Chapter Sixty-Seven

Bigger Than Jesus

“This is going to make quite the story,” Cat said, watching Trump crying and rocking on the ground. “Too bad we’re never going to be able to tell anybody.”

“He thinks he’s God,” Jimmie said. “But he’s just a man. A small man.”

“I’ve got hands bigger than Jesus,” Trump said from his knees. A river of golden tears streamed down his face. “Bigger than John Lennon. Bigger than Justin Bieber—”

“Don’t say the Lord Bieber’s name in vain,” Jimmie snapped. Then to Cat, “Are you really an undocumented migrant?”

She stared daggers at him.

“Okay, okay—just asking,” he said. “We can’t let Trump get away with this. His plan to make America even greater needs to be exposed. Even if we can’t tie him directly to any of the murders, he was about to kill us both.”

“He was about to kill you. I think he would’ve let me go.”

Jimmie said, “Sure. Whatever. My point is, there’s enough evidence here to put him away for a long time.”

She raised the gun at Jimmie.

“Whoa! What are you doing?” he said.

“If any of this gets out, I’ll be put on trial for the murder of Lester Dorset,” Cat said. “There’s no way around it. Even if the Secret Service did shoot him to death, I meant to kill him.”

Jimmie had the switchblade in his hand still. If he moved fast enough, could he stab her in the hand with it and make her drop the gun?

“If we cover this up, the trail of bodies will only continue to grow,” Jimmie said. “You could put a bullet in me . . . you could put one in Trump . . . but it won’t end. I’m sorry. You may have killed Lester in a fit of rage—”

“It was a fit of passion,” she said, trembling. “You know how passionate I get when breaking a story. I couldn’t let him give the recordings away.”

“I don’t think that passion is for breaking a story—it’s a passion for the truth. And it may be clouded by pageviews or viral shares and dreams of Pulitzers, but it’s really about seeing the truth come to light.”

“The truth is that I killed him over nothing,” she said, the gun still trained on him. Her eyes were wet with tears. “You heard Trump.”

“You had no idea the interviews were worthless. But it doesn’t matter now. What matters is that we do the right thing.”

“What do you suddenly know about doing the right thing?”

He shook his head. “Not much. But I’m learning.”

She spun the gun around, and Jimmie took it by the handle. He breathed a sigh of relief. The switchblade thing would have never worked. It was like Christie had said: Writers had weak stabbing motions. Thankfully, it hadn’t come to that—Cat had fallen for all that bullshit about the truth and doing the right thing. He’d been so convincing, he almost believed it himself.

In the distance, a single firework exploded in the sky near the National Monument. Then another, and another. Soon, they were being set off from all over the city. Game of Thrones had ended, and the people were rejoicing. Soon, they would flood the streets in ecstasy, overturning cars and setting them on fire. A great mob would form at the Lincoln Memorial and watch as the FBI led the president of the United States of America away in handcuffs.

“I’ll be back,” Trump would say, doing his best Arnold impersonation (which wouldn’t be that bad). “I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records for the biggest financial comeback in history, you know. Someday, they’re going to put me in for the biggest political comeback—you just watch, you bunch of losers!”

While the people would grudgingly accept the charges against him, their anger would fade over time, and they would one day accept the Donald back into their hearts, for there was nothing they loved more than a comeback story. And Jimmie Bernwood’s comeback story was just beginning.