“‘Larry’ is short for ‘Barry,’” Jimmie said.
“Drop the act. You may have fooled the warden, but you haven’t fooled everybody at this facility. You wouldn’t have made it this far unless I let you. I’ve had the cameras turned off for the occasion. Nobody’s watching…”
Which meant that nobody could save Jimmie should Cruz attack him. He took a step back from the glass.
“I never got a chance to thank you, Mr. Bernwood.”
“Thank me?”
“Oh, did I say thank you? I meant kill you. I never got a chance to kill you.”
“I’m not here to dredge up old grudges,” Jimmie said.
Cruz spun around and with lightning quickness was at the glass. “I get to say when the hatchet is buried,” he hissed. “Not you.”
Up close, Cruz was less Grandpa Munster and more Grandpa Monster. Prison had hardened him almost beyond recognition. The prison tattoos covering his body told a tale-the tale of a man who’d gone off the deep end. LUCIFER was writ large in gangsta lettering across his chiseled abs; SAM I AM wrapped around his neck. Perhaps more worrying, however, was how prison had reshaped his face. The lines around his eyes were deep and pronounced. He looked like he hadn’t slept since they’d thrown him in this cage-either because they never turned the overhead lights off or because he was just that stone-cold of a badass now.
“I need your help,” Jimmie said.
“There is no copycat killer, is there?” Cruz said. “What’s the real reason you’re here?”
“It has to do with Trump.”
The color drained from Cruz’s face.
“That’s right,” Jimmie said. “The man who put you in this hellhole. You remember Trump?”
Cruz clawed at his ears. “Stop saying that name! Stop saying that name!”
“It was Trump who did this to you, not me. Trump.”
Cruz banged a fist on the glass.
Jimmie stood his ground.
“You might have been able to get back in the race if not for the sex-tape scandal,” Jimmie said. “People expected you to stick around until the bitter end. They liked you because you were spiteful and delusional. Who knows? If that tape hadn’t come out, you might even have beaten him on the second or third ballot at the convention. Not necessarily-anything can happen in American politics, or so I’ve been told-but you had a chance. Instead, someone in his camp leaked it, and… you know the rest.”
Cruz crumpled to the ground. He curled into a ball, shaking and making a sound like a whoopee cushion with asthma.
Jimmie pushed on. “I’m sorry about the role I played in it, but now I need your help. The country needs your help.”
“They framed me,” Cruz said between sobs.
“I know. There’s no way you could have committed the Zodiac killings.”
“Trump framed me.”
“That’s right,” Jimmie said. “President Trump framed you.”
Ted Cruz got to his feet. He wiped the tears from his cheeks. “What do you need from me? An interview for a story?”
Jimmie shook his head. “This is bigger than just a story,” he said, opening the file and removing the paper clip from the printouts. “This is as big as it gets.”
As Jimmie explained to Cruz what he would need him to do, the convicted murderer’s eyes grew wider, and giggles escaped his throat at odd intervals. The man was clearly delirious. At various points, Jimmie could almost see Ted Cruz as a serial-killing lunatic.
Good. For what Jimmie needed him for, he’d have to play the part. For what Jimmie needed him for, Ted Cruz was going to have to be the killer the world thought that he was.
Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions
July 2, 2018, 3:36 PM
Dorset: You’re a big proponent of the Second Amendment and the rights of gun owners in general. Are you carrying a firearm right now?
Trump: I have a concealed-carry permit, but if I were to answer your question in the negative, it might embolden my enemies. If I answer in the affirmative, it would probably piss off the Secret Service. It’s a no-win. I’d rather keep everyone guessing. Let’s just say I’m not happy to see you.
Dorset: Has the Secret Service told you not to carry a gun?
Trump: There’s nothing in the Constitution forbidding the president from carrying a gun. I could carry a bazooka if I wanted to. But you know how people get-they think you’re stepping on their toes. It’s their job to protect the president. If I can defend myself, there goes their livelihood. They’d be more comfortable with a wimp like Obama.
Dorset: Can we talk about President Obama for a couple of minutes?
Trump: Two minutes. I’m not wasting more time than I have to on that clown.
Dorset: In 2011, you became the public face of the so-called birther movement. You questioned whether the president was actually born in the United States and thus eligible to be commander in chief. President Obama eventually released the long-form version of his Hawaiian birth certificate to quell the flames. In the days and months that followed, did you ever regret raising the issue?
Trump: First off, I reject the term “birther.” It’s derogatory. It just sounds icky, like childbirth. And secondly, I’m still very proud of what I was able to accomplish. As a private citizen of the United States, I successfully petitioned the president. I did what no one else could do. The White House produced his birth certificate, which looked very realistic, I’ll give them that. The media bought it, at least.
Dorset: You never did-one of your first acts as president was to revoke his US citizenship. You deported him and his family to Hawaii.
Trump: That’s correct.
Dorset: You do know that Hawaii is within the United States, right?
Trump: Your hundred and twenty seconds are up.
Sunday, September 2, 2018
Chapter Sixty-Two
The Series Finale
Jimmie had never seen the Lincoln Memorial at night before. The famous statue of Lincoln seated like Captain Picard in his captain’s chair was brilliantly lit from all sides. The stone columns supporting the ceiling cast majestic shadows across the wide cement staircase where Jimmie stood. He’d chosen to meet Cat here because it was the one place in the city Trump hadn’t fingered with his Midas touch. Lincoln was the lone president that Trump was on record as admiring-because, as Trump once said, “He’s the greatest vampire hunter our country has ever seen.”
But Jimmie wasn’t here to admire the unmolested monument. If everything went according to plan, there’d be time for admiration later.
“Where is everybody?” Cat asked, approaching from the south. She was walking with purpose. She wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.
That made two of them.
Jimmie rose to greet her. “It’s nine o’clock on the Sunday night before Labor Day,” he said. “They’re all at home watching the Game of Thrones series finale. Even G. R. R. Martin is watching to see how it ends.”
“I never understood that fantasy shit,” Cat said, keeping a few feet between them. That was fine by Jimmie-he had no interest in being smacked again or thrown to the ground.
“I don’t watch it either. I’m still on season two of The Wire,” he said. “I’m, like, five premium cable series behind.”
His choice of date and time had been deliberate. Once night had fallen, the Memorial and the adjoining National Mall had cleared out. An eerie calm had come over DC… an eerie calm that would soon be shattered.