Balance of Power

TWENTY-ONE

On the morning she was to be married, Lara's family came to her hotel suite.

As they arrived, the bearded White House photographer was photographing Lara with three of her bridesmaids—Anna Chen, a colleague from NBC, and her roommates from Stanford, Linda Mendez and Nakesha Hunt—who, collectively, had dubbed themselves "Lara's Rainbow Coalition." "Who'd have thought," Nakesha was saying to Lara, "that you'd be the first to get married?"

Lara smiled. "Not me. But then who'd have thought that I'd be unemployed?"

"Are you complaining?" Inez demanded.

Lara gazed up at her mother and saw, beneath the humor, a woman who still worried about her daughter's capacity for happiness. "No, Mom," she said gently, and then looked at the others—Joan, Mary, and Marie, her hair braided, as beautiful in her frilly pink dress as a six-yearold could possibly be. Lara felt her heart fill with love. "All of you look lovely," she told her family. "Before I go and change my life, can I have a few moments with you?"

"Of course," Inez told her. Together, the five Costello women retreated to Lara's bedroom.

Lara kissed Inez on the forehead, and then looked into her face. "I am happy," she assured her mother. "I know being married to a President won't be easy. But Kerry's the only man I've ever wanted."

Tears came to her mother's eyes. "I know your father and I didn't show you much in the way of happiness. I've worried that you . . ."

Gently, Lara placed a finger to her mother's lips. "That was all so long ago, Mom. I have a man who's smart and sensitive and gentle— someone I can relax with, and love, and even lean on if I need to." Hearing herself, Lara, too, felt close to tears. "I'm fine, now. More than fine."

Turning, Lara looked first at Joan. As their eyes met, Lara felt their thoughts converge: on this day of Lara's happiness, Joan's own marriage was a shambles, made public because of the unrelenting light which focused on the man Lara had chosen to love. "I'm so sorry," Lara told her, "for everything we've brought down on you. But, for me, it's wonderful you're here."

For a brief moment, Joan hesitated, then came to Lara and hugged her. "I know you'll be happy," she said. "We'll all be happier, soon."

Lara clung to her for an extra moment, and then kissed Marie and, last, Mary. Silent, Mary gazed into her eyes, and then gave her a brief hug. "I love you," Lara told them, and then paused for the last moment before her very public day began, to take in the faces of those closest to her. "I'm so lucky to have all of you."

The other Costello women smiled at the First Lady–to-be. And then, protected by the Secret Service, they and Lara's friends went to the waiting limousine and drove slowly through the streets, bright with sunshine and thick with well-wishers, some with small children on their shoulders, others waving or calling out to her, on her journey to meet Kerry at St. Mathew's Church.

* * *

To John Bowden, Las Vegas was a neon whore, its convention center as soulless as an airplane hangar. An American flag hung from the rafters; beneath it were hundreds of laminated tables and makeshift booths, many with placards advertising weapons, or handmade signs with sentiments such as "Is your church licensed by the federal government?" offering souvenirs, T-shirts, SSA caps and coffee mugs, flak jackets, fishing gear, Nazi paraphernalia, hunting knives, and row upon row of rifles, handguns, ammunition, high-capacity magazines, silencers, flash suppressors, and kits to convert semiautomatic weapons to automatic fire. The floor was jammed with thousands of people—lone men, families, bikers in motorcycle gear—and so many guns that some sellers hawked their wares in the aisle or the lobby, swapping dull metal for wads of cash. Bowden had never been to a gun show before; he experienced the confusing tumult as an assault, a physical force which deflected him from his goal. Then, beside a spacious booth with a sign which said "The Gun Emporium," he spotted a life-size cardboard cutout of Kerry Kilcannon and Lara Costello, dressed for a wedding, with the concentric circles of a target on both their chests.

Bowden approached as if in a trance, his copy of the SSA Defender clutched in one hand. With a dissociated smile, he stared at the image of Kilcannon, oblivious to the cacophony surrounding him.

"Can I help you?" someone asked.

Turning, Bowden saw a slender man with slicked-back hair and glasses, palms resting on a table loaded with semiautomatic handguns. Bowden went to the table and, clearing a space for The Defender, opened the magazine to the page he had marked with a scrap of newspaper. "I'm looking to buy this."

The man looked at where Bowden's finger rested. "The Lexington Patriot-2. Yeah, we carry the P-2—lots of firepower."

"How much?"

"Good price. Four hundred dollars."

"Show me the gun."

The man reached behind the table and produced a black metal gun about ten inches long. "Concealable," he said. "You can squeeze off ten rounds in split seconds—however fast you can pull the trigger."

Bowden picked up the gun. In his hand, it felt heavy, lethal. His throat was dry; for a long moment, his eyes focused on Lara Costello, and then moved back to the face of Kerry Kilcannon.

You don't know what pain is, you fuck. But you will.

"Do you want it?" the man asked.

Stunned back to the present, Bowden reached for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, stuffed with bills from his visit to the checkcashing store which had gouged him for the money he needed. Silent, he peeled off four hundred-dollar bills and slapped them down beside the P-2.

"I'll need ID," the man said.

