Balance of Power

    His father let out a moan of agony, his eyes glazing over. His mother stood, coming between them. "No, Kerry, no."

    Still breathing hard, Kerry took her in his arms and pushed her to the bed with fearful gentleness. "Stay," he commanded. "Let me finish this."

She did not move again.

In the dim bedroom, Kerry turned to his father.

Michael struggled to raise his fists. Kerry moved forward.

Whack, whack, whack . . .

    His father's eyes bled at the corners now. Kerry hit him in the stomach.

    His father reeled back, mouth open.

    Kerry brought the right.

    It smashed into his father's mouth. Kerry felt teeth break, slashing his own hand. His father fell in a heap.

    Kerry stood over him, sucking air in ragged breaths, sick with rage and shock and astonishment. His eyes half-shut, Michael spat tooth fragments from his bloody mouth.

    Kerry knelt in front of him. "Touch her again, Da, and I'll kill you. Unless you kill me in my sleep." He paused for breath, then finished. "I wouldn't count on doing that. I'm too used to waiting up for you."

    After that night, Michael Kilcannon never hit his wife again. His younger son never hit anyone.

* * *

Joan listened with downcast eyes. As Kerry finished, they closed.

    "In some ways," Kerry told her, "my mother was lucky. So was I. But that wounded, angry boy still exists. Maybe he's the ruthless one I keep reading about." Kerry stopped, dismissing self-analysis or selfjustification; as he had learned long since, a reputation for ruthlessness had its uses. Softly, he finished, "You won't raise a brutalizer, Joan. You'll raise a victim."

    Joan was silent. Kerry sensed her absorbing all that he had said, yet struggling with the habit of years. He could not push further, or try to talk her, yet, into leaving.

    "I'll leave my number," he said at last. "If you ever want to reach me, about anything, please call anytime. Once I'm President, I'll make sure the White House operators know to put you through."

* * *

    Leaving, Kerry was startled by a slender, brown-haired man standing on the porch.

    The man stared down at him. Even had Kerry not seen photographs, he would have known John Bowden from his look of fear and fury.

    Kerry felt a reflex of hot, returning anger, then stifled it—to indulge this could do harm. Calmly, he stuck out his hand. "I'm Kerry Kilcannon," he said. "Your future brother-in-law."

    Humiliated by his own impotence, the difference in their stations, Bowden did not move.

    Kerry's hand fell to his side. Softly, he said, "You're wondering what she told me. Nothing. She didn't have to."

    A red flush stained Bowden's neck. Still he did not answer.

    "Get help," Kerry told him. "Or someday you'll go too far. And then, trust me, you'll be the one who suffers most."

SIX

Kerry sat on the edge of the bed, Lara beside him, listening to Joan Bowden through the telephone. The scene was so vivid that he could envision it—the darkened living room; the frightened woman; the husband passed out in their bedroom.

    "It's bad," Joan whispered and then, haltingly, she told him what had happened.

    "Where's the gun?" Kerry asked at once.

    Lara turned, clutching Kerry's sleeve. Fearfully, Joan answered. "He still has it."

    "Has he mentioned suicide again?"

    "Not tonight." The despair beneath her whisper deepened. "Only if I leave him."

    "What about threatening you. Or Marie."

    Joan hesitated. "Just me."

    "And the beatings are more frequent now."

    "Yes." The word held weary resignation. "They're worse, because John's drinking more. He's worried about his job."

    Kerry stood, fighting his own anxiety. "You have to get him out of there," he said with quiet urgency. "Or take Marie and go."

    "How? Where?"

    Kerry felt Lara at his back, her hands clasping his waist. "There's a drill for this," he answered. "Wait until he leaves for work. Then call the District Attorney's Office and ask for the domestic violence unit. I'll have spoken to them myself by then.

    "Tell them what John did. They'll go to court for an emergency protective order. It's called a kick-out order. They'll take his gun away, make him pack up and leave. Unless you go to a shelter."

    The enormity of this induced an extended silence. Lara leaned her face against Kerry's back.

    "No," Joan said at last. "I can't put Marie in a shelter. It's too much."

    There was no time, Kerry thought, to argue. "If you stay at home," he said, "there are things you can do. Keep close contact with the police, and Mary and your mother. The order should ban John from coming there, cut off his visitation . . ."

    "He'll go crazy . . ."

    "He'll use Marie if you don't stop him." Kerry paused, lowering his voice. "How do you know he won't just take her?"

    "Take her." Joan's voice was anguished. "Then how can I do this?"

    "By protecting her. If John has to see her, it should be at a visitation center. Otherwise, the order should say that he can't go near her—at your home, her school, or wherever. Make sure her principal and teacher have a copy of the order. Then change your locks, and start looking for another place . . ."