The Day of the Donald (26 page)

“T
his is going to make quite the story,” Cat said, watching Trump crying and rocking on the ground. “Too bad we’re never going to be able to tell anybody.”

“He thinks he’s God,” Jimmie said. “But he’s just a man. A small man.”

“I’ve got hands bigger than Jesus,” Trump said from his knees. A river of golden tears streamed down his face. “Bigger than John Lennon. Bigger than Justin Bieber—”

“Don’t say the Lord Bieber’s name in vain,” Jimmie snapped. Then to Cat, “Are you really an undocumented migrant?”

She stared daggers at him.

“Okay, okay—just asking,” he said. “We can’t let Trump get away with this. His plan to make America even greater needs to be exposed. Even if we can’t tie him directly to any of the murders, he was about to kill us both.”

“He was about to kill
you
. I think he would’ve let me go.”

Jimmie said, “Sure. Whatever. My point is, there’s enough evidence here to put him away for a long time.”

She raised the gun at Jimmie.

“Whoa! What are you doing?” he said.

“If any of this gets out, I’ll be put on trial for the murder of Lester Dorset,” Cat said. “There’s no way around it.
Even if the Secret Service did shoot him to death, I meant to kill him.”

Jimmie had the switchblade in his hand still. If he moved fast enough, could he stab her in the hand with it and make her drop the gun?

“If we cover this up, the trail of bodies will only continue to grow,” Jimmie said. “You could put a bullet in me . . . you could put one in Trump . . . but it won’t end. I’m sorry. You may have killed Lester in a fit of rage—”

“It was a fit of passion,” she said, trembling. “You know how passionate I get when breaking a story. I couldn’t let him give the recordings away.”

“I don’t think that passion is for breaking a story—it’s a passion for the truth. And it may be clouded by pageviews or viral shares and dreams of Pulitzers, but it’s really about seeing the truth come to light.”

“The truth is that I killed him over nothing,” she said, the gun still trained on him. Her eyes were wet with tears. “You heard Trump.”

“You had no idea the interviews were worthless. But it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that we do the right thing.”

“What do you suddenly know about doing the right thing?”

He shook his head. “Not much. But I’m learning.”

She spun the gun around, and Jimmie took it by the handle. He breathed a sigh of relief. The switchblade thing would have never worked. It was like Christie had said: Writers had weak stabbing motions. Thankfully, it hadn’t come to that—Cat had fallen for all that bullshit about the truth and doing the right thing. He’d been so convincing, he almost believed it himself.

In the distance, a single firework exploded in the sky near the National Monument. Then another, and another. Soon, they were being set off from all over the city.
Game of Thrones
had ended, and the people were rejoicing. Soon, they would flood the streets in ecstasy, overturning cars and setting them on fire. A great mob would form at the Lincoln Memorial and watch as the FBI led the president of the United States of America away in handcuffs.

“I’ll be back,” Trump would say, doing his best Arnold impersonation (which wouldn’t be that bad). “I’m in the
Guinness Book of World Records
for the biggest financial comeback in history, you know. Someday, they’re going to put me in for the biggest political comeback—you just watch, you bunch of losers!”

While the people would grudgingly accept the charges against him, their anger would fade over time, and they would one day accept the Donald back into their hearts, for there was nothing they loved more than a comeback story. And Jimmie Bernwood’s comeback story was just beginning.

Three Months Later

J
immie stood before the bronze statue of Putin fighting the panda. He fingered the Pulitzer Prize ring on his pinkie. It hadn’t solved all his problems, but it was a nice conversation starter on Tinder. They seemed less impressed with it on FarmersOnly.com.

Far behind him, Kate Middleton was droning on to the press corps about the greatness of America—the United States of America. The one and only America (unless you counted North America and South America, which nobody did).

To hear the Duchess of Cambridge tell it, there’d never been any deal on the table with Trump. She was clearly heeding the advice on the shirt Bill Clinton picked up at the Spy Museum gift shop: Deny everything. Though Trump liked to exaggerate, Jimmie had never known him to flat-out lie. There was some truth to what he’d said about the aborted geopolitical merger of the century. How much truth, nobody would ever know.

Regardless, World War III had been averted. Somebody sent Jimmie an SJW finch shirt as a thank-you. He’d donated it to Goodwill and saved the receipt for his taxes.

“He was an awful man,” a familiar Eastern European voice said.

Jimmie turned around. At first, he thought Victoria Trump was talking about her estranged husband. He changed his mind when he saw her staring at Putin’s bronzed visage. “I tried to tell Donny that Vladimir was evil. But Donny was always a sucker for anyone who goes hunting topless.”

