Balance of Power

NINETEEN

Shortly after five on the next afternoon, Kit Pace asked to see the President.

It was a crowded day—a new tax bill; a meeting with civil rights leaders—and a long one: at nine that evening, the President and Lara would sit for a live interview on ABC. Though Kerry waved her to a chair, Kit elected to stand. "The other shoe's dropped," she said bluntly. "Carole Tisone from the Chronicle called.

"She's got the whole story—everything on Joan and Bowden, your various conversations with the D.A. . . ."

"Will she run it?" Kerry interrupted.

"Yes." Kit's face and voice betrayed her frustration. "I took her through it all, off the record—protecting Joan's privacy, giving her marriage a chance, letting Bowden work out his problems in peace. When none of that worked, I argued that you and Lara shouldn't be harried for looking out for her sister like any decent family would, especially on the eve of your wedding . . ."

"Oh," Kerry said, "that only makes the story more compelling."

"Apparently so—they're running this tomorrow, regardless of what we say. We've got only a few hours to respond. You and Lara will have to decide how and where."

"That's up to Joan, not us. But just for the hell of it, what do you suggest we do?"

"Get it over with, Mr. President." Pausing, Kit sat down. "I know how you feel. But if you say nothing, the story will keep going until we're forced to comment. Just as bad, the story is what the Chronicle says it is—intervention by a President in the criminal justice system—rather than what we know it is."

Chin propped on his hand, Kerry allowed himself a moment of depression, contemplating how unfair this was to Joan, and how it might affect her. "We'll talk to her," he said with quiet anger. "But first, get me the publisher of the Chronicle. Before they run this, he's going to have to tell me why."

• • •

Less than four hours later, Kerry and Lara sat with Taylor Yarborough of ABC in the Library, surrounded by cameras and sound equipment.

It was ten minutes before the interview. Taylor, Lara's friend and former colleague, chatted easily with Kerry and Lara about her children, mutual friends, the oddity of getting married in quite so public a fashion.

"I had my assistant run a search," Taylor told Lara with a smile. "He came up with several thousand articles, twice that many mentions on evening news shows, six television specials, and the covers of all four bridal magazines. There were more items on your mother, niece and sisters than on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, Mahmoud Al Anwar, and nuclear proliferation—combined."

Briefly, Lara gave Kerry a look tinged with worry, then turned back to Taylor. "About my family," she said quietly, "we have a favor to ask."

* * *

Drinking vodka and orange juice, John Bowden stared at the screen. He had not eaten, could no longer sleep. The continuous hits of alcohol seemed to surge through his veins, causing the picture to focus, then blur, as though suspended between reality and dream.

The telephone rang. Bowden did not answer. Nor did his machine: after seven messages from Carole Tisone—whoever she was and whatever she wanted—he had switched it off. The "urgent" message from his lawyer could wait; the only "urgent" matter was getting back his family. He stared at the screen, torn between numbness and rage, a sense of loss so deep he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, so profound that only death could relieve his pain.

On the screen, the son of a bitch Kilcannon smiled at Joan's ice queen of a sister, the television prima donna. Her sorority sister—the overpaid bottle blonde—kept up the cheerful patter. "How," she asked the ice queen, "has your family enjoyed getting to know the President?"

Lara took Kilcannon's hand. "They adore him," she said lightly. "But then, who wouldn't?"

Kilcannon smiled. "Should we start with the U.S. Senate?"

Bowden took another swallow of vodka. Start with me, you little prick.

The chirping from the screen enraged him now. He stood, staggering, and went to the refrigerator for more vodka. Returning, he stopped to snatch The Defender from his pile of gun magazines.

On the screen, no one was smiling.

"The Chronicle story is forcing us to talk about a very personal matter," Kilcannon said. "But I honestly don't know who it serves."

Lara touched his hand. "Joan's dealing with the challenges in her marriage," she told the blonde, "in large part thanks to Kerry. But not everyone has a former domestic violence prosecutor in the family to guide them through the legal system. All we can hope for now is that other victims of domestic violence, as well as their abusers, find the help they need . . ."

Bowden stopped, staring at Kerry Kilcannon. The glass trembled in his hand.

* * *

Afterward, Kerry and Lara retreated upstairs. "I'm exhausted," she told him. "But I'd better go find Joan."

Kerry unknotted his tie. "You should."

Lara began to remove an earring, then paused, gazing at Kerry. "Was that the best thing for her, I wonder? Because Mary says it's the worst."

"Just the only thing," Kerry said flatly. " 'Best' is to be left alone."

Lara was silent. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Kerry asked, "How did you feel about the rest of it?"

Pausing, she reflected. "I'd give us a B. Sometimes we were a little too Nick and Nora Charles."

"We're not that clever," Kerry assured her with a smile. "And we don't drink nearly enough Scotch."

Smiling, Lara kissed him. "I love you," she said softly. "I just can't wait to move in here. So that we can run away."

The telephone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, Kerry murmured, "Kit," then picked it up.

"What should I know," Kit asked him, "about you and Lexington Arms?"