The Next President (16 page)

The first he hadn’t seen in over thirty years. Donnel Timmons. J. D.‘s spotter and fellow assassin from the PANIC unit in Vietnam.

Donnel’s natural hairstyle had given way to a closely trimmed cut, more salt than pepper. His lean sixties-radical appearance had morphed into a shonger, more substantial build. But there was no question it was him. And by the stunned look in his eyes Donnel obviously remembered him as well.

J. D. carefully limited his expression to a polite smile of recognition, but knowing there was another member of the PANIC unit present tonight, he felt a chill return.

Not far from Donnel, but fortunately standing behind him where he couldn’t see the surprised look on Donnel’s face, was Special Agent Dante DeVito Unlike the general watchfulness of the other security people, J. D. saw that DeVito was zeroing in on him personally.

J. D. moved his gaze off DeVito and strolled in the direction of Donnel, who met him halfway. The two men regarded each other for a long moment and then shook hands.

“Sonofabitch,” Donnel whispered, “it’s really you.”

J. D. nodded and responded in the same quiet tone.

“Been a long time, bro. But look at us. Come up pretty far in the world for a couple of old army snipers.”

“Is that your man?” Del Rawley asked Jenny Crenshaw. He was looking at a security monitor in an upstairs room of the mansion. The candidate slipped into a sport coat; casual chic was the dress code for the evening.

“He matches your description.”

“That’s him. J. D. Cade.”

“Looks like he knows Donnel Timmons.”

“Yes, it does,” Jenny said, and a thoughtful look crossed her face.

“What is it?” Del Rawley asked.

“I don’t know. It just strikes me as curious. Donnel was one of your earliest supporters, and Mr. Cade told me his interest in politics was minimal before he became aware of you.”

The candidate returned his attention to the security monitor.

“They definitely know each other. Maybe I’ll say hello to your Mr. Cade.”

“I think you’ll find him interesting,” Jenny replied.

“Any further word on that smear coming my way?” Del asked.

Jenny shook her head.

“Maybe whoever had it in mind thought better of it,” the candidate suggested.

Jenny gave Del a skeptical look.

“Yeah, probably not,” he agreed. He opened the door for Jenny.

“Well, let’s go earn our keep.”

The Gardener sat in the study of his Virginia home browsing a well-thumbed book on the life and work of Luther Burbank when the Toad entered and brought him a report from California.

“J. D. Cade entered the Weisman estate fifteen minutes ago.”

“In Jenny Crenshaw’s company, no doubt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’ll be in good hands there.”

“Do you think he’ll—” The Gardener shook his head.

“No, not tonight, Harold. Our actions this morning should have increased Mr. Cade’s sense of urgency, but I doubt we’ve made him suicidal.”

The Gardener smiled when he saw an expression of disapproval appear on the Toad’s unlovely face.

“I know you would strike at the first opportunity, Harold. But then, it’s unlikely you would have charmed Jenny Crenshaw into asking you along for the evening. If only I had someone at my disposal who combined your best qualities with Mr. Cade’s.”

Then the Gardener returned his attention to the story of Luther Burbank—who had been quite successful at crossbreeding.

J. D. stood among the other guests on an acre of manicured lawn at the side of the Weisman mansion. At one end of the field of green a small stage had been set up. On it were a baby grand piano and a microphone on a stand.

Rows of thickly padded folding chairs—with a center aisle dividing them-had been set up in front of the stage. Dusk was gathering, but outside lights were on and dialed up to a brightness level that J. D. had no doubt was ordered by the Secret Service. A pianist dressed in evening wear went up onstage and started to softly play a show tune.

Donnel had rejoined the people with whom he’d arrived. Vandy Ellison stopped by for a moment and attached herself to J. D. She told him she was very put out that he’d accompanied Jenny to the affair. J. D. said that she’d twisted-his arm.

“Just so long as she doesn’t twist anything else,” Vandy replied, and gave him a peck on the cheek before leaving.

Jenny returned as people were starting to take their seats. She led J.

