NO SAFE PLACE

  “Clayton says you came here with me.”

  In silent acknowledgment, her eyes shut. Kerry could feel his own pulse.

  He swallowed, trying to speak again. “Well,” he murmured, “I guess we’re out of the closet.”

  She took his hand in hers and, with the smallest shake of her head, pressed it against the side of her face.

  “Lara . . .”

  She seemed to shiver. A moist film appeared on her eyelashes; Kerry saw her jaw tense, as if she was determined, despite everything, to say what she had come to say. “If I just go away,” she began in a near whisper, “Clayton and I think what’s happened may help you out of this . . .” She paused, then finished in a low voice. “Without me, you might still be President.”

  Despite himself, Kerry felt a desperate impatience, as though there were very few moments left to them. “For once, Lara, tell me how you feel.”

  She looked past him, seeming to slip far away. Then he saw her shoulders square, and she looked at him with new directness.

  “I’m in love with you,” she said. “So much that it hurts. No matter what, I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

  He felt his throat constrict. Gently, she brushed the hair back from his forehead.

  “You need to know this,” she said at last. “From the beginning, I was drawn to you—more, I realize, than to anyone in my life. And I came to trust you, to feel you were the person I could say anything to, and still be understood. So I started making excuses to see you.” She closed her eyes. “That was so frightening for me, Kerry. Not just as a reporter, but because of who I am. I wanted to lie to myself. But I couldn’t.

  “I felt that before I ever made love with you. After that, the feeling was like a hunger, so deep that it scared me even more. I knew we had to end,should end. But I kept making deals with myself, stealing hours, days, weeks.” She inhaled, voice becoming thin. “And when it was over, I felt completely hollowed out. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Until now . . .”

  He touched her face. “And now?” he asked.

  She seemed to gather herself. “Before I answer,I need to know something. After all of this, do you still want to be President?”

  He hesitated, but only for a moment. “Not if it means never seeing you again. Nothing’s worth that.”

  “But suppose you could have us both.” Her voice was firm now, insistent. “No scandal, no abortion—the presidency and me, free and clear. Isn’tthat what you really want?”

  He gazed at the white nullity of the ceiling. For a time, the tragedy of John Musso mingled with the trauma of his own near death, making all ambition seem pointless. But then Kerry found a hard kernel of truth, which Lara must already know: that whatever else these things might change, the man within had come to believe that he should be President, and no longer could—for better or worse—believe any less. And, realizing this, he owed Lara nothing less than honesty.

  He turned back to her, saying quietly, “I’d have you both.”

  Once more, she looked away. “Then giving you up is the next hard thing I have to do. Again.”

  He did not ask why, nor could he quarrel with the justice, or the dignity, of her belief. Instead, he said simply, “That’s not a choice you have.”

  She became quite still, lips parted.

  “If it takes giving up the race to be with you, Lara, then I’ll give it up.” He paused, feeling the rawness in his throat. “Or I’ll run, and we can take our chances. I think we’re strong enough, but that involves some other things I haven’t the right to choose for you. So you decide.”

  Her eyes misted again. “For both of us?”

  “As long as, this time, we’re together.”

  She took both his hands in hers, looking intently into his face. At last, she said with quiet certainty, “Then I guess we’re running.”

  Kerry felt his flesh tingle. “You’re sure . . .”

  “Yes.” Her voice was clear now. “The last time, I decided alone, for both of us. I did what I thought was best. So if we’re caught out, I can hold my head up, as long as you can.

  “But you did with your life what I thought you should. And now I’m choosing to be part of it.” For the first time, Lara smiled. “The worst that can happen to me is that you’ll be elected and reelected. At the end, I’ll only be thirty-nine. There must be something that used-up First Ladies can do.”

  Kerry felt a flood of emotions: wonder; belief in her strength of character; a deeper love than he could now express. Then Lara’s smile vanished and she shook her head, as though astounded at her own unsteadiness. “I nearly lost you, Kerry. I can’t lie to myself anymore.”

