The Next President (41 page)

The bastard was bearing down on him, smiling as ferociously as if he would eat J. D. alive.

The hellish image abruptly disappeared as the rear window of Roth’s car was blown out. It was only afterward that J. D. realized he’d heard a gunshot, the report of a weapon far larger than his paltry .22. He caught a glimpse of a familiar figure standing in the pedestrian exit, holding a gun, firing once more at Roth, who’d braked sharply, had put his car into drive, and was racing away for all he was worth.

J. D. didn’t count himself delivered yet. He ran behind a pillar. He grabbed for the one spare cartridge he’d brought with him and reloaded the pen gun. By the time he did that, he could hear the sound of Roth’s car receding into the distance.

That left only the man who’d shot at Roth.

Donnel Timmons had followed him. Him and Roth. The man J. D. had intended to shoot, if not kill, that night had saved his life.

But when J. D. carefully looked around the pillar for him, Donnel was gone, too.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

By midnight the Toad knew that there were just two people inside the house.

He knew how he was going to break in. He’d rehearsed in his mind how he’d stash Evan Cade in the trunk of his car. The only question left to be answered was, did he need to kill the old lady?

The answer to that was entirely pragmatic. He’d just have to wait and see how things went. He didn’t feel particularly bad about dusting old folks.

The way he looked at it, they had all their good times behind them, anyway.

The Toad backed his car into the driveway. He switched off the dome light so it wouldn’t illuminate him as he opened the door. He got out and closed the door quietly. He walked at a normal pace with a normal posture-as if he belonged there—around to the back of the house.

The home’s elevation cut off most of the light from the street lamp out front. He didn’t bother trying the kitchen door or any of the ground-floor windows. Even in small towns people were pretty good about locking them these days. But on the second floor a double-hung window stood with its lower sash raised to let fresh air circulate through the house.

Laboring swiftly and silently, he lifted a wrought-iron patio table and placed it next to the house. On top of the table, he carefully stacked all four of the accompanying chairs. He made sure they were firmly joined together and then agilely clambered atop the highest one. From that point, the Toad had to jump less than two feet to grab the sill of

the open window. He managed the leap with ease, his feet producing only a slight thump against the side of the house.

He pulled himself through the window and saw by the glow of a night light burning in a bathroom to his right that he was in a hallway with three other rooms off it. The door of the first room on the left was open. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, the Toad could make out a sewing machine, an ironing board, a love seat, and a TV. He passed by.

That left him two rooms to check. Each had its door closed. So before he opened either of them he went to each one and sniffed. Which made it easy.

The room on the right had no particular smell, but the one on the left smelled like his own mother’s room. So unless Evan Cade was into wearing Shalimar and the old lady used only a deodorant soap, he knew which room he wanted. He opened the door on the right and closed it soundlessly behind him. For a moment he stayed right where he was, letting his eyes adjust to the deeper darkness there. The outline of the bed became discernible.

He listened to the breathing pattern of the person in the bed. It was some what labored but regular. It was also too deep and strong to belong to an old woman. Now the Toad made out the form of a body: large, clothed, male, and lying on its back. He stole across the room to it.

As he hovered above the person he could now identify as Evan Cade, the young man’s breathing changed and his eyes popped open. The Toad’s right hand shot out and his thumb and index finger closed on Evan’s carotid arteries, intending to shut off the blood supply to his brain and render him un conscious. Much to the Toad’s dismay, however, he felt Evan Cade’s hand close agonizingly around his penis and testicles.

Both men squeezed.

The Toad had the more difficult time of it. He had to keep Evan quiet while at the same time refrain from screaming bloody murder himself. He was also under orders to take Evan alive, but as he felt his balls being crushed to jelly, he had no choice but to squeeze with all his might, regardless of out come. Evan Cade’s hand fell away from his crotch.

