Balance of Power

    "Is that all you're selling? Self-defense for Mom and Dad? Or do they have to worry about criminals armed with even deadlier Lexington guns?"

    Callister frowned again. "We can't be held accountable for a buyer's motives. Would you say that gun fanciers have no right to buy a semiautomatic handgun, or that someone with a deep belief in the Second Amendment shouldn't buy whatever weapons he wants?"

    "The whole Second Amendment argument," Kerry countered with some impatience, "is senseless—this idea that the Constitution is a sui cide pact, with the Founding Fathers hell-bent on arming private citizens to overthrow the government they'd just created. They thought that's what voting was for."

    At this, Callister briefly laughed. "Please, Mr. President—say that in public. The four million members of the SSA will fill our coffers by arming themselves to the teeth. This may pain you, but the three weeks after your election were our most profitable in years. Every speech you give on gun control is worth hundreds of thousands in free advertising."

    Kerry could not help but smile at the irony. "You're saying that my great crusade is more like 'rope a dope,' when Muhammad Ali let George Foreman punch himself into exhaustion. And that I'm George Foreman."

    "Much slimmer, Mr. President. And certainly no dope." Callister's expression became serious again. "But that's the problem with this whole debate. Gun controllers aren't so much stupid as flat ignorant— they don't know the guns they're trying to ban, or see the consequence of what they're asking for. They pass a law banning so-called assault weapons and cutting magazine capacity to ten rounds, and help create by inadvertence a whole new market for handguns which can fire ten rounds in seconds . . ."

    "Or in Lexington's case," Kerry cut in with a caustic edge, "take advantage of an SSA-created loophole allowing small, concealable handguns to accommodate the forty-round magazines Lexington made before the law was passed."

    Callister frowned. "You've done your homework, Mr. President. But a lot of manufacturers did that."

    "Well that's the problem, isn't it." Leaning forward, Kerry spoke with new intensity. "Lexington could have made guns safer, looked for ways to ensure a gun could only be used by its owner—not by his kid, or against him by intruders. But instead you made them more concealable and more lethal. Then told Americans they needed more and deadlier guns to protect themselves from all those other Americans with even more and deadlier guns. You can't credit me for that."

    Callister met his gaze. "Guns aren't going away, Mr. President. As for safety, why not teach it to kids? We wouldn't have half the accidents we do. But the gun controllers are like the folks who want to stop teen sex through abstinence education—teaching safe sex means fornication, and gun safety means more gun owners. Which is exactly what they don't want."

    Silent, Kerry gazed into his coffee cup, then beyond them at the sweep of mountains. "We can debate this all day," he said at length. "At the end, on average, eighty more people will have died."

    "If that's true," Callister replied, "they'd be dead regardless. If we're going to get anywhere, you'll have to understand how hard it is to get there. And why."

    Kerry looked at him steadily. "I'm willing to listen, George. And then I may have a proposal for you. If you're willing to come back."

    Callister considered this, eyes narrow, and then nodded. "I'm willing, Mr. President. But only if no one leaks it."

TWELVE

Beneath the ov erhead light in her kitchen, Joan Bowden sat at the table, staring at a stack of unpaid bills. Through the answering machine her husband blamed her.

    I've lost my job. You've emasculated me . . .

    Swallowing, Joan choked back tears.

    Did you hear me, Joan . . . ?

    John's inflection wavered between pleading and hysteria. Hand trembling, Joan reached for the telephone.

    "John?"

    His voice suddenly gained strength. "You've gone too far, Joanie . . ."

    "What's this about your job . . ."

    "I couldn't work." His timbre became high-pitched, as insistent as a child shifting blame. "I told you that. You've taken everything away from me."

    Through her fears, she could feel his isolation. More quietly, she said, "I didn't want to. I was just so scared . . ."

    "Why do I hurt so much? I hurt all the time now—physically, like a sickness . . ."

    Impatience overcame Joan's guilt. "Why is it up to me, John? Why can't you help yourself? I keep asking you about counseling . . ."

    "It's too late for that. I've got no family now. You're sending me to jail. There's nothing left to live for . . ."

    "Stop it."

    As if he were strengthened by her panic, John's voice calmed. "What's to stop me from coming to the house and blowing my brains out with a gun?"

    Startled, Joan blurted, "Marie."

    "I can't see her, remember? You've taken her from me. But I won't leave her to you, Joanie. That's what you want, isn't it?"