NO SAFE PLACE

by Richard North Patterson

  Something changed in her eyes; her answer was at once soft and sardonic. “I guess that’s his fatal flaw, isn’t it.”

  Nate nodded. “I’ll see you at the hotel,” he said, and went to call his editor.

  * * *

  In the stairwell of the building’s emergency exit, Nate spoke into his cellular phone, hoping no one would overhear.

  “Did you get to the counselor?” he asked.

  “We did.” Jane Booth sounded wired. “Her name is Nancy Philips. She confirmed that Costello was a patient, that Costello met with her in confidence, that Costello talked about the affair with Kerry Kilcannon.

  “According to Philips, Costello was devastated.”

  “Yeah,” Nate said softly. “That’s pretty clear from the notes.”

  “The problem is that Philips won’t talk on the record. What I get from Sheila Kahn is that Philips feels almost as guilty about what she’s doing now as about what sheused to do.”

  “Why shouldn’t she?” Nate asked. “I mean, violating Lara’s right to privacy is one thing. But ruining her life should give this lady at least a little pause. Even inthese tawdry times.”

  Jane was briefly silent. “You still don’t like this, do you?”

  Nate gazed at the dank stairwell. “ ‘Don’t like’ is too simple. To borrow from an old southern congressman I knew, I’m like a bird looking at a snake—both fascinated and repelled. At moments, I can see myself on Larry King.”

  “Forget all that,” Jane answered. “And stop worrying about Lara Costello. Nobody made her sleep with him.”

  “I never said my feelings were important, Jane. Just that I have them.” Nate stood, restless. “Will this counselor say who she gave the memo to?”

  “No. But Philips admits having joined the local chapter of the Christian Commitment. Whichmay mean something.”

  “So now you’re thinking it got to the GOP andthey slipped it to Katherine Jones? Because I’m not so sure it’s them anymore.” As he spoke, Nate began pacing. “Jones gives me this memo, Mason goes to Boston, and now these demonstrators disrupt Kilcannon’s speech. I can imagine Mason’s people looking at the returns in Oregon last night and deciding it was time to go for broke—”

  “So you think Masonshot those people too?”

  Briefly, Nate laughed. “I didn’t say he wasn’t lucky.”

  “Notthat lucky.” Jane’s tone became clipped, businesslike. “We need another source, Nate. We don’t have a story yet.”

  Nate hesitated. “And you want me to do what, exactly?”

  “Confront Lara Costello. Ask her all the questions about Kilcannon.”

  Pausing, Nate imagined Lara’s face. “Before I show her the memo?”

  “I’d say so, to see what she says without knowing you have it. She may tell the truth or, far more likely, get caught in an obvious lie.”

  “Orshe may tell Kilcannon.”

  “She may.” Jane spoke more quietly now, as Nate did. “But as you pointed out, we run the same risk by talking to Costello’s neighbors, which we’ll start to do tomorrow. And if Kilcannon begins avoiding the press,that’s interesting too.”

  “Tous . But it doesn’t make him Lara’s lover—”

  “We don’t have much time,” Jane interrupted bluntly. “They could give this story to someone else. Especially if it’s Mason.”

  Nate stopped pacing. “From Mason’s point of view, the woman who confronted Kilcannon couldn’t have been better. When she said ‘we need to know just who you really are,’ it was eerily coincidental.”

  Jane seemed to consider this. “Coincidence or not,” she finally answered, “ourjob is to answer her.”

  * * *

  As the motorcade sped down a six-lane freeway on the way to Beverly Hills, Clayton sat with Kerry and thought of a maze leading nowhere. Kerry stared out the window; at his request, the staff had spared him another ride with yet another politician. He had not spoken for several minutes.

  “Mason killed me today,” Kerry said at last. “God help anyone in this party who says abortion involves more than the right to have one.”

  Clayton frowned. “Your response was honest, at least. But it won’t come across in thirty seconds of airtime.”

  In profile, Kerry was pale, his face etched with weariness. “Oh, I knew that. It just wasn’t my day for pandering. But if I were a pro-choice activist, I might not like me, either.”