  Watching her, tears came to Kerry’s eyes. Then, as he knew he would for as long as he lived, he thought of John Musso, of the incalculable fate that had ended the boy’s life, yet now had brought Kerry to this. “How alone he must have felt,” Kerry murmured.

  From her expression, he knew that Lara understood the complexity of his emotions, how one thought flowed from another. “Tell me,” she asked after a time. “If John Musso had lived, would you have wantedhis life taken?”

  “No,” he answered. “God, no. Not for me.” Touching her cheek, he finished quietly, “But Kate Feeney’s parents might feel otherwise.”

  She looked into his face again, and then kissed his forehead. “I’ll go find Clayton,” she said.

  THREE

  In a few terse sentences, Clayton explained to Kit Pace and Frank Wells what Kerry had decided.

  The sequence of their expressions mirrored the emotional crosscurrents in which Clayton himself had swirled—sheer relief that Kerry had lived; delight at having a campaign to run again; an almost superstitious fear for the candidate’s future safety; and then, hearing about Lara, intense distress. “That last one,” Frank said in somber tones, “is going to take some work.”

  “Not all gift horses are free,” Clayton answered crisply. “At least Kerry isn’t gay anymore.”

  Frank’s contemplative silence made him appear almost professorial. “Ifyou set aside the obvious problem,” he said at last, “she’s smart, she’s beautiful, she’s caring—”

  “And she’s Hispanic,” Kit interpolated dryly. “On her mother’s side.”

  Despite the difficulties, Clayton found himself watching the others rediscover their pleasure in the compulsive exercise of a gift for politics, so fundamental to their natures that they could not hold back. As if reading Clayton’s thoughts, Frank gave him a fleeting smile, then sat back with his hands behind his head, speaking in a ruminative tone. “How old is she, Kit—thirty-one? We haven’t had anyone that young since Jackie Kennedy . . .”

  “Oh,” Kit retorted, “I think Lara Costello’s a little more substantive.”

  “Nottoo substantive, I hope.”

  Kit smiled. “Times change, Frank.”

  Listening, Clayton had a sense of irony. Perhaps the others hoped that Lara could be managed, but Clayton was already adjusting—with some wariness despite his best wishes for Kerry—to the dawning realization that the Kilcannon campaign, and his relationship to Kerry, now included someone else he must take into account. Lara Costello would have opinions of her own.

  “I want you two to draft a press release,” Clayton ordered, “saying that Kerry’s in the race to stay. Then two more, covering their relationship—a ‘his’ and a ‘hers,’ for their approval. Feel free to be creative.”

  The gravity of the risk showed in Frank’s gray eyes again. “I guess you—and he—know we’re invitingNewsworld in again. Just when we’ve gotten a breather.”

  “Theyknow,” Clayton answered. “Very well.”

  Frank gave an elaborate shrug of fatalism. “Then we work with what we have.”

  “And lucky to have him. On any terms.”

  Clayton’s deeper meaning seemed almost to shame him. “Oh, I know,” Frank said softly. “I know.”

  There was silence. Pensive, Frank propped his chin on folded
hands, and then looked up at Clayton. “There’s still an election tomorrow,” he said. “Think you can get Kerry on his feet?”

  * * *

  At two-thirty, ample time to make the evening news, Kit Pace appeared in the makeshift pressroom.

  It was even hotter and more crowded than before. But this time Nate was in the front row, next to Lee McAlpine and Sara Sax.

  “He’s still in,” Lee predicted. “That’s what it’s about.”

  No,Nate thought,he’s not. But only I know why.

  Looking out over the room, Kit Pace seemed to ignore him.

  “I have a statement to read,” she began, “from Senator Kilcannon.

  “ ‘Before I discuss my plans, I’d like to give my heartfelt thanks for all the prayers and good wishes that have come to me this past day. I can never express how grateful I am to receive them, and to beable to receive them . . .’ ”

  “He’s bowing out,” Sara murmured.

  “ ‘I also want you to know,’ ” Kit read calmly on, “ ‘that I’m in this race to the end. My intention, as it always was, is to win the Democratic nomination for President of the United States . . .’ ”

  “Jesus,”Nate murmured.

