The Race (42 page)

"A pachyderm on steroids," Price mused. "Whose bad idea was
that
?"

Picking up the remote, he said, "Word is Christy's making an announcement."

"What about?"

"Not a clue."

Coupled with a new tension around his eyes, the bald admission suggested that the strain of last night's failure was wearing on Price as well: there were too many moving parts—men with motives and ambitions of their own—for Price to feign omniscience. As though to underscore this, Christy's head and shoulders filled the screen, his pipe-organ voice betraying pleasure in his ability to command the stage.

"Our delegates have caucused," he announced. "To help us discharge our awesome task, we are inviting Senators Grace and Marotta to pray with us on bended knee for the guidance of Almighty God in selecting our nominee.

"Regardless of their answer, we will do so at noon today. We invite all Americans to watch us and, we hope, to join us in our prayers."

"No fucking way," Marotta snapped at Price. "He's pulling this stunt to seize center stage. I'll look like
his
supplicant, not God's. Next he'll want me to condemn the Teletubbies because Tinky Winky carries a purse."

Price snatched up his cell phone. "I'll call Dan Hansen," he said.

Marotta watched him listen anxiously for an answer. "Dan? Magnus here. Let me suggest that the candidates pray together in private. We'll bring Blair along, if you want."

Price listened intently. "All right," he answered coolly. "We'll wait for his call." Hanging up, he murmured, "Fucker."

"What is it?"

"Christy's gonna talk to you directly." A flush crept across his forehead. "Dan's instructions were to tell me that prayer's too grave a matter to be negotiated by functionaries."

Despite his worries, Marotta laughed.

"I DON'T GET it, Rob," Christy said over the telephone. "Seeing their leaders humble themselves before God can only be good for America's children."

"I'd be humbling myself before you, Bob."

"That part's good for my delegates," Christy responded calmly. "They want it.
I
want it. Seems like you need to do it." His voice dropped a register. "Remember South Carolina, Rob? I remember it like yesterday."

A fresh stab of fear pierced Marotta's soul. Not for the first time, he wondered whether Christy had been falsely accused and, if so, what part Price might have played. Glancing at Price, he said, "What South Carolina has to do with this escapes me."

Price's face was devoid of all expression. "Does it now?" Christy said.

Marotta's sense of foreboding deepened. "About the prayer, I'll let you know."

"IF MAROTTA DOES this," Spencer told Corey, "and you don't, Christy loses control of events. Marotta knows that. He also knows you. That's why he'll show up."

Corey shook his head. "A public prayer circle. Who'd have thought the nomination could turn on
that
?"

He drifted to the window overlooking Central Park. Condensation was forming on the glass, the thin barrier between his air-conditioning and the already searing heat of a summer morning. "I'll call Bob myself," he said.

"WELL?" CHRISTY ASKED.

"Remember my speech at Carl Cash? I said I didn't believe that God much cared about this election, and that how we live is a truer expression of faith than any prayer we can recite in public. So that's the answer I'm stuck with." Though filled with trepidation, Corey spoke evenly. "In the end, Bob, this isn't about God. It's about you and Marotta. Even if he shows up, whatever prayer Marotta recites is only as good as the man himself.

"You know the man. In exchange for an act devoid of spiritual meaning, he expects you to make him president. I don't blame you for extracting your pound of flesh. But your moment of satisfaction ends at around twelve-thirty. Marotta's begins at twelve thirty-one, and it could last a whole lot longer."

Christy was silent. "It's not just about me," he said frankly. "It's about my people. I need to hold them. A lot of them are wondering what influence I have here on earth, and what possible good—by our lights—would come from your nomination." Christy's voice held a note of mournful resignation. "This is my way of keeping them, Corey, and you're not helping me. The time for maneuver is running out."

IN HIS SUITE at the Michelangelo, Sean Gilligan perfected the Windsor knot in his Hermès tie, thinking, as he often did, that he had exceeded the most hopeful imaginings of a Catholic boy from upstate New York whose dad worked on the ore boats that plied the Great Lakes. But then luck was a talent—as a sophomore in college, he had realized that the Republican Party could not merely become his passion, but a lucrative career. And so years of assiduous labor as a congressional staffer and party functionary—planning fund-raisers, dispensing favors, helping in campaigns, and, eventually, devising tactics—had led him to an office on K Street and, at last, to become lead partner in his own consulting firm, with friends in every nook and cranny of Washington. Gilligan had become more than a lobbyist: he was a strategic adviser.