Bowden's neck twisted to look at him. "Why?"

The man frowned. "We're a federally licensed dealer. We have to certify you're a Nevada resident, and run a background check."

Bowden felt a flush at the back of his neck. "I can't wait that long," he said.

* * *

Dressed in a morning coat, Kerry rode with Clayton to St. Mathew's in the Presidential limousine. The streets overflowed with men and women who waved or carried signs expressing their best wishes, including one that said, "We wish you seven children."

"A little excessive," Kerry murmured with a smile. He studied the faces as he passed, warmed by the love and kindness he saw, reminded, again, of the responsibility he bore for the welfare of others, for making their lives better. There was so much to do, and it was often so much harder than it should be. He had the will; he could only hope he had the wisdom to find a way, to leave the country he loved better for his Presidency.

But not today. Today, supported by his closest friend, Clayton, as well as by Chad Palmer and three old friends from Newark, he would begin his life with Lara.

"In about twenty-seven hours," he told Clayton, "I'll be on Martha's Vineyard. I'll let all this go for a while." Then he turned to the window again, smiling at a little girl who waved from her father's arms.

Clayton watched his friend: the ginger thatch of hair, the quickflashing smile, the penetrant somewhat brooding eyes which made him such a wonderful photographer's subject, filled with contradictions— to those who loved him, the most charismatic figure since John F. Kennedy; for those who opposed him, or despised him, a ruthless and dangerous man. But the man Clayton knew was driven by compassion; Kerry's anger was reserved for those who, in his mind, kept him from acting on behalf of the people who most needed help. For all the ink spilled, the endless analyses of what drove him, too few people knew Kerry Kilcannon as the man he really was. Now his friend was marrying a woman who did, and for that, knowing how it would lighten Kerry's heart and ease his burden, Clayton Slade was today a happy man.

* * *

The man at the table had thick glasses, slicked-back hair, and distrustful eyes which moved constantly in an expressionless face, taking in all that surrounded him. The only items on his table were P-2s and their accessories.

"You a dealer?" Bowden asked.

Fixing on Bowden, the man's restless gaze became a stare. "A collector."

Bowden drew a breath. "How much for a P-2?"

"Five-fifty."

Bowden's hand froze on his wallet. "The Gun Emporium said four hundred."

One corner of the man's mouth moved, less a smile than an expression of contempt. "The Gun Emporium runs background checks."

Bowden felt himself tense. "I don't have time for a background check," he blurted.

The man's stare hardened. To Bowden, his scrutiny felt so intense that he wanted to step back. Then, in a flat voice, the man said, "Neither do I."

Slowly, Bowden counted out the money and laid it on the table. Then he reopened his copy of The Defender. "Got these?" Bowden asked.

The man turned the magazine to read it. Beside an advertisement for the gun show was one for Lexington Arms. A photo of the P-2 was captioned "Endangered Species—Banned in California." Below that was the picture of a bullet with grooves carved in its hollow tip, described as "the deadliest handgun bullet available—the ultimate in knockdown capability."

"Eagle's Claw bullets," the man said. "Cost you extra. They're made to rip your guts out."

Bowden flinched at the image of a bullet tearing through his flesh and bone and brain. In an ashen tone, he said, "Do I need those?"

"Only if you want to be sure."

Bowden was silent. And then, still mute, he slowly nodded.

The man glanced around him, eyes restless again. "What about a magazine?"

"What about it?"

Another flicker of the eyes. "I've got the old kind—holds forty rounds. Don't make them anymore."

Bowden picked up the P-2, cradling it in the palms of both hands.

"How much for the magazine?" he asked. His voice was almost a whisper.

* * *

At the moment they were married, Kerry gazed into Lara's face.

Her eyes met his, steady and sure. Kerry forgot the cameras, the countless millions who watched around the world. He thought only of this instant: Lara's family; their closest friends; the resonance of Father Joe Donegan's words, making this not just a partnership, but a marriage. There was a smile on Lara's mouth, a deep warmth in her eyes.

Yes, he silently told her. We've earned this. The past is done.

"I love you," she whispered.

* * *

On the screen, the little prick bent to kiss the ice queen.

Pen in hand, John Bowden watched in the crummy motel room. Next to him on the worn coverlet was a Lexington P-2, a forty-round magazine, and six cartons of Eagle's Claw bullets.

His hand began shaking. As the happy couple receded down the aisle, he picked up a spiral notebook.

He wrote in a fury, scratching out words, replacing them with more words as sharp as knives. By the end tears filled his eyes.

The letter was a commitment, a pact of love and hatred.

Folding the lined paper, he sealed it in the envelope he had already addressed. On the television, his brother-in-law and sister-in-law waved from the steps of the church. When his wife appeared, and then Marie, holding flowers, the cheers from the crowd became a shrieking in his brain.

In agony, Bowden switched off the picture.

Hastily packing his armaments, he left the hotel without paying and drove through the seedy streets until he saw a mailbox. Parking, he flipped open the lid and paused, letter suspended above the box in a final moment of irresolution. Then he dropped the letter into the iron maw and drove to the Las Vegas Airport.