The Race (24 page)

Angling his lanky frame, Ford glanced at Rustin, a lock of jet-black hair falling across his forehead. "Sad to say, I hail from Jefferson's nightmare—a third-rate media and first-rate political talent, none more unscrupulous than Magnus Price. As Marotta's new buddy Linwood Tate once said, 'The first rule is to get elected; the second to be reelected. If there's a third rule, no one's written it down.'" His smile fading, Ford added, "It's gonna be a test of character, son. By this time next week, two of you will have lost the primary election, and I'd guess at least one of you will have lost his soul. But none of you will be the same."

The comment sobered Corey. Two hours out of New Hampshire, he felt the glow of victory fading, even as he could read the worry in Rustin's unsmiling demeanor. Looking up from a computer run, Rustin said across the aisle, "These numbers from New Hampshire spell trouble. You carried independents by forty-three percent, but Republicans by only five. And more than half the Republicans in South Carolina self-identify as Christian conservatives.

"So let's reprise a few dos and don'ts." Rustin ticked off the points on the fingers of his left hand. "Don't tread on people's religious feelings. Don't bring up race. Respect South Carolina traditions."

"Which ones?" Corey asked, and then turned to Ford. "He doesn't mean lynchings, right?"

"Nope," Ford answered with a rueful smile. "More like deference to our state flag—the Confederate flag, regrettably, still flying on our statehouse lawn.

"Maybe in Ohio a piece of cloth wouldn't mean so much. But this one's divided our state. Most whites want to keep it; blacks are a good bit less sentimental about symbols of enslavement. The feelings on both sides run deep and bitter."

As so often now, Corey thought of Lexie. "Where do
you
come out, Dakin?"

"Oh," Ford said softly, "I defend our flag, of course. Just the sight of it brings tears to my eyes. Truth to tell, I wish the damn thing would go away."

"Price won't let it," Rustin told Corey. "Do Dakin and yourself a favor, and try to see it as a piece of southern heritage."

Corey gave him a mock-quizzical look. "I thought that's what museums are for. What else am I supposed to do?"

"Honor the Almighty. Quote a little scripture here and there—I've got a Bible in my briefcase." Rustin fixed him with a bright-eyed look. "In case you've forgotten, it was God who sustained you when that pack of Arabs hung you by your broken shoulders. That's when you first knew—absolutely and completely—that Jesus was in charge of your personal salvation."

Corey returned his gaze. "You want the absolute truth, Blake? The only thing I know for sure is that I'm lucky to be alive. I no more know whether Jesus chose to save me than if His mother was a virgin."

Covering his face, Ford groaned theatrically. Smiling at this, Corey added, "Sorry, Dakin. But anyone who claims that kind of certainty is lying to his audience or himself.

"I'm not going to
say
all that—there's such a thing as gratuitous honesty. But the last two presidential campaigns have conditioned voters to spot a phony. I'll do my damnedest not to embarrass you, Dakin. But we both agree that doesn't require me to race Marotta to the bottom."

Nodding, Ford turned to Rustin. "The state is changing, Blake. We've got transplants from the North and the Midwest; young, educated parents who want a president who's smart and honest; and a boatload of veterans who value Corey's service in Iraq. And when it comes to the war on terror," Ford added, "nobody else in this race has actually
killed
a terrorist." Placing his hand on Corey's arm, Ford said, "I agree with Blake that you've got big problems with fundamentalists around Columbia—the place where General Sherman said that the only thing between it and hell was a screen door. Even more so up around Greenville, home to Carl Cash University."

Corey laughed out loud. "What's so funny?" Ford asked.

"More like ironic. My mother wanted to send my late brother to Carl Cash, hoping to save his soul."

"What on earth did he do? Deflower the village virgins?"

Corey's smile faded. "Not exactly. Anyhow, I encouraged him to enter the Air Force Academy, where he jumped off a five-story building. Tends to put Carl Cash University in a more attractive light."

Ford propped his chin on his hand, his blue eyes fixing Corey with a look of sympathy. "Carl Cash," he said finally, "is as rank a racist as God ever ordained."

"I know," Corey answered. "That figured into my thinking."

"Which brings me," Rustin said with obvious reluctance, "to the elephant in the room—if I can use that phrase about a beautiful woman who's also a registered Democrat. How does
she
play, Dakin?"

