No Safe Place (35 page)

Stacey’s smile seemed wistful. “Because he
wasn’t
a fraud. But I’d have given a lot to hear him say what you just did. Though I might have waited all my life.” Her smile faded, and she appraised him. “Self-knowledge is a gift, Kerry, if you’ve got the courage for it. It’s another reason you should be President. Or even, God help you, a parent.”

In the slipstream of the motorcade, the hushed efficient progress toward their public moment together, Kerry considered her anew. She seemed more settled, at peace; her career was still successful, her marriage seemed a happy one, and she and Tony Lord had recently adopted a daughter, born in China, who must now be close to three. “How
has
that been?” he asked. “Mothering.”

“Indescribable.” Stacey smiled again. “I’ve learned a whole new definition of love—reading aloud when you’re tired, from the same damn book about the cat and the dog, without skipping a single word. Even though your daughter might never know.”

“Integrity,” Kerry said. “Trust. A willingness to sacrifice. Would you consider becoming Vice President?”

Still smiling, Stacey shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m happy where I am.”

For a moment, too private and too sad to speak of, Kerry thought again of Lara. And then he felt the motorcade slow and saw that they had slid into the city, toward the park.

The park was in Old Town Sacramento, near the statehouse, on a tree-lined street of wood-frame homes that, though not imposing, bespoke comfort and serenity. Clayton was quite certain that the shooting there one year ago, which had resulted in the death of a child, had shaken the neighborhood quite badly.

The park itself was three blocks square, with a generous lawn, picnic tables, and swings and a slide where the murdered boy had fallen. The Secret Service had roped off the borders and was funneling the people with tickets issued by the campaign—many of whom were advocates for gun control—through magnetometers. Since early morning, Kerry’s detail had swept the park for bombs, closed the windows of adjoining houses, secured those homes with a line of fire to the speakers’ platform. Once more, the Service’s perimeter system was in place: the outer perimeter, with sharpshooters on the rooftops, and agents scanning windows and vantage points; the middle perimeter, in which they screened the crowd and everyone else in handgun range; the inner perimeter, its agents near the rope line and around Kerry himself—the place where it was most likely, as Peter Lake put it, to be “game day.”

Clayton stood with Peter on the platform, watching the press pool with their microphones and cameras; the swath of lawn jammed with supporters carrying “Kilcannon for President” signs; the bleachers for remaining press; and, to one side, a section for the uninvited, the curious, the hostile. To Clayton, there were far too many men with grim faces and hard eyes, too many signs like the one that read “Terminate Kerry Kilcannon.” The air crackled with tension.

“Stacey Tarrant,” Peter murmured to Clayton. “The anniversary of his brother’s death. A speech on gun control.
For nuts, it’s like an alignment of the planets.” He nodded toward the crowd. “That’s the local militia and gun clubs out there, the
groups that follow Sarah Brady around, trying to intimidate her. The Internet was full of stuff like ‘Every gun owner should give Kilcannon the reception he deserves.’ You’re working for a ‘left-wing totalitarian,’ Clayton, in case you didn’t know it.”

Clayton turned to him. “Did Kerry tell you why he wouldn’t wear the vest?”

Peter surveyed the crowd, gray eyes watchful in his solid face. “All he said was ‘It wouldn’t stop a head shot, would it?’ It was the nearest he’s come to mentioning his brother.” Turning to the adjacent houses, he murmured, “He’s right, in a way. A guy with training and a weapon, like one of these crazies out there, could get him from a hundred yards. But not on my watch.”

Spotting the eager visage of a young college girl with a Kil-cannon sign, Clayton felt the chasm between the crowd’s excitement and his own fears. “How does it go wrong?” he asked.

Peter drew a breath. “Other than a sharpshooter? Could be anything. A malfunction in a magnetometer. A member of a privileged group, like press or staff, who one of your people vouches for but isn’t what he’s supposed to be. We’re damned careful about press credentials and background checks for anyone who’s hanging around a campaign. But if you folks don’t give us enough notice …” He shrugged. “It could happen. Especially with someone who doesn’t care if he lives or dies.”

Against his will, Clayton turned to look behind the platform.

