No Safe Place (4 page)

It was true, Kerry knew. Dick Mason rarely made mistakes, never courted controversy that didn’t serve his interest, clung to the bread-and-butter issues—Social Security, job security, Medicare—with the tenacity of a terrier. He was everyone’s favorite neighbor: friendly, a little overweight, always pleased to help, with an easy laugh and a look of total sincerity. Dick could campaign for hours and his gaze would never waver, his grip never weaken, his voice never crack—the Energizer bunny, Kerry had called him. But that dismissive shorthand omitted Dick’s magical ability to summon in a heartbeat just the right emotion, whether beaming approval, quiet indignation, or the misty-eyed sentiment of the sensitized man. Dick Mason was hell at funerals.

Dick’s face was solemn now. “Before I congratulate Senator Kilcannon”—there were boos, and Dick raised a placatory hand—“or say anything on behalf of this campaign, I’d like to request a moment of silence for the three victims of the brutal act of terrorism committed this morning at the Boston Women’s Clinic.”

There was a murmur of affirmation. Then the Vice President bowed his head, and silence fell. When Dick looked up again, his mouth was a thin line of determination.

“I want to assure the victims’ families that we will never rest until the perpetrator of this cowardly act is brought to justice. And I want to assure everyone—whether they support or oppose us—that we are unequivocal in our defense of every woman’s right to choose, unmolested and unafraid. The time for ambiguity has long since passed …”

Frank Wells frowned at the screen. “Then you might mention gun control, asshole.”

Clayton turned to him. “I want to add a question to tomorrow’s tracking poll. Something like ‘Which candidate will better protect the safety of women who pursue their right to an abortion?’”

Frank walked to a corner of the room and picked up the phone. Kerry barely registered this; he had stopped knotting his tie and was watching Dick Mason. “These Boston murders were made for him,” Kerry murmured.

“This is a contest,” the Vice President was saying, “between two very different kinds of leadership for the Democratic Party. One rests on experience, tested leadership, and a vision—unfettered by extremism—in which every American shares in the expanding opportunities of a new century …”

“Controversial,” Kit Pace said in tones of awe. “Even revolutionary.”

“The other …” Here, Dick Mason paused for emphasis. “The other rests on impulse, inexperience, and a taste for the expensive and extreme.”

“But which one is
me
?” Kerry asked.

Clayton emitted a short laugh, still watching the Vice President. On the screen, Mason raised his head, his hair a shiny silver blond beneath the television lights. “To Senator Kil-cannon,” he continued, “I say two things.

“First, Kerry, congratulations on a hard-fought victory.

“Second, I challenge you to a final debate in California about the future of our party and our nation—anytime, anywhere.” Pausing, Dick Mason grinned, and then he shouted above the cheers of his supporters: “You may be running, Kerry, but you can’t hide.”

“What
is
this bullshit?” Kit Pace asked. “You won the only debate he’d sit still for, and he’s ducked you ever since.”

Frank Wells had put down the telephone. “It’s Dick’s version of the Hail Mary,” he said. But what Kerry registered now was Clayton’s thoughtful silence.

Kerry sat next to his friend, watching Dick and Jeannie and the kids wave to the crowd as the CNN reporter spoke over them. But only the picture seemed to interest Clayton.

“Look at them,” he said to Kerry. “When everyone else in high school was trying to get dates, Dick was auditioning First Ladies. He’ll be running for President from beyond the grave.”

Kerry kept watching. The petty part of him, he knew, wanted to think that a monomaniac like Dick Mason deserved awful kids who hated him and sniffed airplane glue at rock concerts. But these kids had done well, appeared to be genuinely nice,
worked hard for their father, and seemed to love and respect him. And Jeannie Mason was terrific.

It was far more than that she was pretty—though with her slender frame, her short blond hair, and her lively blue eyes, Jeannie was surely that. It was her humor, a recognition that much of the political pageant was really quite absurd: even her attempt at a political spouse’s robotic gaze of admiration was leavened with amusement. Jeannie tended the home front with brisk efficiency and, when she could, campaigned for her husband tirelessly; whatever bargain life had handed Jeannie Mason, she was clearly determined to make the most of it. Kerry had always liked her tremendously.

