The Next President (13 page)

He’d looked at those pictures alone in his room on countless nights, wondering why he’d never again deserved to have his father open his heart to him. The only other times his father had shown any feelings toward him were when he’d put a rifle in his hands and taught him to shoot, but J. D. had come to feel that the pride his father had taken in him then might have applied equally to a good hunting dog.

Then as a final gesture of disapproval, when J. D. had tried to show that going off to war wouldn’t make him bottle up his feelings the way it had his father, Landon had committed suicide.

“I’d never do that to you, Evan,” he uttered as if his son could hear.

“I’d give my life for you, but never take it away from you.”

He’d tried to do everything he could for Evan from the moment he was born. Neither his marriage, his work, nor anything else came before his son.

He’d always been there for him, the way Eandon never had save once been there for J. D. He thought back to his sniper training at Fort Benning. The instructors had driven into him that the only motive that would psychologically sustain him was the knowledge that what he was doing was absolutely necessary. He had to think of the lives he’d save, not the ones he would take. J. D. clung to those words now.

Then he remembered one more lesson from long ago: The success and effectiveness of a sniper is limited only by his imagination.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

There was e-mail on the PCR for J. D. when he woke up that morning. It came not from the blackmailer but from Pickpocket. J. D. scanned the message as it scrolled past.

Good news bad news. Good: Got into PostMaster Plus system, found franchise where mail to you originated. Bad: Someone is following me. Meet me at Palisades Cafe, Ocean Avenue, Santa Monica, eight

A.M.

At that moment, the bad news carried far more urgency for J. D. than the good. Who could be following Pickpocket? The FBI? The Secret Serv-Then it clicked into place for him. His minders. The two crew cuts who’d put the bug on his car last night. They’d seen the Lexus parked adjacent to Pan Pacific Park, but they couldn’t have spotted him hiding in the darkness. Still, they had to assume he was somewhere nearby.

Pickpocket and Red, on the other hand, had been sitting under a light.

Had the minders followed them to see if they had any connection to J. D.?

The minders wouldn’t have had to worry about tailing J. D. The homing device would lead them to him.

The little thief must have emailed J. D. so he wouldn’t lead the minders back to the Refuge, not knowing that J. D. had already conceded that secret.

J. D. quickly showered and dressed. He wished he’d had the means to

disguise his appearance, but the best he could do was to put on a pair of sunglasses and an old Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap he’d had forever.

As he was about to leave the house, he stopped short. He still had the Clock he’d taken off Pickpocket last night. Did he dare take it with him? He very badly wanted to … but in the end he decided he couldn’t risk it.

There’d be no way in the world he could hope to infiltrate the Rawley campaign if he got arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.

Still, as he drove off in the Lexus he couldn’t shake the feeling it had been a mistake to go out unarmed.

The Palisades Cafe was set three steps above the sidewalk on a plaza outside a white high-rise office building. Clusters of tables for two filled the seating area. Patrons purchased their pastries, fruits, cereals, and other edibles inside the cafe’s glassed-in storefront and then carried their trays outside to sit in the sun, look at the joggers go by in Palisades Park across the street, and watch the Pacific roll up to the broad beach below the cliffs.

J. D. found parking two blocks away and arrived on foot fifteen minutes early for the meeting. Pickpocket was already there, sitting alone at a table on the edge of the plaza reading the Times with his back to the park and the ocean. J. D. stopped at a sidewalk vending machine and picked up a copy of the Daily Breeze, the Santa Monica newspaper. He tucked it under his arm and went into the cafe. A moment later he came out with a tray bearing coffee, orange juice, and a muffin.

The plaza was filling up with the breakfast crowd, but a table adjacent to Pickpockets was available. J. D. took it and sat facing the park and the ocean.

Looking down at his paper, he began to talk quietly with the little thief.

“Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

J. D. looked up, ostensibly to watch a lithe brunette run past in the park.

He returned his gaze to the paper and told Pickpocket, “I don’t see anybody over there watching us.”

“Nobody behind you, either. But last night I was sure a car followed me to Red’s.”

