Balance of Power

    "I had my assistant run a search," Taylor told Lara with a smile. "He came up with several thousand articles, twice that many mentions on evening news shows, six television specials, and the covers of all four bridal magazines. There were more items on your mother, niece and sisters than on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, Mahmoud Al Anwar, and nuclear proliferation—combined."

    Briefly, Lara gave Kerry a look tinged with worry, then turned back to Taylor. "About my family," she said quietly, "we have a favor to ask."

* * *

    Drinking vodka and orange juice, John Bowden stared at the screen. He had not eaten, could no longer sleep. The continuous hits of alcohol seemed to surge through his veins, causing the picture to focus, then blur, as though suspended between reality and dream.

    The telephone rang. Bowden did not answer. Nor did his machine: after seven messages from Carole Tisone—whoever she was and whatever she wanted—he had switched it off. The "urgent" message from his lawyer could wait; the only "urgent" matter was getting back his family. He stared at the screen, torn between numbness and rage, a sense of loss so deep he could feel it in the pit of his stomach, so profound that only death could relieve his pain.

    On the screen, the son of a bitch Kilcannon smiled at Joan's ice queen of a sister, the television prima donna. Her sorority sister—the overpaid bottle blonde—kept up the cheerful patter. "How," she asked the ice queen, "has your family enjoyed getting to know the President?"

    Lara took Kilcannon's hand. "They adore him," she said lightly. "But then, who wouldn't?"

    Kilcannon smiled. "Should we start with the U.S. Senate?"

    Bowden took another swallow of vodka. Start with me, you little prick.

    The chirping from the screen enraged him now. He stood, staggering, and went to the refrigerator for more vodka. Returning, he stopped to snatch The Defender from his pile of gun magazines.

On the screen, no one was smiling.

    "The Chronicle story is forcing us to talk about a very personal matter," Kilcannon said. "But I honestly don't know who it serves."

    Lara touched his hand. "Joan's dealing with the challenges in her marriage," she told the blonde, "in large part thanks to Kerry. But not everyone has a former domestic violence prosecutor in the family to guide them through the legal system. All we can hope for now is that other victims of domestic violence, as well as their abusers, find the help they need . . ."

    Bowden stopped, staring at Kerry Kilcannon. The glass trembled in his hand.

* * *

    Afterward, Kerry and Lara retreated upstairs. "I'm exhausted," she told him. "But I'd better go find Joan."

    Kerry unknotted his tie. "You should."

    Lara began to remove an earring, then paused, gazing at Kerry. "Was that the best thing for her, I wonder? Because Mary says it's the worst."

    "Just the only thing," Kerry said flatly. " 'Best' is to be left alone."

    Lara was silent. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Kerry asked, "How did you feel about the rest of it?"

    Pausing, she reflected. "I'd give us a B. Sometimes we were a little too Nick and Nora Charles."

    "We're not that clever," Kerry assured her with a smile. "And we don't drink nearly enough Scotch."

    Smiling, Lara kissed him. "I love you," she said softly. "I just can't wait to move in here. So that we can run away."

    The telephone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, Kerry murmured, "Kit," then picked it up.

    "What should I know," Kit asked him, "about you and Lexington Arms?"

TWENTY

At seven the next morning, workers were pitching an enormous canopied tent on the South Lawn. A few feet away, Francesca Thibault described the reception plans to the anchorwoman for Good Morning America. Clumps of early-rising tourists, the first wave of thousands, peered at them through the iron fence; Secret Service agents began staking out the perimeters intended to contain the crowds; beyond this, the networks erected platforms for their cameras and crews, vendors began hawking "commemorative" programs with photographs of Kerry and Lara, and the initial phalanx of SSA demonstrators, some wearing military decorations, carried signs protesting the President's supposed plot to confiscate all guns. More Secret Service agents checked into the fifteenth floor of the Hotel Madison, where Lara would spend the night; others completed background checks on hotel employees; still others prepared to occupy the surrounding rooftops. At Dulles Airport, crowded with more tourists drawn to the wedding, police arrested two Egyptians with suspected ties to Al Qaeda and Mahmoud Al Anwar. In the Oval Office—oblivious to all this—President Kerry Kilcannon surveyed the early editions of the New York Times and Washington Post, spread across his desk with excerpts from the Internet editions of the San Francisco Chronicle and other major dailies. Kit and Clayton stood beside him.