Balance of Power

    Clayton folded his arms. 'You know the problem. There's no record of the sale, or who had booths at the Las Vegas gun show, or even of who went there. So the evidence that Bowden bought it there is circumstantial. We're at the mercy of a racist who hates the U.S. government and, I'm sure, you.'

    'He doesn't have to like me,' Kerry answered softly. 'He just has to be afraid of spending some very long years in jail, making a few very special friends from among the more diverse elements of our populace. A grim prospect for a white supremacist from Idaho.'

    'There's always that.' Clayton's eyes contained a fleeting, cold amusement. 'Which is why, I suppose, Johnson's lawyer implies his man didn't steal these P-2s by himself.'

    Silent, Kerry imagined Johnson's calculations: that the ATF's questions about John Bowden meant that he might hold the key to the Costello murders and, if so, had all the leverage on the President that implied. Then, tracing the likely path of Bowden's gun, he much more viscerally envisioned the racist underbelly of America spawning the murder of Lara's family in a hothouse protected by the SSA and advertised by Lexington Arms. 'What an irony,' he murmured in a bitter tone. 'Seven deaths, and Lexington made no money from them.'

    Clayton said nothing. Kerry turned from him, gazing up at a full, ascending moon in the twilight gathering around them. 'I need the seller,' Kerry said at length. 'I don't care how.'

    'I think you should. For a lot of reasons . . .'

    'Clayton,' the President interjected coldly, 'the seller connects John Bowden to the gun show, and to Lexington's ad. A paramilitary seller means that the worst forces in our society cashed in on Lexington's ads in order to sell stolen P-2s, without the background check which Lexington refused to require of gun-show promoters.

    'It reinforces the case for my gun bill. It gives Dash and Lenihan the evidence they need to prove that Lexington's ad drew Bowden to Las Vegas. It even makes me wonder whether Lexington has known for months that this batch of stolen guns could lead us to the seller, and decided not to reveal that fact to Mary's lawyers or to me.'

    'All true,' Clayton answered. 'But first consider the cost of finding out. Johnson's already committed three violent felonies. That means that under the federal sentencing guidelines, he's due to get a minimum of fifteen years in a maximum security prison for theft, possession of stolen guns, and trafficking.

    'That doesn't leave much leeway for a deal short of throwing out his case . . .'

    'That's a lot to ask.'

    'There's more,' Clayton continued in the same impervious tone. 'Johnson's lawyer implies that the guy who sold to Bowden may be a fellow member of the Liberty Force. You may think that helps you. But I think Johnson's pitch will be that helping you puts his life in danger, in or out of prison.'

    Kerry turned to face him. 'You mean he'll ask for a Presidential commutation. And a place in the witness protection program once he's done with testifying.'

    'It smells like that.' His friend's stocky form seemed rooted to the ground in stubborn warning. 'Think about the implications of that— legally, morally and politically. What President, you'd have to ask, would kick a man like Johnson loose.'

    'Maybe this one,' Kerry answered. 'But only if he gives me what I need.'

* * *

    Sarah had a date—rare since the Costello suit had propelled her around the country—and anticipation of dinner with Jeff Weitz, a longtime friend who seemed intent on becoming more had, for once, left her eager to leave the office. And so when the telephone rang she hesitated, glancing at the caller ID panel before deciding to answer.

    'Private,' it said. Sarah recalled her resolve to miss no calls, and the reason for it. As if the thought itself would be a jinx—as it had been for two weeks now—she answered with little hope that this call would be different.

    'Is this Sarah Dash?' her caller asked.

    Though she had heard it only once before, the man's high, reedy voice gave Sarah goose bumps. 'Yes.'

    'We talked earlier.' Whether from an accurate sense of his importance, or the belief of an unstable mind that his reality was central to the world's, her caller seemed to know how intently Sarah had been waiting for this moment. 'I saw that film of the President at the gun show, and felt we have a bond. There are things I need to tell you.'

    She would be late for her date with Jeff.

TEN

'Cassie Rollins hasn't budged,' Dane told Fasano over breakfast at the Metropolitan Club. 'When was the last time you talked to her?'

    'Ruckles did. I'm prepared to make this a loyalty test, but I thought I'd save myself until you'd done your worst. What is your worst, by the way?'

    Dane held the pepper shaker above his eggs, frowning as only a few black specks broke loose despite a vigorous flicking of his wrist. 'A mass mailing, to start—every person in Maine who bought a hunting license, went to a gun store, bought a concealed carry permit, or is registered as owning a pickup truck . . .'

    Fasano laughed aloud. 'That would work in my state. Especially the trucks.'

    'The mailer should start hitting tomorrow,' Dane continued in a satisfied tone. 'Then comes a half-million dollars in spots. We put Cassie's face on the screen, tell everyone about the threat to gun rights and ask if she's standing up for Maine values . . .'

    ' 'Call Cassie Rollins,' ' Fasano intoned.

    'Exactly. We'll put her office number on the screen and ask her constituents to let her have it.'

    Fasano spread marmalade across his English muffin. 'We want to scare Cassie—but not kill her. I'm not willing to lose a senator because you want tort immunity.'

    Shrugging, Dane contemplated the scattered flecks of pepper. 'When are you scheduling a vote?'

    'I'm going to have to deal with Hampton, who seems to have cast his lot with Kilcannon. But what I'm thinking now is that tort reform comes first—maybe in two weeks.'

    'That'll give us time.' Looking up from his plate, Dane added pointedly, 'And give you time with Cassie.'

* * *

    Three days later, Air Force One swooped down into Portland, Maine. Kerry traveled from the airport followed by a horde of local media, commencing a day of public exposure no amount of money could buy and only a President could command. His first public meeting was with a victims' rights group; his second with members of a police union who supported gun control; his third with the widows of three former officers who had been killed by felons with guns. 'My dad was a beat cop,' he reminded each audience. 'There were nights I stayed awake until he came home, worrying about what might happen.' He did not mention that the fear he felt was for his mother, not his father, or that, in the guilty recesses of his soul, he had wished that his father would never come home again.

    His last stop was for dinner with local hunters. They met in a rustic restaurant outside town, with long, family-style tables and a deer head on the wall. In a work shirt and jeans, Kerry sat amongst them, working on pot roast, potatoes and a Budweiser. Leery of the cameras, the hunters were quiet and unanimated. After a few edgy moments, Kerry cut to the core.

    'Here you are,' he said pleasantly, 'stuck with the President of the United States, trying to be polite. Even though pretty much all of you voted against me.'