The Race

by Richard North Patterson

  Pensive, Costas looked from Price to Marotta, as though his antennae had picked up something feral. "You're not telling him," he said flatly.

  "He doesn't deserve the courtesy. He lied to us, and we need his delegates. The question is whether you can bring us yours."

  Marotta watched several emotions play across Costas's features--caution, interest, doubt, and, regarding Blair's secret, a mixture of curiosity and dread. "I feel like I'm walking across someone's grave," he said.

  Marotta leaned forward. "It can't be helped, George. Magnus's question stands: can you deliver your delegates?"

  Costas blinked. "I think so. But Grace has a lot of supporters, some of whom don't like you much. It would help to tell my delegates I'll be your nominee--"

  "You won't be if we throw away Illinois," Price cut in. "This is a test of your leadership, George. Convince your people that endorsing Senator Marotta is the best thing for New York."

  A frown drew down a corner of Costas's expressive mouth. "The only way they'd believe me is if they knew what I can't tell them. Come November Rob won't carry New York. Grace at least has a chance, and my delegates know that. You're putting me in a catch-22."

  "Look--" Marotta began.

  Holding up a hand, Price signaled for his candidate's silence. Softly, he asked Costas, "Do you want to be vice president?"

  Costas nodded. "Yes."

  "Then listen well, Governor. You look at yourself and imagine a vice president, even a president. The party's leaders look at you and see a pussy. This is the only chance you'll ever have."

  Inwardly, Marotta flinched, not only at hearing the truth so brutally delivered, but from imagining Price's private estimate of Marotta himself. And yet he himself held Costas's eyes, then nodded.

  The governor's gaze broke. "Give me an hour," he said. "I need to talk with Louise."

  WITHOUT PREFACE, PRICE removed the contents of the manila envelope and spread the photographs in front of Charles Blair. For an instant, Blair stared at them and then, though it made no sound, his mouth began working. "You're dead," Price told him. "The only question is whether you're roadkill or we arrange a decent embalming."

  A wet sheen moistened Blair's eyes, as though he'd been stung by a blow across the face. "What do you want?" he managed.

  "You as my love slave, Charles. You'll withdraw whenever I tell you. If that's two hours from now, it is. But my current preference is to sit on this for a day, so that you can hold your delegates." Price's voice dripped with loathing and disgust. "You'll have to act your little heart out, Charlie. But God knows you're good at that."

  Blair closed his eyes. "I'm sorry ..."

  "'I'm sorry,'" Price mimicked. "'Sorry I lied to you, Magnus.' 'Sorry I may have cost Rob the nomination.' 'Sorry I gulled my wife into thinking I was straight.' 'Sorry I put some dimwit body builder on the public dime so I could fuck him in the ass.' You're the sorriest piece of shit I've ever seen in politics. But not as sorry as you will be unless you deliver your delegation to my candidate.

  "If you don't, Alex Rohr will publish this file in every media outlet he owns. You're not just fighting for my candidate. You're fighting for your marriage, your family, and whatever scraps of dignity you can pretend to deserve. Do you understand me?"

  Blair nodded mutely, paler than before. "I need to go to the bathroom," he began to say, then hurried from the room.

  Gazing out the window, Price could hear Blair vomiting through the bathroom door.

  11

  AT TWO O'CLOCK--FIVE HOURS BEFORE THE CONVENTION WOULD reconvene--Spencer and Corey watched CNN as Governor Costas appeared at a hastily called press conference, Rob Marotta at his side.

  Though tall, Costas was stoop-shouldered, and he read his statement in a halting manner that detracted from its force. "This has been a bitter contest," he recited. "But after days of soul-searching, I have concluded that Senator Marotta is the candidate who can best unite the disparate elements of our party--including those who support Senator Grace and Reverend Christy."

  Corey began counting Marotta's delegates. "If Costas holds New York," he said, "Marotta is only twenty votes shy of winning on the first ballot."

  Eyes glued to his text, Costas droned on. "Senator Marotta's openness to the center of our party is exemplified by his selection of Governor Blair."

  "They know," Spencer murmured. Turning to Corey, he said more decisively, "Marotta and Price know about Blair, and they've promised Costas VP."

  "I can't believe that."

