'What is it?' Lara asked.
Troubled, Kerry shook his head. 'Help me with this tie, and I'll tell you.'
Lara worked on the knot. As she finished, so did Kerry. 'His pattern worries me,' he told her. 'Depression; hopelessness; anger about losing Joan and being cut off from his child; this 'life is no longer worth it' monologue, with threats of suicide and worse. And then bringing Marie into his psychodrama.
'He's panicking, becoming desperate. It's classic, and it's dangerous.' Turning, Kerry plucked his tuxedo jacket off the canopied bed, shrugging into it. 'Our job is to help protect them until he can get help, or at least accepts that Joan is gone for good.'
'I agree,' Lara said. 'But the issue is how. I think Joan needs security, however we can manage it. I also worry you're getting drawn in too deeply—that it will boomerang somehow. Maybe we should find Joanie her own lawyer, and work through him.'
Kerry reflected. 'After tomorrow,' he said, 'we'll try to do all that. But we need to get the D.A. on this right away.'
Pensive, Lara considered this. 'All right,' she answered. 'But the sooner we find her help in San Francisco, the better. This isn't feeling right to me.'
Together, they left the bedroom, Kerry trying to anticipate how Bowden might react to his arrest. At the top of the stairs, he paused to refocus on the dinner to come, hands resting on Lara's shoulders.
'Canada,' he said. 'It's north of here, I think.'
* * *
Shortly after eleven, Kerry unknotted his tie, picked up the telephone in the office of his living quarters, and called Marcia Harding at her home in San Francisco. Lara stood beside him.
The Assistant District Attorney listened without interrupting. 'It's not enough to bust this guy,' Kerry finished. 'Somehow we need to reach him.'
'We'll pick him up tonight,' Harding promised. 'His trial's two weeks away, Mr. President. But when we bring him up tomorrow for violating the stay-away order, we'll ask the judge to put him in a batterers' program right away.' She paused, her voice filled with concern. 'We take these kinds of threats seriously. In over half our domestic violence murders last year, the murderer killed himself.'
Kerry glanced up at Lara. 'How many involved guns?' he asked.
'Again, well over half.' Harding paused. 'Don't worry, Mr. President. As soon as they arrest him, they'll do another search.'
* * *
The black cop cuffed him; the red-haired cop began searching his efficiency apartment, going through the rental furniture and pressedwood desk and end tables. Filled with impotent rage, John Bowden watched her.
There was nothing for her to find, barely anything his own. Men should be self-sufficient and resourceful; never weak or confused. But now he was in a strange room as sterile as a doctor's office, handcuffed, struggling not to scream or cry.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, before meeting with the Canadian Prime Minister, Kerry had Senator Chad Palmer of Ohio to the White House for breakfast.
The two men ate alone in the family dining room. For Kerry, the breakfast was both a pleasure and one of the harder things he had done. A Republican and a military hero, Chad had been Kerry's closest friend in the Senate despite their differences in philosophy and a clash of ambitions. Chad, too, had been considered a prospective President, and Kerry admired Chad's candor and independence, enjoyed his iconoclastic wit. Among politicians, Chad Palmer had always cut a dashing figure: his aura of unquestioned courage was accentuated by blond good looks so distinctive that his enemies on the Republican right had satirically dubbed him 'Robert Redford.' But the Palmer who sat across the table was far sadder and more subdued, his face newly etched with suffering.
That this in part had been Kerry's doing, however unintended, made this morning's task more difficult. When Kerry had nominated Caroline Masters, Palmer, then Chairman of the Judiciary Committee, had helped Kerry conceal from her opponents a private matter which they both felt should remain so. For both men, principle was commingled with complex calculations of political advantage; for Palmer, the decision had led to tragedy. Masters's secret was discovered, Chad's role in protecting her exposed. In reprisal, Palmer's right-wing enemies within his party had leaked a secret of his own—that his only child, Kyle, had become pregnant as a teenager and, despite Palmer's public opposition to abortion, had terminated her pregnancy. Humiliated by her exposure, Kyle had become intoxicated and driven off Rock Creek Parkway to her death.
Filled with anger and remorse, Chad had played a decisive role in helping Caroline Masters win her narrow confirmation. Then, with his wife Allie, he had retreated into a reclusive, silent mourning. That this was Chad's first visit since the fateful dinner in which he had agreed to protect Judge Masters was, Kerry felt certain, no more lost on Chad than it was on him. And so, after observing the amenities, Kerry asked directly, 'How are you, Chad?'
Palmer gazed at the white tablecloth, the silver service set in front of them. 'It's been four and a half months,' he said at last. 'Some days I can forget it for an hour, mostly when I'm doing the job that killed her. Then, in an instant, Kyle's with me again—in a quiet moment, or maybe because some Senate page, a young girl, evokes her in the smallest way. And the ache is as deep, almost debilitating, as it was the day we buried her. I don't think that ever gets better.'
The painful honesty of his words left the President without an adequate response. He recalled his mother, staring at the face of her murdered son before they closed the casket. 'And Allie?' Kerry asked.
Chad looked up at him. 'I have work. But Kyle was Allie's life. Now all she has is me.'
To Kerry, this last quiet phrase conveyed far more than Chad's feelings of inadequacy. For Allie Palmer, it would always be Chad's world which had consumed their daughter, Chad himself who would remind her of all she loathed about public life. 'What does she do now?' Kerry asked.
'Very little.' Palmer toyed with his napkin ring. 'She's too unselfish to ask me to retire—she knows the work she's come to hate at least serves to distract me. But we rarely go out. Some nights I find her staring at old photo albums.'
Once more, Kerry wondered at the propriety of his request. 'I wish,' he said at length, 'that there were anything I could do or say.' He paused, choosing his words with care. 'For me, it's complicated by the knowledge that—whether you want to or not—you'll always associate our friendship with Kyle's death.'
There was a moment's silence, and then Chad looked at Kerry directly. 'I've thought about our dinner a thousand times. So, yes, what you say is true. Because now I know what happened, and wish I'd never come.
'But you didn't know Kyle's secret. I did.
For an instant, Kerry thought of his and Lara's secret, their wish to believe that they somehow could avoid the humiliation, and worse, which had happened to so many others. No doubt the man across from him had once believed the same.
'It's far too high a price,' Kerry said, 'for winning.'
Chad's smile was faint and bitter. 'And yet we come here, knowing the rules: that our enemies don't simply want to beat us, but destroy us. That anyone close to us is fair game for a media which has no limits. We know that, and still we enter politics.' Chad shook his head in wonderment and, it seemed to Kerry, self-disgust. 'Some even want to be President. So what does that say about
Kerry shrugged. 'A lot of things, I expect. None of which justifies a culture which sees us not as fallible
