"A secret admirer of Senator Grace's. That's all I'm at liberty to say."
Spencer looked up from the photographs, his eyes cold with contempt. "You're no admirer of Corey's, Sean. And neither are your pals. Corey's everything you can't stand, a senator who deplores the world you operate in." Spencer's voice hardened. "This is about knifing Blair. Whoever sent you wants Corey's fingerprints on the knife. Risky for us, and for you. Just who do you owe that much to?"
Though stung, Gilligan merely shrugged. "Not your concern, Hollis. Your mission is to beat Marotta. And if you don't use this and Marotta wins the nomination, the Democrats will use it to defeat him. You owe it to your candidate--not to mention your party--to burst Blair's bubble now."
Head raised, Spencer regarded him over his reading glasses. Gilligan imagined the progression of his thoughts, including one that said silence was best. "You've done your job," Spencer told him. "Why don't you just run along."
SPENCER FOUND COREY in his suite, studying his notes for an informal talk to undecided delegates. CNN droned in the background. "What's up?" Corey said with mild irritation. "I'm running late."
"This won't keep." Tossing the envelope in front of Corey, he said, "I don't want you to open this. I'll tell you what's inside--proof that Charles Blair has a gay lover on his payroll."
Corey felt the color drain from his face. "Where'd this come from?"
"Sean Gilligan gave it to me. He's running this nasty errand for someone else."
Corey tried to sort out his emotions, ranging from pragmatism to wariness to a deep sadness, despite everything, for Blair and his family, the victims of his weakness and folly. "It's not the Democrats," he said at length. "They'd save this for October. And it's sure as hell not Marotta."
"Hardly. Used right, this could blow him out of the water--the anti-gay crusader who picked a pansy for his running mate. The evangelicals would explode."
Hearing a familiar voice, Corey glanced at CNN and saw Marotta standing in front of Christy's delegates. "Please tell us, Senator," a delegate implored him, "what reason you'd give our Lord for admitting you to heaven."
Marotta lowered his eyes. "I wouldn't give Him a reason," he answered. "I'd simply ask for mercy, because of what our Lord Jesus Christ did for all of us at Calvary."
His questioner nodded vigorously. In that instant, Corey wanted to take Marotta down by any means at hand. "I can't let him become president, Hollis."
"Blair's fucked," Spencer said matter-of-factly. "If we don't leak this, someone else will. What bothers me is that whoever went to all this trouble has an agenda that pre-dates Blair's selection. And we don't know what it is." Spencer's expression clouded. "If we were to leak this, and it was traced to us, you could be as tarnished as Marotta."
On CNN, Marotta stood beside Christy, brandishing a Bible. "I believe as Bob does," he said emphatically. "The only rules you need to build a decent society are right here in this book. That's how I know that homosexuality is a sin; that gay marriage and its surrogates violate God's law and send the wrong message to our young people."
Corey watched Christy summon a halfhearted smile, then turned from the screen. "How long do I have to decide?" he asked.
"Hours, at most. If Christy goes over to Marotta, you may be over. After the undecideds, your next meeting is with Mr. Rainbow. I'll call him up to cancel."
Corey headed for the door, then turned. "No," he said. "I'll see him, however briefly."
"Why, for Godsakes?"
"It's a debt I have. To someone I used to know."
On CNN, Marotta knelt with Christy in a prayer circle, beseeching God for help.
8
EVEN AS HE GREETED THE NEW LEADER OF THE RAINBOW REPUBLICANS, Corey was impatient for the meeting to be over. He had made little headway with the undecided delegates, and his decision about Blair's secret life--perhaps a poisoned chalice but also, quite possibly, his only hope--could not wait. When his new supplicant introduced himself, Corey waved him to a chair with minimal warmth.
Jay Cantrell was a handsome man, surprisingly young, with jet-black hair, an athletic bearing, and dark, perceptive eyes that signaled his awareness of Corey's mood. "I won't waste your time, Senator. But at least you've been decent on our issues. Christy and Marotta are scapegoating us--Christy because he believes in it, Marotta because he'll do whatever he needs to.
