NO SAFE PLACE

by Richard North Patterson

  Inwardly, Nate winced. He made himself walk to the door and then, quite gently, took the memo from her hands. “You’re sure about this, Lara.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Her voice was clear, determined. Nate had always liked her poise under pressure; even now, as he watched her for clues, part of Nate was half in love. He might never understand Kerry Kilcannon, Nate thought, but he could imagine Kilcannon’s feelings very well.

  “If you want to talk . . . ,” he began, and then saw her expression.

  Leaving, Nate heard the door close behind him with a muffled click.

  * * *

  Inside, Lara leaned her face against the door.

  The only sound was her own breathing. When the sickness came, she barely made it to the bathroom. Her body trembled as she vomited.

  Just likethen , she thought.

  Slowly, she got up and lay across the bed, face buried in her pillow.

  What had happened with Kerry could get out now. Even ifNewsworld never printed it, their reporters would interrogate her neighbors and Kerry’s, ask her friends if she had confided in them, spreading rumors as they went. Soon the affair might be gossip at cocktail parties, then a story in the tabloids. The only question was whether to warn Kerry.

  The vomit tasted bitter in her mouth.

  She was still a journalist, Lara told herself. But she hardly felt like one; she had betrayed her profession first by being Kerry’s lover and now—tonight—by doing something worse. To pass word to him would draw her still deeper into the story, make her the corrupted reporter whose only concern was Kerry Kilcannon’s interests. Nate would watch Kerry’s people for signs; Lara was not sure what good it would do to burden Kerry, when she had already given him what he needed most. A lie.

  The telephone rang.

  Lara hesitated. When she lifted the phone off the nightstand and answered, she sounded as ill and wary as she felt.

  “This is Clayton Slade.” His voice was deep, polite. “If you have time, I need to see you.”

  Lara closed her eyes. “Why not,” she said at last. “I wasn’t sleeping, anyway.”

  TEN

  Clayton Slade went to a chair and sat, silent for a moment, gazing at Lara with frank curiosity. It felt to Lara as if, through Kerry, they knew each other, yet each represented a corner of his life the other did not know—one his former lover, one his closest friend and manager.

  The man Lara saw was heavyset, with a salt-and-pepper mustache, wide perceptive eyes, and a look of keen intelligence. The fact that he was in California told her how devoted he was to Kerry; since the accident, Kerry once had told her, Clayton Slade hated to leave his family. Ambition alone would not have made him take this job.

  She sat down on the bed. “You know,” she said. “Everything.”

  Slowly, Clayton nodded. “Yes.”

  “You’ve come here to protect him, I suppose.”

  Clayton’s eyes narrowed. “I came to say that I appreciated your call. And to ask you to be careful—forboth your sakes.”

  Lara gave him a sardonic smile. “Maybe I can help here, Clayton. You want me to stay away from him. You expect me to adhere to the highest standard of journalistic ethics. And if I don’t, you’ll personally make sure that I wind up in Des Moines, covering the sewage commission.”

  Clayton’s own smile flashed and vanished, a reflex. “My speech was more polite. You’ve got the substance, though.”

  Through her exhaustion, Lara felt a spurt of anger. “What do you think I am? Even if I didn’t give a damn about him, I have to live with myself. This is the last place on earth I want to be.”

  Clayton was silent for a moment. “Is it?” he asked.

  Lara felt the anger drain from her. “It’s torture,” she said at last. “You can’t know.”

  Clayton’s gaze softened. “Oh, I think I have some idea.”

  Lara’s throat felt tight. She fought a battle with herself and lost. Quietly, she asked, “How is he?”

  Clayton’s smile was ironic. “Kerry, you mean? Oh, he’s fine—the best candidate the party has seen in years: attractive, passionate, and he actually gives a damn about people other than himself. If he doesn’t fuck it up somehow, he’ll be the forty-third President of the United States.” Abruptly, his voice fell, and his face became serious. “He hardly mentions you. He doesn’t have to.”

  Lara touched her eyes. “Idon’t have to either, Clayton. If that’s what you want to know.”

