The Next President (38 page)

The chief begrudgingly admitted that it seemed to exculpate Evan in the matter of Ivar McCray’s death. And with the Laneys and the man who killed them all dead, that left him only with finding Deena Nokes and whoever it was that had stolen the body from the morgue.

Billy Edwards had told them, “You two have clean noses right now as far as I’m concerned. Keep ‘em that way. Don’t go poking around in my business.”

Blair intended to ignore that admonition quite soon; Evan, somewhat later.

“You over that dizzy spell?” Blair asked.

“It’s passing,” Evan said.

Evan had thought he’d recovered, and for lying down in a hospital room, he had. But when he’d started walking from the hospital exit to Blair’s pickup the disequilibrium returned. Still, he insisted on going home. If rest was what he needed, he’d be more comfortable at his grandmother’s house.

“You want me to—” Blair saw Belle Cade step out her front door.

“I guess your grandmother can help you inside.”

Evan watched Belle approach and then turned back to Blair.

“She’s not carrying her shotgun, anyway,” he said with a smile.

“Yeah, things must be looking up.”

“You going to talk with Deena?”

“Yeah. See if we can’t find that body snatcher. Though I can’t imagine how.”

“Good. Maybe by the time you come up with a plan, I’ll be back on my feet.”

Blair McCray steered his pickup truck into the clearing where Deena Nokes’ trailer sat. He pulled up close to the front stoop. He put his eyes on the tumbledown log cabin but saw no sign of Gorbachev, and when he looked back at Deena’s trailer she was standing in the doorway with her gun in her hand.

She beckoned him to come inside. He entered, closed the door behind him, and looked around.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked, referring to LuAnne, the other biker mama.

“After what happened at Giant City, she started flakin’ out. So I put her on a Greyhound to Ypsilanti. Where’s your buddy?”

Blair told her he was at home, recuperating from his head injury. Then he informed her that the body of the man she’d shot had been stolen from the morgue.

“Stolen before the police had a chance to ID him,” Blair added.

“My friend and I think whoever is behind all the killings had it done—and maybe the guy who did the body snatching is still around. Another strong-arm type who can lead us to whoever planned the whole thing.”

Deena frowned at the idea… and then her mind went back to the night before at the restaurant. There had been that one creepy-looking guy near the door who hadn’t been the least bit afraid while everyone else had been busy soiling their drawers.

“There was this one frog-faced sonofabitch last night. Real ugly.”

“You think he could be involved?” Blair asked.

“Something was wrong with him. Acted like seeing someone shot dead was no big deal to him. But if he was partners with that bastard who killed Ivar, why didn’t he try ‘n’ grab me?”

“You had a gun in your hand,” Blair pointed out.

Deena shook her head.

“Mighta been a squirt gun, for all he cared.”

“Well, if he wasn’t afraid, he might not have wanted to do anything to call attention to himself. It would have made stealing the body later a lot more risky.”

“Yeah,” Deena said. She could buy that.

“You remember this guy’s face well enough to sketch it?” Blair asked.

She grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, sat down, and went to work laying down harsh strokes of ink. In a matter of moments a cruel, blunt face took shape.

“That’s the man?” Blair asked.

“That’s him,” she said.

Blair studied the face.

“You’re right, he is ugly. Ought to make him easier to find.”

“You know what I’m thinking?” Deena asked.

“If the bastard I killed had a partner, maybe I got the wrong guy. Maybe it was Froggy that killed Ivar.”

“I had that same thought myself,” Blair told her.

Roth waited at the candidate’s limo and communicated with his subordinates to make sure that all the details for the security of the motorcade’s trip to Costa Mesa were in place. Everyone reported that preparations were complete.

Roth was a little surprised that he could keep functioning, attending to all the mundane details of his cover, when all he wanted to do was kill J. D. Cade.

Just a few minutes ago he’d been standing right next to the bastard in Rawley’s suite. So close he could have done the job with a knife. Better yet, with his bare hands.

Of course, Cade had been close enough to do in Rawley the same way.

Standing there behind the man, all Cade had to do was grab the candidate’s head and give it one good neck-breaking twist. What the hell could anybody have done to stop him?

Roth had tried willing Cade to do it.

