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mother kiss the crown of her head; for a time her mother’s face rested there, as though Mary Ann were small again.
    “What about future pregnancies?” Her mother’s voice was tight, a signal of fear. “The risk of not bearing children.”
    Head lowered, Mary Ann closed her eyes. Softly, McNally told her mother, “I understand, Margaret. Believe me, I do. But these days the risk is relatively small.”
    “
How
small?”
    “Five percent, at most. Probably far lower.”
    Only then did Mary Ann begin to cry, tears running down her face.
    Watching the memory flood the girl’s eyes, Sarah envisioned her waking from a dream state.
    “When did this happen?” Sarah asked.
    “Three weeks ago.” Abruptly, the girl stood, as though propelled by anguish. “I’m all alone. My parents are
making
me have this baby, and there’s no one else to help me.”

FIVE
     
    “I T ’ S A SHAME about Roger Bannon,” Macdonald Gage said, passing Chad Palmer a glass of single malt scotch. “For the best of reasons, he stayed too long.”
    The two men were alone in the Majority Leader’s commodious office, a suite of walnut and leather reminiscent to Chad of a men’s club. As always, Chad marked Mac Gage’s seamless courtesy: Gage never forgot that Glenlivet was Chad’s scotch of choice, or that he liked precisely two shots served over ice in a cocktail glass. These were the kinds of small attentions, combined with an unflagging grasp of detail and a shrewd knowledge of what motivated ninety-nine other men and women, that had made Macdonald Gage the master of the Senate.
    “He was dead by the time I reached him,” Chad remarked. “Absolutely nothing for it.”
    Gage grimaced in commiseration, then raised his drink. “To Roger,” he said. “He surely served our country well.”
    Idly, Chad reflected that Mac Gage had carefully polished his public persona to be unctuous and predictable—a series of homilies as unrevealing as his conventional gray suit and striped tie were uninteresting. In some part of Gage’s mind,Chad once had conjectured, the world must be a vast, interminable Rotary meeting. But experience had taught him that Gage’s manner was intended to lull others into forgetting his unremitting desire to stay one jump ahead.
    To Gage, Chad knew, he, too, was somewhat of an enigma, a man to be watched and studied. In looks and manner they were opposites: Gage had the smooth, prosperous look of a provincial worthy in middle age; at forty-nine, Chad was lean, fit, and given to the spontaneous and irreverent. It amused him to know that Gage had nicknamed him in private “Robert Redford,” as much for the adoration of the media as for Chad’s blond-haired good looks, and that Kerry Kilcannon, with more affection, had labeled him “Harry Hotspur,” after the headstrong warrior of Shakespeare’s
Henry IV
. Both perceptions, the two men might be surprised to know, suited Chad’s purposes just fine.
    “To Roger,” Chad responded. “And to the new president.”
    As he expected, the remark induced, from Gage, a frown which he banished at once.
    “Our new president,” Gage answered, “has a problem. As do we.”
    So much for Roger Bannon. But then Gage hadn’t asked Chad here so urgently, on such a day, to polish the late Chief Justice’s eulogy. “I know
our
problem,” Chad responded. “We just lost an election. What’s Kerry’s?”
    “That he won by only a few thousand votes, and that
we
control the Senate.” Gage sipped his drink. “Our constituent groups, including Christian conservatives, are expecting us to keep Kilcannon in check. The nomination of a new Chief Justice is our chance to lay down a marker.”
    Chad tasted the rich peaty burn of good scotch. “That depends,” he answered, “on who Kerry picks.”
    “He’s got his own constituencies to please. He won’t be sending us anyone we like.” Gage fixed his eyes on Chad’s. “First Kilcannon has to go through
you
. You’re the