"I know you're under pressure to join the club. I implore you--please don't."
Beneath Cantrell's poise and discipline, Corey sensed his desperation to be heard. Bluntly, Corey asked, "Why do you perform this thankless task? You're dealing with people who hate you not for who you are, but what you are. Why bother being a Republican at all?"
"Because I am," Cantrell answered promptly. "There are millions of gays who, as people, are deeply conservative. Why should we have to be Democrats?" His tone, though urgent, was even. "A lot of this issue is personal. Once a person learns that someone they care about is gay, their prejudice begins to soften. And every significant movement for human progress in our history--women's suffrage, civil rights, interracial marriage--needed supporters in both parties. If we can make our party more accepting, even at the margins, then all the pain involved will be worthwhile.
"That brings us back to you, Senator. The Christian conservatives want you to embrace their homophobia. But your instincts are inclusive--you've shown that in your political and personal lives. The choice you make now is as defining for you as it is critical for us. I pray that you don't throw us overboard."
Listening, Corey felt conflicting emotions--guilt about his brother, sympathy for Cantrell's argument, annoyance at the young man's unsubtle reference to Lexie, and ambivalence about Blair. With as much dispassion as he could muster, Corey asked, "What do you propose I do about reality?"
"What you have been doing. You don't have to be a crusader for gay rights. Pick a Christian conservative for vice president if you have to." Cantrell leaned forward, his eyes locking Corey's. "That would give you leeway to gradually change the tone. All we need is for you to allow Americans to let us join their family. Besides, I think this issue is as important to you as it is to me. Or should be, at least."
Discomfited and annoyed, Corey decided to conclude the meeting at once. "Thank you," he said coolly, and stood to signal the man's dismissal. "To my regret, we're out of time."
Cantrell made no move to leave. He inhaled, as if preparing himself for a difficult moment, and then removed a letter from the pocket of his suit coat. "Until now," he said, "I wasn't sure I'd ever do this."
Reaching up, he placed the envelope in Corey's hand.
The only words on it were "For Corey Grace." But even after thirteen years, Corey knew the handwriting at once. With clumsy fingers, he took the letter from the envelope and read its first line.
By the time you read this, I'll be dead.
Corey sat, briefly closing his eyes, then read on. Something happened between me and my roommate. I can't face Mom and Dad. But especially I can't face you. I can't let myself embarrass you, or be used against you by people like that Reverend Christy.
This is my way out. I found out I don't belong here. I don't know where I belong--nowhere, I guess. I'm disgusted at myself, and too confused to go on. I just can't live like this.
I love you. You've always been a good big brother to me. It's not your fault I could never be like you.
At the bottom, in handwriting so shaky that the name was barely legible, his brother had scrawled Clay.
When Corey looked up, Cantrell's face was drawn. "Where did you get this?" Corey asked.
Cantrell held his gaze. "He left it in his bag."
"You're 'Jay,'" Corey said slowly. "The cadet he wrote me about."
"His roommate," Cantrell corrected. "The cadet who chose to live."
The last phrase, Corey perceived, explained much about who Cantrell had become. With unspoken dread, Corey held up the letter and asked, "How did it even come to this?"
"From
my first day at the Academy," Cantrell answered in a bitter tone, "this senior made me his special project."
"Cagle," Corey said.
For an instant, Cantrell looked startled; then he slowly nodded. "Once you show weakness, some people enjoy finding out how much you can take. But Cagle was different.
"Most seniors have gotten over the fun of hazing--even the sadists who like singling out the weakest link. But Cagle had 'gaydar.' He hated me for being what he knew I was, and Clay for sticking by me." Briefly, Cantrell touched his eyes. "I warned Clay to keep his distance, not to befriend me. He wouldn't listen. Maybe he knew I didn't want him to.
