Balance of Power

    Despite the softness of his tone, Cassie felt that this response—simplistic, with a whiff of melodrama—betrayed a desperation at variance with Dane's accustomed self-assurance. For the first time, she sensed this was not simply about ideology, or power: for whatever reason, Cassie guessed, the lawsuit worried him. "I'm always your friend," she assured Dane in a placating tone. "Whenever gun rights come up, I have a bias in your favor . . ."

    "Not on the assault weapons ban," Dane interrupted pointedly. "That nearly cost you your party's nomination."

    This was going to be unpleasant, Cassie realized. She mustered a smile. "You have a long memory, Charles, and so do I. That was five years—and many a pro-gun vote—ago." Her voice assumed the faintest tinge of defiance. "I'm entitled to the occasional show of independence. But I understand that this is fundamental to you. I take you, and that, very seriously—and will before I vote. In the meanwhile, my door is always open to you and to your members."

    Dane frowned, rested his arms on his knees with—Cassie noted wryly—his index fingers pressed together, pointing toward her like the barrel of a revolver. "I don't like to do this," he said bluntly. "But you've earned fair notice. If you vote against us on either bill we're prepared to run George Bolt against you in the primary."

    Cassie was genuinely startled. George Bolt was a crusty former governor, moderate on many issues but adamant in support of gun rights—a far more serious opponent than some right-wing stooge. "George Bolt," she answered coolly, "is savvy enough to know that a man of seventyone, who hasn't run statewide in a decade, is past it. He's got no organization left. Why embarrass himself?"

    Dane gave her a brief smile, a chilly play of the lips. "To save Maine from the embarrassment of a senator who's betrayed the Second Amendment. As for organization, we'd fill the gaps nicely."

    And so they would. Was George Bolt's law practice flagging so badly, Cassie wondered, that he needed the renewed attention? And then she wondered, with a piercing onset of real fear, why she—or her mentor Warren Colby—hadn't seen or heard this coming. "George can't beat me," she repeated. "And if he does, he'll lose to Abel Randolph in the general. Precipitating a primary fight against me is all it will take to persuade Randolph to make the race. Either way, you'll enhance your chances of trading me for Abel."

    "That's right," Dane answered calmly. "And your colleagues will remember that when you're gone. So will you—even if you manage to scrape by." Dane paused, finishing with an air of regret. "This isn't personal, Cassie, and we don't want to do it. But you need to know before it happens, in the hope that it never will."

    For a long time Cassie gazed at him. "I hope so, too," she said simply.

TWO

"Before your sister left John Bowden," Nolan asked Mary Costello, "did you do anything to help her?"

    Near the head of the conference table, Harrison Fancher fixed Mary with the vulpine gaze of a bird of prey, while an innocuous male reporter awaited her answer. But ten minutes into the deposition, Sarah's world had narrowed to the tense, three-sided relationship between Nolan, her somewhat fragile client, and herself. Sitting beside Mary in Nolan's conference room, Sarah saw hostility and self-doubt flicker in her eyes, resolving themselves in a stiff, stubborn posture—rigid back, compressed lips, gaze fixed on the table. "Until Lara saw Joan's bruises," Mary answered in a defensive tone, "we didn't know anything was wrong."

    Nolan raised his eyebrows. "You'd never seen any injuries?"

    "No." Mary looked away. "She'd stopped doing much with us. But we just thought she must be busy with her family."

    "You 'thought,' " Nolan echoed with muted incredulity. "Did you ever ask her?"

    "No."

    Tense, Sarah prepared to intervene. Nolan's first line of attack was becoming clear: Joan's family of origin had failed to protect her and now, by suing Lexington and the SSA, Mary was seeking to deflect her guilt while profiting from her own indifference. "So," Nolan pressed, "John Bowden was keeping your sister and Marie virtual prisoners, and it never occurred to you to inquire as to whether they were okay?"

    "Objection," Sarah cut in. "That's not a question—it's harassment."

    Fortified by Sarah's defense, Mary raised her eyes, fixing Nolan with a gaze of rebuke. As though noting this, Nolan chose a milder tone. "In your heart, Ms. Costello, didn't you know that something terrible was happening in your sister's home?"

    This seemed to strike a chord of self-doubt, causing Mary to hesitate before insisting in a thinner voice, "You don't know how charming John could be. We just didn't know."

    " 'We'? Did you ever discuss with your mother whether Joan's husband might be mistreating her—or, at the least, isolating your niece and sister from their own blood relatives?"