But there were still a few powerful men, to Gilligan's regret, to whom he owed more favors than he had been able to dispense. Turning from the mirror, he glanced at the manila envelope in his open briefcase, then tried to listen to Frank Flaherty pontificating on Rohr News. "According to our sources," Flaherty said in a disparaging voice rich with satisfaction, "Senator Grace informed the reverend that he says his prayers in private, and that he would not presume on God to pick a favorite." Flaherty's mouth twitched. "Little wonder, some would say."

When the telephone rang, Sean knew who it was. "I know," he said. "Grace is fucking up."

"Man can't help it," his patron said. "Time to save him from himself."

SITTING AT THE round table in Hollis Spencer's suite, Gilligan slid the envelope across its lacquered surface. "What's this?" Spencer asked.

Gilligan hesitated, unhappy in a role he thought he had transcended. "Something you didn't get from me."

Spencer opened the envelope. Clipped together were photographs, credit card receipts, and, knitting them into a damning narrative, a report with no attribution of authorship. Staring at a photograph, Spencer murmured, "Blair."

"Queer as a three-dollar bill." Gilligan put his finger on the edge of a particularly telling photograph. "This guy met Blair on nearly every trip he took out of state. A couple of us wondered why his wife never came to governors' conferences. This one picture clears that up all by itself."

"Who is he?"

"His name's Steven Steyer. Used to be a fitness trainer at the gym in Chicago where Blair worked out." Gilligan spoke with mild distaste. "Two years ago, Blair gave him a cushy job in Springfield—'adviser to the Governor's Council on Physical Fitness.' Looks like he gave his best advice at night."

Impassively, Spencer perused the pictures and then scanned the report. "This trick is so seamy," he remarked, "that it's almost quaint. Whose idea was this?"

"A secret admirer of Senator Grace's. That's all I'm at liberty to say."

Spencer looked up from the photographs, his eyes cold with contempt. "_You're_ no admirer of Corey's, Sean. And neither are your pals. Corey's everything you can't stand, a senator who deplores the world you operate in." Spencer's voice hardened. "This is about knifing Blair. Whoever sent you wants Corey's fingerprints on the knife. Risky for us,
and
for you. Just who do you owe that much to?"

Though stung, Gilligan merely shrugged. "Not your concern, Hollis. Your mission is to beat Marotta. And if you don't use this and Marotta wins the nomination, the Democrats will use it to defeat him. You owe it to your candidate—not to mention your party—to burst Blair's bubble now."

Head raised, Spencer regarded him over his reading glasses. Gilligan imagined the progression of his thoughts, including one that said silence was best. "You've done your job," Spencer told him. "Why don't you just run along."

SPENCER FOUND COREY in his suite, studying his notes for an informal talk to undecided delegates. CNN droned in the background. "What's up?" Corey said with mild irritation. "I'm running late."

"This won't keep." Tossing the envelope in front of Corey, he said, "I don't want you to open this. I'll tell you what's inside—proof that Charles Blair has a gay lover on his payroll."

Corey felt the color drain from his face. "Where'd this come from?"

"Sean Gilligan gave it to me. He's running this nasty errand for someone else."

Corey tried to sort out his emotions, ranging from pragmatism to wariness to a deep sadness, despite everything, for Blair and his family, the victims of his weakness and folly. "It's not the Democrats," he said at length. "They'd save this for October. And it's sure as hell not Marotta."

"Hardly. Used right, this could blow him out of the water—the anti-gay crusader who picked a pansy for his running mate. The evangelicals would explode."

Hearing a familiar voice, Corey glanced at CNN and saw Marotta standing in front of Christy's delegates. "Please tell us, Senator," a delegate implored him, "what reason you'd give our Lord for admitting you to heaven."

Marotta lowered his eyes. "I wouldn't give Him a reason," he answered. "I'd simply ask for mercy, because of what our Lord Jesus Christ did for all of us at Calvary."

His questioner nodded vigorously. In that instant, Corey wanted to take Marotta down by any means at hand. "I can't let him become president, Hollis."

