The Race (45 page)

"It's a risk." Price dabbed at his forehead, seeming to think as he spoke. "We go to Costas in confidence, tell him Blair's got problems, and promise him vice president if he helps deliver his folks. The one condition is that he tells absolutely no one until we've sewed up the nomination. Costas will take that deal, I'm sure of it. That way you've held Illinois
and
added New York."

"And suffer through the next twelve hours with two vice presidents?" Marotta sat down again. "The other problem is sitting on Blair's secret. Whoever's after him has got twelve hours to go public."

For a moment Price propped his chin on his clasped hands, eyes half shut. "Suppose Alex tells Gilligan that Rohr News is outing Blair tonight—and then doesn't. When the balloting begins, Blair's still in the closet."

Marotta sat down heavily, tempted, yet troubled by the risks inherent in such duplicity. "Let's call Costas," he said. "Then we'll go from there."

DESPITE GOVERNOR COSTAS'S patrician features, the look of perplexity in his large brown eyes put Marotta in mind of a handsome but bewildered frog. "You're dumping Blair?" he said in wonder.

"It's confidential," Price said coolly. "This is so closely held Blair doesn't know yet. But I guarantee he'll step aside."

Pensive, Costas looked from Price to Marotta, as though his antennae had picked up something feral. "You're not telling him," he said flatly.

"He doesn't deserve the courtesy. He lied to us, and we need his delegates. The question is whether you can bring us
yours
."

Marotta watched several emotions play across Costas's features—caution, interest, doubt, and, regarding Blair's secret, a mixture of curiosity and dread. "I feel like I'm walking across someone's grave," he said.

Marotta leaned forward. "It can't be helped, George. Magnus's question stands: can you deliver your delegates?"

Costas blinked. "I think so. But Grace has a lot of supporters, some of whom don't like you much. It would help to tell my delegates I'll be your nominee—"

"You won't be if we throw away Illinois," Price cut in. "This is a test of your leadership, George. Convince your people that endorsing Senator Marotta is the best thing for New York."

A frown drew down a corner of Costas's expressive mouth. "The only way they'd believe me is if they knew what I can't tell them. Come November Rob won't carry New York. Grace at least has a chance, and my delegates know that. You're putting me in a catch-22."

"Look—" Marotta began.

Holding up a hand, Price signaled for his candidate's silence. Softly, he asked Costas, "Do you want to be vice president?"

Costas nodded. "Yes."

"Then listen well, Governor. You look at yourself and imagine a vice president, even a president. The party's leaders look at you and see a pussy. This is the only chance you'll ever have."

Inwardly, Marotta flinched, not only at hearing the truth so brutally delivered, but from imagining Price's private estimate of Marotta himself. And yet he himself held Costas's eyes, then nodded.

The governor's gaze broke. "Give me an hour," he said. "I need to talk with Louise."

WITHOUT PREFACE, PRICE removed the contents of the manila envelope and spread the photographs in front of Charles Blair. For an instant, Blair stared at them and then, though it made no sound, his mouth began working. "You're dead," Price told him. "The only question is whether you're roadkill or we arrange a decent embalming."

A wet sheen moistened Blair's eyes, as though he'd been stung by a blow across the face. "What do you want?" he managed.

"You as my love slave, Charles. You'll withdraw whenever I tell you. If that's two hours from now, it is. But my current preference is to sit on this for a day, so that you can hold your delegates." Price's voice dripped with loathing and disgust. "You'll have to act your little heart out, Charlie. But God knows you're good at
that
."

Blair closed his eyes. "I'm sorry ..."

"'I'm sorry,'" Price mimicked. "'Sorry I lied to you, Magnus.' 'Sorry I may have cost Rob the nomination.' 'Sorry I gulled my wife into thinking I was straight.' 'Sorry I put some dimwit body builder on the public dime so I could fuck him in the ass.' You're the sorriest piece of shit I've ever seen in politics. But not as sorry as you will be unless you deliver your delegation to my candidate.

"If you don't, Alex Rohr will publish this file in every media outlet he owns. You're not just fighting for my candidate. You're fighting for your marriage, your family, and whatever scraps of dignity you can pretend to deserve.
Do you understand me?
"

Blair nodded mutely, paler than before. "I need to go to the bathroom," he began to say, then hurried from the room.

