NO SAFE PLACE

by Richard North Patterson

  He fell quiet again. Then the wheels touched down, bounced once, and settled onto the runway. The motorcade was waiting.

  * * *

  The man who emerged from behind the partitions had curly hair, a high forehead, and a pleasant, easy smile. In T-shirt and blue jeans, he was loose-limbed, lean; he could not have been much older than Sean. He glanced at the form and then gave Sean a firm, dry handshake.

  “Rick Ginsberg,” he said. “It’s great you’re giving us so much time.”

  Sean stared at the tiles. “I’m kind of on vacation.”

  “You’re not from here, I guess.”

  Sean shook his head. “New York City. Since I was twelve.”

  Ginsberg smiled again. “Yeah? I went to NYU. Which borough you live in?”

  This morning, Sean had studied the guidebook again; the name of the traditional Irish section was as close to truth as he could come. “Manhattan,” he said with hesitance. “Yorkville.” The word had no more meaning to him than a name on a Monopoly board.

  Ginsberg cocked his head. “Really changed, hasn’t it. Yuppified.”

  Sean thought of his own childhood. “They’re all like that.” His voice was soft, a monotone. “People move away. But maybe I’ll go back . . .”

  The sentence trailed off. As if concerned that Sean felt tentative, Ginsberg said, “Not for seven days, I hope. Kerry Kilcannonneeds us.”

  Sean shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ve always liked him.”

  Ginsberg nodded vigorously. “The first time I saw the senator,” he told Sean, “he was trying to sell a roomful of college kids on compulsory national service. ‘This country’s given us so much,’ he said. ‘We owe it more than paying interest on our charge cards.’

  “Afterward, I talked with him. He has this quiet way of listening, like he’s taking in everything you say, and his eyes never leave you. It sounds intense, but there’s something almost gentle about him, and he has a terrific sense of humor.” Ginsberg shrugged, as if helpless to explain. “It makes you wish that everyone could meet him.”

  Slowly, Sean nodded. “I want to. Sometime.”

  Ginsberg paused, letting the hope linger, and then touched Sean on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s find you something to do.”

  * * *

  It was not until Kerry Kilcannon finished his speech—a call for expanded day care—that Nate was able to phone his editor.

  He stood outside the filing center, a makeshift tent by the landing strip at Mather Field, speaking into his cellular as softly as he could.

  “Lara Costello’s coming here,” he said. “The regular NBC guy broke his ankle.”

  For a moment, Jane Booth was silent. “I just can’t believe her arrogance, Nate. Or her lack of integrity.”

  Nate looked around him; about thirty feet away, Lee McAlpine had emerged from the tent, squinting in the sun. “Maybe Lara was stuck,” he murmured to Jane. “Who would want to do this . . . ?”

  “No oneshould do this. Period.” Jane’s tone was cool, insistent. “You’re not doubting it’s a storynow , are you?”

  The question did not require an answer. “Have you gotten to her counselor?” Nate asked.

  “Sheila Kahn is out in Maryland now, trying to talk to her.” Jane paused again. “When is Costello showing up?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Becauseyou’re going to sit down with her. A drink after hours—two old colleagues meeting on the road.”

  Nate hesitated, imagining Lara’s face as he slid the memorandum across the table. Still quiet, he asked, “You want me to confront her? This soon?”

  “I won’t know how soon until I hear about this counselor. Call me at home, as close to nine eastern time as you can make it.” Jane’s voice slowed a little. “You know, I really can’t believe she let them send her. Not if the story’s true.”

  Lee McAlpine was watching him, Nate realized. “If the story’s true,” he answered, “how could Lara tell anyone?”

  SIX

  Sean stood with Rick Ginsberg in a vast open area where perhaps twenty volunteers sat at long tables with telephones in front of them. The volunteers placed call after call, reading from a script; these were the disembodied voices Sean had heard in the reception area.

  “We’ve been open since January,” Ginsberg explained. “But with only seven days to go, our job is to identify the Kilcannon voters and get them to the polls. This is where we need you.”

