Only the Secret Service was paying much closer attention than the minimum-wage types who merely had to make sure an airplane didn’t get hijacked or bombed.
The only exceptions to the security screening were the people in the immediate entourages of the two candidates. Nobody was going to frisk the First Lady or Mrs. Rawley. The seats for those VIPs were right up front in the area referred to as the Pool Circle. But Roth knew that Cade wasn’t supposed to be traveling with Rawley’s inner circle anymore, and even if he somehow had pulled a switch on that account and got a prestige seat, what was he going to do? Stand up and make like some latter-day John Wilkes Booth? He’d be smoked before he got his knees unbent.
The seating area began to fill in as Roth watched. He’d considered looking for Cade as he first entered the amphitheater, but the point of this exercise wasn’t to stop the prick from getting in, it was to kill him after he got Rawley. Even if Roth saw which gate Cade entered through, he still wouldn’t know which seat he took unless he followed him closely enough to see him sit down. And he knew Cade would spot him if he tried that.
Roth ground his teeth. Fucking Townes had given him an impossible assignment.
He kept scanning the crowd, hoping against hope he could pick Cade out of the growing sea effaces. It would have been much easier for him to go to Cade’s house in the canyon after the debate and grease him there, the way he’d planned before Townes had changed his mind again.
A hand tapped Roth gently on the shoulder.
Landers, his second in command, said “Orpheus is here. He’s in dressing room B backstage.”
Roth nodded. He’d gone ahead to scope out the Bowl; Landers had worked the motorcade.
“No hitches?” Roth asked.
“No. Only DeVito asked where you were.”
That cocksucker. Roth had forgotten about him.
“You told him?”
“Sure. What was I going to say? You stepped out for coffee?”
Roth was not in the mood for gibes at his expense and it showed.
“I’ll get back to Orpheus now,” Landers said.
“Wait,” Roth ordered.
“You got a list of where all the VIPs will be sitting?”
“Yeah.” Landers handed it over.
“Got this if you want it, too.” He passed another sheaf of papers to Roth.
“It’s a list of all the accredited media people who will be here.”
Roth was about to thrust it back. What the hell did he care about reporters?
Cade would never be sitting with… There was his goddamn name!
At the bottom of the first page. Cade, J. D.—with the Los Angeles Times. How the sonofabitch had managed that he’d never know, but fuck him if he cared.
“Where’s the press sitting?” Roth asked.
“That section right there.” Directly in front of the wing of the stage where he stood.
“Are Orpheus and Primus—the president—going to be taking questions?
Will those press jack-offs be jumping up and down, screaming and trying to get their attention?”
“Yeah. Both sides gave in on that an hour ago. Can I go now?”
“Yeah,” Roth said absently, “go ahead.”
He shook his head in grudging admiration. You had to hand it to that sonofabitch Cade. He’d found a way to include himself in the one group that was allowed to act like assholes in front of the Secret Service. If Cade could find some way to sneak a weapon in, and Roth had no doubt he would, then he should be able to get off a shot at Rawley. And if Rawley didn’t duck like last time, he’d bet Cade nailed him, too.
As for himself, now that he knew where Cade would be, even if he opened up with his Uzi on full auto, he wouldn’t hit any innocent people. He’d just take out a raft of political reporters.
Be a goddamn public service.
Garvin Townes arrived with the presidential motorcade, fourth car in the pecking order for now. Still, Townes was included in the group that joined the president in dressing room A. He discreetly exited as those present were posed for an official campaign picture. Townes noticed as he eased the door shut behind him that even in the midst of family, friends, and hangers-on, the president couldn’t quite disguise the fear in his eyes at the prospect of confronting Del Rawley before the whole world.
Take courage, Townes silently urged him. It could well be over before it begins.
Never one to forget his own advantage, Townes had come to the debate armed. And why shouldn’t he? Wasn’t he the head of a special unit of the Treasury Department? He was making his way to his seat when he recognized the face of Devree Rawley. The challenger’s wife held pride of place among a multi generational group of black people sitting front and center.
