Read Online The Next President by Joseph Flynn - Free Book Online Page A

complaint at all about his dad, it was that he was overprotective. His father had tried too hard to make sure that nothing would ever hurt him. As Evan had grown older, this paternal hovering had chafed. He’d found it necessary to tell his dad to back off a little, to give him some room to lead his own life. Even if he made some mistakes.
    Evan could see now that his father must have had similar protective feelings about the other members of the Cade family. So if this Alvy McCray ass hole had been pounding on a bunch of them, threatening to
    get the feud started again all by himself… Evan guessed he could see his dad going off on the guy. Sure was an eye-opener, though.
    “Your father did only what he had to do,” Belle assured him, seeming to read his mind.
    “No more, no less.”
    “And this Alvy McCray flipped his truck after Dad had already left for California?”
    “Yes,” Belle answered emphatically.
    “Everything worked out for the best.”
    Then she added, “It was just a pity that deer had to die.”
    Pickpocket, who had said he’d be back in a couple of hours, hadn’t returned to the Refuge by that evening. Which made J. D. very edgy. He had only one ally and couldn’t afford to lose him.
    Almost as trying as the little thief’s unexplained absence were the hours of enforced idleness. J. D. felt certain it would be a mistake, but it was all he could do not to pick up the phone and force the issue—call Vandy Ellison and tell her he’d changed his mind and would like to attend the diva’s fundraiser.
    Instead, he did something that almost always calmed him. He took target practice.
    J. D. clipped the picture of Del Rawley from that day’s Los Angeles Times. He’d scanned the paper as soon as it had been delivered that morning to see if the FBI was making any progress in their manhunt for him. He’d wondered endlessly the past week if he’d made some mistake—other than missing his shot—while trying to kill Del Rawley in Chicago. He knew that if he’d overlooked the slightest detail, it could be his undoing, and the thought circled his mind like a bird of prey.
    There had been no news indicating the FBI was on to him, but he’d been able to take little comfort from that. The feds could be following a lead that hadn’t leaked to the media yet.
    The picture of Rawley J. D. cut out of the paper was a good four-color likeness, about two-thirds life size, he estimated. He found a clay planter in the gardening shed, filled it with potting soil, and took it into the garage. There he taped the picture over the mouth of the planter and wedged it on its side on a shelf approximating his target’s height. He found two ladders in the garage to stand in for Secret Service agents and set one just to either side of the picture, giving him only a narrow opening for his target.
    He stepped off twenty feet from the target. He took out the pen gun he’d purchased from Walter Perry and examined it. It was a masterful
    piece of craftsmanship. The black plastic shell gleamed in the overhead light, and the gold trim pocket clip, band around the middle, and ink-filling lever on the side gave it a look of elegance. The cap had to be removed for firing. The ink lever was the trigger; first it flipped the nib out of the way on a hidden hinge and then it fired the round. The weapon unscrewed at the gold band to reload a .22 caliber cartridge.
    Last week, while waiting to make his approach to the Rawley campaign and futilely trying to draw out his unseen minders, J. D. had made use of his time by purchasing an actual Mont Blanc pen identical to the minigun. He thought a decoy might come in handy. While he was out shopping, he also bought a camera disguised as the remote for a car alarm. The idea that he might need to take pictures surreptitiously had also occurred to him.
    Now, looking at his target, J. D. shot the pen gun from the hip, a firing position that would be very hard to detect in a crowd. The round went