Gazing out the window, Price could hear Blair vomiting through the bathroom door.

AT TWO O'CLOCK—FIVE HOURS BEFORE THE CONVENTION WOULD reconvene—Spencer and Corey watched CNN as Governor Costas appeared at a hastily called press conference, Rob Marotta at his side.

Though tall, Costas was stoop-shouldered, and he read his statement in a halting manner that detracted from its force. "This has been a bitter contest," he recited. "But after days of soul-searching, I have concluded that Senator Marotta is the candidate who can best unite the disparate elements of our party—including those who support Senator Grace and Reverend Christy."

Corey began counting Marotta's delegates. "If Costas holds New York," he said, "Marotta is only twenty votes shy of winning on the first ballot."

Eyes glued to his text, Costas droned on. "Senator Marotta's openness to the center of our party is exemplified by his selection of Governor Blair."

"They
know,
" Spencer murmured. Turning to Corey, he said more decisively, "Marotta and Price know about Blair, and they've promised Costas VP."

"I can't believe that."

"Believe it—it's exactly what Magnus would do if he were desperate enough." Observing Corey's expression, Spencer grabbed his cell phone. "I'll prove it to you."

"Who are you calling?"

"Blair."

Spencer waited impatiently, a portrait of silent fury, then said, "Hollis Spencer here. Get me Governor Blair." His eyes narrowed. "I don't care if he's meeting with Jesus and John Lennon—if Blair doesn't take this call, he'll wish he were as dead as they are."

On the television, Costas clasped Marotta's hand. "Hello, Governor," Spencer said. "I guess you know you're being dumped. For sure Marotta does." He listened briefly, then spoke again in a lower voice: "Quit vamping. We
know,
you pathetic bastard. I'll leave it to Corey to decide what we do about that. But if I were you, I'd withdraw before the balloting starts."

Spencer hung up. "So you were right," Corey said.

"Yeah. The poor sonofabitch is scared witless."

"What happens if he doesn't withdraw?"

"We out him ourselves—no other choice."

Slowly, Corey shook his head. "With what? We gave the evidence back to Gilligan, and just as well. Even now, I don't know if I could do this to his wife and kids."

"_Magnus_ could—he's blackmailing Blair to hold on to Illinois. That's why we're so damn close to losing." Spencer's cheeks flushed, the look of an older man dangerously overexerted. "For Godsakes, Corey, wake up. Do you really want to hand this thing to Rob Marotta?"

Sitting back in his chair, Corey watched Marotta on CNN managing a smile of spurious triumph as he stepped up to the microphone. "Find Drew Tully," he instructed Spencer. "Tell him we think Marotta's dumping Blair for Costas.

"He can call a meeting of the delegation and ask Blair to deny it. If Blair cracks at all—if even two delegates flip from Marotta to me—under the unit rule Drew controls the entire delegation, and Illinois goes with me.

"Blair
will
crack, I'm guessing. He'll think that Tully knows what
we
know."

Spencer gave him a dubious look, then reached for his ringing cell phone. "Sure," he told his caller, and covered the cell phone. "Sam Larkin wants to meet with us."

Corey glanced at his watch. "Tell him five o'clock."

"Why so late?"

"There's someone I need to see." Heading for the door, Corey said, "Call Tully."

WITH TWO SECRET Service agents watching from a decorous distance, Corey knocked on the door of her suite.

After a moment it opened slightly, revealing Lexie's face. "It's only me," he said.

"Only you." She smiled a little. "And only a few months late."

"Not my fault," he said with mock exasperation. "Are we going to debate this through a crack in the door, or do I get to come in?"

She opened the door. Corey stepped through, and pushed it closed behind him. Then he brought her close to him, feeling her body against his, smelling her skin and hair. "I haven't changed my mind," he murmured. "Marry me."

Drawing back, she placed a finger to his lips, and then her own lips replaced it. For a time their kiss was soft, lingering; then it went deep.

Corey reached for the zipper of her dress. "Now?" she asked.

"It's just that it's been so long ..."

Her head against his shoulder, Lexie gave a shaky laugh. "Forgotten what it's like?"

Looking into her face, Corey slipped the dress from her shoulders. Her skin, a sepia brown, drew his lips again. As they brushed her nipples, he felt her quiver. Her dress slid to the floor, then the flimsy silk that covered the soft tangle of hair below her waist.