  Lara felt Clayton watching her, trying to divine her meaning. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said.

  “What?”

  His gaze was level. “Who else knows about this? Besides the person whohad to know?”

  Lara stood, arms folded. Her stomach felt empty, raw; the choice was between the last betrayal of her principles and yet another lie, this time to Kerry Kilcannon. His best friend watched her, waiting.

  Lara turned to him. “Newsworldknows,” she said simply.

  * * *

  For twenty minutes, Clayton listened. When she was finished, Lara’s face was ashen.

  Out of kindness, he tried to conceal how appalled he was—for Kerry, for her, even for himself. His first words were practical and direct. “You believe it’s this counselor?”

  “Or someone with access to her files.” Lara looked down, her expression pensive, haunted. “Ever since Nate left, I’ve been trying to remember her. I was such a wreck she could have been anyone, as long as what I told her never left that room. I can hardly see her face now.” She looked at him, voice suddenly hard. “Don’t evendream of going to her, or I’ll break this story myself. I’ve gone too far already.”

  Clayton’s tone was crisp. “If we did that, Mason’s people would find out. Your ethics don’t enter into it.”

  Slowly, Lara sat on the bed again. In the dim light of the hotel room, she looked wan; without makeup, her most striking feature was intense dark eyes. “Why do you think it’s Mason?”

  “Timing. The Republicans would sit on this.”

  Lara faced him. “Whoever it is, we’re never talking about this again. You’re on your own.”

  Studying her, Clayton tried to sort out his feelings. In the last few hours, her world had collapsed, her past had returned to haunt her, and she had compromised—twice—everything that was important to her as a journalist. Yet Lara tried to keep a tight rein on her emotions, preserve some sense of self. What she evoked was far from pity—it was admiration.

  Clayton drew a breath. “Do you want me to tell him anything?”

  Her eyes met his, and then she looked away. “No. Nothing.”

  Clayton hesitated. “Well,” he said finally. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  Lara stood with him, hands in the pockets of her robe. “Good luck.”

  Clayton was quiet for a moment; there was nothing left to say. “You too,” he answered, and left.

  * * *

  When Clayton opened the door of his room, there was a white envelope on the floor. It took him a moment to realize what was inside—Jack Sleeper’s numbers, the nightly tracking poll. This seemed so pointless that he almost laughed.

  Sitting, he made himself scan the data. The first discipline he must impose was on himself: reviewing the numbers was his job, and Jack Sleeper was waiting for his call. He could not let Jack sense that anything was wrong.

  Stretching out on the bed with the papers laid in front of him, he called the pollster.

  “It’s about what I’d expect,” Clayton told him. “Mason three points up—statistically, a tie. The debate could make the difference.”

  “What about pro-choice women?” Sleeper asked. “We’re down six points in the San Francisco Bay Area, down two among pro-choice women statewide, and that was before Kerry stepped in it today. I think Mason’s getting traction.”

  “Could be a blip. One night’s numbers don’t tell us enough—”

  “I think we should be proactive,” Sleeper interjected. �
�Ask Ellen Penn to help put together an event with all the prominent women who support him. Maybe in San Francisco.”

  “Let’s watch the numbers the next couple of nights, see if this is really a problem. Believe me, Kerry wants to change the subject.”

  “Heshould .” Even over the phone, Jack’s worry was audible. “Tomorrow’s the anniversary of his brother’s assassination. Hopefully, we’ll get a shot in the arm from that. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “I wouldn’t try that one out on Kerry.”

  “There’s no wind so ill, Clayton, that doesn’t blow alittle bit of good. The senator knows it too. No matter what he says, or doesn’t say.”

  “Oh, heknows ,” Clayton said, and got off.

  He sat up on the bed, back against the wall. Pro-choice women would have to wait.

  Eyes shut, he considered whom he needed. Kit Pace, certainly. Nat Schlesinger, for his experience and contacts. Both of them he trusted.

  Finally, reluctantly, he added Frank Wells to the list—Wells was too savvy to ignore, and he knew the media too well.

