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her cotton nightshirt and thought sarcastically, How sexy!
    But who had the time or energy to get laid, anyway?
    Her head had barely touched the pillow when the phone rang. She allowed herself a groan before answering.
    “Hello.”
    “Oh, my … I know that tone. You were sleeping.”
    The voice in Jenny’s ear had the thin, rustling quality of autumn leaves crunching underfoot. Hearing it made Jenny ashamed of having indulged in even a second of self-pity.
    “Don, how are you?”
    “Still terminal, I’m afraid. But aren’t we all?” The sepulchral laugh that followed answered the question perfectly.
    Donald “Hunter” Ward had been one of Jenny’s two political mentors, and now he had a malignant tumor inextricably embedded in his brain. Lee Atwater syndrome, he called it. Her other mentor, Thomas “Killer” Laughlin, had callously abandoned his friend and business partner of twenty-two years shortly after he was diagnosed. His legion of enemies said Tom feared that Don’s condition was catching.
    “Sooner or later,” Jenny said, agreeing with Don’s assessment of mortality.
    “I’m sorry I woke you.”
    “It’s okay, I wasn’t actually asleep.”
    “I knew you’d be busy after what happened today. But I wanted to talk to you. To tell you that I’m going to be looking out for you.” Don Ward laughed again.
    “And I don’t mean from the Great Beyond.”
     
    “What do you mean?” Jenny asked, a note of concern entering her voice.
    “I mean, I was asking myself just this morning if there was really any purpose in prolonging my pain. I couldn’t think of one. Then I heard the news about Senator Rawley, and suddenly I saw a reason to keep going a little longer. I have complete faith in your abilities, Jenny, but I’m going to help you. There’s a man out there who’s trying to keep your candidate from reaching his goal. I intend to work very quietly behind the scenes, like the wraith I nearly am, to thwart that man.”
    Her first impulse was to warn her old friend of the danger involved in hunting an assassin… but he’d clearly implied he’d been thinking of suicide only that morning.
    In his own way, Don was a brilliant investigator. It had been said Hunter Ward could dig up the dirt on Santa Claus. So if he wanted to use his amazing mind one more time, for her benefit, before the cancer ate it away, who was she to tell him no?
    “Thank you, Don.”
    “Sleep well, dear Jenny.”
    After deplaning at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas, J. D. Cade found a pay phone and discreetly looked around. Nobody gave him a second glance. He dropped a handful of coins into the phone and called his mother’s number in Carbondale. As the relays clicked and his call was routed across the country, he did his best to clear his mind of what he’d done that day. He didn’t want even the tone of his voice to hint to his mother or-His son answered, “Hello.”
    J. D. had to clear his throat before he could respond.
    “Hello, Evan.”
    “Dad! Is it good to hear from you.”
    From the day Evan had first bur bled “Da,” J. D. had never failed to be gladdened by hearing his son greet him, and this time was no different. And for as long as his son had been talking, J. D. had been able to hear when his voice carried a note of distress. He asked, “What’s wrong?”
    There was a moment’s hesitation and then, “Two cops came banging on Grandma’s door a few hours ago.”
    “What?” J. D. asked.
    “What for?”
    “It’s okay, Dad. I got rid of them, and Grandma called her lawyer.”
    J. D. was less than comforted.
    “Evan, what did they want?”
    His son’s tone said no big deal; his message directly contradicted the feigned nonchalance.
    “Somebody called the cops and said I killed a guy named Ivar McCray.”
     
    White-hot anger engorged J. D. and he was silent for the long moment it took to repress it.
    “I didn’t do it, Dad,” Evan told him firmly.
    “I know, Ev,” J. D. replied