Waves of nauseating pain continued to pulse so strongly through the Toad that he collapsed on top of Evan. It was several minutes before he was able to push himself upright. When he checked Evan, he found that his victim was unconscious but still alive. The Toad took the opportunity to hobble to a closet, pull clothing from a laundry hamper, and use it to bind and gag Evan. After giving himself a few more minutes to recover further, he rolled his victim in a blanket from Evan’s bed and put him on the floor. Then he pulled the coverlet up

and neatly made the bed. Using a penlight he’d brought with him, the Toad found Evan’s wallet and keychain on the nightstand next to the bed. He put them in his pocket.

He managed to sling his captive over a shoulder and carry him down the stairs, hugely grateful that they didn’t squeak and alert the old lady. He was certain that she could have finished him off at the moment.

The Toad eased Evan into the trunk of his car and closed him in. Then he went around to the back of the house again and with equal silence but much greater difficulty moved the patio furniture back to its original positions.

That done, he returned to his car and drove off—but he went only three blocks before he pulled over and parked at the end of a residential street that faced a large commercial boulevard.

He got out of the rental car and walked as briskly as he could back to the Cade house. He used the keys he’d taken from the nightstand to reenter the house and drive the Honda Prelude out of the garage. It was easy to assume that car belonged to a college kid rather than the Oldsmobile that was parked next to it. He left the Honda in the parking lot of a Kroger grocery store across from the side street where he’d parked his rental car. Signs posted prominently around the parking lot said any cars left there between 12 A.M. and 6 A.M. would be towed. Which was just what the Toad wanted. He didn’t leave the keys in the Honda or the windows down—too obvious—but he left the doors unlocked and walked back to the rental car.

He had to wait only forty-five minutes before he saw a tow truck arrive, put Evan Cade’s car on the hook, and drive it off to an impound yard somewhere.

It was only then, when he was fairly certain that his voice wouldn’t emerge in a soprano squeak, that he called the Gardener.

“I have Evan Cade, sir.”

J. D. had to take the time to go to the Refuge, shower, and change his clothes before returning to the Century Plaza. Otherwise, anyone who had his eyes open would have seen him for what he was, a man who’d just escaped death.

As it was, there were few people in the lobby when he arrived, and nobody paid him any attention as he crossed to the elevator.

When he opened the door to his room he saw the piece of paper on the floor. Someone had slipped it under the door. He squatted to examine it.

I have your son.

That simple. Four laser-printed words. No need to spell out any threat. No need for the author to identify himself. Nevertheless, the message hit J. D. like a sledgehammer to the heart.

Evan had been kidnapped by Townes.

He had to get away from there before he lost control. Before he lashed out at the wrong person.

He stood, grabbed the garment bag he’d yet to unpack, and, without ever touching the piece of paper, pulled the door shut behind him. He took the elevator down to the lobby, retrieved his car, and drove within the speed limit back to the Refuge.

He sat at the table by the pool and waited. Thirty minutes later he had e-mail on the PCR. A telephone number. He memorized it and made the call. It was picked up on the first ring, and J. D. listened to a voice that he had last heard when he was twenty years old. Of all the people he should have killed…

“I have your son. Cade.”

By now J. D. had readied his response.

“And I have you by the short hairs, Colonel.”

Which was hardly the reply Garvin Townes had been expecting. So he buttressed his point.

“Would you like to hear him scream. Cade? I can arrange for you to listen.”

“Would you like to have your memoirs published fifty years early, Colonel? You can explain how assassinating a presidential candidate and murdering a young man are acts done in the defense of liberty. You were so busy planning your offensive against me, Colonel, you forgot to post a rear guard.”

There was a profound silence on the line.

“See what I mean, Colonel? By the short hairs. Think about going to trial. You’d be the star witness against yourself.”

“Then I’ll have company, won’t I, Cade?” Townes replied.

“Because you’re in my book, too. You and Alvy McCray.”

“You think I’m going to give a shit about myself if my son dies? Here’s what you have to remember, Colonel: If Evan goes, we all go.”

There was another lengthy pause. J. D. could almost hear the gears turning in Townes’ head as he sought some advantage for himself. And this time when Townes’ voice returned, it was so agreeable it scared J. D. “You’re right, of course, Cade. If you can’t have what’s most important to you, nothing else matters. I had just the same thought quite recently. Thinking that if somehow I couldn’t make you do what I want, I would end my own life.”

