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with quiet certainty.
    “I know who you are and who you’re not.” Now Evan was silent. J. D. knew that no young person ever wanted to think he could be completely understood.
    But Evan let that pass and continued with his explanation.
    “I never knew this McCray guy at all. Never laid eyes on him. The whole thing is crazy.”
    J. D. felt his soul wither.
    “I’ll take care of everything,” he said.
    “Anything you ” “No.” A new defensive tone entered his son’s response.
    “Listen, Dad, I know all this sounds pretty’ scary. Hell, it ;s pretty-scary. But I’m taking care of it. It’s my problem, not yours.”
    Evan was wrong about that. J. D. had brought this on his son. He’d placed the person he loved most in mortal jeopardy.
    He’d done it by an act now more than thirty’ years old.
    He’d done it by missing his shot today in Chicago.
    Right now the only way he could see to save his son was to make sure he didn’t miss the next time he had Senator Franklin Delano Rawley in his sights.
    But Evan assured him once more, “I’ll take care of it, Dad.”

TWO
    Monday, September 13, 2004
    J. D. knew that his only hope was to get ahead of the Rawley campaign and let it come to him. The surest way for the Secret Service to catch him would be for him to follow along behind, searching for another sniper shot. He was certain that there would be no more opportunities for a long-distance kill.
    This time he’d have to get in close.
    He pulled his car into the parking structure behind the office tower on the Avenue of the Stars in Los Angeles where the Rawley campaign headquarters for California was located. He found his way to a uniformed man at the information desk in the building’s lobby and asked for the suite number of the Rawley campaign. The man told him with a smile, never inquiring as to the nature of J. D.‘s business.
    J. D. wore a dark blue suit, tailored more closely than was the current style. He’d shaved off the mustache that had accompanied him to Las Vegas.
    He’d had his hair cut two days ago, and when the stylist had asked if he wanted the traces of gray at his temples touched up to match his natural color, he’d said no. Instead, he had the gray silvered subtly. He wore a wafer thing gold Omega watch with a black leather band. His shoes were gleaming handmade loafers.
    His appearance, like most in L.A.” was carefully calculated. Rich white guy, trim enough for the tapered cut of his suit, relaxed enough not to worry about the gray encroaching on his hair. A man to be approached, not feared.
    Still, he found it interesting that he hadn’t been questioned about his
    interest in the Rawley campaign, and there were no overt security precautions for an organization whose principal had almost been killed only a week ago.
    Looking around casually as he waited for the elevator, he noticed two discreetly placed surveillance cameras, but they were standard equipment for any modern office building. What he didn’t see was anyone resembling security personnel.
    Not until the elevator doors opened on the twenty-ninth floor, where the Rawley campaign was located. Then two strongly built men with cropped hair, earphones, sunglasses, and good suits held the door open for him. They gave J. D. a serious once-over and one of them gestured for him to leave the car, saying, “Please step out, sir.”
    Betraying none of the tension that had welled up inside of him, J. D. exited the elevator. He saw a wedge of other bodyguards heading his way, obviously shielding somebody of great importance. Rawley here already? That was sooner than J. D. expected. The morning paper still had him in Colorado He stepped aside to watch, and he noticed that everyone he could see through the open door of the campaign office was looking on with great interest too.
    But as the security people passed by him he saw it wasn’t Del Rawley they were protecting but a legendary singing diva known for her interest in politics.