“I thought you’d already cleared out of here,” Jimmie said.

She smiled warmly at him. “I left something behind.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I left you behind,” she said, taking his hand. “I made a mistake. I told Donny about us. You could have been killed.”

“It’s not your fault. I should have taken you with me when I had the chance. What’s done is done. We can’t change the past—we can only change the future.” He shook her off. “And my future isn’t here. I’m leaving Washington.”

Jimmie removed the lanyard from around his neck and dropped his badge at the base of the statue. It seemed like a fitting resting place: The memorial was on the same spot where Lester Dorset’s body had been exhumed. The former first family’s dachshund, Opulence, snatched up the lanyard and began tossing it around the South Lawn like a chew toy.

Victoria said, “But your job in the press corps—”

“My new editor at the
Daily Blabber
was just throwing me a bone,” Jimmie said, shaking his head. “Everyone told me I’d be a fool not to accept the job, but that’s what I am: a fool. I could give two shits about President Pedicab Ryan or politics in general.”

“You broke the story on the Colonel Sanders. You were all over the news.”

“You mean Bernie?” he said. After much digging, Jimmie had, indeed, found the former Democratic presidential
candidate—in the Senate chamber. It was the same place Bernie had worked in virtual anonymity for years before the 2016 race and where he returned to following it. Though he’d been “missing” for over two years, no one had even thought to check the US Capitol Building for him.

Jimmie shook his head. “Sorry. This political stuff just doesn’t do it for me. I was a fool to take this job.”

“You are a very cute fool,” Victoria said.

He took her in his arms and drew her close. The warmth of her body felt good against his. Her silicone was really heating up in the sun.

“I wish I could come with you, but there’s another mistake I need to correct,” he said. “The Zodiac Killer has struck again. I need to find Cruz.”

She pouted. “Are you sure you can’t . . . come with me?”

Behind her, a great bald eagle swooped down and plucked Opulence off the nine hole. Jimmie tried to refocus his gaze on Victoria, but he felt his eyes tracking upward as the dachshund was carried up and to the eagle’s nest atop the Washington Monument.

She started to turn her head, but he planted his lips on the former first lady—partially to distract her and partially because he enjoyed kissing pretty girls.

They lapped at each other, needily, hungrily. The fact that she’d betrayed him faded with each long minute they stayed lip-locked. Jimmie was falling for her, all right. He hadn’t thought he could feel like this about anyone after everything that had happened with Cat. It wasn’t love, but it was close enough for government work.

Victoria broke away for air. “I need you right now, Mr. Jimmie. Let us find a restroom and make the love.”

Jimmie was hard enough to cut a diamond but not desperate enough to get laid that he wanted to do it in a restroom. Plus, he had to get on the road—there was a killer out there. Then again . . . he could spare eight or nine minutes, couldn’t he?

“Will your clearance level get us into the vice president’s office, by any chance?” he asked, taking her hand. The VP, of course, was still in space. He’d be there a while. They’d accidentally launched him to Mars instead of the moon base.

Victoria nodded.

Biden’s beanbag chair was going to need a good steam cleaning after today.

They raced hand in hand for the White House. Jimmie’s conscience was mostly free—Victoria’s divorce wasn’t yet finalized, but her husband was behind bars. That’s where Trump would remain for a good, long time. Thirty-two years, to be exact. Attempted murder and aggravated assault weren’t cheap, as far as convictions went. Cat’s sentence—life—was even harsher, but suffice to say Trump wouldn’t be coming after Jimmie anytime soon.

However, it was a near certainty that the ex-president would be out long before his sentence was up. President Ryan wouldn’t pardon him, but the next president might. And if they didn’t, then another would. Someday, in their darkest hour, the American people would turn to the Donald and ask for his help making America great again (again)—again.

A
ndrew Shaffer is the
New York Times
best-selling author of
How to Survive a Sharknado and Other Unnatural Disasters
. His other works include the
Ghostbusters
tie-in
Ghosts from Our Past
and
Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody
. Shaffer and his work have been featured on
The Colbert Report
, NPR, Fox News’s
Fox and Friends
, CBS’s
The Early Show, Mental Floss
, and
Maxim
. This is his first thriller.

I
would like to thank editor Anne Brewer, publisher Matt Martz, publicists Dana Kaye and Julia Borcherts, and the rest of the staff at Crooked Lane Books. You were a pleasure to work with.

I would like to thank my agent, Brandi Bowles, at Foundry Literary + Media.

I would like to thank Tiffany Reisz, Jenn LeBlanc, and Keegan Murphy for listening to me ramble and for rambling right back.

And lastly, I would like to thank Donald J. Trump for making politics great again.