The Next President (32 page)

“I’d like that.” She took his hand for a moment, then left.

J. D. sat down, alone with his thoughts until the concierge arrived and presented him with the key to his room. Alone again until Donnel Timmons joined him two minutes later.

“How’s your boy?” he asked.

J. D. looked at Donnel, not really surprised he’d heard about Evan.

“He’s having a helluva time, to be honest.”

“Somebody out to get him?”

“Certainly looks that way.”

“You teach him any tricks of the trade?”

J. D. shook his head. A waitress stopped by and Donnel ordered a drink.

“Bet you’d like to find the sucker who’s messing with your boy,” Donnel opined casually.

“Make real short work of that dude.”

“You want to be my spotter?” J. D. asked.

“For something like that… you ask me nice, I just might.”

J. D. thought it was time to change the subject. He asked Donnel if he’d noticed the two crewcuts the dark-haired one and the blonde among the Rawley protection detail.

“Yeah, I know who you mean,” Donnel said, giving J. D. the impression he’d had them pegged from the start.

“They’ve been crowding me. Making me think I better forget about my involvement in politics before certain unfortunate truths become known.”

“Yeah? Well, that might be a good idea.”

That was when J. D. realized that Donnel, too, might have been put on notice about a second assassin. Which would explain why Donnel had been so wary about him.

“Thing is,” J. D. continued, “even if I leave, they might keep checking on me just to be thorough. They find out about me, they might cast a wider net, and who else might get exposed?”

Even in the low light of the bar, J. D. could see Donnel’s eyes narrow.

“Now, that would be unfortunate.”

J. D. gave him something else to think about.

“I’ve done some checking on those guys. Their names are Arnold Roth and William Danby. They work for a special section of the Treasury Department.

It’s called Departmental Internal Management and Oversight.

DEIMOS. That ring any bells with you?”

J. D. watched closely for any sign of recognition but didn’t see any.

Donnel shrugged.

“No. Never heard of it.”

“Deimos is also a Greek word. It means ‘panic.”

” “Sonofabitch!”

“Yeah,” J. D. said.

“Colonel Townes is up to his old tricks.”

The waitress brought Donnel’s drink. J. D. raised his glass to his old comrade in arms.

“We who are about to die… ,” he said.

After his toast with Donnel, J. D. retired to the room Jenny had arranged for him.

He wanted to call Evan but felt it was too soon. He didn’t want to pressure his son. That might only provoke him into acting more recklessly than he would otherwise. Besides, he didn’t have anything new to say.

He considered calling his mother, too. He wanted to explain to her how he’d thought he’d had no choice but to kill Alvy. He wanted her to hear him explain it, not just leave it to Ben to defend him. But she already had forgiven him, so why put her through all that again? Especially when there was someone new he might have to kill.

Jenny came to his room shortly after 11 P.M. She was exhausted. Her new sense of mortality had added to the already staggering burdens of her job.

She told J. D. that she wanted to go straight to bed. Not for sex, just to be held and comforted.

Ignorance was bliss, J. D. thought. If she knew who he really was, she wouldn’t turn to him for comfort, she’d flee instantly. Or maybe she’d find the strength to strike him down… and after the way he’d completely abused her trust, maybe he’d have to let her succeed.

But the masquerade continued and they snuggled and talked briefly. She told him of her day, talked about the ups and downs of the campaign, and even confided a humorous secret: the president had only one testicle. She swore him to secrecy about that just before she drifted off.

She was a warm, pleasant weight against him. Her breath on his neck made his skin tingle. He thought of the pictures he’d taken of her in the nude. He’d planned to make a composite of Jenny naked with Del Rawley.

Maybe drug Donnel, use his nude body as Rawley’s. Post the images on the Internet. No way the candidate could plead a youthful indiscretion in that context. Let the firestorm drive Rawley from the race before the hoax was revealed

Now, with Colonel Townes in the picture, J. D. didn’t think that was going to be enough.

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

Del Rawley’s speech that morning was being given in the hotel’s Silk Trade Room. The huge, op nient meeting room was already filled with a well heeled crowd busily chattering and nibbling on their breakfasts of fresh fruit, croissants, and Kona coffee. Jenny, feeling much restored, escorted J. D. to the entrance of the room and vouched for him to the Secret Service agents working the door. One of them still waved a handheld metal detector up one side of J. D. and down the other. Then they let Jenny take him inside.

