The Next President (49 page)

keyboard. But his fingers weren’t nearly as adroit as they had been. He had to look at the keyboard now.

The moment the other man took his eyes off him, J. D. hurled the empty’ water bottle at Donnel. It caught him hard on the forehead. By itself, the blow wouldn’t have been enough to knock him out or even keep him from getting a shot off. But added to the stupor in which he already labored, it stunned Donnel.

J. D. wrested the gun from Donnel’s hand without a shot being fired, and after a minute of clumsily trying to grapple with J. D.” Donnel collapsed in his arms.

Vandy arrived at 5:30, half an hour early. Just about when J. D. had expected her. He was fresh from a second shower. He’d needed it after lugging Donnel off to the bedroom normally used by a housekeeper.

Vandy appeared wearing a T-shirt, running shorts, and sneakers; she had a garment bag slung over her shoulder.

Looking at J. D. in his robe, she scrunched up her face.

“Oh, I’m too early.

I’m sorry. I thought I’d get here just a little early, we could make our plans, and then I could change so my clothes wouldn’t look all rumpled and live ding She brushed J. D.‘s still-damp hair with her free hand.

“I thought you might even let me take a shower.”

“Come on in, Vandy,” J. D. said graciously.

“What’s mine is yours.”

There was never any question where they were headed, and a minute later they were in J. D.‘s bed. But J. D. had a fleeting moment of uncertainty whether he’d be able to perform. By using Vandy, he was making a whore of himself, and that was something he’d never done before.

Then a cynical voice in his head reassured him. What’s a little whoring, it asked, compared to all the other things you’ve done?

Almost an hour later, a well-satisfied Vandy propped her head on one hand and said, “I think we’d better get going. We can shower together and discuss our plans for the evening. What do you say?”

J. D. pulled her down on top of him and kissed her.

“Something’s come up.”

“What!” she shrieked, pushing away from him.

“Don’t worry. I’m not abandoning you.”

She collapsed atop him with relief.

Then he told her he’d been asked by the Los Angeles Times to do a story on the campaign. It would be terrific publicity for Del, J. D. said, but he’d have to miss the first part of the evening at the studio.

That shouldn’t be a problem because everyone there would be watching the debate on television.

He promised he’d be there to talk to everyone by the time the debate was over.

“You’ll cover for me, won’t you, Vandy?” J. D. asked.

She drew her head back and said, “You just better be there, buster” “There?” J. D. asked, reaching out with his hand.

“Or there?”

“There,” Vandy directed. Then she gasped. A true professional to the end, she added in a tremulous voice, “And at the studio, too.”

Once they were showered and dressed, J. D. helped Vandy into the Lexus as it sat in the garage. Then he asked her to excuse him for just a second; he’d forgotten something and would be right back.

He was. Right after he’d left the front door of the Refuge standing open.

The first time DeVito called the Carbondale PD and asked for the chief of police, he was told to try back tomorrow and was disconnected. The special agent could only look at the phone receiver in disbelief for a moment. He had to leave with Orpheus for the Hollywood Bowl in ten minutes and this was what he got from some Podunk cop shop? He slammed the key hook for another dial tone and savagely stabbed the redial button.

“Police department,” answered the same voice that had cut him off.

“Listen to me,” DeVito ordered in a menacing voice.

“My name is Special Agent Dante DeVito I’m with the United States Secret Service. I want to talk to the chief of police and I want to talk to him now. If you don’t see that I do, I’ll find out who you are and I’ll make the rest of your life a living hell. Do you understand me?”

DeVito heard a sharply indrawn breath and then nothing. He thought he’d been cut off again. He could not fucking be-“I don’t care who you are, you sonofabitch,” came an outraged voice in DeVito ear, letting him know he’d only been put on hold, “you threaten any of my people like that again, I’ll kick your ass till you shit through your teeth.”

DeVito replied, “Sounds like we’re both up against it, Chief, but I had to talk with you.”

“Make it fast, goddammit. I have no time whatsoever.”

DeVito heard the urgency in the man’s voice and wondered what could possibly have a little town like Carbondale in such an uproar. Then DeVito felt an iron fist grab his guts and twist for all it was worth.