  He would call the three of them tonight. The person he would not call was Kerry; he needed rest, and there were countless reasons why, if told, Kerry would not sleep at all. The morning was soon enough.

  Picking up the telephone, he awoke Kit Pace. “Sorry,” he said brusquely. “There’s a problem. We’re meeting in my room tomorrow morning, at seven. Don’t mention it to anyone.”

  * * *

  When Sean turned on the news, the picture seemed blurred and faded. It was the bedside lamps, he realized; too bright, they cast reflections of the bare motel room across the anchorman’s face. Moving closer to the screen, he kept the lights on.

  It had happened when Sean was seven, this darkness he could not escape. He still remembered knocking over the wine as he reached across the dinner table; the red drops spattering across his father’s T-shirt; the lightning flash of anger on his face. His father had wrenched Sean from his chair, dragging him across the living room carpet. In the dim hallway, his father opened the closet door.

  “Inside,” he ordered. His voice was thick as blood.

  Gazing up into his father’s eyes, Sean made himself stop crying. He knew his mother would not help him.

  Slowly, the boy walked into the darkness. The door shut behind him; with a soft metallic click, the lock turned.

  It was pitch black. Sean stood there, eyes shut, crying so uncontrollably that his body shook with the effort to make no sound. Finally, the spasms stopped.

  When Sean opened his eyes, he was blind. The air was hot and close.

  Panic came, and then a deeper anguish. Fearful, Sean groped in the darkness around him. The first thing he touched was thick and rough; he recognized the feel of his mother’s wool coat.

  Fumbling, the boy pulled the coat from the hanger, spread it on the hardwood floor beneath him. He lay down, knees curled against his chest; suddenly he could imagine her on the other side of the closet door, eyes bleak with drink and bitter helplessness. Often they did not seem to see him . . .

  Last winter, when his mother was pregnant, the baby had been a small bulge in her stomach. Leaning against her on the park bench, Sean could feel it through the wool coat. Sometimes he hoped the baby would never come.

  In the closet, Sean swallowed, remembering . . .

  Drinking wine, his pregnant mother had asked his father if they could find a bigger apartment. Drink made Sean’s mother careless; from their arguments, overheard at night, Sean sensed that her request was foolish, that his father resented having another mouth to feed. For several hours thereafter, he drank and brooded in the living room as Sean watched with silent dread; when his mother asked again, too drunk to gauge her husband’s mood, his father rose from his chair in a whiskey-soaked rage and punched her in the stomach. His mother doubled over in shock and pain, too nauseated even to cry. After she had gone to the hospital, Sean saw drops of blood on the carpet; when she returned, there was no baby . . .

  Even through his mother’s coat, the closet floor felt hard. Sean shifted, body aching, unable to sleep, afraid that he might suffocate. His bladder hurt. Finally, in agony, he wet himself, careful not to wet his mother’s coat. When at last she opened the door, his father was gone, and it was morning; soiled and shamed, the boy stumbled from the closet, blinking in the light.

  Now, sitting against the bed, Sean gazed blankly at the television.

  “After a dramatic cross-country trip to Boston,”the anchorman said,“Vice President Richard Mason spoke in front of the Boston Women’s Clinic, responding to yesterday’s tragic murders.”

  Mason appeared on the screen.“In the name of those who died here,” he proclaimed,“I say to the purveyors of terror and violence . . . not one more woman deprived of her legal rights.”

  Suddenly Sean felt a rush of pride, mingled with contempt for Mason. To Sean, the Vice President’s anger did not seem authentic—not like Sean’s own. The wonder was that this man spoke at the site of Sean’s act. Mason was words; yesterday Sean had become much more.

  Mason’s voice rose.“We will devote every resource of our government to find this cowardly murderer and make him face the nature of his crime.”

  Reflexively, Sean looked around him. The door was latched, the chain in place; the curtains were drawn. In one day, or two, they might start looking for Sean Burke. There was not much time.