“I’ll be sitting at the head table,” she told him.

“But I’m way over on the right. You’ll be sitting at a table front and center. Del reserved your seat himself.”

“How come?”

“He said he wants to get an honest opinion of what he has to say today, and he told me you’re the one person he could think of who doesn’t have a hidden agenda.”

“He’s too kind.”

Like the other tables in the audience, the one at which J. D. would sit was round. His seat was the nearest to the head table, which meant he’d have to turn his chair around to see Del Rawley speak. Jenny introduced J. D. to a group of local swells who all seemed to know each other and had paid big money for their prime seating. They smiled pleasantly and greeted J. D.” and no doubt they were impressed when the candidate, sitting not fifteen feet away, gave J. D. a wave and he

casually returned it. As soon as Jenny left, however, envy and resentment reared their ugly heads and the local swells excluded the interloper from their attention and conversation.

That suited J. D. just fine. He looked around casually to get a feel for the room. People were finishing their food. Plates and silverware were being bused away by squadrons of hotel staff. Secret Service agents guarded every door that J. D. could see. More agents hovered around the head table and one stood directly behind the candidate.

Roth and Danby stood at the left end of the head table. Roth made eye contact with J. D. It was the first time they’d laid eyes on each other since the rock slide. Roth looked less than happy to renew their acquaintance. He whispered something to Danby.

J. D. looked away.

A voice asked him, “Coffee, sir?”

J. D. looked up to see a busboy standing in front of him holding a coffeepot.

“Yes, please.”

The busboy was a handsome young black man. Handsome but with nervous eyes. And a hand that trembled as he tipped the stainless-steel coffeepot to fill J. D.‘s cup. Tiny beads of sweat dotted the young man’s brow and upper lip, and he stiffened visibly when a woman at the head table stepped to the lectern and announced that Senator Rawley would speak just as soon as everyone’s coffee cup had been refilled.

J. D. looked at the busboy’s face. The kid’s eyes were unfocused. His head was cocked as if to listen to a voice that spoke only to him. An epiphany rip pled across J. D.‘s mind; he knew just what was going to happen next. This kid, for God only knew what reason, was going to try to kill Del Rawley.

J. D.‘s eyes quickly darted back and forth and he saw that no one else had a clue. He was the exclusive audience for the drama about to unfold. A soft chiming sound began as the tremor in the busboy’s hand tapped the spout of the coffeepot against J. D.‘s cup.

J. D. looked for any telltale sign that the kid was carrying a gun. He didn’t see any giveaway bulge. Which made sense, because how could he possibly sneak a weapon past all the Secret Service agents? He couldn’t.

Still, J. D. having thought about killing Rawley so often himself was sure the kid was about to make an attempt on the candidate’s life.

But using what for a weapon? The silverware? It was ludicrous, but… if the busboy succeeded, J. D. Cade would be off the hook.

J. D. would no longer have to kill Rawley. Wouldn’t even have to kill Townes. Evan would be saved, and there would be no more blood on J.

D.‘s hands. Not directly. All he’d be guilty of would be failing to stop a madman.

While that might be reprehensible, it was no crime.

He sat and watched without comment as the busboy overfilled the cup and slopped coffee into the saucer. J. D. pushed his chair away as the coffee spilled onto the tablecloth.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the busboy told J. D.” finally noticing his gaffe.

“I’ll clean that right up.”

But in his haste to put the coffeepot down on the table the busboy accidentally knocked a spoon to the floor. He quickly bent down to retrieve it… and his hand reached under the tablecloth. Now J. D. knew where the gun was: taped to the underside of the table.

Through the babble of conversation that filled the room, J. D. heard Del Rawley laugh. He looked and saw the candidate sharing a joke with the man sitting next to him. There was a glow to Rawley—an aura of intelligence, decency, and humor—that was nearly visible. This was a very special man he was about to let die.

J. D. looked back and saw that the busboy was standing now and had a pistol in his hand. He held it very close to his chest. No one else had noticed.

