They scrambled toward her. The red-haired young woman in front, a local news reporter, was calling out. “Tell us about your abortion, Kyle. Did your father support your decision?”
Kyle froze, immobilized by disbelief.
“Your father,” the woman persisted, “says you had problems with drugs and alcohol …”
“Your boyfriend,” another voice called, “claims you were emotionally unstable. Was having an abortion right for you?”
Kyle felt shaky, sick. “Go away,” she said in a trembling voice. Then she began running across the lawn, circling the house to the rear. As she fumbled for her keys to the basement door, she heard them running after her.
Slamming the door behind her, Kyle haltingly descended the stairs into the basement.
She sat on the edge of the bed, skin clammy, staring at the white rectangle which was her home. She barely noticed the blinking red light on her answering machine. From outside came the faint sounds of a commotion.
Thank God there were no windows.
Dully, she crossed the room and saw that her machine had recorded sixteen messages. She made herself push the button …
“Kyle.” Her mother’s voice sounded strained. “Please call …”
Each message added to the story, a tortured sequence in which the truth teased itself out, climaxing with her father’s halting explanation of what was happening, then the questions of reporters who had somehow discovered her number.
Tears ran down Kyle’s face.
Someone had betrayed them. They knew of her abortion, her mother’s consent. Eric had given an interview describing her father’s “brutality” to him, their sudden move to Washington, her parents’ collusion in the breakup of their “relationship” and the “cover-up” which followed.
“Please,” her father’s voice had pleaded. “As soon as you get this message, come home.”
Eric.
Her father had been right. Eric was a sleaze. He had used her, then abandoned her. Now he was back in their lives—probably for money as well as for notoriety—to shame her mother and destroy her father. Because of her.
The telephone rang.
Standing by the answering machine, Kyle hesitated.
“Kyle?” It was her father. She had never heard him sound so hopeless, so humiliated. He was Chad Palmer, in Kyle’s mind so impervious to pressures …
Shaken, she turned from her father’s voice.
“Kyle?” he asked again. “Are you there?”
She could not bring herself to answer this new Chad Palmer—so pleading, so unfamiliar, that it devastated her. Hands covering her face, she sat on the bed again.
Matthew. Her whole life would be exposed to him, and to his family. Kyle Palmer, the drunken, druggy, crazy girl who had ruined her father’s career and made her mother’s life a living hell. Now she would be that girl forever; such was her agony, the wrenching feeling inside her, that all she wanted was to escape. But she could not—the reporters outside imprisoned her.
On the table was a bottle of cheap Chianti.
In his innocence, unaware of the reasons Kyle did not drink, Matthew had left it here. She found herself staring at the bottle.
She should not touch it. But this did not seem to matter now—it was an escape, the only one available. Right now she wouldn’t care if she were dead.
Shakily, Kyle filled a coffee mug with wine.
There were shadows on the wall, cast by the lamp on Kyle’s nightstand. The room receded, became unreal; stunned by alcohol—the shock to a system now unused to it—Kyle was motionless save for pouring wine, placing the mug to her lips. Repressed images surfaced from the past, vivid and immediate—Eric on top of her, her father’s rage, her mother holding her hand while the doctor slipped the tube between her legs. Memories she now shared with the world.
Her father had been right about Eric, about her. She was a fuck-up, an albatross, flawed from birth. Her mother and father would have been better off if she’d never been born—how vividly she remembered the silent fear in her mother’s eyes, the wary, probing look behind the mask of serenity which fooled everyone but Kyle …
Her poor mother, who loved so much and tried so hard. She did not deserve this.
No, Kyle thought with a jolt. She did not deserve this.
In a moment of strange clarity, she saw herself as she was—hiding in her room, drunk, the ultimate betrayal of her parents and herself. Her hand shook as she held the wine bottle; with a ferocious act of will, she flung it against the painted stone wall. Shattering, it made her flinch and then, abruptly, stand.
Reeling, she went to the bathroom and stripped.