  "Believe it--it's exactly what Magnus would do if he were desperate enough." Observing Corey's expression, Spencer grabbed his cell phone. "I'll prove it to you."

  "Who are you calling?"

  "Blair."

  Spencer waited impatiently, a portrait of silent fury, then said, "Hollis Spencer here. Get me Governor Blair." His eyes narrowed. "I don't care if he's meeting with Jesus and John Lennon--if Blair doesn't take this call, he'll wish he were as dead as they are."

  On the television, Costas clasped Marotta's hand. "Hello, Governor," Spencer said. "I guess you know you're being dumped. For sure Marotta does." He listened briefly, then spoke again in a lower voice: "Quit vamping. We know, you pathetic bastard. I'll leave it to Corey to decide what we do about that. But if I were you, I'd withdraw before the balloting starts."

  Spencer hung up. "So you were right," Corey said.

  "Yeah. The poor sonofabitch is scared witless."

  "What happens if he doesn't withdraw?"

  "We out him ourselves--no other choice."

  Slowly, Corey shook his head. "With what? We gave the evidence back to Gilligan, and just as well. Even now, I don't know if I could do this to his wife and kids."

  "Magnus could--he's blackmailing Blair to hold on to Illinois. That's why we're so damn close to losing." Spencer's cheeks flushed, the look of an older man dangerously overexerted. "For Godsakes, Corey, wake up. Do you really want to hand this thing to Rob Marotta?"

  Sitting back in his chair, Corey watched Marotta on CNN managing a smile of spurious triumph as he stepped up to the microphone. "Find Drew Tully," he instructed Spencer. "Tell him we think Marotta's dumping Blair for Costas.

  "He can call a meeting of the delegation and ask Blair to deny it. If Blair cracks at all--if even two delegates flip from Marotta to me--under the unit rule Drew controls the entire delegation, and Illinois goes with me.

  "Blair will crack, I'm guessing. He'll think that Tully knows what we know."

  Spencer gave him a dubious look, then reached for his ringing cell phone. "Sure," he told his caller, and covered the cell phone. "Sam Larkin wants to meet with us."

  Corey glanced at his watch. "Tell him five o'clock."

  "Why so late?"

  "There's someone I need to see." Heading for the door, Corey said, "Call Tully."

  WITH TWO SECRET Service agents watching from a decorous distance, Corey knocked on the door of her suite.

  After a moment it opened slightly, revealing Lexie's face. "It's only me," he said.

  "Only you." She smiled a little. "And only a few months late."

  "Not my fault," he said with mock exasperation. "Are we going to debate this through a crack in the door, or do I get to come in?"

  She opened the door. Corey stepped through, and pushed it closed behind him. Then he brought her close to him, feeling her body against his, smelling her skin and hair. "I haven't changed my mind," he murmured. "Marry me."

  Drawing back, she placed a finger to his lips, and then her own lips replaced it. For a time their kiss was soft, lingering; then it went deep.

  Corey reached for the zipper of her dress. "Now?" she asked.

  "It's just that it's been so long ..."

  Her head against his shoulder, Lexie gave a shaky laugh. "Forgotten what it's like?"

  Looking into her face, Corey slipped the dress from her shoulders. Her skin, a sepia brown, drew his lips again. As they brushed her nipples, he felt her quiver. Her dress slid to the
floor, then the flimsy silk that covered the soft tangle of hair below her waist.

  "Follow me," she whispered.

  Breaking away, she went to the bedroom and stretched out on the bed. He stood at its end, undressing, caught in the beauty of her nakedness.

  Even when he entered her, Corey still looked into her face. "I love you," he told her softly, and then neither of them spoke at all.

  AFTERWARD, THEY LAY close to each other, their faces inches apart. Smiling again, she said, "Too bad nothing else is as simple as this."

  Corey did not smile. "You don't know the half of it."

  "Tell me."

  Swiftly, Corey told her about Clay's letter, Blair's secret, and all the permutations that followed. When he was through, her eyes were grave, even sad. "All these broken lives."

  Corey could say nothing to this. She took both of his hands in hers. "I love you, too," she said. "That's why I'm here. I even think that, as a couple, we have something unique to offer the country. But if you become president, I don't think we can survive."

  "And if I'm not president?"