  Kerry was angry, Clayton knew. But what struck him was Kerry’s ability to detach, to see himself as others saw him.

  Once more, Kerry fell silent.

  Pensive, Clayton watched his face. “You saw her, I guess.”

  Kerry did not turn. “Yes,” he answered. “I saw her.”

  * * *

  Sean Burke looked at his watch.

  It was eight fifty-five. The long cafeteria tables were jammed with well-dressed professionals who had come from work, and the cavernous room echoed with voices reciting the same script at various speeds and rhythms, like a ragged Gregorian chant in a vast cathedral. At nine o’clock, the volunteers would stop phoning; Sean had time for one more call.

  In twelve hours, he had dialed one hundred ninety-seven telephone numbers. There had been no time to find a gun.

  Next to him, Kate Feeney talked on the phone, her face intent while her slender frame, slumped with fatigue, was supported by both elbows on the table. As the day had worn on, Sean had felt a tenuous connection grow: for an hour they would not speak to each other, and then, seeing that he was off the phone, Kate would offer a word of encouragement or, as he gained confidence, a wry smile that acknowledged their mutual imprisonment. At midafternoon, she had shared her turkey sandwich.

  “Great,” Kate was saying in a cheery voice. “I’m calling to see if you’re supporting Senator Kerry Kilcannon for President . . .”

  Her words shook Sean from his reverie; when he stopped to think, as he had when watching Kate, hesitance overtook him. The only way to conquer his fears was to dial one number after another, like a robot.

  Sean hit nine and made his last call, hoping to get an answering machine.

  “Hello?” the woman responded.

  Sean could feel the dampness on his forehead. “My name is John Kelly . . . ,” he began, then stammered at the lie. “From the Kilcannon campaign. Is this Louise Degnan?”

  “It is.” Her voice was middle-aged, polite but reserved. “I haven’t decided, if that’s why you’re calling. I doubt I’ll decide much before Tuesday.”

  It was his mission, Sean thought, to make sure the Tuesday election never came. Suddenly he saw himself stepping toward Kerry Kilcannon, gun raised to fire. In a hollow voice, he asked, “Do you plan to vote in the primary?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s voice warmed slightly. “I don’t mean to discourage you, Mr. Kelly. I don’t favor Vice President Mason, either. I’m just listening to what they both have to say. Do you know if there’ll be a debate?”

  Mason had called for one, Sean remembered. “I’m sure that Senator Kilcannon wants to debate,” he ventured, and then remembered the stacks of campaign literature he had perused during a ten-minute break. “You know about the senator’s stands on women’s issues, right? Like protecting battered women and children . . .”

  The woman paused. “I’m not sure I do, actually.”

  “Well, he’s always been like that.” The pit of Sean’s stomach felt empty now. “I mean, his first job was prosecuting men who beat up women. He even saved a kid’s life . . .” Abruptly, Sean felt Kate Feeney’s gaze—they were not supposed to argue with voters or deviate from the script. His voice fell off. “Maybe we can send you some pamphlets.”

  “That would be fine, Mr. Kelly.”

  Sean closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, and then remembered the script. “Thank you on behalf of Senator Kilcannon.”

  When he hung up, his fingers felt clumsy, the telephone heavy. It was nothing like the remembered feel of the weapon in his hand, light and slende
r and lethal. He would not look at Kate.

  “That was good,” he heard her say. “What you told her about Kerry.”

  When he turned to her, Kate’s eyes seemed guileless; wisps of blond hair fell across her pale brow. Sean felt his face redden. “We’re not supposed to say anything.”

  “You were nice, though, and you were sincere. People feel that.”

  Kate was smiling a little. But Sean could not tell whether it was pity or deception. He remembered the first time he had realized that, with girls, there was something he did not quite comprehend. It was like listening to distant music on his old car radio when he drove in the remoteness of the Berkshires—notes too faint to hear, words fading until the station vanished altogether.

  He would never forget her name—Ann Regan—and the way she looked: strawberry-blond hair, light freckles; her full mouth, when she smiled, framed dimples at both corners. She sat near him in religion class; lying in his bunk bed at the boys’ home in Charlestown, he would listen to the boys around him stir as they slept, and safe in the darkness, he dared to imagine that she liked him.