"We became Cagle's only targets. He'd come to our room at three A.M., wake us up for inspection. One night he tore our room up, supposedly searching for alcohol, and then kept us awake to clean up after him. At mealtime he made us stand at attention, answering question after question so we didn't have time to eat. He forced us to clean the latrines with toothbrushes, scrubbing on our hands and knees while he stood over us screaming that we'd missed a spot. Day after day, our only question was what he'd do to torture us, not whether." Cantrell stared at the carpet. "It was sick, and I think most people sensed it. It was like Cagle put all his fear and hatred into forcing us to leave. But none of his classmates wanted to be a rat. So it just went on and on and on."
Corey shook his head. "Then why on earth did you let him catch you having sex?"
"I didn't know," Cantrell answered miserably. "I mean, I knew about myself. But not Clay.
"That night Cagle woke us up after midnight, once again peppering us with questions and complaints until we were exhausted. I was ready to break. When he finally left, I started crying." Cantrell paused, then continued in a monotone: "Clay put his arms around me. He was afraid, too, he said--afraid of failing, of what his parents would say, of letting you down. 'If it weren't for Corey,' he told me, 'I wouldn't be here. I'm only here because he helped me.'"
"So he knew?" Corey said quietly.
Cantrell did not seem to hear. "Pressed against him, I felt myself get aroused, and then I realized he felt it, too. 'It's all right,' he told me. 'It's all right.'" Cantrell's eyes shut. "For that one moment, Clay made it all right.
"I forgot about everything but that. And then Cagle threw the door open and caught us in the beam of his flashlight. It was as though he knew that it would happen," Cantrell finished softly. "They called Clay's death a suicide. I still think of it as murder."
"Murder?" Corey said with equal quiet. "If so, there's blame to go around."
Cantrell still stared at the carpet. "Cagle shouldn't be an air force officer," he said.
"He's not. He hasn't been for thirteen years." When Cantrell looked up at him, Corey said, "Once I became a senator, I got a seat on the Armed Services Committee. I took an interest in Cagle's career. So did a powerful friend of mine. Cagle found it convenient to leave."
Cantrell's face registered surprise, then satisfaction. "Good."
"Maybe for the air force," Corey answered. "I found it did very little good for me. The person I was angriest at wasn't so easy to get rid of."
Cantrell studied him in silence. They were no longer senator and supplicant, Corey felt, but two strangers uncomfortably bound by guilt and sorrow, and its claim on their very different lives. "Would you have accepted him, Senator?"
"When he was alive? I guess so. I certainly accepted him once he was safely in death's closet."
The comment, no less corrosive for Corey's flatness of tone, caused Cantrell to stare at the letter. "What will you do with this?" he asked.
Corey thought first of his brother and then, unavoidably, of Rob Marotta, Bob Christy, Charles Blair, and, last of all, his parents. "Other than wish you'd never given it to me?" he answered. "At this particular moment, I honestly don't know."
"HOW WAS MR. RAINBOW?" Spencer asked Corey.
Corey sat at the table in Spencer's suite, the manila envelope so damning to Blair between them. "Let's talk about Blair."
"Let's talk about the nomination. As I see it, your choices come down to this: out Blair or accept Christy's demands about gays--or both. Unless you want to take this to Blair and warn him to withdraw."
"I can't do that," Corey said flatly. "It'll look like we're the ones who had him followed. I've got no debt to Blair that justifies that risk."
Spencer paused, looking at Corey more closely. "Are you okay?"
"I'm just tired. So let's get this done. I can't see outing Blair ourselves--as you point out, we don't know where this came from. I don't want our fingerprints on it."
"I've thought about that. Why not give it to Mr. Rainbow? He'll know what to do, and he's got to be sick of closeted gays who play the homo-phobe card."
"No," Corey said softly.
Spencer eyed him across the table, as though waiting for an explanation. "Think about it," Spencer urged. "Now or later, Blair's toast. Why give this switch-hitting Judas a temporary reprieve at the risk of making Rob Marotta--a morally challenged opportunist who trashed both you and Lexie--president of the United States?
"Sometimes the things we don't want to do are necessary. Do you want to be president or a fucking plaster saint?"
Corey thought of the letter in his pocket. "I'm not going to play someone else's game, Hollis. Give Gilligan back his file, with instructions to tell whoever sent him we're not interested."