  Sean was silent. That the volunteers were as young as he made him feel even more apprehensive, and many were Asian or Latino or black, the ones his father had despised. It was like the first-day-of-school feeling when he was eleven—wondering what the others knew about him, or thought they knew. The loneliness had never left him.

  “You have a lot of people here,” Sean said. It was part observation, part argument; perhaps Rick would find him something else to do.

  Ginsberg nodded. “We have more people come in at night, the ones with jobs. But our outreach coordinator has done great at finding college kids and minorities, which is something the senator wants.”

  Sean stayed quiet, looking restlessly around him. But Ginsberg did not seem to notice. “Anyhow,” he went on, “it’s pretty simple. Each volunteer is given a list of voters, coded by precinct, neighborhood, party registration, and, if possible, ethnicity. By election day every precinct captain should have a list of identified Kilcannon voters to get to the polls—either by mail or in person.

  “This election is too damned close. But if every volunteer in every headquarters does his or her job, I think Kerry Kilcannon’s our next President.” He turned to Sean, resting one hand on his shoulder. “Once you’re up and running, the goal is twenty calls an hour. All you need is to follow the script we give you.”

  Sean fought his desire to recoil, felt desperate to leave. He would never get close to Kilcannonthis way, trapped making calls like some salesman.

  Behind the volunteers, a slim Asian man stood watching them. “Who’s that?” Sean asked.

  “Jeff Lee, the phone bank supervisor. He’ll show you what to do.”

  Still Sean hesitated. Rick studied him a moment, then said, “I’ll start you out, John. It won’t take but a minute.”

  Walking across the room, Sean felt like a prisoner. It was like joining Operation Life, he tried to tell himself; after that, people started to accept him. At least for a time . . .

  Rick found him a seat at the end of a long table, next to a slender strawberry blonde with a ponytail and a sweatshirt with “USF” in red block letters. Hanging up the telephone, she made an entry in her log; in profile, her face was delicate, like china, her eyes cornflower blue.

  “Okay,” Rick said, pointing to Sean’s place. “By every telephone is a computer list of names to call; a form to total up the number of contacts for that day and who’s for Kilcannon or Mason; and a script. Just place the call, follow the instructions, and record what happened—contact, no contact, who each contact’s voting for.” Ginsberg angled his head toward the supervisor. “Any problems, Jeff will help you.”

  He patted Sean on the back and left.

  Motionless, Sean read the script in front of him, line by line.

  “Hello. My name is[volunteer name]and I’m calling from the Kilcannon for President campaign.

  “Is[voter’s name]home?”

  If no, “May I leave a message?”

  If yes, “Great! I’m calling to see whether you intend to support Kerry Kilcannon for President . . .”

  Yesterday, Sean thought, he had executed three people in the name of life. Now he was about to shill for an immoral man who sanctioned killers like Dr. Bowe.

  Sean felt the eyes of the Asian man, watching. Next to him, the blond woman placed another call. “Hello,” she said brightly. “I’m Kate Feeney . . .”

  Sean picked up the telephone, stabbing out the first number on his list.

  The phone screeched, the sound of a misdialed call
. Sean put down the phone and dialed again.

  Screech.

  Sean slammed down the telephone. His face was red, his anger like a pulse.

  Kate Feeney seemed to hesitate, then turned to him. In a pleasant voice, she said, “I guess Rick forgot to tell you about the phone system. You dial nine first.”

  Caught in his frustration, Sean did not know what to say. Smiling, Kate reached over, hit 9 on the phone pad, and listened for a dial tone.

  “Here,” she said. “It works.”

  Sean took the phone from her hand. Her skin, grazing his, was cool. “Thanks,” he managed to say. “That was stupid.”

  “The phone system’s stupid,” she answered. “What are we supposed to do—call each other?”

  Reluctantly, Sean turned from her and dialed the number again: Robert Walker, 2406 Miles Avenue, Oakland.

  “Hello?” a black voice answered.

  Sean swallowed. “This is John Kelly. I’m calling to see if you’re supporting Kerry Kilcannon for President.”

  “Oh, yes,” the voice answered promptly. “He reminds me of his brother.”