  * * *

  It was hard, Clayton thought, to see Kerry so deeply weary, to see the tube still running from his chest.

  “The reception desk is like a mortuary,” Clayton told him. “There’re enough floral arrangements to bury all of Vailsburg.”

  Kerry did not smile. “Oh, I remember,” he answered softly. “From when Jamie died.”

  Clayton watched his face. With equal quiet, he said, “You weren’t meant to die, Kerry. You were meant for other things.” His voice turned businesslike. “There are hundreds of phone calls from people who are thrilled you’re staying in. Including several from the chairman of the DNC—”

  Kerry gave a harsh laugh, wincing at the pain of it. “Dick’s toady. How many times has he tried to cut my throat?”

  “Well, he loves younow ,” Clayton said sardonically. “ ‘Kerry, we hardly knew ye . . .’ And, of course, there was a call from Dick himself.”

  Kerry nodded. “I’ve been expecting that.”

  “He wants to talk with you. Whenever you’re up to it.”

  Kerry turned and, for a long time, gazed out the window at a blue patch of sky. “Can you dial it for me?” he asked.

  * * *

  To Kerry, Dick Mason sounded numbed by the savagery of their last encounter and by the events that had intervened, so threatening to his life’s ambition.

  “I still won’t campaign,” the Vice President said. “Not until you’re up and at it.”

  “No mercy given,” Kerry answered lightly. “And none expected. Except on certain subjects.” His voice slowed. “As far as I’m concerned, Dick, you should continue your campaign. It’s wrong whenever something like this stops the process.”

  There was silence on the other end, Mason taking in the emptiness of Kerry’s offer: he must know too well, as Kerry did, that to campaign now would lose him votes—assuming that the voters, focused on Kerry’s recovery, noticed him at all. “About this other business,” Mason finally said. “Yours and mine. I mean to stick to the agreement.” He finished in a lower voice: “I’m very sorry that ever happened.”

  Kerry glanced at Clayton, sitting across the room. “I understand,” he said to Mason.

  He did, of course. Mason was preserving his place in line, hoping to secure Kerry’s forbearance if, by an agency other than Nate Cutler, the affair with Lara brought Kerry down. It was, Kerry thought, the usual self-interested selflessness that goes unremarked in politics—even if Kerry had not, for the next few months, some potential need for Dick’s support.

  “Give my love to Jeannie,” Kerry told him. “As ever.”

  * * *

  Clayton took the telephone from his hand. “So you’ve ‘forgiven’ him.”

  “Of course. Just not retroactively.”

  Though Kerry said this with a smile, Clayton could read his eyes. Should Kerry become President, Dick Mason was finished: for what the Vice President had done to Lara, there would be no forgiveness. Clayton felt himself smiling back—his friend was still recognizably himself, and comfortably short of sainthood.

  “If you really want to stick it to Dick,” he observed, “Frank Wells has a suggestion.”

  * * *

  At five-thirty, the time set in Kit Pace’s hasty announcement, Kerry tried to stand up.

  The pain ripped through him. He gave a short, involuntary cry, and white flashes blurred his vision. His legs felt shaky, uncertain.

  Frank O’Malley grasped one arm, Clayton the other. “You don’t have to do this,” the doctor told him.

  Kerry steadied himself.Politics, Liam had said,like rust, never sleeps.

  He wished that Lara were here. But, until tomorrow, she was staying out of sight. “I’ll manage,” he murmured to O’Malley.

  The three men inched toward the window, the tube in Kerry’s chest obscured by his robe. Behind them, a nurse carried the pole on which the tube ended with a plastic bag.

  “They need to see you,” Frank Wells had advised. “To know that you’re able to function.”

  About the window itself, Kerry realized, he had been profoundly incurious. He had no idea how many floors up he was; though he was touched by the knowledge that countless strangers cared for him, even loved him in a way, the idea of hundreds keeping vigil below had seemed abstract, surreal.

  “Which floor are we on?” he asked O’Malley.

