Chapter Sixty-One

As Big as It Gets

“You must have me confused with somebody else,” Jimmie said, standing close to the glass. The smell of sulfur drifted through the tiny holes drilled at intervals along the glass wall. “I’m Larry Oliver, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation—”

“Your badge says Barry Oliver,” Cruz said, still facing away from him.

“‘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.