  All at once, Sean felt relieved. “Would you like to vote by mail?” he asked. “We can send you a ballot.”

  “Sure, Mr. Kelly. That would be just fine.”

  It was strange, Sean thought; suddenly he was connected to this man. He took Walker through the questions and then, thanking him, hung up.

  Kate Feeney looked up from her computer log. “A Kilcannon voter on your first hit,” she said. “Not bad.”

  Sean paused for a moment. Picking up the telephone, he felt more confident.

  “Hello,” he began. “My name is John Kelly, and I’m with Kilcannon for President.”

  * * *

  After the plane took off, Kerry called two supporters, and then Kit Pace returned from the press section and sat across from him.

  “Want to see a tape of Mason’s speech?” she asked.

  Kerry smiled wearily. “I don’t know, Kit. GotForrest Gump ?”

  “More or less,” she answered, and put the tape of Mason into the TV monitor.

  Together, they waited—Kerry, Kit, Kevin, and two agents from the Secret Service—and then Dick Mason’s face appeared.

  He looked somber, dignified, and his voice was quiet and measured. Kerry knew at once that Dick would find the right aura, the right tone.

  “We have come to Boston,”Mason began,“to decry the tragedy which happened here—the death of three innocent people, a man and two women.

  “The only greater tragedy would be to strip their deaths of meaning.

  “In the deepest sense, it does not matter whether as individuals we favor or oppose the right to choose. What matters most is that we all agree that violence has no place in this debate, and that murder must end.”

  The camera panned wider. Standing behind the Vice President was a slender woman in black—the widow of Dr. Bowe. Her face was pale, stoic. Kerry felt for her loss, and that her grief was on public display.

  “Who but Dick would ask her?” Kerry murmured.

  Kit shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to. Anyhow, it’s effective . . .”

  “Butthesemurders,”Mason said with sudden sternness,“did not happen in a vacuum. In a society whose laws protect the right to choose, that choice must be made in the privacy of our homes and in the depth of our hearts—with care, compassion, and, we hope, a due appreciation of all that is involved.

  “But the time for public equivocation has passed. It is imperative that those in public life protect this private right—without hesitance, without apology, without exception—or we ourselves become responsible.”

  “I guess that’s me,” Kerry said. “Hesitant, apologetic. I might as well have murdered them . . .”

  “No more.”Pausing, the Vice President gazed into the camera.“In the name of those who died here, I say to the purveyors of terror and violence— no more. Not one more life, not one more woman deprived of her legal rights—”

  Kerry stood, snapping off the monitor. Turning, he said, “I think I get the drift.”

  Kit gazed up at him. “That’s the lead on the six o’clock news, Kerry. All you can do is stay out of Mason’s way.”

  Kerry sat, feeling his anger become determination. “All I can do,” he said, “is go to Los Angeles and speak about battered women. Maybe some of it will filter through the lens.”

  * * *

  When they landed in Los Angeles, Nate Cutler saw a black stretch limousine waiting near the press buses.

  Nate paused, letting his colleagues pass him. Debarking wearily from the rear of the plane, they straggled toward the press buses as if they were bound for a detention camp. As always, Kilcannon left from the front. The senator was a distant figure, shaking hands with local politicians, shepherding a congressman to a black Lincoln.

  As Nate watched, the rear door of the stretch limousine opened.

  Stepping onto the tarmac, the slender, dark-haired woman watched the candidate. She stayed quite still, Nate saw, until Kilcannon disappeared inside the Lincoln. Glancing at the press buses, Nate realized that the first two had filled.

  Satisfied, he walked across the airstrip and boarded the last bus.

  Sara Sax and Lee McAlpine were sitting in front. Stopping, Nate said, “So what do you think?”

  Lee shrugged. “So far, Kilcannon’s a little off—good but not great. Maybe he thinks Mason’s preempted him and this is a wasted day.”

  Nate grimaced. “Not many days to waste,” he said, and walked to the back of the bus.

  The tape in the PA system was playing “The Sound of Silence.” It seemed appropriate, Nate thought: he was stuck on a patch of asphalt on a hazy Los Angeles day, waiting to pursue a story that no one else imagined.

