Balance of Power

Joan's family with no private place to heal. They had been hers to protect, and now Kerry's failure was hers.

    'We sacrificed them,' she said in a toneless voice. 'To the media, to the needs of the Presidency . . .'

    Kerry turned to her, his expression miserable and imploring. 'All we wanted was to have them at our wedding . . .'

    'No,' she interrupted softly. 'It was never our wedding.'

* * *

Even in his devastation, Kerry knew it was better to be silent.

    'Mary,' Lara said at length. 'However I feel . . .' Her voice faded. 'As soon as we get there, I want to see her. Before anything else.'

    'I'll make sure of it,' Kerry answered. And then he realized how ironic and how empty, coming from him, those words must sound to her.

* * *

    It was shortly before two p.m., Eastern Daylight Time, when the first tapes of the murder appeared.

    Clayton was about to leave the White House when Kit came to his office, grim-faced. 'Turn on Fox News,' she said simply.

    He did that.

    On the screen, Inez, Joan, Mary and Marie clustered near the baggage carousels. 'Jesus,' Clayton murmured.

    There was one soft pop. Inez Costello fell, blood spurting from her throat. Then there was chaos: the camera jerking; Mary crawling; a body spinning on the carousel; Joan's face; Marie's doll clutched to her chest, eyes frozen in fathomless horror.

    'Stop . . .' someone yelled.

    The doll shattered. The sheer force of the bullet knocked the child off her feet.

    Marie . . . , a man's voice cried in anguish, and then the film went dark.

    This remarkable footage, the anchorman said soberly, was taken by a cameraman from our San Francisco affiliate. Only after a great deal of soulsearching did we conclude that it so illuminated the tragedy of domestic violence that the American public must see it for themselves . . .

    'Ghouls,' Kit said tightly. 'Now they're the king of cable news.'

    It would be the centerpiece of the frenzy, Clayton knew, played endlessly until the funeral. And it would follow Kerry and Lara to the end of their days. More than ever, Clayton felt in his bones the pitiless nature of the Presidency.

    'They'll run it again,' he told Kit. 'Make me a copy.'

* * *

Shortly after noon, in San Francisco, Air Force One landed at SFO.

    The first to disembark was the Air Force colonel who carried the briefcase with the response codes for a nuclear attack. As he passed it to the Army counterpart who shadowed Kerry on the ground, Peter Lake emerged, then others from the Secret Service. All air traffic had stopped; a caravan of police and Secret Service agents again waited on the tarmac.

    The President and First Lady were the last to disembark. Lara stopped at the foot of the stairs, as if searching for the place where her family had died. A young White House aide, dispatched the night before by Clayton, approached Kerry with a cell phone and the pained expression of a man who wished to be anywhere but this.

    'Mr. President,' he said. 'The Chief of Staff is calling.'

    Clayton, Kerry guessed, was on a military aircraft headed for California. Taking the phone, he asked, 'What is it?'

    'There's a tape of the murders,' Clayton said bluntly. 'You'll want to make sure Lara doesn't watch TV.'

    Kerry's headache pounded from his temples to the back of his head. 'Or read newspapers?'

    Clayton's voice was soft. 'Why would she want to, Kerry?'

    The President glanced at his wife, looking warily about her as they unloaded his bulletproof black limousine from the cargo hold of Air Force One. 'The tape,' he said, 'I hope you made a copy.'

* * *

The motorcade took them to Pacific Heights.

    Overlooking the bay, the imposing brick mansion was surrounded by more police and Secret Service, and the street blocked by police checkpoints two hundred feet in either direction. Mary Costello awaited in the sunroom.

    Lara went to her. Awkwardly, Kerry stopped, several feet away.

    Tentative, Lara took her sister's hands. 'He just kept shooting,' Mary said brokenly. 'I tried to hide—I couldn't help them . . .'

    Shivering, Mary began to weep.

    Lara pulled her close, her cheek pressed against Mary's.

    'Your wedding,' Mary said in a ragged voice. 'We never should have come . . .'

    Over her shoulder, Lara stared through Kerry as if he were not there.

* * *

    Clayton reached the mansion by four p.m., setting up his makeshift office in the library. But it was nightfall before the President came downstairs. Though they had not seen each other since the tragedy, Kerry said simply, 'She's sedated.'

    Face ravaged, he seemed to exist in his own space, a man so different that Clayton did not know what to say. 'I'm so sorry, Kerry. I'm just so sorry.'

    The President nodded. 'Where's the tape?' he asked.

    Clayton did not quarrel with him. Only when they stood in the commodious screening room did Clayton ask, 'Are you sure?' Kerry's silence was his answer.

    Clayton pushed the play button.

    On the giant screen, Lara's family died in jerky images. 'So fast,' Kerry murmured. 'It's just so fast.'

    His expression never changed. When it was done, the President asked Clayton to run the tape again.

THREE

To Inspector Charles Monk, the airport hotel room where John Bowden planned the shooting looked like the