The Rawley family had come out of hiding. He noticed one empty seat next to a young woman holding a small child on her lap. On impulse, he decided to take it. The special agents on guard around the Rawleys nodded respect fully at Townes as he displayed his identification, Still looking at her child, the young woman sensed a presence arriving on her left.
“It’s about time you got here, Mr. Donnel Tim ” She turned to see Townes.
“Oh, I thought you were… I’m sorry, but this seat is reserved for a member of my father’s campaign.”
“I know,” Townes said, showing Eleanor Rawley Walker his ID, “but it shouldn’t have been. You see, I’m something of a superior to these gentle men behind you, and what with all of the unfortunate events surrounding your father’s campaign, I asked to be seated with the Rawley family on this occasion.”
Now Devree and the others were looking at Townes.
“When your friend shows up he can use the seat I was mistakenly as signed. It’s right over there.” Townes nodded.
“Quite a nice seat. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll feel so much better if you’ll allow me to sit with you.”
Devree Rawley nodded. Then she and the other members of the family went back to their conversations. But Eleanor confided to the silver-haired official, “My father didn’t even want us to be here. His children, I mean.
Then he didn’t want his grandchildren to be here. He even threatened to pull out of the race if we all showed up.”
“Really?” The irony made it almost impossible for Townes to keep a straight face.
“Yes, but we spent all day persuading him that we had to stick together as a family.”
“And evidently you did.”
“Only at the very last minute,” Eleanor said, turning back to her toddler, who was beginning to fuss.
“And even then it was because my father said the danger was elsewhere.”
This time Townes couldn’t keep a wicked grin off his face, but the young mother beside him and the special agents behind him didn’t see it.
J. D. arrived at the press entrance. Tom Hayashi was there waiting for him somewhat anxiously.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” the reporter told J. D. “Had to make an unexpected stop,” J. D. said.
The two men approached the security station. Hayashi went first, dumping a recorder, PCR, pens, notebook, billfold, keys, and change into the pass through container for inspection. He walked through the metal detector without a problem. A Secret Service agent on the other side checked him off.
J. D. took out his wallet, keys, notepad, PCR, and a Mont Blanc pen and put them in the container for inspection. He was about to step through the metal detector when he stopped short.
“Oh, wait a minute. I forgot I have a spare pen.”
The special agent inspecting his PCR looked up.
J. D. dug it out of his coat pocket but fumbled it to the ground. Then, making matters worse, he accidentally kicked it under the table next to the metal detector. Apologizing for his clumsiness, he stepped through the metal detector without setting it off.
The agent on the other side of the barrier had picked up the dropped pen.
He looked at it closely.
“Darn nice pen. Too bad it got scratched.” He took off the cap and gently drew a small circle on the back of his hand.
“Still works, though.”
He looked at J. D. and his press badge. They’d never met but the man said, “You’re the guy who saved Senator Rawley’s life, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw the video. That was nice work.” Then the agent inclined his head at Hayashi and grinned.
“So what’re you doing going over to the enemy?”
“It’s only for one night,” J. D. assured him. He retrieved his pen and the belongings from the container the special agent extended to him;
only the PCR had been given more than a glance. J. D. tucked the PCR, the notepad, and the uninspected pen gun back into his coat; the wallet and keys went into his pants pockets.
“Hope I run into you again sometime,” the special agent said.
“Like to buy you a beer.”
Hayashi cleared his throat.
“That’d be great,” J. D. replied.
“But right now I’ve got to get going.”
As the two men entered the Bowl, the reporter whispered, “All right, pay off time. Who took the shot at Senator Rawley in Chicago?”
J. D. told him, “His name was Beauregard “Dixie’ Wynne. He was an old army friend and…”
Del looked around at the members of his campaign staff and the protection detail crowding his dressing room.
“Where’s Jenny?” he asked Baxter.