Whatever the chief’s problems were, he’d bet-“Hey!” the chief yelled.

“You gotta talk to me but all of a suddeu you fall asleep?”

“I’m calling about Evan Cade,” DeVito said softly. The silence from Illinois was so profound he knew his instinct had been right.

“Something happened to him, didn’t it?”

A moment later the chief responded, “His grandmother just called to tell me he’s been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Yeah. How the hell did you know something was wrong?”

“I … It was just… Someone out here got the feeling the boy’s father had been hurt recently.”

“Well, if he hasn’t, he will be. I don’t think this one’s gonna have a happy ending.”

Then the chief was gone, leaving the federal agent with the phone in his hand once more. DeVito put it down. Was it just a coincidence J. D. Cade’s kid got grabbed the same day Del Rawley was scheduled to speak outside again? DeVito asked himself. Not a chance in hell.

The way DeVito saw it now was that Cade had taken the shot in Chicago because his old army commander, Garvin Townes, had had both him and his kid blackmailed. Then Cade had somehow worked his way out of that jam, and that was when he saved Del Rawley’s life. But Townes struck back, kidnapping Cade’s kid and undoubtedly telling him the kid would die if Cade didn’t kill Orpheus.

So now Cade had been forced back into being an assassin. For the first time DeVito almost felt sympathy for the man.

He looked at his watch. Time to go. He had to stop Cade, but that wasn’t all. He also had Roth to worry about. Cade had as much as told him Roth was the backup killer, and Roth would be at the Bowl. Cade would be at-DeVito grabbed the phone again and called the number he’d been given for the Westside Studio, where Cade was supposed to be. He identified himself to the person who picked up the phone and was quickly passed along to Vandy Ellison.

“Is Cade there?” he demanded.

Vandy knew DeVito voice; it was one she’d come to loathe.

“Yes, he’s here.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Can’t.”

“Put him on.”

“Sorry. He’s just going—”

“Going where?”

“To the men’s room. I have to tinkle, too. Bye.”

Yet again DeVito was left with a dead phone in his hand. But now he had to run. He’d be at the Bowl with Orpheus watching Roth. Cade would be at the movie studio waiting for Orpheus, who would never come.

DeVito wasn’t going to let J. D. Cade get within shooting distance of Orpheus ever again.

Jenny was crossing the lobby of the Century Plaza when she saw DeVito almost yank Del away from his family. Luckily, nobody took a picture of this incredibly rude and unprofessional act. She decided then and there that after tonight DeVito was gone. She didn’t think she’d have to put the matter on a him-or-me basis to Del, but if that was what it took-“Pardon me, Ms. Crenshaw?”

Jenny turned to see the hotel manager, who had a look of deep concern on his face. What now? she thought. Had the damn check for the hotel bill bounced?

“Yes?” Jenny asked politely.

“We were informed that Mr. Cade would no longer be needing his room.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“So housekeeping was sent to the room to prepare it for our next guest… and the maid found this.” He handed Jenny a slip of paper.

“As you can see, it’s not overtly threatening, so I didn’t know if I should give it to the Secret Service or you.”

On the slip of paper were four words: I have your son. J. D.‘s son

Jenny wouldn’t have believed that anything could have shocked her more at that moment, but then the hotel manager took a package from a bellman standing next to him.

“This just came for you. I thought you might like to see it before you left for the evening.”

The package was a long, narrow cardboard box, the type used by florists to deliver their blooms. Indeed, that was just what it was. Jenny opened it to find a bouquet of… lilies.

The accompanying card read: Fresh from my garden.

After dropping Vandy off at the studio, J. D. made one stop on his way to the Hollywood Bowl. He made a call to 911 from a public phone.

“Listen,” he told the emergency operator, holding a handkerchief over the phone, “I’m making a delivery at this house in Santa Monica Canyon. I get there, the door’s open. I poke my head in, shout hello … To cut to the chase, I find this black guy passed out on a bed, barely breathin’. Who knows if he’s gonna make it? You better send somebody fast.”

J. D. gave the address of the Refuge. He declined to give his name.

It had already been some time since Donnel had passed out, and he hadn’t checked to see if Donnel was still alive before he and Vandy left, but he felt he owed his old comrade some chance.

