No Safe Place (6 page)

He could not stay inside this room.

He opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot facing Lombard Street. Breathing deeply, Sean tried to absorb his new surroundings—the slow night traffic, the chill air, the fog swirling around him, misting the neon sign of the gas station across the street. He had never been to San Francisco: he had not known it would be so cold.

Shivering, Sean promised himself that he would begin tomorrow. Seven days was not much time.

At four in the morning, when the Washington bureau chief called, Lara Costello had been awake for the last five hours.

She had returned from Africa three weeks earlier, after nearly two years in the Middle East, Africa, the Balkans—anywhere there was an election, a conference, a famine, a war. Three weeks was plenty of time to readjust sleeping patterns. What was happening to Lara was different.

She was not burned out, Lara told herself; she was having trouble making the transition. Her memories seemed indelible: drunken parties in Kosovo while mortars fell all around them; mutilated bodies with their genitals missing; her translator Mira, who, when the fighting broke out again, disappeared in the rubble of her own apartment; dying children with distended stomachs; tortured prisoners. She could not accept that they were suddenly irrelevant to her life, her work.

After several hours of this, she had walked to the bedroom window of her rented town house and gazed out at the quiet Georgetown street, imagining her neighbors resting up for tomorrow’s bureaucratic turf wars, a meeting on the Hill, a gallant effort to make some client safe from the scourge of FDA regulation. Washington was a true company town, she thought; everyone worked for the government or wanted something from it, and, at least in Georgetown, the company was keeping all of them nicely fed. This would become her reality, she knew—just as she had learned to make a good restaurant in London her reality for a night when she was fresh from Africa and starvation. It would just take time.

Time. In her three weeks back, Lara had come to realize that two years could be a long time when you were thirty-one. While she was overseas she had force-fed herself new cultures, made new friends, developed new skills and new defenses—in short, learned how to survive. Those two years had filled a void; to leave all that behind, even for a major promotion, hurt. Perhaps it was melodramatic, but the best analogy Lara could find was tearing a fishhook out of her own stomach. Even the worst things were part of her.

There was no explaining this. To old friends and family, her most intense experiences were distant and abstract, the Balkans or Africa places on the map, a half-remembered headline. But to Lara they were people whom her broadcasts had sometimes helped, perhaps by shaming a warring faction into allowing shipments of food to pass, or by pressuring her own government to try to relieve hunger or stop the systematic slaughter of one group by another. Sometimes she had been able, at the margins, to influence a small piece of foreign policy. It was difficult to have worked so hard, and cared so deeply, and then to leave. But Lara’s work had made her a public figure, and the network wanted her home.

She understood how this had happened: the image of a young woman broadcasting from harsh conditions was compelling, and overseas there had been far less competition. And, the president of the news division had observed with irony, she had a quality as important as her gender or her Latina mother: high cheekbones. Lara had black hair, intense dark eyes, a sculpted face, and pale flawless skin. Though it had never mattered to
her much, she was a pretty woman, and in television that counted. Especially if one’s next assignment was on what a colleague had labeled “the star track”: anchorwoman for the weekend news and a prime-time weekly news show.

Lara had turned from the window, gazing at her bedroom. She would rebuild her life in the city she once had wanted desperately to leave. Then, she told herself sardonically, somehow she could bear the burdens of celebrity, a million dollars a year, and a job most of her colleagues would kill for. She did not expect sympathy from anyone. Less than two years earlier, Lara had been an underpaid reporter for the
New York Times
, one of those semianonymous print journalists who combed Capitol Hill for news and nuance. The only people who would understand her restiveness were overseas: journalists in sub-Saharan Africa, diplomats, AIDS workers, human rights activists …

He
would have gotten it, she suddenly knew; at times she had believed that he could grasp what it was like to be an old woman, or a small child. But the thought of him deepened her sense of solitude.

“We go through life alone,” he had said to her once, “and then we die.” It was said wryly, as though he did not truly believe it; he had a gentle way of making fun of anyone who inflated their own difficulties. She would remember that in the weeks ahead.

