No Safe Place (50 page)

What was Kilcannon doing there?
Nate wondered; this curious business of judging lives left him poised between queasiness and fascination. “Interesting,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’re any closer to knowing who slipped the counselor’s notes to our friends from Anthony’s Legions.”

“Not really, although there’s the relationship between this woman Philips and the Christian Commitment. What remains ripe for speculation, as the pundits say, is what inspired one of America’s most fervent anti-abortion groups to give it to their pro-choice enemies.”

“Or who was in the middle.” Nate gazed out the window at
the skyline of downtown Los Angeles. It had always struck him
as surreal, arbitrary, like a giant Lego set dropped suddenly from the moon. “To me,” he went on, “that’s as important as proving what happened with Lara and Kilcannon.”

“Do you think so?” Jane asked dubiously. “Doesn’t it depend on
who
the ‘who’ was? If anyone.”

On the screen, the film shifted abruptly—paramedics bearing a litter covered by a white blanket to a waiting ambulance. “If the ‘who’ was Mason or the opposition,” he answered, “it matters quite a lot. Because if either is using us to destroy Kilcannon’s political future, people should know that, too. Then they can decide for themselves who’s worse.”

“Oh,” Jane said tartly. “That one’s simple—
us
. We’re always the ones people blame. For what politicians do, and for our obligation to print that.”

It was too simple, Nate thought. “They blame us
all
, Jane. It’s another reason they don’t vote.”

“Perhaps.” Jane’s voice was filled with irony. “But they
do
read these things, don’t they. And they never, ever blame themselves.”

When Sean reentered headquarters, he stopped, looking around him.

Talking on the phone, the receptionist noted him with her eyes, then began writing a telephone number on a pad of paper. Numb, Sean walked past her; at the phone bank, Kate Feeney was making notes on the computer run, and a couple of early arrivals from work were sitting down in shirts and ties. To Sean, the air of normality was haunting.

Putting down her pen, Kate Feeney saw him and stood.

Sean froze. As she hurried toward him, he thought of his blood-spattered sleeve, the twitching body in the garbage can.

Kate began grinning.
“You,”
she said, “are
so
great.” With skittering half-steps, she came to him, giving him an awkward hug.

Confused, Sean felt the sparrow lightness of her body against his chest, the fear that she would feel the gun still hidden in his jacket. Then Kate leaned back, grasping his sleeves with both hands. “I
met
him,” she said. “Kerry.”

That
was it, Sean thought—Kilcannon. In a strained voice, he asked, “What was he like?”

“
So
nice. Really friendly. And those eyes …” She shook her head, as if trying to find words. “It’s like he can look into your soul.”

Sean could only nod.

Looking down, Kate seemed to focus on his sleeve. “What happened?” she asked.

Sean swallowed, repeating the response he had practiced on the bus. “Coffee,” he answered. “When I was handing out leaflets.”

Kate frowned. “I’m so sorry you missed him. Really. But as long as I live, I’ll never forget.”

How long, Sean wondered, would it take someone to find the body?

“John.”
It was Rick Ginsberg’s voice, hearty with the good cheer of the motivator. “I’ve got some news, maybe.”

Sean faced him, apprehensive.

Rick was smiling; to Sean, the pervasive good humor felt unnatural, untrustworthy. “I’ve gotten two calls today,” Rick said. “From Clayton Slade, of all people—Kerry’s national campaign manager. Kerry may schedule another event in San Francisco, after the debate. If he does, he’ll need our help.”

Sean was speechless. “After the
debate
?” Kate asked. “That’s tomorrow night.”

“It would be the next day,” Rick amended. “Sunday morning.
If
they do it.”

Kate bit her lip. “When will they decide?”

Still silent, Sean turned to Ginsberg.

“Tomorrow morning, at the latest.” Rick smiled at Sean. “If it happens, it’ll be crazy around here. But at least you get another chance.”

In that moment, Sean was acutely aware of everything: the gun in his pocket, Ginsberg’s demented cheer, Kate’s eyes on his face, the memory of her body against his, the dead man in the alley, the dryness of his own mouth. He felt too much to speak.

Kerry lay back in the bathtub, achy and exhausted, reflecting on the tragedy in South Central and his own reaction to it. He had not wished to go, he knew; the mention of guns had silenced him.

