No Safe Place (38 page)

Wiping his mouth, Sean swallowed an antacid pill.

The knife was in his suitcase. He had bought it when he bought the gun, unsure of why he needed it, simply because he liked to feel its balance in his hand.

Sean walked past the television. As he opened the tiny closet, he imagined himself locked inside, heard the angry voice of his father.

“Do you think it ends with me?”
Kerry asked.

Fingers trembling, Sean slid the knife inside his jacket.

As Kerry watched, Lara’s face filled the screen.

“In the short term,”
she was saying,
“these proposals have little chance of becoming law. But Kilcannon’s speech neatly balanced his earlier support for the death penalty with an issue that appeals to liberals, even as it showcased his gift for using demonstrators as foils …”

The impact of seeing her was so intense that, for an instant, Kerry felt he could reply.
Why so cynical?
he wanted to ask.
Have you forgotten so much about me that what I say comes down to neatness and balance? …

How could you run,
he imagined Lara asking in return,
knowing what might happen?

The question had always been there, unspoken. He could see it in her eyes the morning after their last fateful lovemaking, when the hurricane had passed and the world outside was silent. Could feel it in her fingertips as she gently touched his face.

On the screen, Kerry’s own face appeared.

“In the last half of this last century, men with guns stole our future by killing the best of our leaders …”

Because of
this
, he answered her now. And because of you.

That final weekend, she did not answer the telephone. Kerry had lost track of the times he had called her from his hotel room: at some point, pain and desperation had become the slow death of hope, then a terrible certainty, and he knew what she had done. Finally, the message on his home telephone, her voice weary, toneless. That it was over. That her feelings no longer mattered. That—for both their sakes—she could never see him again.

As if he were someone else, Kerry had gone downstairs, to give the speech he had promised. As he spoke, another death occurred inside him.

She was here
now
, in this hotel. Alone.

Please, Kerry. Don’t try to contact me. It’s finished.

The two years since came back to him: his decision to run, his debt to Clayton and to all those who believed in him. And, when none of this was quite enough, his respect for her wishes—the near certainty that, with all that had happened and was happening now, she would flinch at the sound of his voice.

Her
voice filled the room.

“Today was the twelfth anniversary of James Kilcannon’s death. Kerry Kilcannon never spoke of this. But then he didn’t have to. From his introduction by Stacey Tarrant to his last plunge into the crowd, his message was clear: ‘I’m the candidate with a moral mission, standing in my brother’s place.’”

Kerry turned off the television, and then the lights.

Alone in her room, Lara could not stop crying. It was as if all her strength had been for those who watched her watching Kerry, and when they were gone, she had none.

He’ll never live to be President,
Lee McAlpine had said.

And if he lives, Lara thought now, he still may never be
President. Because of what lay between them.

I love you,
she had imagined telling him.
I want to be with you.
Imagined this a thousand times, after it was too late. Imagined being selfish, no matter what the cost.

Imagined it now. Like a child who did not like the story she had heard, and wished to change the ending.

Except that it was
their
story—Kerry’s and hers—and she had written the ending herself.

The first time Lara Costello met Kerry Kilcannon left her intrigued and more than a little curious.

Though she was new on Capitol Hill, prominent politicians had long since ceased to impress her; she had experienced enough in California to develop an ear for fraud and hollow-ness, a sense of how political posturing affected ordinary people. It was her focus on the inner landscape of her subjects that separated Lara from some of her peers. And this was partly what had brought her to where she was on that late-spring afternoon, waiting by the “Senators Only” elevator while the Senate debated a proposed constitutional amendment barring desecration of the flag. No subtleties here, Lara thought; the fascination was watching opponents pretzel themselves to avoid looking unpatriotic. All she wanted was a quote or two, and her story was complete.

The door to the Senate swung open, and Ted Kennedy emerged, then Kerry Kilcannon. “What we really need here,” Kilcannon murmured to Kennedy, “is a mandatory death sentence. None of this ‘three flags and you’re out’ stuff.”

Kennedy turned to his colleague and, seeing Kilcannon’s mischievous grin, began to chuckle. It was a nice moment, Lara thought—two Irishmen, standing in the shadowy elegance of the Senate, sharing a laugh about the vicissitudes of their job. Which one to approach? Lara wondered, and then Kennedy headed toward the Senate meeting room, Kilcannon toward the elevator.