The ambulance was there. At their first meeting, Peter had laid out the plan should Kerry be shot. The nearest agents would cover his body, the others maintain their posts: there might be a second shooter, and Malcolm X had died because his security, diverted by a disruption, did not protect him. They would try to secure the assassin—alive, if possible—then get Kerry to the ambulance. At every event, the Service knew how to reach a hospital within ten minutes; within that time, with a wound not mortal, there would be a better chance of saving him. But, as Kerry had intimated, there had been no saving James Kilcannon.

“Stacey Tarrant,” Peter asked. “How did you get her here?”
Clayton turned. “She thinks Kerry should be President. But
what I said to her was ‘Dick Mason has his wife and kids—Kerry has you.’ After that, she said she would.”

Peter fell quiet.

Clayton gazed out at the demonstrators, their numbers swelling as they waited for Kerry.

Especially with someone who doesn’t care if he lives or dies …

Peter had meant an assassin, not Kerry himself. But there were several things Clayton could not tell him: That Kerry had endorsed an antigun initiative now on the ballot, embittering gun owners, against Clayton’s advice. That Clayton had implored him not to do
this
event, in
this
place. And Clayton’s most haunting suspicion—that beneath Kerry’s insistence was a death wish, the need to face danger, the unspoken belief that he would be worthy of his brother, or the courage of Bridget Musso, only if he died.

Whatever the reason, Clayton had known since New Hampshire that Kerry would not back down.

The state chapter of the Gun Alliance of America had invited all candidates to a public forum in Manchester, to explain their stand on gun control. All six Republicans had accepted, and Dick Mason had declined; in a state where the tradition of gun ownership was so strong, Mason’s pro-gun-control positions, however tepid, were a liability. “Imagine the arrogance,” Kerry said to Clayton. “We’re running for
President
, and these one-issue fanatics want us to come crawling. What do they expect me to say—‘Guns don’t kill people,
slingshots
do’?” Clayton nodded. “I’ll tell them you’re busy.” Kerry turned to him. “No,” he snapped. “I’m going.” It was a cold January night; as they walked from the van toward the cavernous meeting hall, their feet crunched on the icy snow and their breath was silver mist. The president of the state chapter, Walt Rogers, a white-haired man plainly suspicious of Kerry’s presence, escorted him with stiff civility to a stage with a line of folding chairs where the other six candidates already sat, as Kerry murmured to Clayton, “like prisoners waiting to be executed.”

Clayton stood near the press and the cameras. One by one, the moderator introduced the Republicans; as reasonably as
they could, the first five advocated measures to keep felons from buying guns and then affirmed their belief in gun ownership for everyone else, two including a repeal on the assault weapons ban. The sixth brought the crowd to its feet by proclaiming that “if King George had enforced gun control, our capital would still be in London. But the slogan of patriots has always been ‘Ride to the sound of the guns!’”

When at last Rogers introduced Kerry, the tepid applause was matched by boos and catcalls.

Calmly, Kerry gazed at the crowd. “Those boos must have been for King George,” he began, “because I haven’t said anything yet.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance. Just give me mine.”

As the room grew quiet, Kerry turned to the other candidates. “For the last hour, I’ve watched six intelligent men try to pretend that violence with guns isn’t a problem. It’s as embarrassing to watch as it must be to do.” Here, Kerry grinned at the last speaker. “Except for Pat, of course. Saying things like ‘lock and load’ makes up for all the time he didn’t spend in the army during Vietnam. And there’s always the militia vote to consider.”

The crowd remained silent, perhaps at Kerry’s effrontery. He faced them again. “By the way,” he asked with mock innocence, “where’s Dick Mason? Hiding out with King George? Or riding to the sound of the guns?” There was mild laughter, acknowledgment of a point scored. “Well,” Kerry said more quietly, “I guess I’ll have to do this without him.

“I’m running for President of the United States, not president of the Gun Alliance. My only obligation to anyone is to tell the truth as I see it.” His voice softened. “All of you know my personal history. I can’t imagine that anyone doubts how I feel about gun control, or that I have a right to feel that way, however much you may disagree. But since you’ve asked me here, I’ll spell it out.

