Chapter Thirty-Seven

Have You Heard the Good Word?

Christie’s hand emerged with a burgundy, leather-bound Bible. He hadn’t pegged Christie as a Bible-thumper, but stranger things had happened. Here he was, trying to recruit Jimmie over to the side of the angels. Good luck with that.

“Thanks, but I already have a Bible I don’t read,” Jimmie said.

“I know—you left it behind at the Royal Linoleum,” Christie said.

“I left it behind . . . ?” Jimmie’s voice trailed off as it hit him: This was the Gideon Bible from his bedside table. The one he’d marked up with Morris code.

This isn’t happening, he thought. This can’t be happening.

Jimmie was beginning to have a hard time distinguishing between his imagination and reality. Maybe he’d suffocated in that tunnel underneath the wall. His comatose body could be laid out in some Mexican hospital right now while all of this was happening in his head. One long dream from which he might never wake up.

You know you’re in desperate straits when the best-case scenario is that you’re in a permanent coma.

Christie said, “I did a little security sweep, to make sure you hadn’t left any sensitive material behind. Thought at first this was placed there by the hotel, but then I saw the inscription on the inside.” Christie’s eyes met his. “The inscription from your mother.”

“My mother?”

“Her message seemed to be . . . of a personal nature. A very personal nature,” Christie said, handing the Bible over. “It’s fortunate I discovered it, wouldn’t you say?”

Jimmie cracked the Bible and peeked at the chicken-scratches he’d left in it. Chris Christie wasn’t so stupid as to believe this was a message from Jimmie’s mother . . . unless his mother was a Socialist Justice Warrior.

The book trembled in Jimmie’s hands. The fact that Jimmie wasn’t in some Guantanamo Bay dungeon right now was significant. The fact that Christie was covering for him was even more so. While Christie might have been dangerous, he hadn’t killed Lester—because if he had, he would have killed Jimmie right now and made off with the recorder.

“You’ve got three minutes to get upstairs to the Oval Office,” Christie said, glancing at his watch. “Mr. Trump can’t stand tardiness. You want to hold on to what you got, I suggest you get a move on it, Jimmie-boy.”