The Race (25 page)

What I believe, Marotta thought, is that you're out of your fucking mind. "I've never heard it summed up like that, Reverend—"

"That's because you're Catholic," Cash interrupted harshly.

"Because I'm Catholic," Marotta answered firmly, "I believe that to be fully human, man must be animated by a higher power—"

"By
Jesus Christ,
Senator." Cash's voice became sepulchral. "Moses is dead. Buddha is dead, Mohammed is dead. Confucius is dead. We alone serve a risen Christ, the son of God, who shall return to us."

This isn't a conversation, Marotta thought—it's the Spanish Inquisition in reverse. With calm persistence, Marotta said, "That's what I believe, Reverend Cash."

Cash slowly shook his head, his gelid stare riveting Marotta. "As a scholar of religion, I've dissected the Catholic apostasy. A son of Rome cannot claim, as we do, to have embraced our Lord Jesus in a single moment."

His temper fraying, Marotta fell back on the catechism that, an hour before, he had improvised with Magnus Price. "Perhaps not. But I can never recall a time I didn't believe in Jesus." Marotta hesitated, then continued quietly: "My father died six years ago, of cancer. When I said my last good-bye to him and looked into his suffering face, I felt Jesus enter my soul. That's when I knew who my father truly was."

Cash watched his eyes in silence. Gathering himself, Marotta said with quiet urgency, "I can be your messenger, Reverend, because I can win. Bob Christy can't. And can you imagine our country in the hands of Corey Grace—"

"_And_ his woman," Cash chided irritably. "Don't ever forget
her
."

From the other side of the curtain came the sounds of a restive audience. "There are several reasons," Marotta temporized, "why Grace shouldn't become president."

"That colored woman's a big one," Cash snapped. "You
do
know that the godless Internal Revenue Service took away our school's tax-exempt status, solely because of our biblical opposition to the commingling of races."

This is it, Marotta thought, the core of Cash's fury at the government. Carefully, he recited the answer Price and he had crafted. "Even if—as the unbelievers say—there's a 'separation of church and state,' the state should not intrude on, let alone punish, the religious beliefs of any Christian institution.

"That will be the policy of my administration. And you, Reverend Cash, will always be welcome at the White House."

Cash regarded him with an opaque solemnity. "Let us pray together," he said at last.

As they knelt in front of the folding chairs, eyes raised to the ceiling, Marotta silently asked for John Marotta's forgiveness, both for polluting his death with a falsehood and because that decent man, unlike so many of his neighbors, had taught his oldest son that racial hatred profaned the spirit of God.

"Bless us, Lord," the Reverend Cash intoned.

STANDING BESIDE MAROTTA, Cash spoke to an auditorium filled with fresh-faced and attentive white kids—the boys' shirts collared and their hair uniformly short, the girls wearing skirts exposing nothing but their ankles. It was a time warp, Marotta thought, taking him back to his earliest days in a strict parochial school.

"Here at Carl Cash University," Cash proclaimed, "we live by the teaching of Proverbs: 'Train up the child in the ways to go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.'

"From the evidence of his family, Senator Marotta has done this—at least by his best lights. Corey Grace has not." Abruptly, Cash's voice dripped with disdain. "Grace divorced his wife. Grace abandoned his child. Grace leads a personal life degrading to all
our
children. And last night, in South Carolina, he arrived amid a godless bacchanalia of whiskey, beer, and music."

Expressionless, Marotta tried to conceal his discomfort. But Cash's diatribe plainly resonated with these students. In the front row, Marotta saw, a sweet-faced blonde had bowed her head in sorrow. "Corey Grace," Cash continued, his voice rising, "is the enemy of life. Corey Grace will not endorse a constitutional ban on gay marriage—that breeding ground of pederasts, that sanctuary for the most unnatural, abominable act ever conceived by man at his most evil.
Corey Grace
is an enemy of God."

Turning, Cash walked slowly behind Marotta and placed both hands on his shoulders. "_This_ man," he told the students, "is a man of God."

Rapt, the students gazed up at Marotta. Experienced though he was, Marotta realized, he was not immune to the fire of this man's certitude. "Listen to his words," Cash concluded in a tone sonorous yet hushed. "Then listen to your hearts."