"Follow me," she whispered.

Breaking away, she went to the bedroom and stretched out on the bed. He stood at its end, undressing, caught in the beauty of her nakedness.

Even when he entered her, Corey still looked into her face. "I love you," he told her softly, and then neither of them spoke at all.

AFTERWARD, THEY LAY close to each other, their faces inches apart. Smiling again, she said, "Too bad nothing else is as simple as this."

Corey did not smile. "You don't know the half of it."

"Tell me."

Swiftly, Corey told her about Clay's letter, Blair's secret, and all the permutations that followed. When he was through, her eyes were grave, even sad. "All these broken lives."

Corey could say nothing to this. She took both of his hands in hers. "I love you, too," she said. "That's why I'm here. I even think that, as a couple, we have something unique to offer the country. But if you become president, I don't think we can survive."

"And if I'm not president?"

"I still
want
you to be," she answered. "So I can't see beyond tonight. But if you want me at the convention, I'll be there. That may be all I have left to give you."

Filled with worry and regret, Corey glanced at his watch. "I have to go," he said reluctantly, and kissed her one last time.

FROM THE SUBLIME to the treacherous, Corey thought, and focused his full attention on Sam Larkin.

Sitting comfortably in Corey's suite, Larkin glanced at Spencer, then trained his solemn gaze on Corey. "You got a problem," he said bluntly. "Your so-called moderate friends, Blair and Costas, are jumping ship like rats. And now, rumor has it, your lady friend is back."

Corey shrugged. "Lose some, win some."

Larkin's eyes widened slightly. "What you're about to lose is the nomination. Time to cut to the chase, son.

"You need my delegates. You need my explicit support to keep Christy and his delegates from jumping on Marotta's bandwagon. And what with your choice of romantic entanglements—which I envy you, by the way—you need a southern running mate to appeal to whites with, shall we say, a more traditional outlook."

Corey smiled. "Why so decorous, Sam? Why not just say 'racists'?"

"Racists vote," Larkin said coolly. "Some even get to be delegates. You're way past being choosy. In less than two hours the nominating speeches begin, then the voting. Sometime between then and now you'll either get me or lose everything."

Corey glanced at Spencer. "Help me here, Sam. Last time I looked you were touting Blair's virtues to southern delegates. Now you want the job yourself. What's changed?"

"The delegate count." Larkin gave him a slow smile. "It never eluded me that I don't exemplify your notions of good governance, what with all the lobbying I did on behalf of America's embattled corporations. But now I'm thinking that maybe a man who's wanting to be president needs to overlook such things. Unless the man's a fool."

Corey found himself staring into Larkin's cynical blue eyes, even as he tried to calculate the odds that Blair would fold, or be outed, between now and the first roll call. He steeled himself for one final bluff. "I'd like your support," he told Larkin. "Maybe I need it. But I have reason to think my situation isn't as dire as you suggest.

"If you hold out tonight, I'll give your offer every consideration." His voice softened. "Marotta's got problems. Maybe you've heard that, Sam."

For an instant, Larkin hesitated. Then, cool again, he said, "I'll give your nonoffer 'every consideration,' Corey. I surely will. Unless I get a better one, of course."

With little ceremony but a handshake, Larkin left. As Spencer closed the door behind him, Corey said, "That bastard. He's the one who dropped the dime on Blair."

Spencer paused, hand still on the doorknob. "Think so?"

"Sure. When he sold Blair to Marotta—which I'm certain he did—he hoped to pressure me into picking him. But if Marotta actually wins, Sam loses. So he slipped the dirt he'd collected on Blair to Gilligan, then told Sean to give it to me."

Spencer smiled a little. "But you didn't play. So Larkin's started improvising."

"I think so. Somehow or other Larkin fed the evidence to Marotta. But Price and Marotta decided to tough out the first ballot. Then Sam doubled back to me, hoping to exploit my hour of weakness." Corey glanced at his watch. "If I'm right, Larkin won't let Blair survive past nine o'clock. He can't."

"And if you're wrong?" Spencer asked pointedly. "Unless Blair snaps under the pressure, your only choice is to out him or lose. But you can't bring yourself to do that, and you won't make Larkin VP. Your virtue comes at a cost, and its name is Rob Marotta."