First Daughter

Taske smiles. 'I know you do.'

'I noticed that Senator Carson got a lot of great press out of his visit here. He even spent some time with the parishioners before and after the service. He said he used to sing in his choir back home in Nebraska. I heard him accept your invitation to sing with our choir today.'

'All true,' Taske agrees. 'What exactly is your point, Jack?'

'There's an election coming up this fall. Senator Carson's campaign war chest is big. According to the papers, he's the party's great future hope. The bigwigs are rumored to be grooming him to run for president one day. Him being here last week and this, I think the rumor's true. But to make a successful run, he's going to need every vote he can get. Last time I looked, there weren't too many blacks living in Nebraska, which is where the Renaissance Mission Church comes in.'

'Huh. Sounds like the kid's on to sumthin',' Gus says. 'Yes, indeed.'

Taske's mouth is half-open. Jack can just about see the gears mesh in his mind, the wheels begin to turn.

'I don't believe it,' Taske says at length. 'You want me to offer him votes for funding.'

Jack nods.

'But we're one small community church.'

'Today you are,' Jack says. 'That's the beauty of the idea. You're always talking about expanding beyond the neighborhood. This is your chance. With Senator Carson's backing, the Renaissance Mission Church could go regional, then national. By the time he's ready to make his run at the presidency, you'll be in position to offer him the kind of help he'll need most.'

Gus laughs. 'This here boy thinks as big as the sky.'

'Yes,' Taske says slowly, 'but he has a point.'

'Carson's gotta go for it,' Gus cautions.

'Why won't he?' Jack says. 'He's a successful politician. His livelihood depends on him making deals, accommodations, alliances. Think about it. There's no downside for him. Even if you should fail, Reverend, he gets a ton of national press for helping a minority raise itself off its knees.'

'Jack's right. The idea makes perfect sense,' Taske says. He's chewing over the idea, looking at it from all angles. 'And what's more, it just might work!' Then he slams his palms down on the desk as he jumps up. 'I knew it! The good Lord bringing you to us was a miracle!'

'Here we go,' Gus growls, but Jack can see he's as proud of Jack as Taske is.

'My boy, who would have thought of this but you?' The Reverend Myron Taske takes Jack's hand, pumps it enthusiastically. 'I think you just might have saved us all.'

TWENTY — EIGHT

LYN CARSON stood at the bedroom window of the suite high up in the Omni Shoreham Hotel. Dusk was extinguishing the daylight, like a mother snuffing out candles one by one. Ribbons of lights moved along Massachusetts Avenue, and the skeletal structure of the Connecticut Avenue Bridge was lit by floodlights. She and her husband were here for a few days to escape the depressing reality that each hour of each day pressed more heavily in on them.

Alli was somewhere out there. Lyn tried willing her into being, to stand here, safe beside her.

Hearing Edward moving about in the sitting room, she turned. She knew why he liked this storied hotel above all others in the District. Though its architecture was blunt to the point of being downright ugly, it was downstairs in room 406D that Harry Truman, whom Edward so admired, had often come to play poker with his friends Senator Stewart Symington, Speaker of the House John McCormack, and Doorkeeper of the House Fishbait Miller.

Just then, her husband's cell phone rang and her heart leapt into her throat. My Alli, my darling, she thought, running through the open doorway. Her thoughts swung wildly: They've found her, she's dead, oh my God in Heaven, let it be good news!

But she stopped short when Edward, seeing the look on her face, gave her a quick shake of his head. No, it wasn't news of Alli, after all. Churning with disappointment and relief, Lyn turned away, stumbled back to the sitting room, half-blinded by tears. Where are you, darling? What have they done to you?

She stood by the window, watching with a kind of irrational fury the indifferent world. How could people laugh, how could they be driving to dinner, having parties, making love, how could they be out jogging, or meeting under a lamppost. How could they be carefree when the world was so filled with dread? What was wrong with them?

She clasped her palms together in front of her breast. Dear God, she prayed for the ten-thousandth time, please give Alli the strength to survive. Please give Jack McClure the energy and wisdom to find her. God, give my precious daughter back to me, and I'll sacrifice anything. Whatever you want from me I'll gladly give, and more. You are the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen.

Just then she felt Edward's strong arms around her, and her shell of toughness-hard but brittle-shattered to pieces. Tears welled out of her eyes and a sob was drawn up from the depths of her. She turned into his chest, weeping uncontrollably as black thoughts rolled through her mind like thunderheads.

Edward Carson held her tight, kissed the top of her head. His own eyes welled with tears of despair and frustration. 'That was Jack. No news yet, but he's making progress.'

Lyn made a little sound-half gasp, half moan-at the back of her throat.

'Alli's a strong girl, she'll be all right.' He stroked her back, soothing them both. 'Jack will find her.'

'I know he will.'

They stood like that for a long time, above their own Washington, the world at their feet, the taste of ashes in their mouths. And yet their hearts beat strongly together, and where hearts were strong, they knew, there was fight yet left. There was hope. Hope and faith.

A sharp rap on the door to the sitting room caused them both to start.

'It's okay.' Edward Carson kissed her lightly on the lips. 'Rest a little now before dinner.'

She nodded, watched him cross the bedroom, close the connecting door behind him. Rest, she thought. How does one rest with a heart full of dread?

THE PRESIDENT-ELECT pulled the door open, stood aside so Dennis Paull could enter, then shut and locked it behind him.

'Nina delivered your message,' Carson said.

'The Secret Service agents outside?'

'Absolutely secure. You can take that to the bank.' He walked over to a sideboard. 'Drink?'

'Nothing better.' Paull sat on a sofa that faced the astonishing view. 'What I like most about flying is that you're so high up, there's nothing but sky. No woes, no uncertainty, no fears.'

He accepted the single-malt with a nod of thanks. Carson had no need of asking what Paull drank. The two men had known each other for many years, long before the current president had been elected to his first term. Two years into that first term, when Paull had been faced with carrying out yet another semi-legal directive he found personally abhorrent, he was faced with a professional dilemma. He might have tendered his resignation, but instead he'd gone to see Edward Carson. In hindsight, of course, Paull understood that he'd already made his choice, which was far more difficult and dangerous than simply throwing in the towel. He'd decided to stay on, to fight for the America he believed in in every way he could. His plan began with the alliance he and Edward Carson formed.

This was surprisingly easy. The two men held the same vision for America, which included returning the country to a healthy separation of church and state. Though fiscal conservatives, they were moderates in virtually every other area. They both disliked partisan politics and despised political hacks. They wanted to get on with things without being encumbered with pork barrel politics. They wanted to mend fences overseas, to try to undo the image of America as bully and warmonger. They wanted their country to be part of the world, separated from it only by oceans. At heart, each in his own way, had come to the same inescapable conclusion: America was at a critical crossroads. The country had to be healed. To do that, it had to be resurrected from the little death of the current