The Race (41 page)

Corey cocked his head. "I've been curious for a while," he said at length. "Remember how we first met—or, more accurately, our first encounter?"

"Like yesterday," Christy said softly. "Only it was fourteen years ago. I was speaking at a band shell in a park, the first time you were running for Senate." Pausing, he quoted himself from memory: "'Corey, my friend, come home—not just to Lake City, but to God.'

"A student had killed a teacher who'd made homosexual advances to him—a sad incident. But I thought such a man had no place among our youth. I still do." No trace of a smile remained on Christy's face. "There was another reason for that speech. I looked at you and, as young as you were, saw a threat to my own dream: to make the Republican Party the instrument of God.

"And here we both are, Corey. I've come to like you. But this was never about who you are as a man." Christy's voice was cool and level. "I could make you president. But I've got principles, same as you. Don't force me to help Marotta win because you're too deeply in love with yours."

Still Corey's gaze did not waver. "You'll have your answer, Bob. But not before tonight's vote."

Christy looked back at Corey for a moment, then gave a mournful shake of his head. "Then we'll just have to see, won't we. We'll just have to see."

IN MAROTTA'S SUITE, MAGNUS PRICE SAW WITH SATISFACTION THAT THE first moments of the convention were unfolding as he had planned.

Outside Madison Square Garden, thousands of Christian demonstrators were protesting the candidacy of Corey Grace, their bright placards, provided by Price's field staff, showing on Rohr News. The party's recurring promotions for the opening-night theme, "Salute to the American Family," had been financed by Alex Rohr and featured photos of Marotta, Mary Rose, and their children in various happy moments. In stark counterpoint, Frank Flaherty interviewed the head of the National Rifle Association, who complained that despite the importance of an armed populace in the face of terrorist attacks, Corey Grace did not respect the Second Amendment right to bear arms. And then, at precisely the right moment, Mary Rose and the children entered the VIP box above the convention floor.

"Beautiful," Price said with a chuckle.

Marotta watched his wife kneel to comfort Jennifer, their four-year-old, confused and a little frightened by the orchestrated chant of "Mary Rose" arising from his delegates. "Yes," he answered softly. "She is."

RIDING IN HIS limousine, Hollis Spencer was jarred by the contrast between reality and the neatly packaged collage presented by Rohr News. As Mary Rose appeared on Rohr, her round face reassuring in its serenity, the thud of helicopter blades sounded through his window and angry demonstrators pressed against the barricades. On his cell phone, the delegate hunter for Illinois reported, "Riggs and Statler called in sick. But we don't think they're in their rooms, Hollis. It's like they've disappeared."

A creeping dread fogged Spencer's thoughts. "What's the count in Illinois?"

"Senator Tully thinks we're one vote short."

"Call their wives," Spencer snapped. "People don't just disappear."

WATCHING MARY ROSE Marotta, Corey thought of Lexie.

He longed to call her. But there was little he could say, and nothing he could fairly ask of her. And so he watched as the camera panned the delegates: a couple of Jews in yarmulkes; a few well-dressed blacks nearly lost amid the affluent whites; senators and congressmen basking in their own prominence, grandees among their subjects. But he could already feel the sweat and tension emanating from the delegates, beset by so many vote counters that their nerves must feel raw. Side by side, the Ohio and Pennsylvania delegations—the former Corey's, the latter Marotta's—brandished their signs like primitive weapons. The sound system blared R&B and soul music chosen ostensibly to demonstrate the Republican Party's funky and festive heart, but more likely to agitate delegates already wound too tight. Then the speaker's podium caught Corey's eye: by some visual wizardry, the klieg lights angling toward it materialized a faint but discernable cross.

Corey felt a shiver pass through him: in an instant, the convention morphed from the Las Vegas Strip to a megachurch. He called Spencer in his skybox. "I'm not hallucinating, am I?"

"Nope. This is Magnus's symbolic gift to evangelicals. The party of Rob Marotta is their spiritual home."

On the giant screen behind the podium, a cartoon elephant appeared, emitting a screech so frightening that one of Marotta's kids shrank back. "Sounds like its testicles are in a vise," Corey told Spencer.

"Ours, too," Spencer said. "Gotta find those missing delegates."

Corey had never felt more useless.

