Balance of Power

    'Housekeeping,' a woman's voice shouted.

    'Go away.'

    There was silence. In the stillness, second upon second, Bowden thought of the only action which would make his death seem more than pitiful.

    Slowly, he put down the gun, and found the airline schedule in the crevice of his wallet.

* * *

    'Their plane is late,' Lara told her husband. 'A mechanical problem.'

    'Too bad. Whenever, there'll be someone waiting for them.'

    They sat cross-legged on a blanket tucked in a recess of the sand dune, watching an orange-red sun recede into the ocean. Lara had made them Caesar salad, and Kerry provided the lobster: while Lara had seen far more death than Kerry—though not of anyone close to her—she could not stand dropping lobsters into a boiling pot. Sipping chilled chardonnay, Kerry remarked contentedly, 'This is like The Thomas Crown Affair.'

    It's like before, Lara thought. Of the many people surrounding them, only they knew that, four years earlier, Kerry and Lara had come to this house as lovers. It was during those few days, Lara guessed, that she had become pregnant with Kerry's child. But she had never said this to him, not even when he proposed returning. They were making new memories now.

    'The version with Faye Dunaway?' Lara asked.

    'Uh-huh. And Steve McQueen. They made love on the beach.'

    Lara smiled. Together, they watched the sun vanish beneath the ocean, leaving striations of orange-streaked clouds in a darkening cobalt sky.

* * *

    When the Costellos landed at San Francisco International, Marie at last awakened.

    As the others slowly gathered their belongings, Joan dabbed the sleep from her daughter's eyes with a moistened cloth. The little girl stretched. 'Are we home?'

    'Nearly home.'

    Together, the four Costellos left the plane, reentering a life without the privileges of proximity to Lara. Marie ran ahead on the moving rubber pathway, at times turning to glance back at her mother. Reaching the security gate, she paused, looking back again.

    On the other side were cameramen and people with microphones. 'Marie,' someone called out. But before she could answer, two men in sport coats had swooped down, standing between her and the cameras, and then she felt her mother's hand on her shoulder.

    'Marie,' the man called again. But Marie had already learned to stare straight ahead. She hoped that his feelings weren't hurt.

* * *

Beneath a woolen blanket, Lara gazed at the star-streaked sky, brighter for the absence of city lights. 'Do you know the constellations?' she asked.

'No.'

'Neither do I. Maybe we can send someone for a book on stars.'

    That, Lara realized, had become her notion of a major project. Content, she listened to the deep spill of the ocean.

    Abruptly, Kerry tensed, touching her arm in warning. Startled, she turned to see him staring ahead of them, quite still.

    The skunk, its tail arched distinctively, sniffed at Kerry's feet.

    Hostage to its impulses, the two humans watched the animal, afraid to move. At last, the skunk lowered its tail and ambled away.

    'Where's Peter,' Kerry inquired, 'when we really need him?'

TWENTY-FOUR

With a pneumatic hiss, the glass door opened for John Bowden.

    His coordination was impaired by drink; as he walked, the rows of baggage carousels seemed to magnify, then recede. His mind oscillated between a foggy stupor and a fractured vision of what might come. In the crook of his arm was the box for a girl's pastel Lego set.

    It was a little past six o'clock. The baggage area was crowded with passengers awaiting luggage; the digital sign above the carousel nearest Bowden listed three incoming flights. As he approached it, a middleaged blonde woman saw the Lego set he carried, and smiled at him.

    Ignoring her, Bowden read the sign. Boston, New York, Miami.

    He moved on, more quickly now. He could feel anger pulsing in his temple, imagine the release of pain which would come with each pull of the trigger. Above carousel three the sign flashed 'Flight 88— Washington/Dulles— IN.'

    Abruptly, Bowden stopped.

    The first trickle of passengers began to gather at the empty carousel. To the side, Bowden began to pace.

    The crowd thickened, surrounding the metal oval. A sheen of sweat dampened Bowden's forehead. He paced now in concentric circles, agitated, eyes darting as he scanned the new arrivals.

    Still they did not come.

    His skin felt clammy now. The heat of alcohol cooled into a numbness against which the compulsive pacing became his only weapon. His T-shirt was rancid with sweat; depression seeped through him like nightfall.

    The carousel was still. At the edge of his consciousness, a woman's voice announced, 'The baggage for Flight 88 from Washington-Dulles now will be arriving at carousel five . . .'

Bowden began moving.

• • •

Marie was glad her mommy had taken her to the bathroom.

    The baggage was taking too long. Holding her grandmother's hand, she waited for her bright-flowered suitcase, wondering how grown-ups could keep watching a rubber belt turning with nothing on it.

    Amidst the crowd, her family formed a small group with the two security guards who had met them. This nearness to those she loved—her grandmother's hand, her head against her mother's waist, the sound of her mother talking quietly to Mary—made Marie feel warm and secure. Doll hugged to her chest, she peeked out at the men with cameras.

    Her mother had refused to talk to them; her aunt and grandmother would not either. Although she did not know why, her mother seemed to fear these strangers. She looked away, and then peered out again.

    Daddy.

    He was carrying a box with pink ribbons wrapped around it. Startled, Marie glanced up at her