Applause, Marotta realized, would only tarnish such a moment. Walking to the podium in the silent spell induced by Cash, he spread his speech before him. "These are the words of the Bible," he began. "'Being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the Word of God which lives and abides forever.' And it was Christ himself who said, 'I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'

"These things we all believe, and more.

"We believe the Bible is inerrant, and that homosexuality violates God's law.

"We believe that our schools should ban homosexuals as teachers; balance the teaching of Darwin with opposing theories; abolish all 'sex education' except chastity until marriage." Pausing, Marotta was grateful that the Reverend Cash had also forbidden tape recorders. "Like you, I believe that the 'separation of church and state' is the invention of modern secular humanists, not of Madison or Jefferson. Like you, I believe that churches should be free to endorse candidates for office without being punished—as was this university—for their beliefs."

Filled with pent-up emotion, the audience burst into applause. "Reverend Christy," Marotta told them, "may well believe as we do. But I alone can guarantee you a Christian presidency. I alone can keep Senator Grace from holding an office he should never, ever have."

In the first few rows, students began standing. It was too late, Marotta thought, to omit his next words. He waited for the applause to die. "I owe Senator Grace my life," he said quietly. "For that, my family and I will be forever grateful. But no amount of gratitude could justify my moral abdication.

"His beliefs and his personal conduct undermine our moral fabric. And the fibers of that fabric are the values of this university." Standing taller, Marotta said firmly, "_Not_ the values of a Hollywood elite that has made drugs and violence and promiscuity our secular religion."

Suddenly they were on their feet—all of them—clapping and shouting.
"Amen,"
someone called out from the rear, and then Marotta saw the signs appear.

Across a photograph of Lexie Hart in close-up was stamped a scarlet X. "Just say no to Hollywood," the placards read—the work, Marotta knew, of a professional.

HEADED FOR THE COAST IN THE SILVER BULLET, DAKIN FORD SAT WITH Corey, remote control in one hand, restlessly switching channels while monitoring his cell phone. "Marotta's already been to Carl Cash," he reported. "Looks like he's letting Price put his candidacy in that old bigot's hands."

Eyeing the screen, Blake Rustin said, "Not just Cash's."

On the Rohr-owned station in Columbia, a trim brunette with an incandescent smile stood beside Rob Marotta beneath an enormous sign whose bold letters read "Creation Park." "What the hell is that?" Corey asked.

"Jurassic Park for evangelicals," Ford replied. "A thrill ride through the seven days when God created man—Adam, Eve, and the serpent, blissfully free of our simian ancestors or cesspools of primordial ooze.

"And that," Ford continued, pointing at the screen, "is Dorrie Hoyle, our leading lady evangelist and Linwood Tate's main squeeze." He feigned a wince. "Some sex acts don't bear thinking about. But Dorrie'd fuck about anyone for money, and Linwood raised the cash to help Dorrie build this Disneyland of decency."

Pointing the remote, Ford turned up the volume. "You all know I can't endorse candidates," Hoyle was telling her audience. "But I'd just love it if you'd e-mail me the names of any church where good Christians want to spread the word on behalf of a good Christian candidate." Placing a sisterly hand on Marotta's shoulder, she finished in a mock-conspiratorial whisper: "Guess who
that
might be ..."

Corey watched Marotta feign a smile and shrug. "Rob's feeling like a prop," he said.

"Doesn't matter," Ford rejoined. "Price is using Cash and Dorrie to cut Bob Christy's balls off. Other thing that's gonna happen is Rohr's TV stations and newspaper won't cover Bob at all. In terms of local media, the Christy crusade's gonna shrivel to a rumor."

Around them, several reporters—Kate McInerny of the
Post,
Miles Miklin of the
Times,
and Annie Stevenson of the AP—leaned forward to participate. "What's in store for Senator Grace?" Kate asked.

"Oh," Ford said lazily, "they'll dream up something different for Corey, maybe without their fingerprints on it. Once it starts, hope you bright boys and girls take the time to figure out who's behind it."

Across the aisle, Blake Rustin sat alone, consumed by his own thoughts.