D. to two chairs on the far right end of the front row. She had J. D. take the outside seat, telling him, “People will be less likely to notice you if you fall asleep there.”

“Unless I fall off my chair,” he responded.

Del Rawley took the stage to a chorus of heartfelt cheers. As he let the sound of public approval wash over him, he gave a personal wink to Jenny—and for just a moment let his gaze rest on J. D. Cade.

When the applause died, he began his speech.

“It’s often been said that any American child can grow up to be president, but that’s really not a natural ambition for children. Ask a young boy or girl what they want to be when they grow up and they’ll speak of careers that capture their imaginations and fill their dreams. Their ambitions will run the gamut from astronaut to zoologist, and all points in between.

“But unless it’s part of a family tradition, parents are likely to give a long and uneasy look to the child who comes home from school one day and says, “Mom, Dad, when I grow up, I want to be a politician!”

” The candidate smiled broadly as his audience laughed.

“In fact,” Del continued, “I suspect it may well have been just such an occasion that inspired the people who began the term-limits movement.” D. found himself laughing along with everyone else. It was only when Jenny Crenshaw lightly put her hand on his leg to share the moment that the surreal nature of his position hit him: He was laughing warmly at the humor of a man he intended to kill. His head started to spin and there was a real danger he might do exactly what he’d joked about earlier: fall off his chair.

He put his hand on top of Jenny’s and squeezed as hard as he dared to keep his place.

“The reasons why we politicians are held in such low esteem—and make no mistake, the president is nothing more than the politician in chief—are too well known and numerous to go into on this very pleasant evening. Well, I will mention that we tend to talk far too long at any given opportunity, but I will do my best to keep things brief tonight. I will simply say to you:

“If you as Americans do me the singular honor of choosing me as your next president, I make you the following solemn promises: I will take no actions affecting your welfare without first clearly explaining to you what I see as the necessity for taking those actions; I will try as hard to hear your concerns as I do to tell you mine; I will ask you to make no sacrifice that I am not willing to make or have already made

myself I will put no American ahead of any other American; I will strive with all the strength God gives me to see to it that the opportunities the most fortunate among us take for granted are brought within reach of the least fortunate among us.

“I will do my best for you for as long as you will have me. And when you’ll have me no longer, or the Constitution requires my departure, I will express my gratitude to you and bow out as graciously as I am able. Thank you one and all.”

The candidate bowed humbly as his audience rose to its feet and delivered a resounding and prolonged ovation. His moment of vertigo past, J. D. stood and applauded with everyone else. Trying to regain his detachment, he looked for any sign that Del Rawley was nothing more than a consummate performer who’d chosen Washington over Hollywood as his preferred venue.

But try as he might, he could find no hint that the man’s words were anything but genuine.

When Del Rawley thought the moment had gone on long enough, he stepped back to the microphone. Gesturing for silence, he said, as if sharing a secret, “If you’ll all just sit down and be quiet, I think there’s someone here who’d like to sing for you.”

The diva joined the candidate onstage. She lifted his hand into the air, and the applause started all over again. But Senator Rawley scooted quickly offstage.

“Now, how am I supposed to follow an act like that?” the diva asked.

But follow it she did, with a performance for the ages, going back to her early days on Broadway and concluding with the title song from her new movie. By the end the audience was on its feet cheering, clapping, and whistling. The diva bowed, smiled, and basked in the adulation.

The price of an encore, she then announced with characteristic chutzpa, would be a further contribution to the cause. She left the stage while checks were written.

Jenny whispered to J. D.”

“It’s okay. You’re with me.”

J. D. gave her an amused look.

“That’s very kind of you. But since I just happen to have my checkbook here with me…”

Jenny grinned.

“Need a pen?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Jenny handed him a slim silver ballpoint. J. D. made out a check for fifteen thousand dollars and handed it to Jenny.

“Will that do?”

“Very nicely, thank you.” When J. D. offered the return other pen, Jenny said wryly, “No, you hang on to it. In case you ever need it again.”

“Deal,” J. D. agreed.

“My favorite word,” said Marva Weisman. She stood there in front of Jenny and J. D.—and she had Del Rawley on her arm.

