Balance of Power

    "When you have a friend like Kerry Kilcannon, you wish the very best for him." Turning, he raised his glass to Lara. "Today, in Lara, our wish came true . . ."

* * *

The air inside the economy cabin felt unhealthy and chill. John Bowden began to shiver. He could not ask for a second Scotch. He knew that his voice would slur, and he did not want the flight attendant to notice him.

    Folding his arms for warmth, he closed his eyes. But, as in the last six days, he could not fall asleep.

* * *

    "In Kerry," Lara told the guests, "my mother and sisters acquired a wonderful source of love and support, and Marie a world-class uncle."

    Pausing, her smile encompassed her family. "Of course, it was a little disconcerting to see them think, 'At last—a man so kind, so sensitive, so forebearing, that he can even live with Lara.' Their sense of relief was palpable." Turning to Kerry, she added, "And so was mine."

    She paused, her eyes filling with emotion. "All my life I've wanted to succeed. And now I know what true success really is for me—to share my life with you . . ."

* * *

    "Being engaged while being President," Kerry told the celebrants, "is like being on an extended date with two hundred eighty million chaperones. It's truly a test of love—and ingenuity."

    Amidst the laughter, Kerry's expression grew serious. Softly, he said, "I've never thought I was born to be President—that was my brother, James. But thanks to my mother I always knew what love is. So that now I can recognize in Lara the woman I was born to love . . ."

* * *

The plane landed with a jolt.

    Rising, Bowden forgot his seat belt. It pulled him back; embarrassed, he fumbled with its catch. When he stood, light-headed with alcohol and sleeplessness and days of meals gone uneaten, his self-belief was shriveled.

    Like an automaton, he trudged off the plane, following the others to the baggage carousel.

* * *

Just before the dancing began in the East Room, the President found a quiet moment with Senator Chad Palmer. Even amidst the babel of celebration, the press of bodies anxious for a word with Kerry, the others left them alone.

    "I saw you chatting with Frank Fasano," Chad said dryly. "Weddings bring out the best in us, don't they?"

    Kerry smiled. "Frank and I," he said mildly, "try to visit every five years or so. But I expect it will be more often now that he's become your peerless leader. How are things over there?"

    "Different," Chad said with a trace of the enduring bitterness he held toward Fasano's predecessor. "Mac Gage was Southern-boy cagey— Machiavelli beneath the smile. But you always knew better than to trust him. This guy's like a Jesuit with a business plan: totally focused, without a single unguarded moment, and much harder to read than Gage. I have no doubt that he deeply loves his wife and children. But to Frank, you and I are less people than corporate competitors, roadblocks to the business plan secreted in the recesses of his mind."

    The remark was a reminder, if Kerry needed one, of the price Chad had paid for his own ambitions. "Screw Fasano," Kerry told him. "What I wanted to say is how grateful I am you're here."

    Chad's smile of appreciation was tinged with sadness. "When you dance with Allie," he requested, "tell her that. Today was hard for her."

* * *

His mouth still sour with alcohol, Bowden waited for his luggage.

    The carousel kept spinning. He stared at it as if hypnotized, feet rooted to the tile, fearful of being watched: as bags arrived, and others snatched them, the clump of people around him dwindled. Soon there were only three.

    When at last his suitcase appeared, moving slowly toward him, Bowden was as alone as he was in life.

* * *

    At eleven o'clock, Kerry and Lara Kilcannon began climbing the stairs to the residence.

    With their guests gathered at the base, Lara glanced over her shoulder, and then tossed her bridal bouquet over her head.

    Turning, she saw it still rising in the air, then, to her surprise, falling in a precipitous drop at the feet of her niece Marie.

    As the celebrants laughed, Marie picked it up with the confused, delighted look of a child not quite sure what she has done, but certain that it must be notable. On the stairs, Lara covered her face, laughing; she had meant the bouquet for Mary, who regarded her niece with a fond bemusement which somehow conveyed "Always a bridesmaid . . ." To Marie's mother, Lara called out, "Put those flowers in trust, Joanie. In twenty years or so, Marie can take them out again."

* * *

    Bowden lay in the motel room, shades drawn, the gun resting on his stomach. In the dark, he checked the time on his iridescent wristwatch.

    He did not expect to see this time tomorrow.

* * *

    In the dark, Kerry held her. Her breasts rested lightly against his chest.

    "I feel like we've gotten away with murder," Kerry said.

    Lara laughed. "That I get to stay over, you mean?"

    "For openers. Doesn't this feel different to you?"

    "Yes, actually. But maybe not the way you mean."

    "How's that?"