THEY WERE SCHEDULED to stop in Beaufort and, later, Hilton Head—Corey's territory, filled with retirees from the North and Midwest. Driving on a two-lane road, they entered a semitropical world of palmettos, moss-draped oaks, and tidal rivers. As they passed under a bower of mossy branches, Corey saw, at the end of a tree-lined drive, a white antebellum wood home whose generous porches overlooked a rolling lawn filled with well-dressed men and women.

Their host, a trim, blond man named Henry Davis, greeted him with a firm grip and a smile. In a pleasant drawl he said, "Welcome to the New South, Senator. You got more friends here than you know, some of them even natives."

Corey returned his smile. "Thanks, Henry. I need the support of all indigenous people."

Davis's introduction was short and gracious. Standing on the porch, Corey surveyed the crowd. "If a visitor from Mars," he began, "were to drop in on us today, he or she would believe us truly blessed. And we are. But we're here because America's in trouble.

"Our country is eight trillion dollars in debt. Our political system protects those in power, and
with
power. Our political parties encourage us to distrust our fellow citizens. And all too few of us believe that we can change this.

"But we can," Corey said emphatically. "We still can build bridges to each other. We still can tackle our real problems with real ideas. Together, we still can heal our country.

"But that means starting with the truth—regardless of party, or religion, or where we live, or who we are. And the truth is this: our political leaders are weakening America by dividing us into factions.

"It's up to us to stop them."

The crowd began applauding. Only when the applause continued, growing louder, did Corey grasp how many others, even in this privileged place, were troubled by what they sensed might be an irreversible decline into dishonesty and disarray. "Our leaders," Corey said, "can prey on the worst in us or speak to the best in us. But which of these prevails is in our hands."

Afterward, the crowd pressed forward to meet him. "Maybe," Dakin Ford murmured to Corey, "this can really happen here." But it was his muted note of worry that stayed with Corey when they got back on the bus.

THAT NIGHT, AFTER a massive sunset rally on the beach at Hilton Head, Corey walked alone at the edge of the water, talking to Lexie on his cell phone.

"It went pretty well today," he told her. "So far, your native state's been okay."

"That's good, baby. I'm glad for you."

Even without seeing her, his sense of Lexie's moods had become acute. "What's wrong?" he asked. "I'm hearing a certain reserve. Maybe a woman who doesn't want to burst my bubble or worry me with troubles of her own."

After a long silence, she said, "I got a call this morning, from a friend I went to Yale with. A man came around to her apartment, asking if she knew me then. She didn't like his questions."

Corey gazed at the moon-streaked tide. "What questions, exactly?"

"Boyfriends, for one." Lexie hesitated. "He asked if she knew where Peter was. Lizzie said she had no idea, then cut the conversation short."

Corey's mouth felt dry. "Did this guy say who he worked for?"

"A tabloid. But the phone number on the card he gave her connected to a 'not in service' message." Lexie's voice seemed to fade. "Somebody's after me and has a notion of where to look. All I ever wanted was to put that in the past."

Corey imagined her face, sad and a little haunted. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I know what this dredges up for you."

"Not just me. All those years ago, trying to forget what those men did to me, I never dreamed I was ruining someone's chances of becoming president."

She sounded utterly dispirited. "I want to tell you something," Corey said. "I hope it's fair to say this to someone I haven't seen for two months.

"I'm in love with you, Lexie. I won't give up on whatever future we may have."

Lexie was silent. "I love you, too," she said at last. "So it's not only you who gets to choose. I need to sit alone with this."

Unable to be with her, or comfort her, Corey said good-bye.

HALF ASLEEP, RUSTIN sat on the edge of his bed, wearing boxer shorts and his daughter's oversized Dartmouth T-shirt. "She got a problem?" he asked wearily.

"Yeah," Corey snapped. "Someone's poking around in her life. Smells like Magnus Price to me."

Rustin blinked, his eyes still adjusting to the light. "Surprise. You knew this woman was a magnet from day one. There are no Hollywood endings in politics—especially for someone from Hollywood." Rustin drew a breath. "I want you to consider something, okay?"

"What's that?"

"Unless she's squeaky-clean, break it off with her; then put out that it was
your
decision. If she's the woman you think she is, she'll understand."

Corey placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry," he said and left.