They had first met at the dinner party of a doyenne of Washington politics, the widow of a wealthy former statesman whose millions she had used to amass considerable influence as a fund-raiser. Patricia Hartman’s invitation had signaled, if not her favor, at least that Kerry’s arrival in Washington was a matter of great interest; that the interest had derived from the related facts of his brother’s murder, and his own prior anonymity, would have discomfited Kerry even had he not seldom seen such opulence, so carefully displayed.

“That’s a Matisse,” Hartman had noted as he stopped to study an oil painting, her voice suggesting both satisfaction and the confidence that Kerry required an explanation. Kerry simply nodded—to remark on the painting would have seemed foolish, and he was already bedeviled by the thought that, at dinner, he might pick up the wrong fork.

“Will your wife be moving here soon?” his hostess asked. “I’m so very anxious to meet her.”

This was a probe, Kerry knew; he was being cross-examined, his weaknesses assessed. But to dissemble would have made him feel more awkward. “Not soon,” he answered. “And maybe not at all.”

The bluntness of his response, combined with his disinclination to explain, seemed to surprise her; despite her bright-red hair, she was well into her seventies, and her face was so immobilized by plastic surgery that it dramatized the widening of her eyes. “Oh,” she told him firmly, “she
must.
A serious career in politics demands a total commitment.” She
moved closer, her
tone becoming intimate. “I adored Jamie, God rest his soul. But I always thought the absence of a wife hurt him.”

Not as much as getting shot in the head,
Kerry wanted to answer—the knowing, proprietary tone with which she mentioned his brother annoyed him. He made do by saying mildly, “I suppose Jamie thought there was time.”

This seemed to give her pause. Turning to the dinner table, Hartman said, “Well, I’ve seated you next to Jeannie Mason, Governor Mason’s wife. Ask her for advice—she’s such a help to him. They were here for several years when Dick was in Congress, you know.”

Two more hours of condescension, Kerry thought. With the joyless affect of a death row inmate, he shuffled to the dinner table.

Seated next to him, the fresh-faced blonde with amused blue eyes introduced herself as Jeannie Mason. With quiet humor, she added, “I saw Patricia walking you through orientation. Have you memorized the rules yet?”

Her irony surprised him. “Just one,” he answered. “That Meg should quit her job and move here. Patricia says I should ask you for advice.”

The blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Because I’m a credit to my gender?” she murmured, and then the smile flickered. “I just hope she didn’t call me an ‘asset.’ It makes our marriage sound like my husband’s personal balance sheet.”

She seemed comfortable in this hall of mirrors, Kerry thought, and yet a detached observer. “I think that’s what Meg’s afraid of,” he ventured. “But less of being an asset than a wholly owned subsidiary.”

Jeannie gave him a sudden, reflective glance. “She’s right to be.” She paused, as if appraising both Kerry and how much she should say. “I’ve made my own decisions,” she said finally, “based on what was best for
us
. But sometimes it’s not easy. How much harder it would be if your partner’s a draftee.” She smiled again. “As long as you’re reelected, Patricia will manage to forgive your wife. She always needs an extra man at dinner.”

Kerry felt himself relax. There was something inherently kind about her, and honest; perhaps for that reason, Kerry thought, he did not feel the need for self-protection. It was only
at the end of the dinner that he identified another reason: Jeannie Mason did not feel required—or perhaps was too perceptive—to say anything about his brother.

As the dinner broke up, he turned to her again. “I’ve really enjoyed this,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
: ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore.’”

His light comment had an undertone—betraying, Kerry feared, how at sea he often felt. As if sensing that, Jeannie gave his hand a brief sisterly touch. “Welcome to Emerald City,” she said. “And now you have two friends in town. At least whenever we’re here.”

On the evidence of his wife, Kerry had reflected, Dick Mason must surely be worth knowing …

Twelve years later, Kerry thought, Jeannie and the kids still made him consider that there might be more to Dick than he had come to believe. And, Kerry had to concede, he felt something else he did not wish to feel: envy of Dick Mason, and not just because his family was an electoral asset—a change from the President’s tattered marriage, a reflection of the ideal most people still seemed to want.

“Jeannie Mason,” Kerry murmured, “is a truly great woman.”

Clayton grunted. “Win in California, and you can offer Jeannie Dick’s job.”

