Balance of Power

    To Kerry, she seemed stripped to her essence—her eyes were open wounds, her last defense the steely calm of a journalist familiar with death. He could not ask about her visit.

    "There's a letter from Bowden," he said gently. "It's addressed to me. I wish you never had to read it. But it will be public—soon."

    Briefly, Lara's eyes closed, and then she nodded. As she sat on the edge of the bed, Kerry placed the letter beside her. Without touching it, Lara read. When she had finished, she did not look up.

    "Leave me," she requested with a fearful gentleness.

    Heartsick, Kerry kept himself from touching her. Kneeling beside her, he still spoke softly. "There's more, I'm afraid. They're playing a video of the shooting. On Fox TV."

    Her eyes did not move. "You've seen it."

    "Yes." For a moment, Kerry hesitated. "So have the families of the other victims. While you were gone, I called them."

    She spoke in a monotone. "And now you want us to see them."

    "I should. If you can't, I'll do it alone."

    "Oh, I'll go." Her mouth moved in a brief and bitter smile. "I'm the First Lady, after all." Her voice became soft again. "Just not today."

    Briefly, he imagined her at the mortuary, alone with those she loved. "There's a police inspector coming, Lara. I want to find out how Bowden got the gun."

    Still she did not look at him. "Does it matter?"

    "It does to me." Pausing, Kerry studied her profile. "Do you want to see him?"

    "Someone can tell me when he's here." When, at last, she looked at him, tears formed in her eyes. "But first I should see that film, shouldn't I."

* * *

    Charles Monk took the bullet from its glassine bag and placed it on the coffee table.

    The President stared at its serrated points. "This is Marie's?"

    "Yes."

    "On the film," Kerry said, "I heard twelve shots."

    "That's right. The gun can take a forty-round magazine. This was the eleventh round. Bowden's was the twelfth."

    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.