“Senator?” Lara said. “Lara Costello,
New York Times
.”

Kilcannon stopped. He was not tall—five feet ten, at most. But what struck her was an incongruous youthfulness—a
thatch of tousled hair, the slender build of a teenager not yet grown into his body—and then the startling contradiction of his eyes: their green-flecked blue irises were larger than most, giving Lara the unsettling sense of a man who had seen more than someone twice his age. It was an illusion, Lara thought, abetted by her knowledge of his history.

“I guess you’re new,” he said, and held out his hand.

His handshake was cool and dry. “Two weeks,” Lara answered.

Kilcannon smiled. “Another two, and you’ll have had enough.” He took a few steps and pushed the button to the “Senators Only” elevator. “What can I do for you? If anything.”

“I wanted to ask you about the flag amendment.”

Kilcannon gave a mock wince. “Isn’t it sufficient that I have to
vote
on this thing? Now I have to tell you what I
think
?”

Lara could not tell whether this was teasing, the somewhat quirky humor of someone willing to laugh at his own dilemma, or an outright refusal. “I’ve never noticed voting was the same as thinking,” she ventured. “It’s nice when someone does both, and even nicer when he shares.”

Kerry cocked his head, appraising her. “Oh, well,” he said. “Why don’t you ride with me to the Russell Building.”

She followed him into the elevator. Together, they descended to the bowels of Congress, the gray basement corridors where the Senate subway waited. Walking quickly, Kilcannon waved Lara into an open minicar. There was an energy about him, Lara thought, less the grace of an athlete than a certain restless vigor. But when he sat across from her, Kilcannon lapsed into stillness, preoccupied.

The car began moving. “The flag amendment,” Lara said.

Kilcannon looked up. “Oh,” he said, “
that
. Do you know how many actual cases of flag desecration we’ve had since 1776?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Roughly forty. About one every five years. Hardly an epidemic.” Kilcannon shrugged, as if to himself. “They trot this out as a distraction. It’s so much easier than feeding kids, or giving them proper medical care. Cheaper, too. And when you’ve been caught out shilling for the tobacco companies, as several of the sponsors have, it’s good to become a patriot.”

Surprised by his candor, Lara took out her notepad and began scribbling. “Does that mean you’re against?” she asked dryly.

Kilcannon did not smile. “A million or so people,” he answered, “have died for this flag, not because they liked its colors but because it stood for something. Like the right to express yourself, even in ways that are ill-advised or outright stupid.” Pausing, he added with a trace of humor, “As I’ll exemplify tomorrow, when I speak in opposition.”

So his reluctance had been feigned, Lara thought, an extension of the joke. “Do you think you’ll win?” she asked.

“Sure. The proponents need a two-thirds vote, and most of my colleagues think it’s a bad idea. The only problem is selecting the lucky ones who get to say so.” His smile flashed. “As you can imagine, the competition’s pretty intense.”

The car shuddered to a stop. Again, Kilcannon moved to the elevator with a purposeful stride, Lara following. “Then why take a leadership role?” Lara asked.

“Oh,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to be the ACLU’s poster boy. Willing to die for principle.” He tilted his head again, this time in inquiry. “Off the record?”

Lara hesitated. “All right.”

“Because I can provide some of my colleagues cover, at little cost to me.” When the elevator arrived, he held the door open for Lara and they stepped inside, leaning against the wall. “The people of New Jersey aren’t going to chuck me over
this
. That’s not necessarily true for, say, the junior senator from Idaho. And if the Republicans say I’ve gone Communist—well, they never liked me anyway.” Pausing, he gave her a considering look. “But then I’m telling you what you already know. Again.”

Of course she knew, Lara thought; she was already calculating the advantage to Kilcannon of having grateful colleagues, especially if—as was widely whispered—he meant to run for President someday. But it was not politic to say so. “It sounds familiar,” she answered. “Of course, Sacramento’s the capital of political courage.”

