Balance of Power

    On the screen, Blitzer continued reading. "We must remember," Callister went on to say, "that a gun in itself is neither good nor bad, and that millions of Americans use guns safely and responsibly, from hunting to sportshooting to protecting their home and family from people like John Bowden. The essence of this tragedy lies not in the fact that Lexington makes guns, but in the recesses of this man's demented mind . . ."

    "Tell Callister," Kerry said quietly, "that he'll be hearing from me. In my own time and way."

* * *

    That afternoon, the President materialized before a startled press pool, speaking briefly and without notice in the circular driveway. He took no questions; Lara was not with him. This was his first public statement since the murders.

    He looked weary, but composed. "On behalf of the First Lady and her family," he began, "I would like to thank all Americans for their understanding and compassion in this very private time . . ." He did not mention Callister, or guns.

FIVE

The funeral mass was held in a simple Roman Catholic church in the Sunset District, near the stucco home where the Costello family had lived since Lara was born. The mourners filling the church were parishioners and other friends. The sole public official besides Kerry was Vice President Ellen Penn, who had represented the district before advancing to the Senate; the press pool was limited to ten reporters, consigned to the rear and confined to pads and pencils. Kerry sat with Lara and Mary, Carlie and Clayton Slade beside him. A few times Carlie touched Kerry's hand, as if she knew that Kerry felt alone. He did not know what Lara would say, or how she would manage to say it.

    The caskets holding Inez, Joan, and Marie were draped in cloth. When it was time, Lara walked toward them. Instead of pausing at the altar, she went to her mother's casket, gently resting a palm on the cloth. And then, softly, Lara spoke to Inez Costello.

    "You always believed in me," Lara began. "You always believed, in the mystical way that mothers do, that I could meet whatever challenges awaited me.

    "You didn't ask me to succeed for you. You didn't look at me, and see yourself, or see a surrogate for your own dreams. You just saw me." Lara paused, tears coming to her eyes. "And so, Mama, I saw myself as you did. Because I so believed in you."

    Once more, Lara gathered herself; watching, Kerry could feel the depth of her loss.

    "You gave that gift to all of us." Briefly, Lara smiled at her sister. "When I look at Mary, I remember all the stories you told me about her teaching, and about the children—sometimes troubled—whose lives she was making better. Because you just believed so deeply in all that she was doing . . ."

* * *

Minutes passed; the passage of emotion between Lara and those who listened, at first worried for her, settled into a calm communal sadness. As Lara finished speaking to Joan, the church was hushed.

    "You saw our mother raise us alone. You saw how hard it was. But when it mattered—when you saw Marie at risk—you determined to protect her in every way you could." Fighting back tears, Lara said clearly, "And in every way you could, you did . . ."

* * *

    Standing beside Marie, Lara spoke of watching her at Dulles Airport, walking away from Lara toward her future, as if now reminding the child of her past.

    "You were our future," Lara said softly. "We imagined your graduations, your achievements, the life you might create. For us, one of the joys of growing older would be watching you become the person you were meant to be . . ."

    Briefly Lara faltered; only the impossibility of doing so kept Kerry from reaching out to her. Then, once more, she regained her selfcontrol. "Now," she told Marie, "too soon, you are at peace. And those of us who love you, and whom you have left behind, must find a way to give your life the meaning you would have given it by living . . ."

* * *

    At last it was done. The black limousine bearing Kerry, Lara, and Mary led the funeral cortege from San Francisco to Colma, a suburb whose primary purpose was to serve as a final resting place for those who, because San Francisco had banned new cemeteries, could no longer be buried in the city. The featureless miles of grey monuments struck Kerry as Arlington without the grandeur, lending a bleak symbolism to what, the involuntary skeptic in Kerry feared, was an eternity of nothingness, the common indistinguishable fate of all who rested here. But all that had been left to him was to secure for the murdered women and child the rarest of Colma's blessings, a resting place beneath a tree, on a modest bluff some distance from the marble rows.