corey released a breath. "Thank God," Dana whispered without irony.

  Corey's cell phone rang. "That's it," Spenc
er reported. "Costas just told me New York's going with us. That means we'll win with fifty votes to spare."

  "What about the vote on forcing me to name a vice president?"

  "Costas will support us there too, hoping for your goodwill. That leaves it up to Christy." Spencer lowered his voice. "Is Cortland Lane ready to go?"

  "If need be."

  Spencer was briefly silent. "If anyone can talk to Christy, Corey, it's you."

  "Not now. It's his moment of maximum leverage--he'll push me again on the anti-gay stuff. I'm going to play out our game of chicken all the way to tomorrow."

  "New York."

  "New York," Governor Costas proclaimed on CNN, "casts its one hundred and two votes in favor of Senator Grace's delegation."

  Corey's cell phone buzzed, clicked, another call coming in. "Hello," he answered.

  Christy chuckled quietly. "Sweat a little?" he asked.

  Corey fought back his surprise. "A little. Thanks for Alabama, by the way."

  "No thanks needed. Truth is, a preacher who wants blacks to join his flock ought not reject them at the polls. I told my people this vote was a matter of principle, and it was."

  "Principles," said Corey. "Everybody ought to have some."

  Dana and Jack Walters had turned from the screen, gauging Corey's expression. "Half-expected you to call me," Christy told him in a disappointed tone. "You gonna ask how I'm voting on vice president tonight?"

  "I want to, Bob. But why spoil the surprise?"

  Briefly, Christy laughed. "You're a hard one, Corey. I've decided to cast another vote of principle. Only this time the principle is to keep Marotta dangling.

  "Your new delegates from Alabama almost offset Illinois. Tomorrow morning, having lost two roll-call votes, Marotta will need me all the more. And so will you. Do us both a favor and think on that a little."

  "I'll do that," Corey promised, and Christy said good night.

  THE LAST CALL, after Corey had defeated Marotta's vice presidential ploy, came from Lexie. "Congratulations again," she said. "Seems like you keep on winning."

  Corey tried to decipher whether, beneath the warmth, he detected a faint note of regret. "How about you?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

  "As okay as I need to be. You should know that about me by now." She hesitated, then said simply, "Sleep well, Corey. You've got another long day tomorrow."

  IN SEMIDARKNESS, ROB Marotta sat on the side of the bed, Mary Rose behind him. "You should sleep," she told him.

  Marotta could not respond to advice so well intended and yet so pointless. "To have done so much," he murmured.

  Mary Rose kneaded his shoulders. "You're still the favorite, Robbie."

  But Marotta could not tell her what he meant. She had not, by his own wish, been with him in South Carolina.

  7

  THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER LABORING ON A TREADMILL AT THE HOTEL gym, Marotta went to Price's suite for breakfast.

  "How are the kids?" Price asked.

  "Still sleeping, most of them. Jenny had a nightmare about that goddamned elephant. Mary Rose had to get in bed with her."

  "A pachyderm on steroids," Price mused. "Whose bad idea was that?"

  Picking up the remote, he said, "Word is Christy's making an announcement."

  "What about?"

  "Not a clue."

  Coupled with a new tension around his eyes, the bald admission suggested that the strain of last night's failure was wearing on Price as well: there were too many moving parts--men with motives and ambitions of their own--for Price to feign omniscience. As though to underscore this, Christy's head and shoulders filled the screen, his pipe-organ voice betraying pleasure in his ability to command the stage.

  "Our delegates have caucused," he announced. "To help us discharge our awesome task, we are inviting Senators Grace and Marotta to pray with us on bended knee for the guidance of Almighty God in selecting our nominee.

  "Regardless of their answer, we will do so at noon today. We invite all Americans to watch us and, we hope, to join us in our prayers."

  "No fucking way," Marotta snapped at Price. "He's pulling this stunt to seize center stage. I'll look like his supplicant, not God's. Next he'll want me to condemn the Teletubbies because Tinky Winky carries a purse."

  Price snatched up his cell phone. "I'll call Dan Hansen," he said.

  Marotta watched him listen anxiously for an answer. "Dan? Magnus here. Let me suggest that the candidates pray together in private. We'll bring Blair along, if you want."

  Price listened intently. "All right," he answered coolly. "We'll wait for his call." Hanging up, he murmured, "Fucker."

  "What is it?"

  "Christy's gonna talk to you directly." A flush crept across his forehead. "Dan's instructions were to tell me that prayer's too grave a matter to be negotiated by functionaries."

  Despite his worries, Marotta laughed.