The elevator door rumbled open, and they stepped onto the marble floors of the Russell Building. “You’re from California?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.” Lara kept walking toward the front door; she had her quotes now and needed to file. “Born, bred, and educated.”

“And ‘Costello’ is Irish, the last time I noticed.” “So am I, on my father’s side. My mother’s Mexican.” They stopped in the doorway. “Then you
can’t
be a Republican,” Kilcannon said in a tone of mock challenge.

Lara smiled slightly. “I’m totally objective—no beliefs, feelings, or opinions. Like all reporters.” She held out her hand. “Thanks for your time, Senator. It really was a help.”

“De nada,”
he answered. Turning, he gazed out at the street, the sunlight, the trees and swatches of green. It gave Lara a chance to study him more closely. There was a scar near his left eye, and his face was bony yet fine-featured. He was not conventionally handsome, she decided; the aura of a potential President made his looks seem more arresting than they were. That, and the eyes—the sense of deep intuition, of secrets withheld. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, red-tinted in the light.

“Not too bad a day,” Kilcannon observed. “And here I’ve been trapped in the Senate, listening to
that
. An hour closer to being dead, and for what?”

Lara did not quite know how to respond, or if she was expected to. He faced her again. “You may not need this. But if you want to spend a half day with me sometime, watching how this place works, give my AA a call.” He smiled. “For orientation, not publication. That way I get to say what I want.” Once more, Lara was surprised. “I’d like that.” Kilcannon nodded briskly. “Then I’ll be seeing you,” he said, and was gone.

“Take him up on it,” Nate Cutler said to Lara. “If you can get some kind of relationship going, it can only help.”

Lara pulled up a chair next to Nate’s desk, jammed in a corner of a rabbit warren filled with other desks. She barely knew him; at first meeting, she had thought he had the intense, almost ascetic look of a Jesuit or a bomb thrower. But Nate was experienced and, Lara was learning, endowed with balance and good sense. “Like the golden days,” she replied, “that all the old white guys reminisce about. Where some famous senator pours them drinks in his office and tells them a lot of stuff on background. Male bonding in the seat of power.”

Nate shrugged. “Access isn’t so bad: you can learn things
that way, as long as you remember who you are. And who
he
is.”

Lara tilted her head. “I’m sure it’s an illusion, but there’s this sense of contempt for consequences. Like he couldn’t be bothered trying to mislead me.”

Nate smiled. “Well put,” he answered. “What I’ve never been able to figure is whether it’s principle, or ego.”

“How did he get to be such a force here? The name?”

“That’s how he
got
here. When he first arrived, Kilcannon seemed almost tongue-tied, and everyone took him for the underequipped kid brother, out of his depth. Later I decided he’d just been watching—the man doesn’t seem to miss much, and I realized he’d figured out how the Senate operates. He’s got a pretty good political sense, wherever it comes from. Plus, he’s always worked like a dog, and people respect that.”

Pausing, Nate reflected. “There’s another thing that helps him—passion. When he finally did start speaking out, it was for people he seemed to view as powerless: kids, or minorities, or workers left behind by new technology. He was surprisingly eloquent, and when something engages him there’s a relentless quality. But I don’t know where it comes from.” Nate gave her a curious look. “What did
you
make of him? Personally, I mean.”

“God knows.” For a moment, Lara tried to gather her impressions. “Sometimes I wasn’t sure whether I was talking to a politician or a character in a novel. You can’t tell what he’s thinking, and you start to wonder. It’s distracting.”

Nate smiled. “He’ll slip away on you, just go off somewhere. There’s this directness, plus a sense of whimsy—the dark and light of the Irish. You think you almost know him, and then you realize you don’t at all.” Nate removed his wire-rim glasses, inspecting them for smudges. “My current thinking is that he’s really not a complex man at all. Just four or five simple ones.”

“How do you mean?”

“Two examples. Last year I went to hear Kilcannon speak at Georgetown. He’s going along great, about job training, and suddenly he’s off his text and onto the plight of Native Americans—lack of education, fetal alcohol syndrome, years of white neglect and broken promises, then describing a sick
baby he’d seen. And the memory is so strong that he seems
absolutely devastated—he’s
there
, not here.” Nate slid his glasses on again. “Indians. Where are the votes in that?