J. D. looked up again, this time idly staring out into the distance. A large piece of sculpture had been placed in the park opposite where he and Pickpocket sat. It looked like a cross section of an onion rendered in pale wood.

Layer upon layer curved inward on itself until at the center there was a cat’seye of open space, a slit through which the ocean could be seen.

“What did you find out from PostMaster Plus?” J. D. asked.

“Those mailings with Southern postmarks you received? They all came from the PostMaster Plus franchise in Arlington, Virginia. You know anybody there?”

“No.”

“Huh… that’s too bad. Still, you know where Arlington is? It’s just up 1-95 from—” “Langley,” J. D. finished.

“Yeah. Spooksville. I think from now on we ought to contact each other only by computer. I put all the info you’ll need to know inside this new spa—” Before Pickpocket could finish, J. D. saw a gun barrel emerge through the opening of the wooden onion.

“Get down!” he yelled.

Everyone in the cafe froze at the sound of J. D.‘s shout except for Pickpocket, who made the mistake of trying to turn and see the source of the danger.

The first shot took him just below his ribs on the left side. The second went over Pickpocket’s head as J. D. yanked the slumping little thief off his chair.

The round that missed the hacker struck a middle-aged man wearing black bike shorts and a yellow jersey, producing a blood-red blossom on his chest.

By now everybody on the plaza was screaming and running for cover. J. D. was among them, carrying Pickpocket toward what he hoped would be the safety of the high-rise’s lobby. Just ahead of them, a young woman stood paralyzed by fear. A step before J. D. pulled even with her, a third shot rang out.

A streak of blood appeared on her left shoulder, and though the wound seemed superficial, her eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed.

J. D. hadn’t been the only one to think of running into the building. A knot of people cowered in an elevator bank, all eyes watching for the first available car to take them away from the shooting. A security man for the building was already calling the police. J. D. laid Pickpocket’s body down gently near those waiting to flee upward.

A grim-faced man stepped forward, telling J. D.”

“Let me take a look. I’m a doctor.”

J. D. nodded and headed for the door.

Down on one knee next to Pickpocket, the doctor asked, “Where are you going?”

“There are other wounded people out there,” J. D. replied.

There was also the information Pickpocket had left for him in his newspaper.

He darted outside in a crouch, doing his best to use the cafe tables for cover.

The woman who’d been grazed was still unconscious but breathing regularly.

The man in the cycling outfit was now drenched with blood. The shooter was no longer behind the sculpture or anywhere else that J. D. could see.

He duck walked as fast as he could to where Pickpocket had been sitting. He grabbed the newspaper, folded it, and stuck it in the back of his waistband.

Then he hurried over to the wounded man. He had a sucking chest wound, but he was still alive. For one awful moment J. D. considered the possibility that if he took this man back inside, the doctor might decide he’d have to treat him first, leaving Pickpocket to wait. That might cost the little thief his life, and it was possible J. D. might still depend upon Pickpocket for his success.

Caught in his dilemma, J. D. heard the howl of approaching police cars.

He knew he couldn’t afford any publicity, not even as a good Samaritan. To get close to Del Rawley, he’d have to be completely inconspicuous. He had to get out of there fast.

But J. D. just couldn’t leave the wounded man to die. He grabbed the man, lifted him in both arms, and ran with him back to the building. The security man had already pulled the injured woman inside and held the door open for J. D. He laid the wounded man down next to Pickpocket… and, just as he had feared, the doctor diverted his attention to the cyclist.

But J. D. didn’t have time to linger, much less argue with the doctor.

He got out of the building moments before the police arrived.

J. D. forced himself to walk back to his car. His clothes drenched with blood from Pickpocket and the cyclist, wondering if the shooter might come back for another try, listening for a police siren bearing down on him, it was all he could do not to break into a headlong dash. Still, as much of a sight as he was, he knew he would be far more conspicuous if he ran.

