The Race (33 page)

"Rustin's right. Fame breeds pathology, and envy metastasizes like a cancer. What can I say? I'm not going to deny my addiction, and I'm not going on
Oprah
to weep and offer up those two rapists as my excuse."

There was nothing he could say. Silent, he tried to read her face in the shadows. "There's something else," she told him. "Remember my movie project, the story about the young black kid trying to break free?"

"Sure."

"Late last year, I sold the rights to New Line. At the time, it seemed like a good deal—if the studio made it, I got to produce and direct." Her tone flattened. "Two days ago, for more money than New Line could turn down, RohrVision bought the rights.

"Their message is clear enough. Screw with
our
world, girl, and we'll damn well screw up yours. My movie's never getting made."

Corey felt too many emotions—compassion, fury, heartache, guilt—to express any of them clearly. "It's
all
screwed up," he said helplessly. "I keep trying to say that I don't want to lose you and I don't want you hurt. And I don't even know whether that's saying the same thing, or two different things."

Lexie turned from him, staring out into the night. "This isn't meant to be," she said at length. "Not if you want to be president. Politics is consuming us, like I always knew it would."

Heartsick, Corey turned her face to his. "Can we wait until the campaign's over?"

Tears came to her eyes. "For what, Corey?"

Corey found he could not answer. She kissed him gently, a silent goodbye, and slipped back inside her uncle's house.

THE NEXT MORNING, COREY FLEW TO SAN FRANCISCO.

Alone, he imagined Lexie on her flight to Los Angeles—quiet, controlled, as gracious to others as Corey tried to be. And, like him, desolate. As with Corey, no one would sense the feeling of solitude that she had carried with her from childhood. For him their separation was a physical shock that left him without appetite. But he was running for president, and the survivor at his core kept pushing him forward.

He knew what awaited when he landed: news reports of Rob Marotta's resurgence; pundits dissecting the disarray in Corey's campaign; new questions about his temperament and judgment. But he could not—would not—let South Carolina doom his candidacy. Winning was all that Price had left him.

He hoped that Hollis Spencer wanted one last challenge.

ON A STRETCH of beach near Spencer's home in Seacliff, the two men trudged across the sand, unpeopled on a bright, cool weekday. Spencer stopped to admire the Golden Gate Bridge. "It's the architecture," he said. "Two spans, perfectly spaced, crossing the mouth of the bay. I never tire of studying it."

Spencer looked much older now: his hair was sparse and white, his belly sloped, his shoulders slumped, his face more deeply seamed. "I haven't run a campaign in years," he told Corey. "Like I said when you asked before, a lot's changed since I helped you get elected to the Senate."

"Yeah," Corey said. "It's gotten worse."

"Magnus Price." Spencer stopped, hands in his pockets, still gazing at the bridge. "I could see it all coming, even before he left my shop to take on Christy as a project.

"Magnus doesn't care about history, or policy, or the future. He's the epitome of the twenty-first-century man. To him, making Marotta president is a marketing exercise, where the only point is to prove that he's smarter than any strategist alive—that he can elect anyone he wants, take down anyone he decides to.

"Magnus thinks he's
much
more interesting than Marotta. That unshakable belief defines their relationship: Price's ultimate triumph is not just to elect Marotta—it's to
own
him." Spencer turned, facing Corey. "Magnus's special talent is to see other people without sentiment or illusion. He believes he knows Rob Marotta better than Mary Rose does. If he worries at all about Marotta's qualifications to be president, his consolation is the belief that Marotta can be as ruthless as a president needs to be."

"As Price is, you mean."

Spencer shrugged. "I saw Christy calling Magnus 'evil.' That's the error of a man to whom morality matters. The truth is that Price's amorality has a certain purity: the problems of race, for example, are simply logistical—inspiring racial hatred is the same to Magnus as promoting racial amity. His only bias is that the human species responds more viscerally to fear and hatred. That's the darkness he brings to American politics."

"The country can't go on like this," Corey said. "We've stopped believing in one another—more and more, people vote out of anger, or stop voting out of disgust. Price's 'marketing exercise' is remaking America in his image."