The shower was cold, a punishment. She hunched, shivering beneath the icy spatter, the shock to her skin which would help her confront her life again. Stepping from the shower, her hair was moist ringlets, and her skin felt blue.
Her parents couldn’t see her like this, she couldn’t call them like this. Naked, she paced the apartment, straining to get sober, stepping over the jagged glass with the exaggerated care of intoxication. When the phone rang—this time her mother—she did not answer; when Kyle got to them, she would be better.
At last, fingers stiff and fumbling, Kyle dressed again, disguising the wine on her breath with mouthwash. Her car keys were still in her jeans.
When she cracked open the door, she heard nothing.
Outside it was dark and chill; a thin sleet hit her face, the dying fall of March. Like a nightmare, the reporters had vanished.
She would go to her parents.
Walking to the car, a plan came to Kyle. She would drive the long way, with her windows open, along Rock Creek Parkway. By the time she reached her parents, maybe they would not know—that, now, was the only way she could help them. As capable as they were, they needed that: her father, who had never needed anything, needed the best that she could give.
Sitting in the car, she envisioned him. Her handsome father, whom she had always worshiped, whose approval she had always needed, even when she hated him.
She loved him now. That, and a fierce desire not to worry him, were all she had to give. She imagined draping her arms around his neck.
At last she started the car.
The streets seemed a maze—once or twice, memory failed her, and she missed a turn. But her instincts were good; eventually, she found herself on Rock Creek Parkway.
Though the parkway was quiet, she drove with care; the pavement was slick, and she did not trust her reflexes. Time passed. She craned her neck, peering out at the moving patch of asphalt illuminated by her headlights. To her right, the dark forms of trees slipped by, sloping toward the creekbed. Through her open window, sleet misted her face.
She was almost fine now.
At the edge of the headlights, something moved. Kyle squinted; back hunched, a squirrel, scrambling, stopped suddenly, frozen by her headlights.
Kyle stabbed the brake.
The car shimmied, then began to skid sideways. She wrenched the wheel, and lost control entirely. For Kyle, the next moments were like watching a film; as she left the road, the looming trees seemed insubstantial. The first few seemed to slip by her; then—in a moment vivid with reality and horror—she saw the massive trunk in her windshield.
The car stopped with a sickening crunch. Kyle did not; hurtling toward the windshield, she wished her seatbelt were fastened. And then knew nothing.
As reported to Chad Palmer by the police, the facts were stark. Their daughter was dead; it seemed she had been drinking.
Only in the morning did her grieving father enter Kyle’s apartment. The rug was covered with green shards of glass; on the table was a coffee mug half-filled with wine. Her message light was blinking.
Numb, Chad pushed the button.
Before the last message—the haunting sound of his own voice, telling Kyle he loved her—were messages from three reporters, mentioning Eric’s name and her abortion. And he knew for sure that whoever wished to destroy him
had murdered Kyle Palmer.
TWENTY-FIVE
IT WAS A day when Washington stopped.
For Kerry Kilcannon, it had begun the night before, when Lara Costello called to tell him what NBC News had just pulled off the wire. As hours passed, the sequence of events began to emerge, and the media’s role in the death of Kyle Palmer became bitterly clear.
Kerry could not sleep. When Lara arrived, drawn by the pain she had heard in his voice, he quietly outlined his role in the events which now had led to tragedy: Clayton’s exposure of Caroline Masters, and of Chad’s efforts to protect her; his own awareness of Kyle’s abortion, the revelation of which—shortly thereafter—had precipitated her death. Gravely, Lara listened.
“You don’t know where it came from,” she finally said. “And part of you is afraid to know.”
Kerry found it difficult to say this. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “I’m no longer sure of anything.”
They sat together in his study, silent in the wake of his admission. It was difficult to articulate, even to Lara, the emotions at war inside him: grief for Chad, Allie, and a young woman for whom, Kerry had always sensed, her father felt such deep concern; an empathetic horror of what it must be to lose a child; a deep, immutable anger toward whoever had used her in their pitiless design; the fear that those responsible had acted in his name.