"So you're not doing anything," Spencer burst out in frustration.
Corey felt a genuine sympathy: Spencer did not know, and Corey would not tell him, the reasons he was acting as he must. "Oh, I'm doing something. If you're right, someone whose motives are obscure is desperate to take down Blair--now, not later.
"If we don't bite, they'll do something else. The balloting starts in about twenty-eight hours; by that time, we'll know what it is."
"By that time," Spencer responded, "Christy may have put Marotta over the top. What do you mean to do for him?"
"Nothing," Corey said. "Except to tell him that myself."
COREY AND CHRISTY sat facing each other, three feet apart. "This is a surprise," Christy told him. "Is there reason to hope you've seen the light?"
"This is about something else, Bob." Corey took the letter from his coat pocket. "I want you to read this."
Christy looked at Corey more closely. Raising his eyebrows, he fished the reading glasses out of his shirt. "What is it?"
"My brother's suicide note."
Christy's expression froze, as though perceiving something in Corey that was alien and new. With obvious reluctance, he began to read. In the time it took for him to finish, Christy's features sagged. For the first time, he looked old.
"That day in the park," Corey told him, "my brother was there, too."
Christy shook his head, the movement slow and heavy. "How you must hate me," he said after a time. "And how you must have hated pretending otherwise."
"I did hate you," Corey said simply. "But not as much as I despised myself. He was my brother, and I missed the most important thing about him. If I hadn't, nothing you said or did would have wound up in a suicide note."
Gingerly, as though passing a fragile china cup, Christy put the letter back in Corey's hands. "What do you want from me, Corey?"
"Nothing."
Christy shook his head, his expression bleak. "No, you want something. Unless this moment is pleasure enough."
Corey shrugged. "It'll have to do. I'm not going to use this against you. There won't be a bathetic press conference where I exploit my brother's death to 'humanize' my position on gay rights. I don't even expect you to soften; the respect I've conceived for you stems from the fact that you believe in what you say." Corey paused, his voice quiet but firm. "All you need to know is that I can't go with you on this--now, or ever. If there is a God, which I sincerely wonder about, I think He judges both of us more harshly than He judges Clay. Or maybe we just judge ourselves. Whatever the case, for me to scapegoat people like my brother because of your be
liefs would only make things worse."
Christy gazed at him without speaking, as though the finality of Corey's words made any response superfluous. "So do whatever you need to do," Corey told him, and let himself out.
9
BY FIVE O'CLOCK, TWO HOURS BEFORE THE TUESDAY NIGHT SESSION was to open, Corey and Senator Drew Tully were plotting how to crack Blair's hold on the Illinois delegation.
His broad face resembling slabs of granite, Tully took a swift gulp of Scotch. "With Riggs and Statler I could have done it. But now they're supposedly so sick from 'food poisoning' that they've scurried home, replaced by a couple of Blair's toadies.
"No question that Blair has leapfrogged me in clout--I may be on the Appropriations Committee, but now my delegation is imagining him as president, for chrissakes. The idea of Blair making life-and-death decisions makes me want to puke--if I could break that twit, I would. He's just so fucking 'perfect.'"
"Keep trying," Corey urged. "And if you think I can make a difference by talking to a delegate, just call." He placed a hand on Tully's shoulder. "This much I'm sure of, Drew--I'm a hell of a lot more likely to be president than Charles Blair ever will be."
Looking doubtful, Tully nodded, then tossed back his remaining Scotch.
THE NEXT TWO hours passed in skirmishes. At the risk of becoming a party pariah, an aging delegate from Missouri--pledged to Marotta but not bound by state law--announced that she would vote for Corey because of his stand on stem-cell research. "My husband has Alzheimer's," she said at a press conference. "God doesn't mean real people to suffer for the sake of a speck in a petri dish." But a few minutes later, one of Corey's delegate hunters, desperately seeking votes, was booed at a meeting of the Idaho delegation. Then Rohr News reported rumors that Bob Christy would pledge his delegates to Marotta.
About Blair, Spencer reported to Corey, he heard no rumors at all.
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