  “The third.”

  They reached the window.

  Therewere hundreds of them, spread across the lawn—young and old, men and women, of all races, wearing everything from suits to jeans. Beside him, Clayton spoke so quietly that only Kerry could hear.

  “They’re not here forhim , Kerry. They’re here for you.”

  A ragged cheer rose, audible through the glass, and then some in the crowd began waving.

  Kerry blinked. Suddenly this was not about Dick Mason, or even about votes.

  Raising his arm, Kerry waved back.

  * * *

  Below, Nate Cutler watched him—a slight figure, badly injured, but clearly still himself. Nate would be less than human, he told himself, not to feel the elation around him. Or to be haunted by the profile he saw on the roof above, a Secret Service sharpshooter.

  “Amazing.” The admiration in Lee McAlpine’s voice was close to warmth. “These people don’t miss a trick.”

  “It’s Mason who’s dead,” Nate answered, and knew, as soon as he said it, that this was true.

  Above them, Kilcannon vanished from the window.

  It was time, Nate decided, to return Jane Booth’s beeper message. He drifted to the sidewalk; dialing, he took in the city traffic, the line of police cars parked in front.

  “Hello,” Jane answered.

  “It’s Nate. I’m on a cell phone.”

  There was a brief pause. “There’s a meeting tomorrow,” she told him. “In New York. I want you to catch the red-eye. Now that he’s in for good, we need to decide what to do.”

  The Campaign

  DAY SEVEN

  ONE

  Election day dawned clear and bright.

  By nine o’clock, Clayton arrived with the news that turnout was heavy across the state. Turning to Kerry, Lara said, “That’s good for you, I think.”

  Kerry felt the first glow of hope. “This may really be happening, Lara.”

  Looking from Kerry to Lara, Clayton handed each of them copies of two press releases. Perusing his, Kerry stopped to watch Lara read one, smile, then study the second more closely. “Mine should be issued through the news division,” she said to Clayton.

  Clayton raised his eyebrows. “Have you told them yet?”

  “Yes.” Glancing at Kerry, Lara smiled again. “There was a very long silence.”

  Clayton shrugged. “At least today it’ll be story number two. Afte
r all, this election decides the nomination.”

  “Timing,” Lara said, “is everything.”

  Watching her, Kerry wondered again about the wisdom of their decision. She had been a journalist since college and now, abruptly, might take a path quite different, one she had never wanted, under a scrutiny so intense that most would find it withering. But this was no time to say so; with seeming serenity, Lara had taken a pencil from her purse and begun to make changes in the margins of the press release.

  * * *

  It was five o’clock in Manhattan—three hours later than in California—when the press releases arrived at the conference room.

  For the last two hours, the conferees—Nate; Jane Booth; Sheila Kahn, the investigative reporter; the managing editor, Courtney Wynn; and Martin Zimmer,Newsworld ’s owner and publisher—had parsed the facts in painstaking detail. Not even Jane had tried to be insouciant or witty. There was too much at stake—the character ofNewsworld ; the career of Kerry Kilcannon; the question of what journalism now was, and should be. Nate could not yet discern what the group would decide.

  Sheila passed out the releases without comment. In the collective silence, Nate began reading.

  “NBC News,” the first began, “announced that reporter Lara Costello had requested and received an indefinite leave of absence.

  “ ‘Between 1996 and 1998,’ Ms. Costello said, ‘I served as a Capitol Hill correspondent for theNew York Times . During that period, I formed both a professional relationship and a personal friendship with Senator Kerry Kilcannon. I deeply valued all of that.

  “ ‘The events of the last few days, and my response to them, have now made it very clear to me that my feelings for Kerry Kilcannon go beyond friendship. The senator has found them enlightening in a similar way. It is equally plain, therefore, that I cannot continue to report on this campaign, or otherwise perform duties which might raise questions regarding my objectivity, or that of NBC News.

  “ ‘In future weeks, I mean to be with Senator Kilcannon as he recovers, and to sort out what seems right for me to do. I expect that process to be enlightening as well.’ ”