The diva gave J. D. the same feline smile she had before.

Del Rawley extended his hand to him.

J. D. heard Jenny speak. Her words were clear but they seemed to come from a great distance.

“Jefferson Davis Cade, please allow me to introduce our gracious hostess, Marva Weisman, and Senator Franklin Delano Rawley, the next president of the United States.”

Can’t you see who I am? J. D. wondered, meeting Rawley’s eyes. Don’t you know why I’m here? It struck him then that the only flaw in his deception would be to delay taking the proffered hand. So he gripped it as if greeting an old and dear friend.

Del Rawley smiled.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cade.”

J. D. and Jenny waited for their driver to bring the limo around to the front of the diva’s mansion. Jenny had her arm linked with J. D.‘s. Clusters of the glitterati hovered nearby, also awaiting the delivery of their vehicles. The mood of the privileged crowd was buoyant. They had the heady feeling that tonight they were part of a presidency in the making. Every single one of them now wore an FDR button, and with the influence they exerted on popular culture, millions more would soon be wearing them. On top of that, they’d seen a show they’d never forget.

As for the cost, well, it was only money—and they had more than enough of that.

“Now, was that so bad?” Jenny asked J. D. “Certainly a night to remember,” he conceded.

He’d pushed the impact of meeting Del Rawley off to a dark recess of his mind and affected the pleasantly drained mood everyone else exhibited.

“You have to admit, Marva can sing.”

“Yes, she can.”

Jenny tilted her head back to look J. D. in the eye.

“And what did you think of Del?”

J. D. gave an honest reply.

“The man has a powerful presence.”

Jenny nodded her agreement.

“He writes all his speeches himself, you know. He’ll be the first president in memory to do that. Probably be the first since Kennedy to have his speeches quoted after he’s gone.”

The reference to the martyred president struck a little too close to home for J. D.‘s comfort. He looked around, careful not to let Jenny see anything in his eyes. He noticed Donnel Timmons speaking congenially with a man and two women.

Again he wondered if it was anything more than chance that his old comrade was on hand. Before he could pursue that line of thought, Jenny noticed where he was looking.

“Do you know Donnel Timmons?” she asked, not giving away what she’d seen on the security monitor.

J. D. nodded.

“From my army days.”

“He’s been with Del right from the start. Since New Hampshire. He’s a good man.”

“I was glad to have him by my side, too,” J. D. concurred. He couldn’t guess if Donnel’s long-term status with the campaign meant his reason for being there was legitimate … or if it was a deep cover. J. D. looked back at Jenny.

“I had a great time tonight.”

“You mean that?”

“Absolutely.” He saw that she looked pleased, and impulsively decided to take a big risk. It would be disastrous if it went the wrong way, but if he guessed right, it would add to his aura of innocence.

“I’d tell you I’ll give you a call, but I can imagine how busy you’ll be for the next few months. So why don’t you call me after the election?”

Their limo pulled up and the driver stepped out to get the door, but J. D. waved him off. He opened the door for Jenny and helped her into the back seat. Then as he followed her into the car he spotted two men in the crowd who made his heart go cold. One dark-haired crewcut, one blonde. His minders. Clearly they had been at the fundraiser not as guests, but as security. The diva’s men? No. Those hvo didn’t take orders from a singer. Which meant they had to be … Secret Service.

He pulled the door of the limo closed before they noticed he was looking at them.

Jenny tugged at his sleeve.

“What’s so interesting?”

“Thought I saw someone else I know, but at second glance the nose was wrong.”

“People in this town change their noses,” she reminded him.

J. D. smiled politely at the joke.

Jenny put her hand on his leg.

“I don’t think I’ll wait until after the election to call you.”

She looked at him, all but asking to be kissed. J. D. leaned in and obliged her.

Even as he felt how soft her lips were against his, he couldn’t give himself completely to the moment. He was using this woman… and he couldn’t get his mind off the two crew cuts being Secret Service.

And how they weren’t around only to see that he did the job, but to kill him afterward.