  "I DON'T GET it, Rob," Christy said over the telephone. "Seeing their leaders humble themselves before God can only be good for America's children."

  "I'd be humbling myself before you, Bob."

  "That part's good for my delegates," Christy responded calmly. "They want it. I want it. Seems like you need to do it." His voice dropped a register. "Remember South Carolina, Rob? I remember it like yesterday."

  A fresh stab of fear pierced Marotta's soul. Not for the first time, he wondered whether Christy had been falsely accused and, if so, what part Price might have played. Glancing at Price, he said, "What South Carolina has to do with this escapes me."

  Price's face was devoid of all expression. "Does it now?" Christy said.

  Marotta's sense of foreboding deepened. "About the prayer, I'll let you know."

  "IF MAROTTA DOES this," Spencer told Corey, "and you don't, Christy loses control of events. Marotta knows that. He also knows you. That's why he'll show up."

  Corey shook his head. "A public prayer circle. Who'd have thought the nomination could turn on that?"

  He drifted to the window overlooking Central Park. Condensation was forming on the glass, the thin barrier between his air-conditioning and the already searing heat of a summer morning. "I'll call Bob myself," he said.

  "WELL?" CHRISTY ASKED.

  "Remember my speech at Carl Cash? I said I didn't believe that God much cared about this election, and that how we live is a truer expression of faith than any prayer we can recite in public. So that's the answer I'm stuck with." Though filled with trepidation, Corey spoke evenly. "In the end, Bob, this isn't about God. It's about you and Marotta. Even if he shows up, whatever prayer Marotta recites is only as good as the man himself.

  "You know the man. In exchange for an act devoid of spiritual meaning, he expects you to make him president. I don't blame you for extracting your pound of flesh. But your moment of satisfaction ends at around twelve-thirty. Marotta's begins at twelve thirty-one, and it could last a whole lot longer."

  Christy was silent. "It's not just about me," he said frankly. "It's about my people. I need to hold them. A lot of them are wondering what influence I have here on earth, and what possible good--by our lights--would come from your nomination." Christy's voice held a note of mournful resignation. "This is my way of keeping them, Corey, and you're not helping me. The time for maneuver is running out."

  IN HIS SUITE at the Michelangelo, Sean Gilligan perfected the Windsor knot in his Hermes tie, thinking, as he often did, that he had exceeded the most hopeful imaginings of a Catholic boy from upstate New York whose dad worked on the ore boats that plied the Great Lakes. But then luck was a talent--as a sophomore in college, he had realized that the Republican Party could not merely become his passion, but a lucrative career. And so years of assiduous labor as a congressional staffer and party functionary--planning fund-raisers, dispensing favors, helping in campaigns, and, eventually, devising tactics--had led him to an office on K Street and, at last, to become lead partner in his own consulting firm, with friends in every nook and cranny of Washington. Gilligan had
become more than a lobbyist: he was a strategic adviser.

  But there were still a few powerful men, to Gilligan's regret, to whom he owed more favors than he had been able to dispense. Turning from the mirror, he glanced at the manila envelope in his open briefcase, then tried to listen to Frank Flaherty pontificating on Rohr News. "According to our sources," Flaherty said in a disparaging voice rich with satisfaction, "Senator Grace informed the reverend that he says his prayers in private, and that he would not presume on God to pick a favorite." Flaherty's mouth twitched. "Little wonder, some would say."

  When the telephone rang, Sean knew who it was. "I know," he said. "Grace is fucking up."

  "Man can't help it," his patron said. "Time to save him from himself."

  SITTING AT THE round table in Hollis Spencer's suite, Gilligan slid the envelope across its lacquered surface. "What's this?" Spencer asked.

  Gilligan hesitated, unhappy in a role he thought he had transcended. "Something you didn't get from me."

  Spencer opened the envelope. Clipped together were photographs, credit card receipts, and, knitting them into a damning narrative, a report with no attribution of authorship. Staring at a photograph, Spencer murmured, "Blair."

  "Queer as a three-dollar bill." Gilligan put his finger on the edge of a particularly telling photograph. "This guy met Blair on nearly every trip he took out of state. A couple of us wondered why his wife never came to governors' conferences. This one picture clears that up all by itself."

  "Who is he?"

  "His name's Steven Steyer. Used to be a fitness trainer at the gym in Chicago where Blair worked out." Gilligan spoke with mild distaste. "Two years ago, Blair gave him a cushy job in Springfield--'adviser to the Governor's Council on Physical Fitness.' Looks like he gave his best advice at night."

  Impassively, Spencer perused the pictures and then scanned the report. "This trick is so seamy," he remarked, "that it's almost quaint. Whose idea was this?"