  He felt tense, detached from the others. No one seemed to notice his withdrawal; they had been together so long that it was like a group marriage, with all the tacit understandings that make marriage possible. Silence was not a privilege but a right.

  Checking his watch, Nate glanced at the door of the bus, but did not see her.

  He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, listening to the desultory chatter around him: Mason’s speech; Kilcannon’s day; a reporter’s two-year-old son who had flushed about forty of her tampons down the toilet and caused a plumbing crisis that was driving her husband crazy. “David didn’t know they couldexpand like that,” Ann Rush was saying. “The plumber sent a probe with a miniature camera up the pipes, and now we’ve got a video David calls ‘The Tampon Dam.’ That and a water bubble in the wall of our dining room.”

  Nate heard Lee McAlpine’s distinctive laugh. “It’s like Kilcannon’s been warning us, Ann—the infrastructure in this country is going flat to hell.”

  Nate felt himself smile, and then, quite suddenly, the bus became quieter. He opened his eyes.

  Lara Costello stood at the front of the bus with her producer, looking for a seat.

  Lee McAlpine got up.“Lara,” she said, and went to hug her.

  Lara smiled, and the two women embraced, Lara several inches taller. “Howis this?” she asked Lee.

  “Terrible. One long list of human rights abuses—lost underwear, crummy sandwiches, sweatshop hours. It’s gotten so bad we’re looking at pictures of each other’s kids. You need to let the world know.”

  Lara smiled again. “ ‘For three hundred dollars a day,’ ” she paraphrased, “ ‘you can feed this girl. Please send money to Operation Chargecard.’ ”

  Lee laughed; perhaps only Nate noticed that Lara’s eyes did not smile. They were cool, he thought, detached.

  “Oh, well,” Lee said. “And here I thought I’d look so good on the side of a milk carton.”

  “Maybe Ben and Jerry’s,” Lara answered, and gave Lee’s arm a quick squeeze. “I’d better find a seat. If we can ever make sense of this schedule, let’s have dinner, okay?”

  Lara proceeded down the aisle. Now and then she stopped to say hello, but man
y of the faces, Nate realized, were ones she did not know: the press corps was young and turned over quickly. Nate thought that it must be strange to vanish, spend two years abroad doing God knows what amidst great suffering and privation, and then return suddenly famous, with a salary ten times that of everyone else here. The print media were not immune to resentment—of fame, of money, of greater access to the candidate, of the cachet conferred by network television—and some were inclined to see their TV colleagues as all surface and no substance. This would have been difficult for Lara even if she were not, as the notes in Nate’s pocket suggested, concealing a secret that could ruin both her and Kerry Kilcannon.

  Then Lara saw him.

  “Nate,”she called. Her pleasure seemed quite genuine. When he stood, she hugged him fiercely, then leaned back to study his face.

  “You look good,” she said, and then cocked her head. “Except for the haircut.”

  Gazing back at her, Nate felt that same combination of deep liking and sheer male desire which, two years before, had made him feel uneasy in her company. But nowhere as guilty as he felt now.

  “You never called,” he said lightly. “You never wrote. You barely said goodbye.”

  She smiled a little, shaking her head. “It was a funny time for me. I took the NBC job and suddenly there I was, in Bosnia. Everything else—Washington, the Hill, theTimes —felt like trying to remember the worst drunk you threw in college. Nothing seems quite real—” She stopped herself, then kissed him gently on the cheek. “Anyhow, I’m sorry.”

  Shewas sorry, Nate sensed. “No matter,” he said. “You look good too.”

  Butnot the same, he thought. Lara appeared leaner, like a sliver of steel; her eyes struck him as older, more watchful. She seemed confident, quite self-possessed, and maybe a little haunted.

  “Tell me aboutyour life,” she said.

  Nate shrugged. “Nothing to tell. No wife, no kids. My life is Kerry Kilcannon.”

  Something flickered in Lara’s eyes, and then she smiled again. “Everyone’s life, it seems. At least until next Tuesday.”