Go ahead, motherfucker, kill him now. Right here in front of everyone. Then I get to kill you and don’t have to wait any longer.

Only Cade hadn’t. Instead the sonofabitch had saved the day. Again. Rawley had said so himself. The only person Cade had killed was Bill Danby.

The bastard had lined up Bill like he was making a trick shot in some cabaret act. Shot Roth’s best friend right through the throat and severed his spine.

Roth had never disobeyed one of Garvin Townes’ commands, but he really didn’t think he’d be able to wait much longer. He was going to kill J. D. Cade soon—whether the prick had gotten Rawley or not.

A voice reached Roth through his earpiece: Orpheus was coming.

Much to the surprise of Jenny and the other members of his brain trust, Del Rawley decided that he was going to ride to Costa Mesa with only Special Agent DeVito for company in the back of his limo. As soon as they hit the freeway moving north, DeVito handed Rawley the information he’d been able to obtain on Garvin Townes. The candidate read the file quickly and DeVito handed him a legal pad on which he’d written his analysis—and a warning.

Don’t talk. The Secret Service sometimes listens in without you guys knowing.

Del frowned upon receiving that piece of news.

It’s not like we’re blackmailers, the note continued in anticipation of the candidate’s reaction. We’re just obsessed with knowing everything we can to protect our principals… although what we hear is good for an occasional laugh.

Now Del smiled and nodded.

My view is that Townes has to be a spook, the note continued. The CIA has always been big on Ivy Leaguers, and they probably grabbed him right out of Yale. The construction job and the army posting (PANIC) were fronts. After Townes left Vietnam, he just disappeared. Who knows what he was doing? But he had to be active in some covert capacity or he never would have been picked for his new DEIMOS unit—deimos is the Greek word for “panic.”

Del looked up sharply, and DeVito nodded. DeVito next paragraph had been crossed out and Del had to flip the page to pick up the narrative.

I crossed out the last paragraph because I saw something this morning that maybe explains a few things to me. Cade (from the PANIC unit) has to be working for Roth (of the DEIMOS unit). There’s no way in hell I’d buy the presence of both men in your campaign as a coincidence. But this morning Roth was looking such daggers at Cade I thought he might shoot him. Then I realized that by saving your life and helping your campaign, Cade has betrayed Roth (and Townes), and that’s what made Roth so mad.

So—maybe—Cade could have been the guy who took the shot at you in Chicago, but after that, something made him change his mind.

That’s the way I see it. What do you think. Senator?

DeVito handed a pen to Del. The candidate looked at DeVito a moment, thought, and then started to write.

Your assumption is possible. But does anything in your research on Cade suggest that he was anything but a businessman after leaving the army? Were there any contacts between him and Townes or any other intelligence community personnel? Most important, what—under your assumption—would motivate a 180-degree change of heart?

Here’s another way to look at things. Maybe assassin A was used in Chicago. After he failed, he was dismissed. Was disposed of? Then Mr. Cade was brought in (coerced?) to be assassin B. But for whatever reason he isn’t going along with the plan. Isn’t that possible?

I know you’ve made the connection between the PANIC and DEIMOS units and I think that’s valid. But there have to be other men from that old army unit around. I know one personally: Donnel Timmons. Did you know he and Mr. Cade served together?

Rawley handed the pad back and DeVito read. He looked at Orpheus and it was clear the candidate had given him more to think about.

No, I didn’t know about Mr. Timmons serving under Townes, DeVito wrote. And no, I couldn’t find anything suspicious about Cade—if you can overlook his marksmanship with a rifle, which I can’t. Now that I know—all right, assume—that Townes’ unit in Vietnam was a front, I wonder if Cade’s shooting skills were learned in the army and what he did with them. I don’t know what could make a man go from trying to kill you one day to saving your life another. So maybe you do have it right that Cade is a successor assassin—or that’s what Townes wants him to be. Hell, it would even explain why Roth was so mad at him. Maybe it wasn’t betrayal I saw but just plain insubordination.

But at this late date, Senator, I have to tell you that my gut says Cade was the guy with the rifle in Chicago, even if I cant explain what

turned him around. One more thought: Who could make a copy of an M-100 rifle without anybody knowing? The CIA.

Del read DeVito conclusion with an impassive face. He took up the pen again. Thank you for all your help. Special Agent DeVito Keep an eye out for me, will you?