As Ford pursed his lips, Corey watched his friend search for a line between tact and truth. "Right into the Confederate flag issue, I'm afraid—no way Corey can duck race. We lose the bigots without picking up blacks: the voters are racially polarized, and blacks vote Democratic. But white folks of goodwill won't hold Lexie Hart against you. And people's attitudes toward race are more complex than they talk about.

"Everyone down here knew that old Strom Thurmond had a biracial daughter. But the fact that he looked after her gave him some cover with white folks who didn't want to see themselves as racists." Ford cocked his head, then asked bluntly, "Lexie gonna be coming here?"

"No. We both think it's best she steer clear of politics. At least in the near term."

Ford nodded slowly. "No matter what you do, Price will try to drag her into this. Best not to help him." He paused, then continued in an apologetic tone: "That's not just about race, Corey—it's about your sleeping arrangements. Price knows every lever you can pull down here. If he wants to invent a scandal, he can do it."

The airplane trembled, then hit a bump that drained the blood from Ford's face. "Hate flying," he admitted. "But I guess you'd fly in damned near anything."

"Only when I'm flying it," Corey answered.

ROHR's GULFSTREAM SHUDDERED again, more violently this time. In an instant, Marotta saw lightning flash across the dense darkness of thunderclouds. At the corner of his eye, he could see Mary Rose—she was awake now, her expression queasy, and she glanced at him intermittently.

"Grace," Price said, "will get a ten percent bump out of winning in New Hampshire."

"And my stock price will drop five percent," Rohr said with a sour smile.

"You'll gain it back a week from now," Price answered calmly. "South Carolina is where we destroy him."

"Destroy?" Marotta demurred. "Corey's got more lives than Dracula."

"He's fucking a black actress, Rob. If you want to parse that sentence, the operative words are 'fucking' and 'black.'" Price cast an eye toward Mary Rose. "Just keep M.R. at your side, and bring down the kids next weekend. Compared to a childless black woman,
that
picture's worth ten thousand votes."

"You're forgetting the
other
picture I'm in," Marotta replied. "The one with Grace and two dead terrorists."

"Convenient, wasn't it?" Price sat back, eyebrows arched, his expression at once cynical and dreamy. "Ever wonder why every time Grace needs some Arabs to make him look good, he finds them?"

"What the hell does
that
mean?" Marotta snapped. "The man may have saved my life, you'll remember."

"And now he's using that to steal your nomination." Price's tone was cold and unapologetic. "You know better than anyone that politics is jujitsu. Grace looks like a film star—so paint him as an adulterous husband and lousy father who cashes in his dazzling smile for recreational sex. Grace gets adoring coverage—so cast him as a tool of the liberal media. Grace claims to be independent—so make him a man who believes in nothing, even God. Grace is running as a hero, and so—"

"Forget it. No one reputable would accuse Corey Grace in public of being an Al Qaeda plant. I sure as hell don't want
us
doing anything like that."

Price's lids lowered, veiling his eyes. "By the way," he said in a conversational tone, "did I tell you Linwood Tate wants to be ambassador to England?"

"Lots of people want lots of things.
My
question is what you told him."

"Nothing, as of yet. Deciding about Tate is your job."

Price hit a button on the speakerphone in front of him. After a moment, a man answered. Though scratchy, the southern voice announced itself with calmness and authority. "Linwood Tate here. Been waiting for your call, Magnus."

Surprised, Marotta stared at Price. "Well, here I am," Price answered. "And Alex.
And
Rob."

"Evening, Senator. Welcome to South Carolina, where a friend in need is a friend indeed."

Glancing toward Mary Rose, Price lowered the volume. "And we do need friends, Governor."

"You surely do. And with all respect to Rob's friend Alex, he can't put you across by himself—the message you need to get out here is, shall we say, not quite right for the evening news. Fortunately, there are other ways to help our fine citizens to make an informed decision." After pausing, Tate said with cool assurance, "I've worked real hard to make things in South Carolina happen how I want them. Like I already told you, Magnus, I'd be proud to be the man who made
your
man into President Marotta."

Marotta glanced sharply at Price. Calmly, Price said, "How much you gonna need, Governor?"

"I figure the whole campaign will cost about two million, most of it offshore. A paltry price for the sovereign state of South Carolina."