Then the busboy’s eyes met J. D.‘s. He saw that he’d been discovered, but he was far from deterred. He spun to face the head table and take his shot at the candidate.

But J. D. was already out of his seat and flying through the air at the busboy.

As he collided with the kid, J. D. heard a nearby male voice shout, “Gun!”

The gun went off, but J. D. had deflected the busboy’s arm upward and the shot went into the ceiling. Then the room erupted in a cacophony of screams and shouts. The busboy still had the gun, but J. D. had his arm and they wrestled for the weapon atop the table. With the would-be assassin lying on top of him and his neck over the edge of the table, J. D. looked back and saw a half-dozen Secret Service agents charging toward them—Roth and Danby at the forefront.

J. D. twisted the busboy’s gun hand in their direction. He kneed the kid in the groin to get him to stop struggling for a moment, and forced the busboy’s finger to pull the trigger. A shot was fired and Danby went down. J. D. was about to line up Roth for the next shot when agents arriving from another direction piled on top of him and the busboy, carrying them both to the floor.

ward, and he was about to be manacled, too. But the people who’d sat at his table yelled protests at the feds.

“What are you doing?”

“That man saved Senator Rawley’s life!”

“Let him go, he’s a hero!”

Popular acclaim was not enough to dissuade the agents, but then their boss, Special Agent Clarke, arrived.

“Let him go. He deflected the shot meant for Orpheus.”

As J. D. was released, the busboy was taken away, and two men from the audience—doctors, J. D. assumed—knelt over the fallen Danby.

“Are you all right, Mr. Cade?” Clarke asked.

J. D. had a gash on his forehead but was otherwise unhurt.

“I’m all right.

What about everyone else?”

“You saved Senator Rawley. But the second shot struck one of our men.”

“I’m sorry. I did my best.”

“I know you did.” Clarke shuddered as his adrenaline drained.

“I need you to come with me now so we can talk to you about what happened. We’ll get that cut looked at, too.”

Then Jenny was there. She’d overheard Clarke.

“Senator Rawley would like to see Mr. Cade for just a minute to offer his thanks.”

Clarke nodded. He told four of his men to escort J. D. to Orpheus and then bring him to the hotel security’ room. As J. D. was led away, he received a spontaneous ovation for his bravery.

Not far away, one of the doctors draped a linen napkin over Danby’s face.

And Roth stared daggers at J. D. DeVito appeared in the entrance to the room. He’d been delayed by the storm, and the first flight out of St. Louis had allowed him to arrive only at that very moment. He took in the scene. From the disarray, he drew the only-conclusion possible: another assassination attempt. His heart turned to ice at the thought that he was too late.

“Orpheus?” he asked the agent at the door.

The man knew DeVito knew he’d been away.

“Alive and well.”

“Cade?” DeVito asked.

“Yeah, I think that’s the guy’s name. How’d you know?”

“I had a feeling.”

“You had a feeling Mr. Cade was going to save Orpheus’ life?”

“Save his life?” DeVito was thunderstruck.

“Yeah, didn’t you see? But one of our guys got it from a stray shot.”

“Who?”

“That guy from the special unit.”

“Roth?”

“No, the other one. Danby.”

First the rock slide, now a stray shot, DeVito thought.

“Where is Clarke going to question Cade?”

The agent spoke into his wrist mike and got a reply.

“Hotel security office.”

DeVito took off to find the security office.

Cade a hero and Danby dead: a very mixed message for DeVito to chew on. One thing was for certain, though. DeVito was going to sit in on Cade’s interrogation. He had to.

He just couldn’t get his mind around the idea of Cade saving, Orpheus’ life.

“I don’t know why I did it,” J. D. told Del Rawley truthfully.

“I just saw the gun and reacted. I suppose I would have been safer ducking for cover.”

He was with Del in the candidate’s suite. Jenny was there, along with the rest of the brain trust, Donnel Timmons, a raft of Secret Service agents, and a plainclothes cop from the SFPD. A doctor applied a bandage to J. D.‘s forehead.

“Ducking occurred to me,” Del admitted.

“Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that man turn. There was something about the set of his shoulders I didn’t like. Then I saw the gun in his hand and I couldn’t decide whether to duck left or right. But then you came flying through the air and knocked his arm away.” The candidate paused as a thought struck him.