The Race by Patterson Richard North

Author:Patterson, Richard North [Patterson, Richard North]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Romance, Crime, Politics, Suspense, Thriller, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780330440158
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2007-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

6

HEADED FOR THE COAST IN THE SILVER BULLET, DAKIN FORD SAT WITH Corey, remote control in one hand, restlessly switching channels while monitoring his cell phone. "Marotta's already been to Carl Cash," he reported. "Looks like he's letting Price put his candidacy in that old bigot's hands."

Eyeing the screen, Blake Rustin said, "Not just Cash's."

On the Rohr-owned station in Columbia, a trim brunette with an incandescent smile stood beside Rob Marotta beneath an enormous sign whose bold letters read "Creation Park." "What the hell is that?" Corey asked.

"Jurassic Park for evangelicals," Ford replied. "A thrill ride through the seven days when God created man—Adam, Eve, and the serpent, blissfully free of our simian ancestors or cesspools of primordial ooze.

"And that," Ford continued, pointing at the screen, "is Dorrie Hoyle, our leading lady evangelist and Linwood Tate's main squeeze." He feigned a wince. "Some sex acts don't bear thinking about. But Dorrie'd fuck about anyone for money, and Linwood raised the cash to help Dorrie build this Disneyland of decency."

Pointing the remote, Ford turned up the volume. "You all know I can't endorse candidates," Hoyle was telling her audience. "But I'd just love it if you'd e-mail me the names of any church where good Christians want to spread the word on behalf of a good Christian candidate." Placing a sisterly hand on Marotta's shoulder, she finished in a mock-conspiratorial whisper: "Guess who that might be ..."

Corey watched Marotta feign a smile and shrug. "Rob's feeling like a prop," he said.

"Doesn't matter," Ford rejoined. "Price is using Cash and Dorrie to cut Bob Christy's balls off. Other thing that's gonna happen is Rohr's TV stations and newspaper won't cover Bob at all. In terms of local media, the Christy crusade's gonna shrivel to a rumor."

Around them, several reporters—Kate McInerny of the Post, Miles Miklin of the Times, and Annie Stevenson of the AP—leaned forward to participate. "What's in store for Senator Grace?" Kate asked.

"Oh," Ford said lazily, "they'll dream up something different for Corey, maybe without their fingerprints on it. Once it starts, hope you bright boys and girls take the time to figure out who's behind it."

Across the aisle, Blake Rustin sat alone, consumed by his own thoughts.

THEY WERE SCHEDULED to stop in Beaufort and, later, Hilton Head—Corey's territory, filled with retirees from the North and Midwest. Driving on a two-lane road, they entered a semitropical world of palmettos, moss-draped oaks, and tidal rivers. As they passed under a bower of mossy branches, Corey saw, at the end of a tree-lined drive, a white antebellum wood home whose generous porches overlooked a rolling lawn filled with well-dressed men and women.

Their host, a trim, blond man named Henry Davis, greeted him with a firm grip and a smile. In a pleasant drawl he said, "Welcome to the New South, Senator. You got more friends here than you know, some of them even natives."

Corey returned his smile. "Thanks, Henry. I need the support of all indigenous people."

Davis's introduction was short and gracious. Standing on the porch, Corey surveyed the crowd.

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