“That’s a lot to live with,” she said at last.
Perhaps she was simply responding to his confession; perhaps, to his breach with Clayton, the wounds which must remain. “I have to find out,” he told her. “No matter who gets hurt.”
From her expression, Lara knew he did not say this lightly. “And you think it may hurt us?” she asked.
Kerry nodded. “What was done to Kyle,” he answered simply, “could be done to us. And if I pursue this, it might well.”
“Then it will.”
The equanimity in Lara’s voice, Kerry realized, reflected an outrage of her own. And, more than that, her understanding of what Kerry must do to restore his moral balance, as well as her desire to heal, at last, the lingering breach between them. “I don’t want you living with this,” she said gently. “Not alone, at any rate.”
Even in his sadness for the Palmers, Kerry noted the moment, for its implications were both subtle and profound: Lara no longer wished to stand outside his presidency, wary of its consequences. When he briefly smiled at her, mostly with his eyes, she came to sit beside him.
That Kerry was capable of an anger which could give the most jaded politician pause was well known to his enemies. But what they could not comprehend was how completely Kerry, the adult, had subordinated the childhood rage implanted by an abusive father—an ordeal known only to Lara and Clayton—to a cold assessment of its uses. Kerry was a practical politician and, even at this terrible hour, the resolve to make Caroline Masters the next Chief Justice never left him. Though he did not yet know how, his intuition told him that this ambition was conjoined with the death of Kyle Palmer.
But the immediate connection was obvious. When Lara left, he awakened Chuck Hampton. Kerry allowed the Minority Leader a moment to express his own shocked humanity, and then implored him to ensure—by any and all means necessary—that Macdonald Gage would postpone the Masters vote, adjourning the Senate out of deference to a grieving colleague.
Hanging up, Kerry removed a postmarked manila envelope from his drawer. Then he shaved, put on a suit and, after walking the shadowy West Wing at a little past 4:00 a.m., called Clayton to the Oval Office. As Kerry had instructed Kit Pace, printouts of every article regarding Kyle Palmer’s abortion were spread out on his desk.
Awaiting Clayton, he studied them, from Charlie Trask’s first bulletin to the crescendo which so quickly followed. For half a day, the story had run through the media like a fever: it had taken roughly nine hours, Kerry calculated, to consume Kyle Palmer. In the margins of the “Trask Report,” Kerry began making notes.
When Clayton appeared, Kerry took a moment to look up.
“Did you do this?” he asked.
Clayton required no explanation. He sat, his own face implacable. “No. And I don’t know who did.” Pausing, he asked, “What do you take me for?”
Kerry could receive this as a simple declaration of core decency, or a more pragmatic statement that, while exposing Caroline Masters carried clear risks and benefits, exposing Kyle Palmer was more distasteful, the potential rewards less clear. Or both.
“Chad Palmer,” Kerry said, “could have been President.”
“But you are.” Clayton’s voice remained quiet. “You reminded me of that, quite recently. I haven’t forgotten.”
Habits die hard. The chief habit of Kerry’s adulthood had been to trust Clayton Slade. It was painful to step outside this, to watch Clayton with detachment.
“Whoever did this,” the President told him, “I’m roasting on a spit. You can help me, or not.”
In another man, Clayton might have taken this for bluster. But the two had met as prosecutors; both knew what a prosecutor could do, and how the power to investigate could engender fear and uncover truth. What it took was a relentless will; a chess player’s guile; a field general’s breadth of vision. All of which, Clayton years ago had learned, Kerry Kilcannon possessed. Nor would mercy give him pause—Kerry had a long memory, and there were acts he did not forgive. For him, retribution should come in this world, not the next.
In a voice without emotion, Clayton said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Call the director of the FBI. I want them to get a subpoena and search Charlie Trask’s office for any piece of paper with Kyle Palmer’s name on it …”
“The press,” Clayton interjected, “will scream bloody murder.”
