Balance of Power

    To John Bowden, Las Vegas was a neon whore, its convention center as soulless as an airplane hangar. An American flag hung from the rafters; beneath it were hundreds of laminated tables and makeshift booths, many with placards advertising weapons, or handmade signs with sentiments such as "Is your church licensed by the federal government?" offering souvenirs, T-shirts, SSA caps and coffee mugs, flak jackets, fishing gear, Nazi paraphernalia, hunting knives, and row upon row of rifles, handguns, ammunition, high-capacity magazines, silencers, flash suppressors, and kits to convert semiautomatic weapons to automatic fire. The floor was jammed with thousands of people—lone men, families, bikers in motorcycle gear—and so many guns that some sellers hawked their wares in the aisle or the lobby, swapping dull metal for wads of cash. Bowden had never been to a gun show before; he experienced the confusing tumult as an assault, a physical force which deflected him from his goal. Then, beside a spacious booth with a sign which said "The Gun Emporium," he spotted a life-size cardboard cutout of Kerry Kilcannon and Lara Costello, dressed for a wedding, with the concentric circles of a target on both their chests.

    Bowden approached as if in a trance, his copy of the SSA Defender clutched in one hand. With a dissociated smile, he stared at the image of Kilcannon, oblivious to the cacophony surrounding him.

    "Can I help you?" someone asked.

    Turning, Bowden saw a slender man with slicked-back hair and glasses, palms resting on a table loaded with semiautomatic handguns. Bowden went to the table and, clearing a space for The Defender, opened the magazine to the page he had marked with a scrap of newspaper. "I'm looking to buy this."

    The man looked at where Bowden's finger rested. "The Lexington Patriot-2. Yeah, we carry the P-2—lots of firepower."

    "How much?"

    "Good price. Four hundred dollars."

    "Show me the gun."

    The man reached behind the table and produced a black metal gun about ten inches long. "Concealable," he said. "You can squeeze off ten rounds in split seconds—however fast you can pull the trigger."

    Bowden picked up the gun. In his hand, it felt heavy, lethal. His throat was dry; for a long moment, his eyes focused on Lara Costello, and then moved back to the face of Kerry Kilcannon.

    You don't know what pain is, you fuck. But you will.

    "Do you want it?" the man asked.

    Stunned back to the present, Bowden reached for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, stuffed with bills from his visit to the checkcashing store which had gouged him for the money he needed. Silent, he peeled off four hundred-dollar bills and slapped them down beside the P-2.

    "I'll need ID," the man said.

    Bowden's neck twisted to look at him. "Why?"

    The man frowned. "We're a federally licensed dealer. We have to certify you're a Nevada resident, and run a background check."

    Bowden felt a flush at the back of his neck. "I can't wait that long," he said.

* * *

    Dressed in a morning coat, Kerry rode with Clayton to St. Mathew's in the Presidential limousine. The streets overflowed with men and women who waved or carried signs expressing their best wishes, including one that said, "We wish you seven children."

    "A little excessive," Kerry murmured with a smile. He studied the faces as he passed, warmed by the love and kindness he saw, reminded, again, of the responsibility he bore for the welfare of others, for making their lives better. There was so much to do, and it was often so much harder than it should be. He had the will; he could only hope he had the wisdom to find a way, to leave the country he loved better for his Presidency.

    But not today. Today, supported by his closest friend, Clayton, as well as by Chad Palmer and three old friends from Newark, he would begin his life with Lara.

    "In about twenty-seven hours," he told Clayton, "I'll be on Martha's Vineyard. I'll let all this go for a while." Then he turned to the window again, smiling at a little girl who waved from her father's arms.

    Clayton watched his friend: the ginger thatch of hair, the quickflashing smile, the penetrant somewhat brooding eyes which made him such a wonderful photographer's subject, filled with contradictions— to those who loved him, the most charismatic figure since John F. Kennedy; for those who opposed him, or despised him, a ruthless and dangerous man. But the man Clayton knew was driven by compassion; Kerry's anger was reserved for those who, in his mind, kept him from acting on behalf of the people who most needed help. For all the ink spilled, the endless analyses of what drove him, too few people knew Kerry Kilcannon as the man he really was. Now his friend was marrying a woman who did, and for that, knowing how it would lighten Kerry's heart and ease his burden, Clayton Slade was today a happy man.

* * *