  "I still want you to be," she answered. "So I can't see beyond tonight. But if you want me at the convention, I'll be there. That may be all I have left to give you."

  Filled with worry and regret, Corey glanced at his watch. "I have to go," he said reluctantly, and kissed her one last time.

  FROM THE SUBLIME to the treacherous, Corey thought, and focused his full attention on Sam Larkin.

  Sitting comfortably in Corey's suite, Larkin glanced at Spencer, then trained his solemn gaze on Corey. "You got a problem," he said bluntly. "Your so-called moderate friends, Blair and Costas, are jumping ship like rats. And now, rumor has it, your lady friend is back."

  Corey shrugged. "Lose some, win some."

  Larkin's eyes widened slightly. "What you're about to lose is the nomination. Time to cut to the chase, son.

  "You need my delegates. You need my explicit support to keep Christy and his delegates from jumping on Marotta's bandwagon. And what with your choice of romantic entanglements--which I envy you, by the way--you need a southern running mate to appeal to whites with, shall we say, a more traditional outlook."

  Corey smiled. "Why so decorous, Sam? Why not just say 'racists'?"

  "Racists vote," Larkin said coolly. "Some even get to be delegates. You're way past being choosy. In less than two hours the nominating speeches begin, then the voting. Sometime between then and now you'll either get me or lose everything."

  Corey glanced at Spencer. "Help me here, Sam. Last time I looked you were touting Blair's virtues to southern delegates. Now you want the job yourself. What's changed?"

  "The delegate count." Larkin gave him a slow smile. "It never eluded me that I don't exemplify your notions of good governance, what with all the lobbying I did on behalf of America's embattled corporations. But now I'm thinking that maybe a man who's wanting to be president needs to overlook such things. Unless the man's a fool."

  Corey found himself staring into Larkin's cynical blue eyes, even as he tried to calculate the odds that Blair would fold, or be outed, between now and the first roll call. He steeled himself for one final bluff. "I'd like your support," he told Larkin. "Maybe I need it. But I have reason to think my situation isn't as dire as you suggest.

  "If you hold out tonight, I'll give your offer every consideration." His voice softened. "Marotta's got problems. Maybe you've heard that, Sam."

  For an instant, Larkin hesitated. Then, cool again, he said, "I'll give your nonoffer 'every consideration,' Corey. I surely will. Unless I get a better one, of course."

  With little ceremony but a handshake, Larkin left. As Spencer closed the door behind him, Corey said, "That bastard. He's the one who dropped the dime on Blair."

  Spencer paused, hand still on the doorknob. "Think so?"

  "Sure. When he sold Blair to Marotta--which I'm certain he did--he hoped to pressure me into picking him. But if Marotta actually wins, Sam loses. So he slipped the dirt he'd collected on Blair to Gilligan, then told Sean to give it to me."

  Spencer smiled a little. "But you didn't play. So Larkin's started improvising."

  "I think so. Somehow or other Larkin fed the evidence to Marotta. But Price and Marotta decided to tough out the first ballot. Then Sam doubled back to me, hoping to exploit my hour of weakness." Corey glanced at his watch. "If I'm right, Larkin won't let Blair survive past nine o'clock. He can't."

  "And if you're wrong?" Spencer asked pointedly. "Unless Blair snaps under the pressure, your only choice is to out him or lose. But you can't bring yourself to do that, and you won't make Larkin VP. Your virtue comes at a cost, and its name is Rob Marotta."

  Corey fell quiet as, one after another, a gallery of faces filled his thoughts: Clay, Lexie, Larkin, Marotta, and, finally, Joe Fitts. Then his cell phone rang and, as he answered, Spencer's.

  "Hey." It was Dakin Ford. "No time to explain, but I've made headway with Mary Ella Ware--most particularly, her lawyer.

  "Boy's begun to worry about his law license, maybe spending time in a prison cell with a 'special friend' named Bubba." Ford gave a sardonic laugh. "Busy night for me--in a few minutes, I've gotta second your nomination with a deeply moving speech. But I'm meeting this shyster right after. Whatever you can do to survive the first ballot, do it."

  When Corey looked up, Spencer was holding out his cell phone, his expression grim. "It's Marotta."

