Act of Darkness

[1]


STEPHEN WHISTLER FOX COULD not remember when he had first realized he was going to run for president. By the end of May, with the last of the good weather already slipping away and the wet heat of the summer beginning to rise out of the swamp that was the core of the District of Columbia, he felt as if he’d known it forever. It was the start of what was going to be a long and uncomfortable summer, and a political dead time at that. The Senate was nominally in session, but half the senators were tucked away in summerhouses in Wyoming and Maine, and the other half always seemed to be asleep. Stuck in Washington against his will, Stephen felt like a pregnant woman too close to the moment of her conception to show. Dan Chester had warned him. Under no circumstances was he to say anything about his decision to run. It would be a year before he could decently announce, and in that year they had things to do, a war chest to collect, a battle plan to solidify. It was bad enough that Stephen had told not only his wife but his wife’s mother. Janet was a good little political wife, a veritable model of liberal womanhood who ranked right up there with Tipper Gore, but Mama was a walking disaster. In fact, Victoria Harte was a walking disaster even without prior knowledge of Stephen’s political plans. She was, for one thing, Victoria Harte, The Last of the Movie Stars, as the magazines were always putting it. She had a reputation from Beverly Hills to Timbuktu, and that reputation was not good, not if you needed votes in the Bible Belt. Stephen needed votes in the Bible Belt. Stephen needed votes everywhere. In spite of all the brave talk about a nationwide backlash against the Reagan era, Dan Chester’s polls did not look good.

“The problem,” Dan said, “is that they just don’t trust us. Not us personally, you understand. The party. It’s all this business with the PACs and the soft money and the savings and loans.”

They were sitting in Stephen’s new office, one of the priority offices overlooking the Esplanade in the Senate Office Building, Stephen’s reward for having been elected to a third term. Dan had the leather couch. Stephen had the tilting, unstable executive chair. Stephen thought they might as well have been back at the University of Connecticut, sitting on cracked plastic in the fraternity house lounge. It was eerie, but neither of them ever seemed to change. Stephen was still the tall, athletic, good-looking one, dark haired but blue eyed, the inevitable student body president and captain of the tennis team. Dan was still the short, gnarled gnome with the shrewd eyes, the one who made people wonder what his name had been before. And, of course, Dan was still the one with the brains.

Dan was staring across the office with that hooded look that said Stephen was being stupid again. Stephen looked away.

“I thought PACs were their problem,” he said.

“Not according to Sixty Minutes,” Dan said. “According to Sixty Minutes, they get 80 percent of their donations from individuals, we get 80 percent of our donations from PACs. You can thank the unlamented, lately departed Tony Coelho for that.”

“Does anybody really believe what they say on Sixty Minutes?”

“Everybody believes it. That’s why you’re going to be interviewed on it. That’s the point.”

“About the Down syndrome thing,” Stephen said.

“And only about the Down syndrome thing,” Dan agreed.

Stephen was still looking out the window—or at the window, at any rate. It was the first of June and the sun was high and hot in the sky. It sent light into the glass that seemed to get caught there and burn. Stephen made himself turn away and look at Dan again, questioning.

“The Sixty Minutes interview doesn’t air till fall?”

“Not until after Labor Day, Stephen, that’s right.”

“And they won’t find out about the—seminars?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea if they’ll find out about them. They won’t make a fuss about them. That’s all that matters.”

“Lloyd Bentsen—”

“Lloyd Bentsen was tied to a loser,” Dan said. “You’re the Great White Hope. Never forget that. It’s not the seminars I’m worried about, Stephen. It’s Janet. And what’s-her-name, you know, with the tits.”

Stephen flushed. “I’ll take care of Janet,” he said. “I’ll take care of Patchen Rawls, too.”

“Have you told Janet about the Down syndrome thing?”

“Of course I have. How could I avoid it? It was going to be in the Washington Post.”

“She doesn’t mind.”

It was a statement, not a question, and there were words left out. What Dan was really saying was You’d better be damn sure she doesn’t mind. Stephen hated being with Dan when Dan was being this way.