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 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.
'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.
TWENTY-TWO