That was what she was thinking when the telephone rang.

It was the bureau chief, Hal Leavitt. He did not apologize for the lateness of the hour.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said without preface. “Mike De-vore’s broken his ankle. There’s no one to cover Kilcannon in California.”

Lara felt stunned. She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect herself.

“Are you there?” Hal asked.

“Yeah. Just waking up.”

“Look, I know you’ve got another week’s vacation, but I thought of you right away. This primary’s the tie-breaker, you’re from California, you started your career in San Francisco, and you know Kilcannon from covering the Hill.”

Lara drew a breath. “And if that’s not reason enough, I’ve
been overseas for two years, haven’t followed the primaries, don’t know the issues, and am open to charges of bias—every other month or so, the President’s or Mason’s people complained that I was picking on them. Or have you forgotten?” She paused. “You must have been out late, Hal, drinking with the boys. It’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Hal’s voice was level. “It’s only seven days, Lara. I’ll take the heat from Mason. If there is any.”

“That’s one thing. But I’ve always thought that ignorance was a problem for a reporter. It makes
me
uncomfortable, anyhow.”

For the first time, Hal sounded annoyed. “We’ll have a clippings file ready. You can read it on the plane. When you land in Los Angeles, call Mike Devore from the limo. He’ll get you up to speed.” His voice became crisp. “We’ll make this as easy as possible—limousines, prepaid ticket, anything you need. The car’s coming at nine.”

Desperate, Lara searched for excuses. “There’s something else,” she said more evenly.

“What’s that?”

“I have my own biases here.” She paused, choosing her words with care. “When I first came to the Hill, Kerry Kil-cannon helped me get oriented and gave me a little credibility. I liked him, and I came to respect him as a senator. I
don’t
admire Dick Mason: to me, he’s one of those politicians who view everything, including dead African babies, in terms of their career. Unless Kilcannon’s completely changed, I know who
I’d
vote for. I worry about my own professionalism here.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Hal responded in a voice of strained patience. “
All
reporters have personal feelings, Lara. We
all
vote for someone.”

Lara felt sick at heart. She could go over his head to the president of NBC News, but what could she say? Only the truth would get her off this assignment. And the truth could destroy not just her career, but his.

“Seven days,” she said at length.

“That’s right.”

Mechanically, Lara walked to her desk and picked up a pen. “Give me some names—campaign manager, communications director, press secretary, press travel person.”

He did that. Lara found herself staring at the name Clayton Slade.

“Do you have their schedule tomorrow? Where they start, where they’ll have been by the time I catch up?”

“Sure. I’ll fax it to you.”

Lara thanked him, and got off.

She was still sitting at her desk, hands over her face, when the fax came through.

She picked it up. The Kilcannon campaign was overnighting at the Hyatt in downtown San Diego. With the three-hour time difference, it was roughly one-thirty.

Lara waited until eight forty-five, just before the limousine came, to place the call.

At six o’clock, when the Secret Service escorted Kerry back to his room, Clayton was waiting. He had already brewed the pot of coffee provided by the hotel.

Kerry wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Good workout?” Clayton asked.

Kerry stopped to look at him; if Clayton had a weakness, it was his discomfort with confronting Kerry in personal matters. Clayton had that look now—narrow-eyed and pained, like a man with an unaccustomed hangover. His bulky form slumped in the chair.

“What is it?” Kerry asked.

Clayton sat back, watching his friend’s face. “Lara Costello just called me.”

Kerry felt himself become still.

“She’s replacing Mike Devore.” Clayton’s voice was quiet, unhappy. “She clearly doesn’t know if
I
know, but she figures I probably do.”

It was hard for Kerry to respond. “What did she say? Exactly.”

“It was very understated, professional. She’s joining us today in Los Angeles. She’ll be gone after Tuesday. There was no one else to take Mike’s place.” Clayton folded his hands. “What she was telling me, between the lines, is that she couldn’t get out of it. I think she wanted you to be prepared but didn’t feel it was right to call you. I certainly agree with that.”