“She said she had some last-minute job she just had to do,” the political adviser answered, rolling his eyes.
“She said to tell you she won’t miss the show.”
Del frowned. Under normal circumstances he might possibly be understanding about such a development, but with everything that had gone on … Still, he knew that this was no time to cause a commotion.
He shooed everybody—even his Secret Service agents—out of dressing room B. He said he needed to be alone with his thoughts for a minute. When he was by himself, the candidate closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Give me strength,” he whispered solemnly.
“And please keep my family safe.” About to raise his head, Del had one more thought of supplication: “If J. D. Cade’s son is in trouble, Lord, please see him through it.”
The news he’d received from Agent DeVito about the kidnapping had shaken Del Rawley to his core. Learning that Cade’s son had been taken persuaded him that the man who had saved his life in San Francisco might well have been coerced into trying to take it in Chicago… and would be forced to try again.
Del asked himself if he would do such a thing if he was in J. D. Cade’s position, if the life of one of his children or grandchildren was held hostage to his actions. What if Devree’s life was on the line? He hated to admit it, but he couldn’t imagine anything he wouldn’t do to save one of their lives. Even sacrificing his own.
He was sure J. D. Cade would do no less.
Del Rawley most certainly did not want to die, tonight or anytime soon.
But because he could imagine the excruciating pressure J. D. must be under, he found it impossible to hate him, to bear him any ill will.
Now, the sonsofbitches working behind the scenes to force J. D.‘s hand-they were another matter. He was good and mad at them. He’d forget every lesson he ever learned about justice and fair trials if he could find them. Put the motherfuckers right up against a wall and shoot them.
The question foremost in his mind was whether his opponent, the president, was in on this whole evil design. The politician in him said no. The president would want the strongest measure of deniability
possible should a horror show like this ever be exposed, and that would mean that he actually didn’t know.
But in the end he was the one responsible. He was the one who had put into place the people who conceived and executed this monstrous scheme.
He was the one who had articulated and spread the win-at-all-costs mentality that had turned hardball politics into covert warfare.
Del Rawley was not feeling too kindly disposed toward his opponent right now. He meant to take the man apart—verbally. But because of the atmosphere of terror that had been fostered—and Jenny Crenshaw’s sudden and disturbing absence—he meant to take one other precaution with him onto the stage.
He went to his personal attache case. He dialed the combination that only he knew, and opened it. There it was: the handgun that Agent DeVito had given him. Since Devree’s arrival, he’d been forced not to carry it so that she wouldn’t find out just how dangerous things had gotten.
But now… now it went right back into his pocket.
And if by some strange twist of fate he found the president be sting him in the debate, maybe he’d just take it out and shoot the sonofabitch.
No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than there was a knock at his door.
Alita Colon peeked in and said, “Del, it’s time.”
Jenny reached the address on Multiolland Drive that the florist had provided her. It was the same home directly behind the Bowl that she, J. D.” and DeVito had been unable to gain access to last night. Then the entrance to the grounds had been closed; then no one had responded when they’d rung the bell. Now the gates were open.
She pulled just onto the driveway and stopped. She realized what she should have done was call for help en route. With that option no longer available, she took out her PCR, called 911, identified herself, told the operator that the man who was behind the assassination attempt on Senator Rawley could be found at the Mulholland address, and for God’s sake hurry.
The debate at the Bowl was about to begin.
The operator told Jenny to keep her connection open and stay right where she was.
Jenny responded that she would leave her car parked at the entrance of the property… but she was going into the house.
DeVito was as taut as a piano wire. Special Agent Landers, Roth’s number two but not some bullshit DEIMOS prick, had told him where Roth was.
DeVito stood in the wings, stage right, across the stage from Roth. Stage right was nearer to where Orpheus would be when he and Primus went onstage.
Roth, both symbolically and literally, was on the president’s side. But DeVito could see that the special agents on Primus’ protection detail stood apart a step or two from Roth and their sidelong glances at him said, What the fuck’s this guy doing here?