When Price turned to Rohr, eyebrows raised, Rohr nodded. "We can do that, Governor," Price said smoothly. "Any questions, Rob?"

There were no questions he could ask, Marotta suddenly understood, where it was safe for him to know the answer. Staring at the speakerphone, he tried to envision himself as president—a far better president than Corey Grace, more deliberate, less impulsive, a man who accepted the world as it was. A man forced to make decisions that his rival's luck had spared him. A man who had worked too long and hard to be derailed by a terrorist's random act. A man who accepted that power had a price.

"None that won't keep," Marotta answered softly. "I won't forget this, Linwood."

Abruptly standing, Marotta went to see his wife.

Pale, Mary Rose looked up at him. "I've been watching you, Robbie. Something happened tonight."

Marotta kissed her forehead. "As soon as you feel better, I want you to go home."

Still watching his face, she shook her head. "Magnus says I can help you here. And I'm feeling like you need me now."

Mary Rose, Marotta thought, knew him all too well. He managed a smile. "I always need you, sweetheart," he said gently. "But our kids need you even more. Better that I do South Carolina on my own."

FLYING INTO COLUMBIA AT 1:00 A.M., COREY LOOKED DOWN AND SAW the scattered illumination of a thinly populated state and then, amid the dark rectangle of an airstrip, a field of flickering lights that resembled an array of stars. As he peered out the window, Ford smiled in delight. "Cigarette lighters," he told Corey. "We hired a band called the Blue Dogs and sent buses to damn near every college in the state, promising a concert and free beer. You're riding into South Carolina on a wave of sheer idealism."

Corey laughed. "Drunken college kids are my natural constituency."

Fifteen minutes later, when Ford and Corey jumped up on the platform to join the band, three thousand or so jacked-up college students emitted a full-throated roar, some brandishing beer or whiskey bottles. Smiling, Corey murmured to Ford, "Guess they're not from Carl Cash University."

"Doesn't matter," Ford assured him. "These young people are truly lit by a higher power." Seizing the microphone from the lead singer for the Blue Dogs, Ford proclaimed, "Guess you all saw what happened in New Hampshire ..."

THE NEXT MORNING, on four hours sleep, Corey, Ford, Rustin, the campaign staff, and a pack of reporters sped toward Charleston in a bus dubbed the Silver Bullet. Looking up from his BlackBerry, Rustin reported, "We're already getting a flood of Internet donations. They're calling you the new Teddy Roosevelt."

"_And_ Lincoln," Ford suggested, "_and_ Washington. You might even be
Franklin
fucking Roosevelt."

"Wrong party," Kate McInerny of the
Post
interjected. "What about Harding, or maybe Coolidge?"

"Or maybe," Rustin told her amiably, "the person above your head."

Looking up, Corey saw the television suspended over the aisle. On tape from C-SPAN, Bob Christy spoke at an evangelical church. "Senator Marotta," he warned, "is the face of corporate materialism, hidden behind the mask of false religiosity."

"Looks like Christy beat us here," Rustin said.

Ford shrugged. "Suits me. He's nothing but trouble for Marotta."

From behind them came the squeal of police sirens. The bus slowed, gliding to a stop on the shoulder of a four-lane highway. A burly highway patrolman appeared in Corey's window, beckoning him outside. "If I don't come back," Corey instructed Ford with a smile, "call my lawyer."

The morning air was chilly. The highway patrolman, a heavy-set man roughly Corey's age, ambled toward him.

"Going too fast?" Corey asked.

"Not for me," the patrolman said. "You can't get to the White House fast enough." Grinning, he held out his sizable hand. "I was in the Gulf War, like you. Just wanted to say 'Welcome to South Carolina' to a genuine American hero."

What, Corey wondered, would Joe Fitts think of
this
? Smiling, he shook his new friend's hand. "Want to ride with us to Charleston?" Corey asked.

BEHIND THE CURTAIN, Marotta sat alone with Carl Cash.

The man was near eighty, Marotta guessed, with translucent skin, a gaunt face, and the glinting, humorless eyes of a bitter saint. "A true disciple of Christ," he told Marotta in his phlegmy voice, "holds four immutable beliefs. That the Bible is inerrant. That salvation comes through Jesus Christ alone. That we must be born again. And that all Christians must spread the Word of God. Do
you
believe those things?"