"Blair's fucked," Spencer said matter-of-factly. "If we don't leak this, someone else will. What bothers me is that whoever went to all this trouble has an agenda that pre-dates Blair's selection. And we don't know what it is." Spencer's expression clouded. "If we were to leak this, and it was traced to us, you could be as tarnished as Marotta."

On CNN, Marotta stood beside Christy, brandishing a Bible. "I believe as Bob does," he said emphatically. "The only rules you need to build a decent society are right here in this book. That's how I know that homosexuality is a sin; that gay marriage and its surrogates violate God's law and send the wrong message to our young people."

Corey watched Christy summon a halfhearted smile, then turned from the screen. "How long do I have to decide?" he asked.

"Hours, at most. If Christy goes over to Marotta,
you
may be over. After the undecideds, your next meeting is with Mr. Rainbow. I'll call him up to cancel."

Corey headed for the door, then turned. "No," he said. "I'll see him, however briefly."

"_Why,_ for Godsakes?"

"It's a debt I have. To someone I used to know."

On CNN, Marotta knelt with Christy in a prayer circle, beseeching God for help.

EVEN AS HE GREETED THE NEW LEADER OF THE RAINBOW REPUBLICANS, Corey was impatient for the meeting to be over. He had made little headway with the undecided delegates, and his decision about Blair's secret life—perhaps a poisoned chalice but also, quite possibly, his only hope—could not wait. When his new supplicant introduced himself, Corey waved him to a chair with minimal warmth.

Jay Cantrell was a handsome man, surprisingly young, with jet-black hair, an athletic bearing, and dark, perceptive eyes that signaled his awareness of Corey's mood. "I won't waste your time, Senator. But at least you've been decent on our issues. Christy and Marotta are scapegoating us—Christy because he believes in it, Marotta because he'll do whatever he needs to.

"I know you're under pressure to join the club. I implore you—please don't."

Beneath Cantrell's poise and discipline, Corey sensed his desperation to be heard. Bluntly, Corey asked, "Why do you perform this thankless task? You're dealing with people who hate you not for who you are, but
what
you are. Why bother being a Republican at all?"

"Because I am," Cantrell answered promptly. "There are millions of gays who, as people, are deeply conservative. Why should we have to be Democrats?" His tone, though urgent, was even. "A lot of this issue is personal. Once a person learns that someone they care about is gay, their prejudice begins to soften. And every significant movement for human progress in our history—women's suffrage, civil rights, interracial marriage—needed supporters in both parties. If we can make our party more accepting, even at the margins, then all the pain involved will be worthwhile.

"That brings us back to you, Senator. The Christian conservatives want you to embrace their homophobia. But your instincts are inclusive—you've shown that in your political
and
personal lives. The choice you make now is as defining for you as it is critical for us. I pray that you don't throw us overboard."

Listening, Corey felt conflicting emotions—guilt about his brother, sympathy for Cantrell's argument, annoyance at the young man's unsubtle reference to Lexie, and ambivalence about Blair. With as much dispassion as he could muster, Corey asked, "What do you propose I do about reality?"

"What you have been doing. You don't have to be a crusader for gay rights. Pick a Christian conservative for vice president if you have to." Cantrell leaned forward, his eyes locking Corey's. "That would give you leeway to gradually change the tone. All we need is for you to allow Americans to let us join their family. Besides, I think this issue is as important to you as it is to me. Or should be, at least."

Discomfited and annoyed, Corey decided to conclude the meeting at once. "Thank you," he said coolly, and stood to signal the man's dismissal. "To my regret, we're out of time."

Cantrell made no move to leave. He inhaled, as if preparing himself for a difficult moment, and then removed a letter from the pocket of his suit coat. "Until now," he said, "I wasn't sure I'd ever do this."

Reaching up, he placed the envelope in Corey's hand.

The only words on it were "For Corey Grace." But even after thirteen years, Corey knew the handwriting at once. With clumsy fingers, he took the letter from the envelope and read its first line.

By the time you read this, I'll be dead
.

Corey sat, briefly closing his eyes, then read on.
Something happened between me and my roommate. I can't face Mom and Dad. But especially I can't face you. I can't let myself embarrass you, or be used against you by people like that Reverend Christy
.