DeVito wrote back, Yes, sir. Anybody wants you, he’ll have to go through me first. But I hope you’re still carrying your gun.

Del looked at the agent and responded. At all times.

J. D. had been assigned to ride in a limo with Donnel. The two men lounged in opposite corners of the backseat, unspoken tension filling the space between them. Then Donnel smiled casually at J. D. “You care for a drink?” he asked.

“No, thanks, but you go right ahead.”

“Believe I will.”

Donnel helped himself to a glass from the limo’s minibar, added ice, scotch, and a splash of soda. He raised his drink to J. D.” who nodded in return.

Donnel took a sip, then looked out the window.

J. D. watched him for a moment and then said, “I heard something interesting today.”

Donnel regarded J. D. impassively.

“What’s that?”

“An old friend of ours wrote a book.”

“Someone we know wrote a book? Who?”

“Think of the last person in the world you’d ever suspect would tell his life story.”

J. D. could see that for a second Donnel thought he was referring to himself—but when Donnel came up with the correct answer his eyes went wide.

The opaque privacy screen was up but Donnel still wouldn’t say the name aloud. He silently mouthed, “Townes?”

J. D. nodded.

“What I heard, he names names, too.”

Donnel looked down and rolled the glass between his hands.

“A friend of mine happened to find the only copy of the book,” J. D. said.

“I’m supposed to pick it up from him tonight after we get back to

L.A.”

Donnel looked at J. D. “The only copy?”

J. D. nodded. He didn’t know for sure that was the truth. It was possible Pickpocket had made a copy for himself. But Donnel didn’t have to know that.

“You gonna do the right thing with it?” Donnel asked.

“What do you think?”

Donnel thought he’d take a hit of his scotch and soda. Then he said in a soft voice, “I heard a story on the radio this morning about another old friend of ours. You hear it?”

J. D. looked surprised and shook his head.

Donnel continued, “You remember Dixie Wynne? Good of’ Southern boy like you. Even looked something like you, the way I recall.”

Beauregard “Dixie” Wynne.J. D. remembered him, all right. The PANIC unit’s most eager beaver. Hadn’t been anybody that sonofabitch didn’t like to shoot. Dixie hadn’t been a bad-looking guy, so J. D. let the remark about a resemblance slide.

“So why was Dixie on the radio?”

“He shot himself a couple of cops, then did himself in.”

Donnel summarized Dixie’s story: shooting a robbery suspect who’d surrendered, disappearing, being indicted in absentia, and coming home to a trap.

“Dixie barricaded himself in his house,” Donnel told J. D.”

“and setup his shooting stand on the second floor. The Gainesville cops knew who they were dealing with, so they came in force and took every precaution in the book. But Dixie still managed to kill two of them with head shots. Both the cops he killed were described as former friends. At that point, the SWAT team mounted an assault on Dixie’s house with an armored vehicle. When they found him, he’d blown his own head off.”

Donnel concluded, “Goes to show none of us knows how much time he’s got left.”

J. D.‘s thought had been to lure Donnel into a trap that night. Thinking J. D. was going to pick up Townes’ memoirs, Donnel would follow him to make sure he did the right thing with them. J. D. had also thought maybe he didn’t have to kill Donnel. Only put him out of action.

But Donnel seemed to be hinting just now that he was playing for keeps.

Evan Cade was alone in his grandmother’s house. He’d assured Belle that he’d be okay while she went grocery shopping. But he still had a dull headache that aspirin didn’t seem to touch, and anytime he moved too fast or even turned his head too quickly, he got dizzy again.

He tried to distract himself by reading and watching television, but he couldn’t concentrate on either activity. He wanted to be out helping Blair.

He wanted to put his hands on whoever was responsible for Pru’s death.

Feeling useless and frustrated, he went upstairs to his bedroom to nap,

hoping that more rest would get him back to normal. He didn’t see the gray sedan stop out front.

The Toad gazed at the neat frame house. From where he sat, he didn’t see anyone moving about inside. The other houses on the block were similarly quiet and the sidewalks were empty. He got out of the car, thinking the time was right to take a peek at the back of the property. It would be premature to move on the boy without final approval from the Gardener, but he wanted to get a feel for the place. For when he came back later.