SUSPENDED BETWEEN PAST and future, he watched an American Legionnaire recite the Pledge of Allegiance, stressing the words "under God" so vehemently that some delegates burst into applause. Then the Garden went dark and silent.

On the giant screen behind the podium appeared the Golden Gate Bridge. Beside the podium itself, a young violinist, caught in a single spotlight that again materialized the cross, began her haunting rendition of "Amazing Grace." In the darkness, delegates held lighters aloft; across the screen a sequence of photos showed San Franciscans with tear-streaked faces, a mother and child at a funeral, a young woman holding a picture of her father. The last photograph, taken at the memorial service, was of Marotta embracing a woman who had lost her husband.

"A touching tableau," Frank Flaherty intoned.

Corey switched the channel.

WHEN THE LIGHTS came on, CNN's camera scanned delegates in dueling caps, red for Marotta, blue for Grace; Texans in cowboy hats and denim shirts; well-groomed young women who looked like former sorority girls or debutantes; middle-aged whites who conformed to the rules as they understood them, proudly and, on occasion, bitterly; a smattering of blacks, Hispanics, Asians. And all of them would determine, perhaps as early as tonight, whether Corey Grace would become their nominee.

His cell phone rang. Certain it was Spencer, Corey anxiously pushed the talk button. "Hey," she said. "What are you up to?"

Despite his anxiety, Corey laughed with pleasure and surprise. "Channel surfing," he answered. "Life's pretty dull without you."

She was briefly silent. "I know this must be hard."

"Yeah. It is."

He imagined Lexie with him, her discerning look as she assessed his moods, at once affectionate and astute. "Would you have done anything differently?" she asked.

It was the right question. "There are things I wish I'd done better. But differently? I don't think so."

"Not even us?"

"Especially not us." He searched for the words to tell her. "How many chances do we get to love a person who's so right that she feels like home? In my life, I count just one."

"And where is she now?" Lexie asked. "Watching Mary Rose Marotta practice her First Lady smile."

"For Godsakes, Lexie—you were never meant to be like her. You can't be, and I don't want you to be." Corey spoke more softly. "You and I came to each other as adults. I fell in love with the woman you'd fought damn hard to be—with experiences very different from my own, a life of meaning that is your own. Politics is parasitic; it sucks the life out of everyone but the candidate. I don't want that for you, any more than I wanted to drag you through the past.

"South Carolina was a wake-up call for us both. I chose to run for president—not you. The price for that is mine to pay."

"Ours," she answered. "Don't you know I miss you?
And
worry for you."

"I'm not Marotta," Corey insisted. "Losing won't destroy me."

She was silent again. "I hope not, Corey. But I want you to win."

His cell phone buzzed, indicating another call coming in. Looking at the caller ID, Corey said, "I need to take this. Can I call you later?"

"My life will keep," she said with a rueful laugh. "No one's voting on it."

"I miss you, too," Corey told her, and pressed the flash button.

"We've lost Illinois," Spencer reported bluntly.

AS THE ROLL-CALL vote on Alabama began, Dana Harrison and Jack Walters showed up to watch with him.

On CNN, the party's schism was on display, the anger and distrust palpable among delegates too closely packed together or trapped in aisles jammed with security guards, police, reporters, big donors with VIP passes, and delegate hunters barking into cell phones. Answering a question, a frazzled Grace delegate snapped at Candy Crowley, "The Alabama vote is about racism. Marotta's showing America who he really is."

Jack Walters emitted a soft whistle. "Amid the pandemonium," Jeff Greenfield said on CNN, "the convention must decide which set of delegates will cast Alabama's critical forty-eight votes. And even that is complicated. Within some delegations, individual delegates are free to vote as they wish; others—such as Illinois—follow the unit rule, under which every delegate must vote with the majority regardless of his preference. So what we're seeing in many delegations are contentious mini–roll calls.

"The bitterness this generates is as obvious as the results are unpredictable. But an early clue to the outcome will be the pivotal vote from Iowa, the first delegates among Christy's disciplined cadre to tip the reverend's hand."

Walters turned to Corey. "Hollis still doesn't know which way they're going?"

"Nope. But neither do the delegates from Iowa. They're awaiting a cellphone call from on high."