“Too much senseless violence in this country stems from guns. Three weeks ago, as you’ll remember, a man walked into a day care center in Manhattan and murdered six children, including his own son, with an assault weapon. A gun whose only purpose is to kill people as quickly as possible.
People,
not deer or rabbits. In this case, children.” Once more, Kerry
scanned the
other candidates. “As my six friends here know, he wasn’t a convicted felon. Nothing any of them proposed would have prevented this tragedy.

“For me, the right to live is more important than the right to own whatever weapon someone may want. And there is no punishment after the fact which will restore those murdered children to their parents.” Pausing, Kerry stood straighter. “When you oppose any law to limit this insane trafficking in weapons of death, you assume responsibility for tragedies like this one. If I’m elected President, I’ll make it a priority to prevent them, any way I can.

“In the next few months, I’ll spell out how. So keep listening.”

Kerry turned to Walt Rogers, nodding politely. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said, and walked offstage.

There was momentary silence, and then the antagonism of the crowd—boos, jeers, catcalls—closed around him. Reaching Clayton in the press of reporters and Secret Service agents, Kerry said under his breath, “I’ll bet those six other guys wish they were me—
I
get to leave.”

Clayton glanced around them. Some faces were stony, others distorted by hate and anger. A gaunt, mustached man in a camouflage cap shouted, “You’re a dead man, Kilcannon.” Kerry did not seem to hear him; only his pallor suggested that he felt the hatred, that his candor had come at the price of his own fear.

Quickly, the Secret Service hustled Kerry out the door and into the waiting van.

Clayton and Kerry sat in the rear with Kevin Loughery, silent. Kerry had lost himself votes, Clayton reflected, perhaps the primary. Then Kerry broke into his thoughts.

“Dick Mason,” Kerry murmured, “just missed his chance.”

It was later, in Florida, when Kerry started to win, that Clayton began to agree. But Clayton was never sure how much of what Kerry did at any given moment was impulse, how much a dead-on political intuition, and how much the work of Kerry’s ghosts …

Now, Clayton watched Stacey Tarrant appear on the stage.

Slender and erect, she waited out the applause, then let the silence hold for seconds, which seemed longer. The only
sound
was the distant jeer of a demonstrator: “One down, lady, and one to go.”

Stacey stared out at him, and quiet fell again, more terrible for the interruption. “Many of you,” she told Kerry’s supporters, “are survivors of tragedies involving guns, who’ve had to go on with your lives. No one needs to explain that to Kerry Kilcannon.”

It was a graceful beginning, Clayton thought; left unsaid was the reason that no one had to explain this to Stacey, either. “I wanted to be with Kerry today,” she continued. “And Kerry wanted to be with you.” Turning to Kerry, she finished simply, “The President we deserve, Kerry Kilcannon.”

Standing in the press bleachers, Lara was closer to the demonstrators than to Kerry.
Why,
she had always wanted to ask him,
would you ever run for President?
She would think of this as she sat across from him at dinner, when they watched the sunset on Martha’s Vineyard, when she awoke in the morning and saw his sleeping face, the rise and fall of his breathing. But she was not his wife. Lara had a life of her own, a reporter’s life; she had no standing to define
his
.

Kerry stepped forward. “You’re next,” the same rough voice called out amidst the cheers. “You’re next.”

Amidst her fear and anger, Lara fought to retain her reporter’s instinct. Whatever else he was, Kerry was a practical politician. Knowing the emotions he would stir, Kerry had chosen to be here, perhaps because there would be demonstrators.

“Today,” Kerry began softly, “is the anniversary of a death.”

The crowd was hushed.

“His name was Carlos Miller,” Kerry went on, “and he was
nine years old. He was murdered in this park, in a drive-by shooting, committed by a racist with an AK-forty-seven.

“He died, as people die every day in this country, cherished by his family, little noticed by the rest of us, quickly forgotten by the media.” Kerry paused, and then his voice rose. “Because the carnage is so great that only a mass slaughter, or the death of a celebrity, even makes us pause.

“Over forty thousand Americans were killed with firearms last year. One hundred and ten people
every day
.” Kerry lowered his voice again. “And on this day a year ago, Carlos Miller was one of them.

“‘Guns don’t kill people,’ the gun advocates tell us, ‘
people
do.’ So let’s ask how many people around the world last year killed other people with, say, handguns.