Chapter Sixty-Four

No Spoilers

When Jimmie came to, he found himself tied to a pillar facing Lincoln. The thick rope wrapped around him several times, pinning his arms to his sides. There was a pounding sensation in the back of his skull where he’d been hit.

Although his vision was slightly blurred from being knocked out, he could make out two other figures tied up in a similar fashion—to his left, Ted Cruz, who was bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder. To Jimmie’s right, Cat Diaz. She was still unconscious.

“Wish somebody could sing the national anthem right now,” a familiar voice said. Trump. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Ooooh saaaay can you seeeeeee, by the Donald’s early light—”

“Can it, Christie.”

Jimmie could hear Trump marching triumphantly up the steps, each footfall echoing through the stone corridors of the great monument. Finally, Trump came within view of Jimmie. The president was dressed the same as always, in a dark-navy suit and Day-Glo-red power tie. Chris Christie trailed him, wearing a scuba-diving suit. Had he been hiding in the Reflecting Pool? Trump’s press secretary, Corey Lewandowski, brought up the rear. He was carrying an AR-15 with a steak knife duct-taped to the end like a bayonet. The gun should have blown a hole the size of a softball through Cruz’s shoulder, but the bullet must have had a difficult time digging through all that muscle he’d put on doing push-ups in the Pit.

Trump examined Cruz, who snarled at him and gnashed his teeth.

“Somebody needs to go back in their cage,” the president said before moving on. He stopped in front of Jimmie. “And you . . . I had such high hopes for you.”

“That’s kind of what I do—disappoint people.”

“You were supposed to be my eyes and ears. I never asked you to be my dick.”

“The first lady—”

“Shut it,” Trump said. “She told me everything.”

The president and pals moved on to Cat, who still hadn’t shown any signs of life. “And you . . . where do I even start?”

Trump shook his head and returned his attention to Jimmie. “You thought you were being all smart, didn’t you? Slipping that paper clip to Ted in his cell, which allowed him to escape this afternoon. When I got the surveillance photos of you being checked in, I said, ‘No friggin’ way is Jimmie Bernwood that dumb.’ But here you are. Not feeling so smart now, are you?”

Jimmie didn’t answer.

“That’s okay, don’t say anything,” Trump said. “Even though you helped spring Ted from the joint, I bet you still don’t have any idea who leaked you that sex tape of his, do you?”

Jimmie had thought about it briefly when he’d received the DVD in the mail, but the package had been sent anonymously. No return address, except for an obviously fake name (“John Miller”). No one ever claimed ownership of it—which was just as well, because it had allowed him to state in court that he truthfully had no idea who sent it. But c’mon. If not Trump himself, it was someone in Trump’s camp.

Trump turned to Cruz, who was struggling to stay conscious. “It’s time to stop lying, Lying Ted. Care to tell Jimmie the truth?”

“I did it,” Cruz said.

Trump grinned from ear to ear.

Jimmie stared incredulously at the tied-up former senator. Was it true? The more he thought about it, the more he knew it had to be. There was, after all, only one person in the sex tape: Ted Cruz. He’d filmed himself making love to an inflatable orca. He’d even supplied all of his “costar’s” dialogue himself, speaking in a falsetto. Even though Cruz wore boxers throughout the entire film, it was easily one of the most disturbing things Jimmie had ever seen—and he’d seen every David Lynch film.

“Why’d you do it?” Jimmie asked.

“People kept mocking me,” Cruz said. “They said mean, hateful things about me . . . that I was a serial killer, that I was an extraterrestrial wearing a human suit. I wanted voters to know I wasn’t some weirdo. I put on music and taped myself having sex with an inflatable toy lady whale, just like your average Joe Six-Pack.”

Jimmie shook his head. “Well, that seriously blew up in your face.”

He immediately regretted his choice of words, as it echoed the final frames of the video where the orca popped and nearly suffocated Cruz. It was actually a scary moment, because at first Jimmie had thought he was watching a snuff film. It was a snuff film, in a way—for that poor orca. No wonder the jury had awarded SeaWorld such a large sum.

But Cruz’s head was slumped down. The blood loss had finally gotten to him.

Trump returned to Jimmie. “Nine o’clock on Sunday night. This Sunday night. You prick.”

“Somebody missing their dragons and tits?”

“If somebody spoils Game of Thrones for me before I have a chance to see it, I’m going to dig your body up and kill you again.” Trump paused. “Oh, wait. I still have to kill you the first time, don’t I?”