Spencer studied a starfish at his feet. "While
I'm
busy writing books. In my day, I surely was no virgin; you can't manage two candidates who became president, as I did, without doing things you regret. But the biggest weight on my conscience is giving Magnus Price his start.

"South Carolina was vintage Price—it's like he sneaks in at night, and by sunrise the guy running against
his
guy would be dead and in a body bag. And no one can prove who it was that cut his throat."

"So will you do this?" Corey prodded.

Spencer smiled, a brief movement of his lips. "As penance?"

"I won't quibble about motives. But I hope because I'd make a decent president."

"Well," Spencer said wryly, "I'll say this much—you're a world different than the thirty-year-old hotshot I foisted on the Senate, with no qualifications beyond the fact that you'd remembered how to open your parachute."

Despite the pain associated with Joe Fitts's death, Corey could not help but laugh. "Good thing I didn't come here for flattery."

"Actually," Spencer said, "one of your finer compliments comes from Magnus.

"Two years ago or so I ran into him at Reagan National and asked how he sized up presidential possibilities. When we turned to you, he got this dreamy look. 'A natural talent,' he said. 'Charisma to burn, with the reflexes of a leader and first-rate political instincts. Love to run him. But the sonofabitch is too unpredictable.'

"'What you mean,' I answered, 'is Grace can't be handled. Especially not by you.'

"He gave me this little smile, like I'd read him. 'Maybe so,' he answered, 'but I'll tell you something else about him. People see all that careless charm and think they know him. But they don't. No one does.'"

Except for Lexie, Corey thought. "That's a compliment?"

"Of a kind. Magnus was saying that what drives you is beyond his grasp. And, at times, mine." Spencer looked at him steadily. "But whatever it is makes you too valuable to lose. Your speech at Carl Cash was as fine a moment as I've seen in politics.

"I view this election as America's last chance. So yes," Spencer concluded with a smile. "I'm emerging from a comfortable retirement to run your damn campaign. That flattery enough?"

Corey felt a wave of relief. "It'll do," he answered.

THEY SAT ON a rock, facing the blue-gray water and, beyond that, the green rolling hills of Marin County. "First things first," Spencer said. "Let's talk about Marotta.

"Price has packaged him as a man of principle, even as Marotta tacitly consented to whatever acts of moral degradation might allow him to survive." Spencer spoke with cool determination. "We're going to tie South Carolina around his ankles like a two-ton ball and chain.

"We can't prove what Price did below the radar screen—at least not yet. But a Catholic pandering to an anti-Catholic bigot like Carl Cash should pay the price with Catholics in primaries like Michigan, Connecticut, and Rhode Island. And he will.

"That's not negative campaigning. It's evidence of what Marotta is willing to do if the alternative is losing. And it draws a stark contrast between the two of you." His tone became clipped and practical. "So let's look at the map.

"There are moments in politics when goodness triumphs. But goodness requires a helping hand; in this case, the Reverend Christy's. You need him in the race for at least the next two weeks, so he can cut into Marotta's vote in states where the Christian Right is strong: Alabama, Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Georgia, and Virginia. If Marotta sweeps all those, you lose. But if he doesn't, and you survive to California—"

"We've got a deadlocked convention," Corey finished.

Spencer nodded slowly. "I've gone over this state by state, and I don't see any realistic way you clinch the nomination before our happy gathering in New York City. But if we can get you there, that's where the three governors—Blair, Costas, and Larkin—will try to auction off their delegates to the highest bidder. And, of course, Christy will do the same."

"Does God make deals?" Corey asked. "In Bob's theology, I'm pretty sure, God won't settle for anything less than President Christy."

"Maybe so. But in the back of that very shrewd mind, Christy knows that vice presidents can morph into presidents. After South Carolina, that may be God's last, best hope."

Corey watched a buoy bob in the choppy water. "In other words," he ventured, "my chances depend on whether Christy is lured into toughing out these charges by delusions of vice presidential grandeur. Maybe with a little help from me."

Spencer faced him. "What's your gut say? Did Christy come on to her?"

Corey sorted through his shifting sense of Christy's character and motives. "I don't believe Price is responsible for every bad thing in the world—or even in South Carolina. It's possible that Christy is a horndog and Magnus just got lucky. But ask me to choose, and I'd say Christy's innocent."