Across from him, Clayton closed the lid over the toilet and sat. “Sorry,” Clayton said. “But there’s no rest for the weary.”

Kerry raised his head. “What’s this about Dick Mason?”

Clayton clasped his hands in front of him. “We’ve got the arrest records,” he said. “From Darien. All I can tell you is that
we
didn’t break the law to get them.”

Pushing with his hands, Kerry sat straighter. “What do they say?”

“They’re from two years before Dick went to Congress. Jeannie Mason filed a complaint—Dick was drunk, according to Jeannie. He’d hit her before, she told the police, and this was one blow too many.”

What might have happened, Kerry found himself wondering, if his mother had called the police when he was young—or felt she could have? How might their family, might Kerry himself, be different? “What did they do?” Kerry asked. “The cops.”

“Went to the DA. Who, as it happens, was a friend of Dick’s. There was a quiet resolution—charges dismissed, Dick agrees to counseling. It never got to court.” Clayton’s voice became clipped. “Explains a few things, doesn’t it. Like the fact that Dick drinks apple juice because it ‘makes our family life more wholesome.’”

“Is there anything more recent?” Kerry asked.

“Not yet.”

Kerry wiped his face with a washcloth. “I still remember, back at the prosecutor’s office, you telling me to place more emphasis on helping abusive men. Maybe Dick got helped. If he hadn’t, do you honestly think Jeannie would have stuck it out?”

“I don’t know her.” Clayton stood, arms folded. “What I’m pretty sure I
do
know is that Mason’s behind this Lara thing. That’s why it’s coming out now, and that’s why he wants these crazy debate rules. To confront you before Tuesday.”

“So plant this, you say. And hope somebody prints it.”

Clayton frowned. “If I’m right, why is Mason entitled to anything better than he’s done to you?”

Once again, Kerry thought of holding Lara, the debris of what once lay between them, the potential ruin of two lives now. Roused from torpor, the anger inside him felt like a living
thing. “Prove to me he did this, Clayton, and I’ll think very hard about screwing him. Jeannie or no Jeannie.”

Clayton’s eyes met his, and then his friend gazed downward. “Speaking of wives,” he said, “I talked with Meg today.”

Startled, Kerry asked, “
Meg?
Why?”

“Why do you think?
Newsworld
came to visit her. Seems like they just had to share.”

Kerry felt his anger merge with regret, then sadness. “Bastards,” he murmured. “I never wanted her to know.”

“Neither did she. ‘Tell Kerry,’ she said to me, ‘that I don’t want to hear about this anymore. From anyone.’”

Kerry rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What does
that
mean?”

“That she’s not going to help them.” Clayton’s voice was soft now. “She says ‘good luck,’ by the way.”

For a brief, depressing moment, Kerry had an image of Meg and himself before the first time they made love, ignorant of the gulf between them, the blasted hopes to come. “If you talk to Meg again,” he said at last, “tell her thanks.”

“Which brings me back to Cutler, Kerry. We’re sending Nat Schlesinger to see his bosses in New York. To ask if they really know what they’re doing.”

“Oh, they know.” Kerry looked up again. “Do we have a statement about the killing in South Central?”

“Uh-huh. Kit wrote it the way you wanted: that this is a tragedy caused by guns and urban crime; that your prayers are with the victims’ families; that you’re glad no one else got hurt; that great credit goes to Reverend Wills and the people of South Central. And that you have nothing else to say.”

“What else
can
I say? Anything more, and offering to go there turns into a campaign stunt. Some will call it that, anyhow—after all, this is about a murdered ten-year-old, not me.” Pausing, Kerry shook his head. “I guess my message of racial progress got a little lost.”

“What you tried to do was stupid,” Clayton said in his flattest voice. “I guess you know that. So you’re right that the only choice now is heroic modesty.” He gave a first, thin smile. “With any luck, and some graceful silence, you’ll be up a point by morning.”

“‘Heroic,’” Kerry said wearily. “I learned about
that
from
you as well, after the Musso shooting. The less a ‘hero’ says, the better. Especially when he
knows
better.”

Clayton sat again. “If you’re waiting for a day without scrutiny, Kerry, you’ll be waiting for a long time. Unless you give up on running for President.”

Kerry felt the truth of this settle over him. Quietly, he answered, “I can’t give up. Not now.”

