Balance of Power

    Kerry fought back an anger so deep that it threatened his train of thought. 'Did he mean to shoot her?'

    Monk frowned. 'We can't be sure. From the witnesses, we don't think so—seems like shouting startled him. According to the autopsy, he was legally intoxicated three times over. We don't think he was trained in gun use.'

    Silent, Kerry touched the sharp edges of the Eagle's Claw. 'The points are made of copper,' Monk explained. 'Not alloy, which is softer.

    'The tip is notched to split like that. Get hit in the extremities, and an Eagle's Claw will maim you. Get hit in the trunk, you're likely to die.'

    'And the gun?'

    'A Lexington Patriot-2.'

    Slowly, Kerry looked up at Monk.

    Though the man's face was impassive, his yellow-green eyes betrayed a deep compassion. 'Tell me about the Patriot-2,' Kerry demanded.

    'It's not a sporting weapon.' Pausing, Monk seemed to decide on candor. 'You wouldn't use it for target practice unless the target's a refrigerator. What it does is what Bowden bought it for—spray a lot of bullets in split seconds.'

    'Where did he get it?'

    It was Lara's voice, coming from behind them. Kerry looked up, startled. Awkwardly, Monk stood, straightening the creases of his pants. Lara did not extend her hand; watching her, Kerry was certain that she had viewed the film.

    'Where?' she asked again.

    Hesitant, Monk gazed at her in sympathy. 'There's no evidence of a purchase,' he answered. 'Lexington claims they lost the record of whatever dealer they shipped it to, and we can't find any record of a background check. All we know right now is that he traveled to Las Vegas . . .'

    'The inspector,' Kerry cut in with muted anger, 'found this in Bowden's room.'

    Lara walked over to the coffee table. Spread open was a copy of the SSA magazine; on the page, beside a notice for a gun show in Las Vegas, an advertisement described the features of the Lexington P-2. 'Endangered Species,' the bold print said. 'Banned in California.'

    'Remember George Callister?' Kerry asked.

FOUR

The next morning, Kerry and Lara sat in the walled Italianate garden of the mansion. It was orderly and quiet— the flowers and bushes carefully pruned and tended, water spilling from a marble fountain the only sound—and would have seemed the perfect urban refuge save for the Secret Service agents on the rooftop. Lara picked at a plate of fruit.

    'Kit sat down with me last night,' Kerry said. 'We talked about the funeral.'

    Lara looked up from her plate, her long, cool gaze more focused than at any time since the murders. 'Mary and I have already decided,' she answered. 'We want the funeral to be as private as we can make it. I need you to be there as my husband, a member of our family.'

    But not as President, she was clearly saying. In the silence which followed, Kerry thought of his meeting with Kit Pace.

    Kit had arrived the night before, after Lara had retreated upstairs. It was the first time they had spoken since the shootings: Kerry sensed that Kit, as others, had been waiting for clues about how and when to approach him. He had waved her to the chair across from him, accepted her condolences. A few awkward moments passed before Kit addressed what could no longer be avoided. 'This is your tragedy,' she said with unwonted hesitance. 'But it's also the country's. My sense is that people need you to help them mourn, and to help them know how to feel.'

    Fruitlessly, Kerry wished for a respite from obligations. 'Compared to Lara,' he answered, 'it's not my tragedy at all.'

    Kit lapsed into contemplative silence. 'Does Lara plan to speak?' she asked. 'It might be enough for people to see her . . .'

    'See her?'

    'I know how you'll feel about this, but I think you should consider letting television do its work.' To ward off a quick response, Kit had reached out to touch Kerry's wrist. 'A funeral where you speak could be the best memorial. It would allow the nation to participate, and reflect on how the victims died, like in Columbine or Oklahoma City . . .'

Now, Lara put down her fork. 'Kit wants to televise the service?' she

repeated with an air of muted incredulity. 'What a tribute to my family that would be. Perhaps we can read Bowden's letter, explaining how television pushed him to the edge.'

    Kerry could say nothing: to Lara, these deaths were so enmeshed with his decisions, the cost of being President, that he could not give voice to his own guilt, nor penetrate her sense of complicity. 'I don't want to mourn them as symbols,' Lara said more evenly, 'but as three people I loved, who will always be a part of me. Even if I felt otherwise, I could never push Mary to bastardize the funeral. She's the one who saw them die, and she's all the family I have.'

    I'm your family, as well, Kerry thought. But all he ventured was, 'If you want, Kit can help Connie Coulter with the media. Like it or not, they're out there.'

    Lara looked around her at the garden. 'I'll ask Mary if she minds a press pool,' she said with a faint sardonic undertone. 'Perhaps in the rear of the church, as they did at our wedding.'

    I didn't kill them, Kerry wanted to say. We didn't kill them. But he could not even persuade himself. 'We're the President and First Lady,' he said in measured tones. 'We'll be that at the funeral, like it or not. We're also two people who've been married for five days, three of them so hellish that neither of us knows what to do. Once we leave here we'll need to begin to find our way.' Reaching across the table, he took her lifeless hand. 'You can start with the fact that I love you.'

    Silent, she gazed at their intertwined hands. 'Then let me have my family back,' she answered softly. 'At least for the funeral.'

* * *

    An hour later, after Lara left to be with Mary, Kerry and Clayton watched CNN: in the unspoken protocol of Kerry's mourning, Clayton Slade was the only person—except as absolutely required—whom the President wished to see. The broadcast showed a collage of national mourning—cards and bouquets left at the base of the iron bars surrounding the White House; a deluge of letters to the President and Lara; impromptu memorial gatherings in scores of American cities, and several in Asia and Western Europe; interviews with women who wept for three victims they had never known; a commentator weighing the impact of these deaths against that of Princess Diana. Then Wolf Blitzer began reading a statement from George Callister:

    'All of us,' Blitzer began, 'are shocked and saddened that the murderer of seven innocent people used a gun and ammunition manufactured by Lexington Arms. On behalf of all the employees of Lexington, I've conveyed to the President and First Lady our profound sympathy and sorrow . . .'

    'He called,' Clayton told the President, 'while you were with Lara.'

    Kerry did not turn. 'Callister? What did he say?'

    'How sorry he was. I didn't want to interrupt you.'

    Kerry let a brief, harsh laugh escape through tightened lips. He did not respond in words.