“Let them. I want Trask’s files, and I want him scared. I want them to interview the boyfriend, learn how whoever did this found him, and who he talked to. I also want them to interview Kyle’s doctor.” Kerry’s voice softened. “If the director wants to know why, tell him to call me. By the time he does—if he does—I want Adam Shaw here with a plausible list of every conceivable federal crime committed by the person who leaked this story, and anyone who conspired with him. Starting with how a consent form supposed to be confidential wound up in an envelope mailed to Katherine Jones.” Pausing, Kerry picked up the envelope he had secreted in his desk. “This envelope, to be precise.”
Though he was silent, Clayton’s eyes seemed to widen, as if he were slowly comprehending the dimensions of what Kerry had withheld from him. “Jones gave the form to you?”
“And I gave it to Chad. But kept this. I want it fingerprinted.” Kerry tossed the envelope in Clayton’s lap. “I’m not up on the latest technology, but I imagine by now some bright crime technician has figured out how to lift prints off paper. And our database of fingerprints should have a wide universe of suspects. Including all former and current federal employees.”
The irony of this last remark was not lost on Clayton. He stared at the envelope in his hands.
“If they only find your prints on that,” Kerry said evenly, “but not on whatever they get from Trask, you may be in the clear.”
Speechless, Clayton stared at him. “Tell the director,” Kerry ordered, “that I want the fingerprint results by tomorrow. In case Trask hasn’t revealed his source by then.”
There was one call Kerry did not mention—the call he made himself, to Henry Nielsen.
“I was wondering,” Kerry began, “how you feel about yourself this morning.”
Nielsen, Kerry guessed, had been awake, though it was not yet six o’clock. But it took some moments to register that the President indeed was calling, and to absorb the import of his question.
“In candor,” Nielsen said quietly, “not too great.”
Kerry did not push this. “From your article, it’s clear you didn’t find the consent form under a cabbage leaf. Someone gave it to you.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Kerry he
ard an audible sigh. “I can’t tell you, Mr. President. You know that. As a matter of First Amendment principle, we can’t reveal sources.”
“Yes.” The President’s tone was flat. “Your principles. I’d forgotten.” Kerry paused. “I assume that whoever it was gave this to you, in person.”
“Yes.” Nielsen struck a firmer tone. “No one else was there. No one saw us. No one on my staff’s involved.”
“I’m not looking for martyrs,” the President answered softly. “The document will do for now. Specifically, the original of whatever this person gave you.”
Nielsen hesitated, sounding less certain. “As a First Amendment matter, that document may also be confidential.”
The President stood. “I doubt that. The person you’re protecting is a blackmailer who caused a death. Kyle Palmer paid too dearly for your principles.” Once more, Kerry paused. “I’m willing to grant you absolution. This morning the FBI will come to your office, subpoena in hand. Give them the original, then have your lawyers file whatever motion they care to. All I want is a day or so.”
In the silence, Kerry imagined Nielsen trying to reconcile the demands of his profession with remorse at where they had led, the dawning awareness of what purpose the original might serve. “A day or so,” he finally answered. “Under protest, of course.”
Only then, the process started, did the President face the melancholy task of calling Chad and Allie Palmer.
He found a woman who could not stop crying, a man nearly inarticulate with grief and anguish. Kerry could not tell him that he knew what they were feeling, only that he was deeply sorry, and would do whatever he could. What that might be, or whether it would matter to them, he could not yet know.
TWENTY-SIX
TWO DAYS LATER, on the morning of Kyle Palmer’s funeral, Kerry awaited a call from the director of the FBI.
The day itself was gloomy, with a dismal and persistent rain seeping from dark skies. Out of deference to Senator Palmer, the Senate was closed, the debate on the Masters nomination scheduled to commence on the following day. The vote count seemed frozen: all forty-five Democrats were in favor, forty-eight Republicans—including Chad Palmer—were opposed, with the last seven uncommitted. Of the forty-eight opponents, in Kerry’s estimate forty or forty-one would support a filibuster—a crucial difference, as forty-one votes were necessary to prevent the Masters nomination from reaching the Senate floor.
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