On the screen, the roll call began.
"Alaska,"
the chair of the convention called out in her rough-edged voice.

Corey's antagonist Carl Halprin, Alex Rohr's chief supporter in the Senate, proclaimed loudly, "The great state of Alaska casts its twenty-nine votes to seat Senator Marotta's delegation."

On the right corner of the screen, the number 29 appeared beneath the name Marotta. Through to Idaho, the vote proceeded as expected, with California's 173 delegates accounting for Corey's margin of sixty votes.

"Illinois."

A raddled-looking Charles Blair, shaken by the near loss of his delegation, summoned a reasonably strong voice to answer, "Illinois casts seventy-three votes to seat the Marotta delegation." At his shoulder, Senator Tully shook his head in disgust.

The tally showed Marotta thirteen votes ahead.
"Indiana."

The head of the delegation, an NRA loyalist, said tersely, "Thirty-two votes for the Marotta delegation."

Marotta, Corey saw, was now ahead by forty-five. "It all comes down to Christy," Corey said. "If he votes with us, maybe New York will. If not, Hollis thinks Costas may cave in to Marotta."

"Iowa."

Waiting, Corey felt his fists clench. The head of the Christy delegation, a minister who looked dazed by his sudden prominence in politics, said in a shaky voice, "Iowa casts all thirty-two votes to seat Senator Grace's delegation."

Corey released a breath. "Thank God," Dana whispered without irony.

Corey's cell phone rang. "That's it," Spencer reported. "Costas just told me New York's going with us. That means we'll win with fifty votes to spare."

"What about the vote on forcing me to name a vice president?"

"Costas will support us there too, hoping for your goodwill. That leaves it up to Christy." Spencer lowered his voice. "Is Cortland Lane ready to go?"

"If need be."

Spencer was briefly silent. "If anyone can talk to Christy, Corey, it's you."

"Not now. It's his moment of maximum leverage—he'll push me again on the anti-gay stuff. I'm going to play out our game of chicken all the way to tomorrow."

"New York."

"New York," Governor Costas proclaimed on CNN, "casts its one hundred and two votes in favor of Senator Grace's delegation."

Corey's cell phone buzzed, clicked, another call coming in. "Hello," he answered.

Christy chuckled quietly. "Sweat a little?" he asked.

Corey fought back his surprise. "A little. Thanks for Alabama, by the way."

"No thanks needed. Truth is, a preacher who wants blacks to join his flock ought not reject them at the polls. I told my people this vote was a matter of principle, and it was."

"Principles," said Corey. "Everybody ought to have some."

Dana and Jack Walters had turned from the screen, gauging Corey's expression. "Half-expected you to call me," Christy told him in a disappointed tone. "You gonna ask how I'm voting on vice president tonight?"

"I want to, Bob. But why spoil the surprise?"

Briefly, Christy laughed. "You're a hard one, Corey. I've decided to cast another vote of principle. Only this time the principle is to keep Marotta dangling.

"Your new delegates from Alabama almost offset Illinois. Tomorrow morning, having lost two roll-call votes, Marotta will need me all the more. And so will you. Do us both a favor and think on that a little."

"I'll do that," Corey promised, and Christy said good night.

THE LAST CALL, after Corey had defeated Marotta's vice presidential ploy, came from Lexie. "Congratulations again," she said. "Seems like you keep on winning."

Corey tried to decipher whether, beneath the warmth, he detected a faint note of regret. "How about you?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

"As okay as I need to be. You should know that about me by now." She hesitated, then said simply, "Sleep well, Corey. You've got another long day tomorrow."

IN SEMIDARKNESS, ROB Marotta sat on the side of the bed, Mary Rose behind him. "You should sleep," she told him.

Marotta could not respond to advice so well intended and yet so pointless. "To have done so much," he murmured.

Mary Rose kneaded his shoulders. "You're still the favorite, Robbie."

But Marotta could not tell her what he meant. She had not, by his own wish, been with him in South Carolina.

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER LABORING ON A TREADMILL AT THE HOTEL gym, Marotta went to Price's suite for breakfast.

"How are the kids?" Price asked.

"Still sleeping, most of them. Jenny had a nightmare about that goddamned elephant. Mary Rose had to get in bed with her."