Balance of Power

Chronicle: John Bowden, weakling. When at last he reached the desk, he could not look at the woman who asked for his ID.

    She looked at his driver's license, then at him—for far too long.

    'Thank you, sir,' she said.

* * *

    At four o'clock, after delivering a speech on health care, Kerry returned to the Oval Office and took a call from George Callister.

    'This is a lousy wedding present,' Callister said without preface. 'But I can't go down this road with you, Mr. President.'

    Kerry slumped in his chair. 'So the SSA,' he said with muted anger, 'is calling the shots for Lexington Arms.'

    Callister was silent. 'It's a lot of things,' he responded at length, 'that I'm not free to talk about. Suffice it to say that we're putting out a statement, denying any intention to reach an agreement with your administration.' Pausing, Callister sounded tired. 'Before this, I had my hopes. But the board feels there's no way to deal with you, and assure peace for Lexington Arms.'

    For a moment, Kerry was silent. 'There will be no peace, George. For any of us.'

    'Maybe so. But I don't expect they'll shoot me now, or drive us out of business. That seems the most we can hope for.'

    'It's not enough,' Kerry said. 'Not for me. Not even for you.'

    On the other end of the line, Callister drew a breath. 'I'm sorry, Mr. President. And I enjoyed working with you. I think you're an honest man, and I credit your convictions.'

    More quietly, Kerry answered, 'And I yours.'

    'Thank you. For whatever it's worth, best wishes for your wedding day, and for married life thereafter.'

    Kerry thanked him, and got off.

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.