The Toad finally caught Evan Cade rocking back and forth.

He pointed his gun at him and ordered, “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Evan asked, sitting still.

“You were rocking. Trying to loosen your bonds.”

“I wasn’t.”

The Toad cocked his weapon.

“Fuck you and your handgun, too, Froggy,” Evan said wearily.

The interior of the trailer was now lighted by a single sixty-watt bulb. It was the only source of illumination the Toad had been able to find easily. He was leery about moving around, and with his prisoners bound hand and foot he couldn’t order them to turn on a light. In the dim glow, with his ruined vision, it was possible that he had imagined Evan Cade moving, but he didn’t think so.

Evan sneered at him.

“You won’t shoot me, Kermit, or you would have already.

I’m the guy who crushed your nuts in my hand. I’m the guy who blinded you. But I’m still here.”

A murderous look crossed the Toad’s ravaged face but he didn’t pull the trigger.

“See what I mean?” Evan continued.

“Whoever you work for has you very well trained. You won’t kill us until you get the word. By the way, when’s the last time you replaced the battery in your PCR?”

The Toad swung his pistol toward Deena.

“No!” Evan screamed. He threw himself sideways, falling across Deena’s lap. He frantically pushed with his bound, numb legs until he was sitting atop Deena’s leg on one side and Blair’s leg on the other. Evan leaned in whichever direction the Toad pointed his weapon.

In the end, the Toad lowered the gun and shrugged.

“You were only partly right,” he told Evan.

“I probably won’t kill you without receiving orders first. But the way this situation works, I wait to receive word only until midnight. That’s the deadline. And dead is the operative part of that word.”

The Toad laughed with such menace that all three of his captives shared the same chill.

Using Evan Cade’s body as a shield, Blair McCray started stressing his restraints again—and this time he exerted a lot more effort.

Jenny was supposed to ride in a limo with the rest of the brain trust to the Bowl, but she left them wondering if she’d lost her senses when she told them to go on without her; she’d catch up as soon as she could.

Baxter Brown had wanted to know what was so important she wouldn’t be coming with them. For just a moment Jenny was tempted to tell him. She thought she might need some help, but then she remembered that Baxter, for all his size and bluster, came from an upper-middle-class family that had sent him to prep school and Princeton, where he’d been a member of the glee club, not the football team. Jenny finally told him that there was simply one more task she had to handle before she went to the Bowl, but they were to assure Del that she would be there.

After the others had gone, she used a phone in the hotel lobby to call the florist that had delivered the flowers—lilies, the symbol of death—and see if she could persuade the merchant to give her the address of the customer who’d sent them. If her powers of persuasion failed, then she’d have to involve the LAPD to get the address. She already knew the customer’s identity.

To her surprise, instructions had been left to provide her with the address if she called. She was given the number of a house on Mulholland Drive.

The location sent a chill racing up Jenny’s spine.

“Do you know if that’s near the Hollywood Bowl?” Jenny asked.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s quite near the Bowl. You should be able to hear whatever is going on down below.”

Hear the gunfire and screams, Jenny thought. That would make the Gardener happy.

Jenny drove northeast through the city, speeding, running lights that had just turned red, and otherwise blending in perfectly with the more aggressive drivers on the road. She knew she was going to need help when she got to the house on Mulholland; she was pleased that the hills would be filled with special agents from the Secret Service as well as cops from the LAPD. She’d recruit whatever help came to hand. Then she’d force the goddamn Gardener to reveal just how he planned to kill Del—hoping she wouldn’t be too late.

She had to fight back tears of anger as her car raced into the mouth of Laurel Canyon, snaking along that winding road as it climbed to the top of the Hollywood Hills.

“Oh, Don, goddamn you,” she complained bitterly.

“You found out who wanted to kill Del, all right. You knew all along.”

Roth was at the Hollywood Bowl. He stood in the wings, stage left. People were starting to enter the amphitheater. Each and every one of them, humble or exalted, had to pass through a metal detector, put their coins and keys in a little plastic container, and hand it to security, just like at the airport.