Wildcard. Rachel Lee

hope,” Senator Grant Lawrence was saying on the television, hands raised to quiet a crowd of ecstatic supporters, “I hope tonight shows that the American people can rise above their outrage and see that it is not only the ends that matter, but also the means by which we achieve those ends. That it is important not only to do the right thing, but to do it in the right way. And if the American people grant me their trust in November, I can promise you there will be a reckoning. Not a time of vengeance, but a time of justice. Not an orgy of violence, but a veneration of principle. Not a feeding of hate, but a nourishment of hope. That, my friends, is the American way. And America will lead the way!”

      His words and the passions of the moment ignited a cheer that drowned out further speech. Endlessly, they chanted, “Lawrence! Lawrence! Lawrence!”

      “Damn, he’s good,” Terry said, pumping his fist.

      “He’s more than good,” Miriam said, grinning from ear to ear. “He’s amazing. And what’s more, with him it’s not an act. He’s the real deal.”

      Tom gave her the required nod of agreement. Amidst the mess in L.A., he’d taken a private moment to smile at her handling of the Lawrence kidnapping case. She, together with Terry and then-Tampa-detective Karen Sweeney, had rescued Grant’s children and saved him from a sniper’s bullet. Detective Sweeney had moved to Washington, where she was now Terry’s partner and—as the tabloids spared no ink to remind America— Lawrence’s girlfriend. There was no doubt in Tom’s mind which way the votes in this room would go.

      And perhaps the man truly was as worthy as his words. He had faced down his chief Democratic opponent, Alabama Senator Harrison Rice, who had repeatedly called for continuing the U.S. war on terrorism in the Middle East. Rice had made those arguments even more forcefully yesterday, after the murder of the Guatemalan ambassador.

      Tom had half expected Lawrence to rise to the bait, to use the assassination as a reason to reverse his policy and thus bolster his image on national security issues. Certainly no one would have faulted him for doing so, and in fact many pundits had predicted exactly that. But Lawrence had not wavered. His response had been brief and direct.

      “The murder of our ambassador,” he had said, “while barbaric, is a reflection of the violence that has torn that country apart. There is no reason to connect this crime with the recent attacks on U.S. bases in Iraq. The solution to war is not more war. The solution to war is a just peace. And, as president, I will work toward that just peace.”

      That kind of backbone impressed Tom. He wished Grant Lawrence had been his Special Agent in Charge back in L.A. Things might have gone differently. A little girl might not now hate him, and he might not have broken his boss’s nose.

      Then his fists tightened, and he told himself he was just being wishful. Grant Lawrence was probably just another political chameleon. Like his former boss, with his eye on promotion, not on the lives that would be affected.

      Tom forced his attention back to the television as Lawrence finally quieted the crowd and resumed speaking.

      “As joyous as this night is,” Lawrence said, his voice now softened, “I must pause to acknowledge the grief of Mrs. Kilhenny and her children. Nothing I can do or say will ease their loss. I met Bill and Grace Kilhenny a month ago, when I went to visit Guatemala to see for myself the conditions that prevail there. He was a skilled diplomat, a gracious host and a brave man.”

      A long moment of silence passed, both in the Lawrence campaign headquarters and in the apartment. In the space of that minute, the senator had swept away the trappings of power and politics and attended to the pain of one woman. Even Tom was reluctantly moved.

      Tampa, Florida

      Grant Lawrence looked out into the sea of faces and finally found the one he really wanted to see. Karen. She was standing near a side door, smiling. He wished she could be up here with him. But that would be tantamount to a public proposal of marriage, and that was a step they weren’t ready to take.

      She was, after all, a cop. It wasn’t merely her job. It was a big part of her identity. If he won this thing—and tonight even that dream seemed within reach—they could not be together. She couldn’t function as a homicide detective with a Secret Service retinue. And the country wouldn’t stand for a First Lady who held a job regardless. He knew it. She knew it. It was the bitter cloud around this silver lining. He had wanted to bow out of the race, to remain in the Senate, so they could be together. She had steadfastly refused to let him do it. She said she loved him, and her country, too much to allow it.

      And so here he was. And there she was. The gulf between the podium and that door seemed insurmountable.

      It was with that thought in his mind that he looked again at his supporters, then at his prepared text, and pushed the text aside.

      “Friends, we have work to do. Not just for the next eight months, but for the next four years. That work will not be easy. Justice, peace and prosperity are not easily won. These past months have tested our commitment, but they are only the beginning. Greater tests lie ahead. But I am sure that if we commit ourselves to facing those tests together, to meeting those challenges, to giving wings to our dreams and life to our ideals, we can transform both ourselves and this nation. We can be, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, that last, best hope. Tonight I say to you, I am committed to that last, best hope. Join with me. Stay with me. And together we will go on to victory!”

      The roar was almost deafening. He turned and saw Jerry Connally’s smile. His old friend stepped toward him, extending first a handshake and then a bear hug. Grant chose the bear hug, for this bear had been at his side throughout his eight years in the Senate, in the lean times, and in the worst of the ugliness that politics and life can offer. This night was Jerry’s as much as it was Grant’s.

      “Wow, boss,” Jerry said, almost yelling in his ear to be heard above the crowd. “I don’t know where you got that from. But you’d better bottle it for safekeeping.”

      “Thank you, friend,” Grant said.

      “Thank you,” Jerry said. “But the best is yet to come. For all of us.”

      “Let’s hope so.”

      “By the way, boss, there are about two hundred people in the lobby that couldn’t fit in here. You should make your way out there and let them know they’re not on the outside looking in.”

      “Right,” Grant said. “You’re right. Lead the way.”

      “Wasn’t he amazing?” Miriam asked.

      “As always,” Terry said. “If the country doesn’t elect him this fall, they’re passing up one hell of an opportunity.”

      For his part, Tom simply nodded and forced a smile. Yes, Lawrence’s speech had been an effective piece of political rhetoric. Whether it was any more than that remained to be seen. He watched as Lawrence left the stage and waded into the crowd. The man certainly seemed to enjoy people.

      Tom could still remember a time when he’d felt the same. Lately, people were to be avoided. Even here, with Miriam and Terry, he avoided any real contact. Contact only led to betrayal and hurt.

      His thoughts were interrupted by a sound like popping corn, emanating from the television.

      “What the…?” Terry said, looking at the screen.

      “God, no,” Miriam said, eyes wide.

      The camera caught it all in stomach-turning detail. Lawrence’s smile faded in an instant, replaced by a blank look of shock as he slid to the floor. Tom Lawton had seen that look before and didn’t need to hear the reporter’s next words.

      “My God, he’s been shot. Grant Lawrence has been shot!”

      3

      Washington, D.C.

      “I want Tom Lawton on my team,” Miriam said firmly.

      “No,” Kevin Willis replied. “I’m sorry, but no.”