  Corey took the phone, "Hello, Rob. Looking for Super Bowl tickets?"

  Marotta did not laugh. "It's time to talk," he said. "Just the two of us, in person."

  12

  WHEN MAROTTA OPENED THE DOOR OF THEIR MEETING PLACE, THE television was tuned to the convention.

  The two men did not shake hands. Waving Corey to a leather couch, Marotta sat on the edge of a wing chair, his posture alert, his face composed but expressionless. Corey decided to wait him out; the course of the conversation, he guessed, would be dictated by whether Blair had warned Marotta that Corey knew his secret.

  "This has been hard," Marotta began. "Politics for stakes like this are brutal."

  Corey shook his head. "Not everything is politics, Rob. Nor is politics an excuse for doing anything to win."

  As Marotta considered him, Dakin Ford's voice issued from the television. "In a time of war," Ford told the convention, "there is no substitute for character, and no surrogate for courage."

  Angling his head toward the television, Marotta said softly, "No one can take those from you."

  "Perhaps not. But people can try. You certainly tried in South Carolina."

  Marotta frowned. "You don't mean to make this easy, do you?"

  Corey shrugged. "What reason would I have?"

  A cacophony of shouts and cheers caused Marotta to glance toward the television. When his gaze remained there, Corey followed it.

  Grinning, Ford waved to someone in the convention hall, and then the camera panned to a smiling Lexie Hart waving back from the VIP box. More delegates turned to watch as cameramen scrambled toward her--all at once, the business of the convention simply stopped, given over to the full-throated roar of excitement from Corey's delegates after suffering through three nights of choreographed adoration for Mary Rose Marotta. In that electric moment, Lexie, appearing entirely at ease in this new role, looked transcendently like the First Lady of a country filled with promise.

  The applause kindled a demonstration, Corey's supporters filling the aisles. From the Ohio delegation, and then from the delegates around them, a chant rose amid the outcries. "Lexie, Lexie, Lexie ..."

  Ford propped his arms on the podium, still grinning, a spectator deeply enjoying the scene before him. Then Lexie sat, breaking her connection with the crowd, allowing the convention to refocus on the daunting task before it.

  "A nice moment," Marotta commented matter-of-factly. "But you're about to lose."

  Edgy, Corey turned to him. "You still think that?"

  "I know that. The on
ly question is what you gain by playing this out." Leaning forward, Marotta spoke over the ebbing tumult broadcast from the convention floor. "If you withdraw tonight and give me your support, you'll gain the party's gratitude, and perhaps a great deal more."

  Corey hesitated, left to guess at Marotta's motives; if Marotta knew that Corey had learned about Blair, his air of calm bespoke an iron nerve. "And what might that be?" Corey asked.

  "Your choice of cabinet positions," Marotta said evenly. "State or Defense."

  He doesn't know. Corey was suddenly sure. Several realizations flowed from this: that Blair was more afraid of Marotta and Price than of Corey; that Blair meant to gut out the first ballot as Marotta had demanded; and that his own chances of surviving to a second ballot rested on whether the anonymous leaker--Sam Larkin, in Corey's guess--exposed Blair within the hour. As if Marotta's offer was of little moment, Corey turned to the television.

  For a moment, the two men watched a conservative black congressman--a former football star chosen to nominate Marotta--succeed Ford at the podium. Casually, Corey asked Marotta, "You really think Blair can hold Illinois?"

  Though he repressed the temptation to study Marotta's expression, Corey could feel a new tautness in the room. In a dismissive tone, Marotta said, "Why wouldn't he?"

  Corey shrugged again, still watching as Marotta's advocate warmed to his task. "We cannot," the man proclaimed, "and will not turn this party over to those who would protect neither innocent life nor the sanctity of marriage."

  "Forget the party," Corey said conversationally. "How could any president turn the Defense Department over to a guy like that?"

  Marotta did not answer. "Who," the congressman cried out, "will stop the gay agenda from unraveling the moral fabric of America?"

  With fleeting and bitter amusement, Corey tried to imagine Marotta's discomfiture, trapped with a rival he was trying to co-opt as his surrogate denounced him. "Who," the congressman demanded, "will speak out against those who personify the degraded Hollywood culture that schools our young in promiscuity and violence?"