"I don't know if we can stick, Mr. President. Right now they're focusing on damage control."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes," Callister answered baldly. "Say nothing."
* * *
At the San Francisco airport, Bowden waited in the economy class line. He had not eaten; he was no longer drunk, but nauseated. His hand trembled slightly. The one suitcase he held contained his checkbook, a shaving kit, one change of clothes, and his stack of gun magazines.
The line snaked forward slowly, minute after minute, until staring at the neck of the old Chinese woman ahead of him made Bowden want to shoot her.
Kilcannon. Kilcannon and Joan's bitch of a sister had stolen his wife and daughter, cost him his job, his dignity, and any reason to live. And now they had degraded him on national television.
At the newsstand, his name had leapt out at him from the front page of the 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.