  A woman appeared on the television. Though her surname was Irish, Sean had always thought her exotic, almost Latin.“Speaking in Los Angeles,” she began,“Kerry Kilcannon capped a day devoted to issues targeting female voters . . . But his appearance outside a women’s shelter was interrupted by pro-choice militants, demanding that he clarify his recent statement that a fetus is a ‘life.’ His response was to suggest that abortion is a public right but—at least for some women—a private trauma.”

  On film, Kerry Kilcannon appeared slight, embattled. But Sean could feel his directness through the screen.

  “The words we use to avoid that truth—like ‘procedure’ and ‘choice’—beg the difficult questions each woman must face alone.”Kilcannon’s voice softened.“Any parent who has ever seen a sonogram, or listened to the heartbeat of an unborn baby, or thanked God for the doctor who saved their premature child, knows that.”

  Sean stiffened with rage. Youknow that , he thought.You’re Roman Catholic, and you’ve abandoned your roots and everything you know is right to become what Paul Terris called you—“abortion with a human face . . .”

  Sean stood and began pacing. He had a sudden, visceral memory—his father’s eyes, the last time Sean had seen him.

  “Lara Costello,”the woman finished,“with the Kilcannon campaign in Los Angeles.”

  * * *

  Kerry Kilcannon splashed water on his face.

  Exhausted, he had fallen asleep thinking of Lara and then awakened from his dream of Jamie. The dream ended just as Jamie had—in a funeral home in Newark as his younger brother, the next United States senator from New Jersey, gazed into his waxen face.

  The face Kerry saw in the bathroom mirror looked haggard; he saw little resemblance—as if there ever had been—to the youthful savior some had imagined.

  Kerry Kilcannon, the hero who had saved a small boy’s life. That was what the newscasts had said. In the mirror, Kerry studied the scar on his shoulder as if, like the heroism, it belonged to someone else.

  At tonight’s reception in Beverly Hills—in the glass-and-light showplace of a wealthy art dealer—Kerry had spoken of minorities and the poor. Gazing at the affluent crowd in front of him—celebrities; lawyers; well-fed dealmakers who watched each other like mirrors of themselves—Kerry found that his sense of irony made him more pointed and impassioned. The last irony was that they liked him for it.

  Afterward, a young actress-of-the-moment, doe-eyed and flirtatious and intelligent enough that this was flattering, had hinted that she might sleep with him. What Kerry replied was not “no,”
only “not now”; he knew that she wanted to sleep with a President, not a man.

  For Kerry, his own face vanished.

  In its place was Lara. And then, a long time later, other faces—Meg; Liam Dunn; a small, dark-haired boy who had worshiped him; and, as always, Jamie.

  “I see my life go drifting like a river,” Yeats had written, “from change to change . . .” But to Kerry, his life felt like a series of wrenching accidents, sudden and incalculable, of which Lara was the last. “Life plans are foolish,” he had told her once. “It’s all so contingent . . .”

  At twenty-six, he had not known how true that was.

  Newark

  1984-1988

  ONE

  Though he could not have known this, Kerry had foreordained the Musso case, a woman’s murder, and his own near death at the moment he told Vincent J. Flavio to go to hell.

  When Liam Dunn had gotten him the job, defying the Essex County prosecutor had been the furthest thing from Kerry’s mind. He was simply grateful—to Liam for helping him through college and law school at Seton Hall; for the discovery that, in addition to a surprising gift for poetry, he had a decent head for law; for the softness in his mother’s eyes at his private swearing in, administered, at Liam’s request, by the venerable Judge Thomas Riordan in his spacious oak-paneled chambers.

  Two years before, Mary Kilcannon had found her husband, Michael, slumped in his living room chair, dead from a massive heart attack. Though the neighborhood was changing, Mary remained in the house where she had raised her sons. Kerry watched over her; Jamie was now a distant figure, seldom seen in Vailsburg yet a subject of great pride—the handsome senator whose cool intellect and gift of eloquence, more Ivy League than Irish, might take him to the presidency at a younger age than Kennedy.

  But Kerry had little interest in Jamie or his world. His ambitions were much simpler: to prosecute criminals and warrant his mother’s pride. Except for one college trip to Florida, he had seldom been more than a hundred miles from Newark. He had no thought of leaving.