Spencer's eyes lit with interest. "Why?"

"Because he's not a sociopath. He may think he's God's anointed, but I don't believe he thinks God's given him a pass. Add ambition—and the obvious price God's candidate would pay for being exposed—and I'd guess Christy's too disciplined to come on to a woman Dakin thinks has got a screw loose.

"More likely, Christy's weakness was in feeling so armored in his own integrity that he didn't worry about being alone with her." A fresh pall of gloom overcame Corey. "It's sad, but paranoia's become a requirement for running. Since the campaign started, I've never been alone with any woman but Lexie."

Spencer gave him a keen look, as though Lexie Hart was problem enough. "How much are you willing to gamble on being right?"

"I guess we're not talking about money."

"I'm talking about the presidency. And that rests on Christy staying in to the bitter end—and maybe, come the convention, on his goodwill. So what I suggest is that you give Christy a public statement of support: that in a dirty campaign like this, Christy should not be driven from the race by unsubstantiated charges."

Once more, Corey thought of Lexie. "That
is
a gamble. Women who've been abused—or sympathize with those who have—might condemn me for it. And if this woman's charges end up looking credible, I'll be damaged."

"No," Spencer corrected, "you'll be dead. Because Christy's dead. You and Reverend Bob have turned into Siamese twins."

Corey pondered this. Before he could respond, Spencer said, "Now about Ms. Hart ..."

"Yes?"

"Personally, I'm filled with envy: not only is she beautiful, but she's plainly smart as a whip. So it's no big stretch for me to see you two together." Spencer's tone was blunt. "But that's me. If she's why you and Rustin fell out—and I suspect it is—I have to say Blake's right."

"Blake may be right, Hollis. He's also gone."

Spencer gave a small smile of acquiescence. "I can't tell you how to live your life. In my own life, I loved only one woman, and I married her. And when she died ..." To Corey's surprise, Spencer's eyes misted. "Whatever you decide, I'll work with it."

Corey nodded. Out of respect for Spencer's sentiment, or maybe his own unwillingness to believe that he had lost her, Corey did not say that Lexie, too, was gone.

"All right then," Spencer said. "Let's get rolling."

THOUGH HELD WITH only two hours' notice, Corey's press conference was filled with reporters either eager for a story or scenting blood in the water. But the return of Spencer to the political maelstrom clearly surprised the media.

"Hollis Spencer," Corey told them, "is the preeminent political strategist of our time, and one of the most honorable. We agree on a fundamental principle: winning the presidency should not
tarnish
the presidency.

"Which brings me to the charges against Bob Christy. Though serious, they are just that—charges. He is not accused of anything that can be proven or disproven. And so each of us must make our own judgment about his character." Corey paused, waiting for the reporters scribbling shorthand to catch up. "Here's mine: however much we disagree about issues, I believe Bob Christy. Just as I believe that, absent proof, he should not be driven from this race.

"This, as I say, is a question of character." Corey let the anger surface in his voice. "In South Carolina, as part of an avalanche of innuendo, I was accused of being an agent of Al Qaeda. Reverend Christy repudiated this charge and asked Senator Marotta to do the same. Senator Marotta declined.

"That moment said a great deal about character—Reverend Christy's and Senator Marotta's. So I'm giving the senator a second chance." Pausing, Corey spoke directly to the cameras. "I urge Bob Christy to stay in this race and to allow Americans to decide this contest on the issues. And I ask Senator Marotta to join me in that call. It's not too late for him to show some character."

And that, Corey thought with satisfaction, would lead the evening news.

IN THE CAR to the airport, Hollis Spencer said, "It'll be fun to watch Marotta deal with this one."

Corey sat back. "My favorite instructor at the Academy used to tell us that 'character is who you are in the dark.' These days I wonder what Rob would do if there was no one around to watch."

Corey's cell phone rang. When he pressed it to his ear, a deep southern-tinged voice said, "Corey? It's your semifriend Bob Christy."

As Corey laughed, Spencer turned to him. "Come on, Bob," Corey said. "Let's go all the way."