Free The Race by Richard North Patterson Page B

chain of social shocks that, in Christy's words, 'caused the believers to awaken from their trance'—abortion, drugs, promiscuity, flag burning, gay teachers, and barring prayer in school. To Christy, these issues symbolized the moral and intellectual arrogance of a self-selected liberal elite toward ordinary Americans. I'd think a boy from Ohio would grasp
that
well enough."
    "I do," Corey said softly. "I'm my parents' son, after all."
    Nodding, Lane asked, "They still don't know about your brother, do they?"
    "No." Corey paused. "Last night I had a flashback in the middle of a thousand donors, most of whom can't stand me. Suddenly, I just looked at Christy and thought, You helped kill my brother, you sanctimonious bastard."
    Lane stared straight ahead. "Not your parents?"
    "Them, too. My mother's still convinced that Christy and the Bible have all the answers." Voice rising in frustration, Corey added harshly, "My God, Cortland, the Old Testament God is a psychotic monster. Now even Jesus—if you believe people like Christy—is coming back as an avenging angel to slaughter all the bad people. What am I supposed to do with
that
?"
    "Detach yourself." One hand on the wheel, Lane faced him. "Years ago, you learned to perceive Christy as a messenger of hate. But to his followers, he's only trying to defend their families and their country against a government bent on destroying the moral fabric of our society. And it's pretty hard to argue that AIDS, familial breakup, and sleazy popular entertainment are changes for the better."
    "Who thinks
that
?"
    "So what are you going to do about it? At least Bob Christy has an answer."
    "Yeah," Corey replied. "The Apocalypse."
    "That's the point. In Christy's mind, he's a patriot, trying to save the America of God's design before we—quite literally—commit suicide. Tell me this: do
you
think we're on the brink of a national decline?"
    "Yes."
    "So do I. And so does Christy. I'd say most religious conservatives, just as we do, fear for our society in the here and now. For example, wouldn't
you
feel better if there were fewer divorces?"
    The question, Corey suspected, carried a trace of the personal: Lane's wife's battle with depression, he had confided, had come to shadow his own marriage. "Depends on the marriage," Corey answered. "Some days I'd just feel better if
I
weren't divorced."
    Lane turned to him. "When
was
the last time you heard from Kara?"
    "Two months ago—in a postcard. I was so pathetically grateful I wrote her a four-page letter, the kind of newsy thing that you'd put in a fucking Christmas card. But then it's hard to communicate with a daughter who's grown up half a world away."
    Looking to their right, Lane studied the Pentagon, his old workplace. "Open to trying again?" he asked. "Marriage, I mean."
    "In theory. There are good reasons why I haven't."
    "In that case, I give you credit for placing principle above ambition. As I'm sure Rustin has told you, we haven't elected a single man as president for a century and a half or so. As for an avowed agnostic, never."
    Corey cocked his head. "What makes you think I am one?"
    "Agnostic? Or avowed?"
    Pondering this, Corey thought of his friend Joe Fitts, explaining his unbelief over a glass of Scotch. "I've never been sure."
    "You'll need a better answer if you decide to run for president. Within our party, the religious are as essential as the money people."
    "Oh, I know," Corey said. "I've come up with a slogan for Marotta's campaign: 'Out of Rohr's wallet and into
your
bedroom.' Or, for that matter, your freezer. That's why we've got this stem-cell debate—Marotta is being forced to love frozen embryos as much as Christy does."
    Briefly, Lane laughed. "What
are
you going to do about that one?"
    Unbidden, Corey thought about Lexie Hart. "It's tricky."
    "No doubt." Lane faced him now, his expression troubled. "For your own sake, Corey, you need to find a way to talk to Christy's people.
And
to people like me, who