Kerry read this for what it was: a grudging reference to a handicap that Patricia Hartman had first identified and that no campaign manager could fix—Kerry’s lack of children or even an ostensibly adoring wife. But even before their divorce, Meg had considered Kerry’s first run for the Senate a betrayal tantamount to adultery. She would not have come here happily.

Abruptly, Clayton stood. “Let’s go, young Lochinvar,” he said to Kerry. “It’s showtime.”

They took the freight elevator to the ballroom with two agents from Kerry’s Secret Service detail, Joe Morton and Dan Biasi. Kerry chatted with them easily. With all the selfishness, Clayton thought, the tunnel vision that running for President required and with which Kerry was fully equipped, Kerry still saw the people around him. He did not need help to remember their spouses, their children, their hobbies, the things they were proud of, the favors they had done for him.

Some of Kerry’s secret was that he genuinely liked people—except, Clayton added wryly to himself, when Kerry
didn’t
like them. That, and the fact that Kerry never lied to them, was part of why so many of his colleagues in the Senate had supported him despite the political risks. And it was one of the clues to what kind of President Kerry Kilcannon might become.

“You still working out?” Kerry asked Joe Morton.

Joe nodded. “Got to keep up with you, Senator.”

“Great.” Kerry grinned. “How about San Diego tomorrow, say about five a.m. I’m sure the hotel will open its gym early to accommodate our great crusade.”

Joe grinned back; he had loved Kerry, Clayton knew, from the day—in a teasing gibe at Joe’s sober garb, bland even for the Service—that Kerry had sent out Kevin Loughery to find Joe a set of love beads and a Nehru jacket so garish that the Partridge family would not have worn it. “If you’re that crazy,” Joe said now to the prospective President of the United States, “I guess I am.”

“Don’t you need sleep?” Clayton asked Kerry.

Kerry turned to him, no longer smiling. “There’s a very long
list of things I need, pal. But I’m putting adrenaline ahead of sleep.”

Clayton caught the look in Kerry’s cool blue-green eyes, the silent reference no one else would have understood. And where would
she
have fit, Clayton wondered, if the world were as Kerry Kilcannon wished.

The ballroom was jammed. Glancing about, Clayton saw that everything was in order: the signs were painted on both sides, the better to be seen on television; there were young people rather than local officeholders on the platform, to underscore Kerry as the candidate of tomorrow; two more members of the Service detail stood at the base of the platform, between the press pool and the Minicams. Noticing the Service was a habit Clayton had formed weeks earlier. “Somewhere there’s some nut out there,” he had said to Peter Lake, the special agent in charge, “oiling up his gun so he can go for the doubleheader.”

Kerry walked to the podium. When the crowd quieted for him, he thanked his principal supporters by name and uttered a few pleasantries about Dick Mason. Then he began the part of the speech which was truly his—that of the outsider, the reluctant hero, called upon to tell his fellow citizens how things are and how they should be.

Kerry had no notes. Twelve years before, in his first speeches, he had awkwardly read words written by others, feeling like an impostor. But he had learned. Now the sea of faces in front of him—college kids, professionals, old people, more minorities than Oregon was known for—were the source of strength, a quiet elation.

“Kerry …,”
they began chanting.

Kerry smiled. “That’s me.”

There were laughter and cheers, and then Kerry held up a hand. “There’s still a lot to do,” he said, and the crowd was quiet again.

“There’s still a lot to do,” he repeated, “when people believe that their government has been bought by special interests, when they watch those running for office barter their integrity—dollar by dollar, donation by donation, cocktail party by cocktail party—in a system of quasi-legal bribery …”

The crowd cheered; this allusion to Dick Mason’s recent problems with the tobacco lobby had not been missed. Pausing, Kerry did what he always did: began to focus on a few faces in the crowd—a young Asian girl, a middle-aged man in a union jacket—until he felt he could almost touch them.

“There’s a lot to do,” he said, “and, together, we will do it.

“We will train mothers and fathers for meaningful work, help educate their children instead of standing idly by while their children’s futures go up in smoke.

“We will protect our right to choose in the deepest and broadest sense. For it is not just
women
who deserve a choice; it is everyone who chooses to work for a better job and a brighter future …”