For the past year Kennedy, aided by his wife, Jefferies and a few other close associates, had been negotiating with members of the Congressional District Committee to impose yet another tax on companies doing business in Washington. The money would go into a fund from which students would be paid cash to complete high school-provided they remained drug free and weren't convicted of any crimes.

In one swoop, Kennedy managed to incur the political hatred of the entire political spectrum. The liberals dismissed the idea as a potential source of massive corruption and had problems with the mandatory drug testing as a civil liberties issue. The conservatives simply laughed. The corporations to be taxed had their own opinion, of course. Immediately, the threats started-threats of major companies pulling out of the District altogether, political action committee funds and hard and soft campaign money vanishing from Democratic party coffers, even hints of exposing sexual indiscretions (of which there were none-but try telling that to the media after they've gotten their hands on blurry videotapes of a man and a woman walking into a Motel Six or Holiday Inn).

Still, Kennedy was more than willing to risk this. And in his months of bargaining on Capitol Hill to get the measure through committee it appeared that the measure might actually pass, thanks largely to popular support.

But then that city employee-Gary Moss-had summoned up his courage and gone to the FBI with evidence of a huge kickback scheme involving school construction and maintenance. Early investigations showed that wiring and masonry were so shoddy in some schools that faculty and students were at serious physical risk. The scandal kept growing and, it turned out, involved a number of contractors and subs and high-ranking District officials, some of them Kennedy appointees and longtime friends.

Kennedy himself had extolled Moss and thrown himself into the job of rooting out the corruption. But the press, not to mention his opponents, continued to try to link him to the scandal. Every news story about payoffs in the "Kennedy administration"-and there were plenty of them-eroded the support for Project 2000 more and more.

Fighting back, the mayor had done what he did best: He gave dozens of speeches describing the importance of the plan, he horse-traded with Congress and the teachers' union to shore up support, he even accompanied kids home from school to talk to their astonished parents about why Project 2000 was important to everyone in the city. The figures in the polls stabilized and it seemed to Kennedy and Wendy Jefferies that they might just hold the line.

But then the Digger arrived… murdering with impunity, escaping from crowded crime scenes, striking again. And who got blamed? Not the faceless FBI. But everyone's favorite target: Jerry Kennedy. If the madman killed any more citizens, he believed, Project 2000-the hope for his city's future-would likely become just a sour footnote in Kennedy's memoirs.

And this was the reason that Jefferies was on the phone at the moment. The aide put his hand over the receiver.

"He's here," Jefferies said.

"Where?" Kennedy asked sourly.

"Right outside. In the hallway." Then he examined the mayor. "You're having doubts again?"

How trim the man was, Kennedy thought, how perfect he looks in his imported suit, with his shaved head, his silk tie frothing at his throat.

"Sure, I'm having doubts."

The mayor looked out of another window-one that didn't offer a view of the Capitol. He could see, in the distance, the logotype tower of Georgetown University. His undergrad alma mater. He and Claire lived not far away from the school. He remembered, last fall, the two of them walking up the steep stairway the priest had tumbled down at the end of The Exorcist.

The priest who sacrificed himself to save the girl possessed by a demon.

Now, there's an omen for you.

He nodded. "All right. Go talk to him."

Jefferies nodded. "We'll get through this, Jerry. We will." Into the phone he said, "I'll be right out."

In the hallway outside of the mayor's office a handsome man in a double-breasted suit leaned against the wall, right below a portrait of some nineteenth-century politician.

Wendell Jefferies walked up to him.

"Hey, Wendy."

"Slade." This was the mans first name, his real given name, believe it or not, and-with the surname Phillips-you'd think his parents had foreseen that their handsome infant would one day be a handsome anchorman for a TV station. Which in fact he was.

"Got the story on the scanner. Dude lit up two agents, did a Phantom of the Opera on a dozen poor bastards in the bleachers."

On the air, with an earplug wire curling down his razor-cleaned neck, Phillips talked differently. In public he talked differently. With white people he talked differently. But Jefferies was black and Slade wanted him to think he talked the talk.

Phillips continued. "Capped one, I think."

Jefferies didn't point out to the newscaster that in gangsta slang the verb "cap" meant "shoot to death" not "chandelier to death."

"Nearly got the perp but he booked."

"That's what I heard," Jefferies said.

"So the man's gonna rub our uglies and make us feel better?" This was a reference to Kennedy's impending press conference.

Jefferies had no patience today to coddle the likes of Slade Phillips. He didn't smile. "Here it is. This quote dude's gonna keep going. Nobody knows how dangerous he is."

"How dangerous is-"

Jefferies waved him quiet. "This is as bad as it gets."

"I know that."

"Everybody's going to be looking at him."

Him. Uppercase H. Jerry Kennedy. Phillips would understand this.

"Sure."

"So, we need some help," Jefferies said, lowering his voice to a pitch that resonated with the sound of money changing hands.

"Help."

"We can go twenty-five on this one."

"Twenty-five."

"You bargaining?" Jefferies asked.

"No, no. Just… that's a lot. What do you want me to do?"

"I want him-"

"Kennedy."

Jefferies sighed. "Yes. Him. To get through this like he's a hero. I mean, the hero. People're dead and more people're probably gonna die. Get the focus on him for visiting vics and standing up to terrorists and, I don't know, coming up with some brilliant shit about catching the killer. And get the focus off him for fuckups."

"Off-?"

"The mayor," Jefferies said. "Kennedys not the one-"

"No, he's not the one running the case." Phillips cleared his baritone voice. "Is that what you were going to say?"

"Right," Jefferies said. "If there's any glitch make sure he wasn't informed and that he did his best to make it right."

"Well, it's a Feebie operation, right? So we can just-"

"That's true, Slade, but we don't want to go blaming the Bureau for anything." Jefferies talked to his ten-year-old nephew in just this tone.

"We don't? Why exactly?"

"We just don't."

Finally Slade Phillips, used to reading off of a TelePrompTer, had had it. "I don't get it, Wendy. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to play real reporter for a change."

"Sure." Phillips began writing copy in his head. "So Kennedy's taking a tough line. He's marshaling cops. He's going to the hospitals… Wait, without his wife?"

"With his wife," Jefferies said patiently.

Phillips nodded toward the press room. "But wait-they were saying… I mean, the guy from the Post said Kennedy didn't visit anybody. They were going to op-ed him on it."

"No, no, he went to the families who wanted to remain anonymous. He's been doing it all day."

"Oh, he has?"

It was amazing what $25,000 could buy you, Jefferies thought.

Phillips added, "That was good of him. Real good."