“What?” J. D. asked incredulously.

Townes laughed.

“Surprises you, doesn’t it?”

“I only wish you’d taken the jump a long time ago.”

“No, no. Cade. You won’t get to me that easily. It’s really a wonderful feeling that has come over me. A sense of peace, odd as that might seem. I can’t imagine how you obtained my memoirs, but there will be no time to publish them other than posthumously. There will be no trial for me.

“It’s really quite simple,” Townes continued.

“Senator Rawley dies in the next twenty-four hours or your son and I die. I think … I think I’ll leave instructions that you be allowed to live. It would be so much harder for you that way. You’d either have to live with the pain of knowing you allowed your son to die, or accept the shame of committing suicide… just like Daddy did.”

J. D.‘s mouth filled with the taste of bile. He had no doubt that Townes was completely sincere. It almost sounded to him as if Townes would like him to defy his wishes. Then Townes could meet his death without regret because he’d know how much pain he would inflict on J. D. J. D. had been so sure of himself since receiving Townes’ memoirs. He’d seen those rankings as the key to freedom for both him and Evan. The key to life for Del Rawley. He had even gone so far as to suggest improvements in Rawley’s security. But now…

“And if the senator dies?” J D. asked, his own voice barely a whisper.

“Then I get what I want and you get what you want.”

“And if you try any comebacks against me or my son, your memoirs get published.”

“And if you publish my memoirs, you and your son get killed.” Townes laughed softly.

“It’s just like the good old days, Cade. Mutual assured destruction.

What could be finer?”

J. D. regarded the question as rhetorical.

“So what’s it to be, Cade?”

“We’ll soon find out. Colonel.”

Arnold Roth’s return to the Century Plaza had been even more problematic than J. D. Cade’s. He’d had to blast past the stunned parking attendant at the shopping mall and then quickly ditch his shot-up car. He’d been unhurt by the three rounds that had been shot at him, but he’d been brushing bits of broken glass off his clothes for blocks after he’d abandoned the car. He’d have to report it stolen in the morning. Another goddamn humiliation.

Not wanting to take a cab, Roth had to walk back to the hotel. As if that hadn’t been enough, Townes had called him on his PCR as he hiked and told him to slip a piece of paper under fucking Cade’s door. At least the news he had to deliver cheered him. They had the bastard’s son. Cade would squirm now.

But back in his room, taking another call from Townes, Roth couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He asked Townes to repeat himself.

“Don’t kill Cade,” Townes said curtly.

“Not unless I explicitly reverse this order.”

Cade’s ambiguous response to their standoff had left Townes unsure how to proceed. He added a further instruction for Roth.

“In fact, if Cade appears to be in mortal danger from any third party, you are to intervene on his behalf.”

Roth had never done drugs in his life; he even shunned alcohol. So all he could think was that his brain had to be shorting out from the stress he’d just been through. Because even hearing his orders a second time, he couldn’t make sense of them.

Townes went on.

“I just spoke with Cade. Caller ID showed a number other than that of the Century Plaza. So I want you to check his room at the hotel. Make sure he took the note you left for him. If he didn’t, destroy it.

Roth … are you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You heard everything I’ve told you?”

“Yes, sir.” Heard it all. Understood none of it.

“Good.” Townes disconnected.

Leaving Roth to look at the phone receiver in his hand.

“Fuck you, sir.”

Goddamn Townes. What the hell did he think he was doing, writing off Danby’s death?

Might as well have told him his own life wasn’t worth a damn.

Protect Cade? Roth thought he should have told Townes how he’d just tried to kill him.

Maybe he ought to kill Townes, too. Be like Cade, kill one of your own.

But that thought was so alien to Roth’s nature and training it almost made him sick to his stomach.

Fuck it, he told himself. He’d had enough for one day. He was going to bed. Which he did. He was almost asleep when he remembered the note Townes had told him to retrieve from J. D. Cade’s room.