No Safe Place by Richard North Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

Lara Costello meaningful glances across the tarmac, and somebody will wonder why.”
    Kerry gave him a resentful stare. “I’m not stupid, Clayton. And she’s not interested.”
    Clayton’s eyes were steady. “There are a lot of people, Kerry, who have a lot invested in this. Not just you, but everyone who’s sacrificed career and money and time with their family to make this work. A campaign manager who
wasn’t
your friend would say, ‘It’s a choice between this woman and your candidacy. If you choose her, fine, but I walk. If you choose the presidency, don’t go near her.’”
    Kerry gazed around the sterile room. “No one knows,” he finally said.
    Clayton frowned. “At least
three
people know—her, you, and me, because you told me.”
    “I was a mess …”
    “And
she
wasn’t?”
    Kerry shook his head. “At the end, she wouldn’t see me. I can only guess how she was.”
    He felt Clayton’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, pal. I really am. I know how you feel.” He waited a moment. “But I also know
you
, and you’re the best candidate in the race. You won’t let yourself lose that too.”
    Kerry studied him. “So what else do you recommend, exactly? Besides me pretending she doesn’t exist.”
    Clayton paused. “I may need to see her, Kerry. Right now, we don’t know who
else
knows. With her on the campaign—”
    “If anyone talks to her,” Kerry cut in, “it’ll be
me
. What happened was between us, not you.”
    Clayton’s face was hard. “That makes me the one, doesn’t it? If you’re seen with her and some reporter catches on to this,
our
campaign and
your
future won’t be all that you’d be trashing. She’ll go down with you.”
    Slowly, Kerry felt his anger die.
    Turning from Clayton, Kerry walked to the window. For some moments, he stared out at San Diego Harbor, watching the first shimmer of sunshine turn the water light gray.
    How did I get here? he wondered. Forty-two years of living, he supposed: the first thirty before Jamie’s death, and then the twelve very different years of which Lara had become a part. But the skein of circumstances was so long, so tangled, that there was no simple answer.

Newark

ONE
    Kerry Kilcannon’s clearest memory of early childhood was of his father bleeding.
    It began as many other nights had begun—with the sound of a slammed door, Michael Kilcannon coming home drunk. He would teeter up the stairs to the second floor, talking to himself or to someone he resented, pausing for balance or to take deep, wheezing breaths. Kerry would lie very still; until this night, Michael would stumble past Kerry’s and Jamie’s rooms to the bedroom at the end of the hall, and the beatings would begin. Through his tears, Kerry would imagine his mother’s face at breakfast—a bruised eye, a swollen lip. No one spoke of it.
    But on this night, Kerry’s door flew open.
    Michael Kilcannon flicked on the wall light. The six-year-old Kerry blinked at the sudden brightness, afraid to move or speak.
    His father walked toward him and then stood at the foot of his bed. Blood spurted from his forearm.
    Terrified, Kerry watched red droplets forming on his sheets.
    Michael glared at Kerry, his handsome, somewhat fleshy face suffused with drink and anger. “Look,” he barked. “
Look
at what you’ve done.”
    Kerry stared at the bloodstains, stupefied.
    “Your
wagon
, you pissant. You left your fooking wagon on the path …”
    Kerry shook his head reflexively. “I’m sorry, Da,” he tried. Then he began to cry, trying hard to stop.
    Mary Kilcannon appeared in the doorway.
    Her long black hair was disarranged, her skin pale in the light. Kerry was too afraid to run to her.
    Entering, she gave him a look of deep compassion, then placed a tentative hand on her husband’s shoulder. Softly, she asked, “What is it, Michael?”
    Throat working, Kerry watched his father’s angry face.
    “The wagon.” Michael gazed down at the sheets with a kind of