Kerry tried to absorb this. “How did she sound?”

“Like I said, professional.” Clayton’s voice softened. “I don’t know her, Kerry. It just seems like I do.”

Kerry stood, arms crossed, head down.

“I’m sorry,” Clayton said. “It’s bad timing. A few hours isn’t long to get used to this.”

Kerry rubbed the bridge of his nose. After a time, he murmured, “I’ll be all right.”

“You’ll have to be.” Clayton rose from his chair. “There’s a speech that goes with this, pal, and it’s my bad luck to have to give it. Remember how we always used to know who was screwing who at the prosecutor’s office? The only clueless ones were the couple themselves—somehow they always thought they were invisible.

“You’re a candidate for President of the United States. The reporters who follow you around are trained observers, at the top of their game, out of their minds half the time with too fucking little to think about. Start giving Lara Costello meaningful glances across the tarmac, and somebody will wonder why.”

Kerry gave him a resentful stare. “I’m not stupid, Clayton. And she’s not interested.”

Clayton’s eyes were steady. “There are a lot of people, Kerry, who have a lot invested in this. Not just you, but everyone who’s sacrificed career and money and time with their family to make this work. A campaign manager who
wasn’t
your friend would say, ‘It’s a choice between this woman and your candidacy. If you choose her, fine, but I walk. If you choose the presidency, don’t go near her.’”

Kerry gazed around the sterile room. “No one knows,” he finally said.

Clayton frowned. “At least
three
people know—her, you, and me, because you told me.”

“I was a mess …”

“And
she
wasn’t?”

Kerry shook his head. “At the end, she wouldn’t see me. I can only guess how she was.”

He felt Clayton’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, pal. I really am. I know how you feel.” He waited a moment. “But I also know
you
, and you’re the best candidate in the race. You won’t let yourself lose that too.”

Kerry studied him. “So what else do you recommend, exactly? Besides me pretending she doesn’t exist.”

Clayton paused. “I may need to see her, Kerry. Right now, we don’t know who
else
knows. With her on the campaign—”

“If anyone talks to her,” Kerry cut in, “it’ll be
me
. What happened was between us, not you.”

Clayton’s face was hard. “That makes me the one, doesn’t it? If you’re seen with her and some reporter catches on to this,
our
campaign and
your
future won’t be all that you’d be trashing. She’ll go down with you.”

Slowly, Kerry felt his anger die.

Turning from Clayton, Kerry walked to the window. For some moments, he stared out at San Diego Harbor, watching the first shimmer of sunshine turn the water light gray.

How did I get here? he wondered. Forty-two years of living, he supposed: the first thirty before Jamie’s death, and then the twelve very different years of which Lara had become a part. But the skein of circumstances was so long, so tangled, that there was no simple answer.

Kerry Kilcannon’s clearest memory of early childhood was of his father bleeding.

It began as many other nights had begun—with the sound of a slammed door, Michael Kilcannon coming home drunk. He would teeter up the stairs to the second floor, talking to himself or to someone he resented, pausing for balance or to take deep, wheezing breaths. Kerry would lie very still; until this night, Michael would stumble past Kerry’s and Jamie’s rooms to the bedroom at the end of the hall, and the beatings would begin. Through his tears, Kerry would imagine his mother’s face at breakfast—a bruised eye, a swollen lip. No one spoke of it.

But on this night, Kerry’s door flew open.

Michael Kilcannon flicked on the wall light. The six-year-old Kerry blinked at the sudden brightness, afraid to move or speak.

His father walked toward him and then stood at the foot of his bed. Blood spurted from his forearm.

Terrified, Kerry watched red droplets forming on his sheets.

Michael glared at Kerry, his handsome, somewhat fleshy face suffused with drink and anger. “Look,” he barked. “
Look
at what you’ve done.”

Kerry stared at the bloodstains, stupefied.

“Your
wagon
, you pissant. You left your fooking wagon on the path …”

Kerry shook his head reflexively. “I’m sorry, Da,” he tried. Then he began to cry, trying hard to stop.