  One morning, leaving the boys’ home on a crisp spring morning, he decided to wait for her after school.

  Each class that day was an agony of suspended time, of looking at his watch. In religion class, two hours before school ended, he studied her for signs. She did not seem to notice him until Sister Helen asked if he was praying or merely daydreaming. Ann Regan had laughed with the rest, and Sean, humiliated, had bowed his head in shame . . .

  Looking into Kate Feeney’s face, Sean felt a hand on his shoulder.

  He flinched, startled. Kate’s eyes widened at his reaction. Quickly, Sean turned to see who had found him.

  Rick Ginsberg smiled down at him. “Jeff Lee says you did a great job, John. Thanks for staying.”

  Staring at the coordinator’s pleasant face, Sean felt surprise, then relief, and then a wrenching wave of gratitude. Rick squeezed his shoulder. “Keep coming back, and maybe youwill meet him. Sometimes we can arrange that for volunteers.”

  Rick hurried on. Sean stayed next to Kate, muted by the fresh, sudden image of facing Kerry Kilcannon. All around them, women in suits or men with loosened ties had begun to chat among themselves, freed from the telephones in front of them. A T-shirted student with tousled black hair put a stack of pizza boxes on one corner of a table.

  “Can you stay?” Sean heard Kate ask. “This is where you get to know people.”

  Once more, the fear of being known struck Sean like a blow to the chest. He shook his head, not daring to meet Kate’s eyes. “No,” he mumbled. “I can’t.”

  NINE

  Ten minutes before she was to meet Nate Cutler at the bar, Lara heard a knock on the door of her hotel room.

  She was in the bathroom, fresh from a shower. Unhurriedly, she put on her blue robe and then, at the second knock, opened the door.

  It was Nate. For an odd moment, Lara thought that his thin face, his wire-rimmed glasses, made him look ascetic. He stood there, silent and unsmiling.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  Studying his face, Lara felt surprise war with apprehension. She nodded, backing away. Nate closed the door behind him with exaggerated care.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Nate watched her. “It’s about Kerry Kilcannon.”

  His voice erased whatever ambiguity the words might have had. Sickened, Lara suddenly pictured the two of them as solitary antagonists, trapped in a room overlooking a darkened city. As she struggled for clarity, the mastery of thought over emotion, Lara tilted her head in silent inquiry. She would not help him by speaking.

  The mirthless smile at one corner of Nate’s mouth seemed to acknowledge this. “We know you had an affair with him, Lara. It ended two years ago, when he was still married. Just before he decided to run for President.”

  Instinctively, Lara turned away. She was overwhelmed by the swiftness of this, two years of silence shattered, her own emotions breaking loose. Walking to the window, she gazed out at Los Angeles, its irregular grid of lights flickering in the night. Though there were tears in her eyes, her voice was soft, clear.

  “If you know all that, why come to me?”

  The question was foolish, a way of buying time. Nate’s tone was level, relentless. “You know why. We’re asking you for comment.”

  She turned on him, and then anger overtook her—at the devastating consequence of his question, at his betrayal of their friendship. “You’re asking me forhelp . It’s the reporter’s oldest trick: say whatevermight have happened as if it’s true, then hope your victim confirms it.”

  Nate watched her eyes. “This is hard for me,” he said at last. “It’s also my job. You’ve done this to people a hundred times. You’d do it to me if you had to.”

  She had put him on the defensive, Lara saw. It gave her more time to consider who could know about Kerry—snoopy neighbors were not enough. “You won’t do anything to me, Nate. Because you don’t have anything, and youcan’t have anything.”

  “Is that a denial?”

  Lara’s thoughts moved quickly now. “I won’t dignify this, onor off the record. You float some innuendo that could ruin two lives, planted by God knows who days before the election, and you expect ananswer ? If you want anything from me, tell me what you think you’ve got and where it comes from.”