“Then consider what I said about Mason. The standard here isn’t legal—‘guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.’ It’s political, which means ‘best guess.’” Clayton’s voice was quiet again. “We can’t find anything on this counselor, Kerry—at least nothing that makes her look bad. Making
Dick
look bad is the best alternative.”

Kerry felt his mind recede into the world of practical politics—constituencies, polls, the new ambivalence of pro-choice women toward Kerry himself. The cost of speaking what, to him, was a painful, complex truth.

“What about this rally in San Francisco?” he inquired at last. “Ellen Penn thinks she can help us draw a crowd, and I don’t want to infuriate her more than I already have. But the mayor’s for Dick, so we get no help there.”

Clayton’s eyes grew thoughtful. “In about three hours,” he answered, “we’ll have Jack’s tracking numbers. Then we can decide.”

When Lara arrived at Citrus with Lee McAlpine and Sara Sax, Nate Cutler was waiting at their table.

Lara had a jarring sense of betrayal; dinner had been for three, not four. “I decided to join you,” Nate told Lee, “when I
found out Lara was coming.” He smiled up at Lara. “I see these guys every day. But after Tuesday, you vanish from our lives.”

You prick,
she thought.
Now everything I say tonight will end up in your story.
She managed to return his smile. “But you’ll be in my thoughts, Nate. Never doubt it.”

Her eyes met his, sending a brief signal of anger and dislike, and then the three women sat down. Four reporters, Lara thought sourly, resting from the pressures of the day in an upscale L.A. restaurant. But there would be no rest for her now.

“So,” Nate asked as they ordered drinks, “what do you make of Kilcannon chasing fire trucks? Or trying to.”

Lara determined to remain silent; if Nate planned to make Kerry the subject, she wanted no part of it. “With Kilcannon,” Lee answered, “the question is always
why
he does what he does. When you report that Kilcannon asked to attend a riot, you’re barely scratching the surface.”

Nate sipped his daiquiri. “My editor says the answer’s simple—votes.”

“But what do
you
think?”

Nate smoothed the tablecloth in front of him. “Kilcannon doesn’t want to be irrelevant. He sees Mason practicing the politics of gestures, and to him politics demands the willingness to take risks.”

“Do you honestly think there
was
a risk?” Lee retorted. “The cops didn’t let him anywhere near.”

“But if they
had
…” Nate shrugged. “Dick Mason would have waited until South Central burned to the ground, and then shown up with federal money for the Derek Baker Memorial Youth Center. Or whatever this dead kid’s name was.” He turned to Lara. “Any opinions, Ms. Costello? You knew him when.”

Lara’s smile was cool. “I’m with your editor,” she said in her flattest voice. “Never give these people credit for anything. Why risk disappointment?”

As Nate looked at her, Lara felt Lee’s quick glance. “For me,” Lee said to Nate, “dissecting these characters is the fun part. The more I’m around them, the more I’m detached from what they say. It’s
who
they are that matters. I mean, look at the President. You can’t tell me his personal problems aren’t about something deeper.”

Nate nodded. “That’s why my editor’s wrong, with all respect to Lara. At least about Kilcannon.” Glancing around the table, he let his gaze settle on Lara. “Take this abortion thing, for example. Politically, what Kilcannon said about a fetus being a ‘life’ was dumb, especially within his party. So there has to be some other reason.”

This sudden clammy feeling, Lara realized, reminded her of the night when Nate had first confronted her. “Maybe he believes it,” she said simply. “Despite what you and I might think. Or think expedient.”

Nate cocked his head, a man who had won a point. “Then you
do
give him credit for principles. Even though you told me once that the key to Kerry Kilcannon was life experience.”

Lara felt her face harden. “It was a theory, Nate. Formed at the time I was a charter member of Lee’s school: reportage as psychoanalysis.”

“And now you don’t believe that?”

Lara shrugged. “In Africa it seemed a little less pertinent, that’s all. Witnessing starvation tends to reorder one’s priorities.” She sipped her gin gimlet. “So, Nate, we know why Lee does her job. Why do you do
yours
?”

It was a diversion, Nate must know. But he gave Lara a considering glance, as though he owed her a serious answer. “This may sound like a Fourth of July speech. But I went to J school believing that if you tell the American voter what’s going on, he’ll make the right decision. Or at least a better one.”