Fortunately, it was still relatively early, and aside from one strolling septuagenarian couple he sent scuttling in horror into the nearest open shop, he made it back to the Lexus uneventfully. Once in the car, he stripped off his shirt and kept to side streets. He hadn’t gone more than a few blocks when the PCR beeped, letting him know he had e-mail—and he knew this time the message wouldn’t be from Pickpocket.

He pulled to the curb at the first opportunity and keyed the message.

Santa can have his little helpers. You can’t. This morning was a reminder.

Get to work or someone else near and dear might find himself in similar difficulty.

That was when the realization hit J. D. smack between the eyes: He’d fucked up. Big time. Pickpocket had been smart enough to set up an out-of the-way meeting that morning… but J. D. had been stupid enough to drive

almost straight to it in a car that had been bugged. It would have been no great trick for his minders to watch him walk the last two blocks.

And the goddamn bug was still on his car. The minders might be following him right now. He checked his mirrors and looked around, but couldn’t spot anyone.

Even so, one of those two crewcut pricks had to be the guy who’d shot Pickpocket. They’d seen the little thief in the park last night and then again at the cafe with J. D. That was enough to establish the connection.

He put the car back in motion and five minutes later he pulled into the garage at the Refuge. He went straight to his bathroom, stripped, and showered.

He put on a pair of athletic shorts and started a fire in the bedroom fireplace.

While the flames grew, he pulled the buttons off his blood-drenched shirt.

There was blood on the buttons, too, but he was afraid they’d only melt if he put them in the fire. Same with his Nikes; he’d have to get rid of them later.

Thinking of the shoes made him stop and remember Evan. His son also had a problem with shoes that might incriminate him.

Suddenly the anger that J. D. had carried inside him for over two months became overwhelming. He was being blackmailed into killing a man, his son was being framed for murder, and now Pickpocket had been shot… and possibly killed. J. D. felt a searing urge to strike back. Immediately.

But right now he had to dispose of the bloody clothes. He had to put Pickpocket’s Clock, the little thief’s laptop computer, and the instructions he’d given J. D. for making contact with him into the safe in the Refuge’s den.

Then he had to-Amidst the maelstrom of his anger and self-rebuke, a thought found J. D. that calmed him like a lover’s caress. To the world at large, and to the Rawley campaign in particular, J. D. Cade was required to present the image of a very civilized fellow. But the blackmailer, whoever he was, already knew his dirty little secrets. That meant there was no need for restraint with the blackmailer’s little helpers.

J. D.‘s minders were fair game.

Regaining his composure, he began selecting the clothes he’d wear for his luncheon date with Ms. Jenny Crenshaw.

Evan Cade came out of the registrar’s office at SILL and saw Blair McCray sitting in his Ford pickup in the adjacent parking area. He walked up to the truck. The day was warm and McCray had the window down.

“You make up your mind?” Evan asked about the idea of them working together.

“How do you plan to play detective and keep up with your studies?” McCray wanted to know.

“I don’t. I just withdrew from classes for the fall term.”

The Kentucky lawman nodded.

“So you’re serious. Well, your local chief of police wasn’t thrilled with the idea, you poking around in a case where you’re his number one suspect.”

“Fuck him if he can’t take a joke,” Evan said.

Blair McCray smiled thinly.

“Yeah, I can see where you wouldn’t worry’ a lot about hurting his feelings. Okay, Cade. You want to drop your car off at home, we’ll get started.”

Evan nodded and turned to go, but Blair McCray called out to him.

“Hey, Cade.”

Evan turned back.

“Yeah?”

“The chief went along with the idea only because I promised to keep a close eye on you—and I’m real good at keeping my promises.”

Evan Cade gave Blair McCray a long look.

“I suppose you can talk like that when you pump a lot of iron and you’re naturally good at scrappin’.”

Evan left his car in the driveway of his grandmother’s house and got into Blair McCray’s pickup truck.

“So where do we start, Sherlock?” McCray asked Evan derisively.

“Your cousin was a biker. Let’s try to find some of his friends. See if any of them might have been helping him to learn new skills. Say, building pipe bombs for fun and profit.”