  Nate crossed his arms, silent. Lara felt a momentary confidence: Nate needed two credible sources and could not have them. Then he said, “You’d better sit down, Lara.”

  The words held a compassion that unnerved her more than what had come before. Slowly, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Nate sat next to her. Then he took some papers from his pocket—two pages, stapled together—and placed them in her hands.

  Lara read the first words.

  Shock came, then nausea. A film of tears kept her from reading more. “Leave,” she said. “Please.”

  Nate folded his hands, as if to stop himself from reaching for her. “You know I can’t. Not yet.”

  Lara turned from him and waited until she could read again.

  The counselor’s notes were scattered, digressive. But for Lara, each line was devastating shorthand for all that she had repressed. She saw herself as she was then, helplessly sobbing in the counselor’s office, with no strength left for herself. All that she had wanted was for Kerry to be with her . . .

  She forced herself to finish reading. Nate’s patience felt like that of a cat watching its prey.

  Softly, Lara asked, “Why do you assume this is authentic?”

  “Come off it, Lara—”

  She spun on him. “Youcome off it. Any sick or malicious person can make a lie look more authentic by writing it down. I couldsay that you fuck elephants. And if Iwrite it, it’s still bullshit.”

  Nate rested one finger on the memo. “This isyou talking, Lara. I can hear your voice.” His own voice was quiet. “I remember how you acted, how quickly you left theTimes . This is why, isn’t it?”

  Lara remembered it all—the fierce desire to get away, to bury herself in something so new, so completely divorced from the past, that it would block out all thought of Kerry Kilcannon. She could not face Kerry again. Far worse was imagining the day when she would have to go to him for a quote, or an interview.

  “Youcan fuck elephants, Lara,” Nate said evenly. “But you don’t get to cover the circus. Then or now.”

  It was as if Nate had heard her thoughts. By reporting on Kerry Kilcannon, she erased any doubt that their involvement was a story. For Kerry, Lara Costello was more than a painful memory—she was an albatross.

  Lara stood, the papers clutched in her hand. “If this is true,” she told him, “someone has violated my privacy in a terrible way, for rotten motives. Shouldn’t that bother you just a little?”

  Nate seemed to have found his bearings now. “Personally, yes. Professionally, it can’t. This story’s too important
.” He stood to face her. “Itis true, isn’t it?”

  Lara made herself detach, think like a reporter. Someone might have seen her leaving Kerry’s apartment, but this proved nothing in itself and could even be a mistake: two years ago, strangers did not recognize her face.Newsworld was aggressive but not unethical—though press standards had eroded, they still needed more than they had.

  “Well?” Nate asked.

  Lara remembered Kerry’s agonized voice on the telephone. Even if she had no career to protect, she could at least protect his privacy, the freedom to pursue his ambitions. In her heart, she owed him more than that.

  “It’s not true, Nate.” Her mouth felt dry. “Not about Kilcannon.”

  “You did see this counselor.”

  “Off the record, yes. I’d had an affair. But not with Kerry Kilcannon.” She paused, searching for the words that might protect them both. “He was a source, a good one. I liked him—as much as a reporter can like a politician. We were friends, in a way. But that’s all it ever was.”

  “You weren’t lovers?”

  For a moment, Lara thought of Kerry’s eyes after the last time they made love. The hurricane had passed. The beach outside was littered with rocks and debris, like the ruins of some other world; the house itself was hushed. Kerry lay on the pillow, touching her face.

  “I love you,” Kerry said. “More than anything in my life . . .”

  Lara drew a breath. “We weren’t lovers,” she told Nate in an even tone. “That part’s a terrible lie.”

  * * *

  Shewas lying, Nate sensed.

  He had watched her. She understood everything—the position she was in, what he was trying to do, what he needed from her. But it could not change the wound he saw in her eyes, the delay in answering, sometimes brief, as she struggled with how she felt.

  “He never came to your apartment?” he demanded. “Or you to his?”

  Lara stood straighter. “No more questions, Nate. It’s time for you to leave.” Abruptly, she walked to the door. Just before she opened it, she turned to him again. “But thanks for asking me out for drinks. It’s been wonderful to see you.”