Free The President's Killers by Karl Jacobs

shootings in Forest Park continued, but there was no new information.
     
    Then came the bombshell.
    “We have just received tragic news,” an excited announcer said. “The Associated Press is reporting that President Colin Patrick is dead. The President was pronounced dead at Barnes-Jewish Hospital at seven-ten this morning, just twenty minutes ago, of gunshot wounds to the chest.”
    It was staggering. Denny had never cared for Patrick, partly because life had been so incredibly generous to him — rich from birth, all the best schools, a resume that started with governor. Denny had always wondered how much he really cared about the concerns of ordinary people. Still, he felt saddened. Patrick’s face and voice — his awkward laugh — were so familiar it was almost as if a family member had died.
    The radio said Mayor Jordan had been struck in the right shoulder by a bullet. The wound was not life-threatening.
    “Meanwhile,” the announcer said, “police and federal authorities have launched a massive manhunt to try to find the young white male with the dark beard seen fleeing from the park in a small white car after the attack on the President. They believe he may be headed somewhere to the south or west of the city.”
    The hair on Denny’s arms stood on end. They’re talking about me! They really think I’m the idiot who killed the President!
    He glanced up at the cloudy skies. The chopper was lower now, much closer to the highway. Watching it, he realized it was growing larger. It was coming back.

TWENTY-SIX
    Tu-pa, tu-pa, tu-pa, tu-pa.
    Just ahead of him was an overpass for a narrow crossroad. Denny swung onto the exit ramp, then veered to the right and found himself on a blacktop road that ran parallel to the highway. He slammed to a halt beneath several leafy maples.
    The chopper glided over the highway, nose tilted downward. It was no more than thirty feet above the road. He could see the earphones on the two officers inside.
    He held his breath as the helicopter floated past and quickly grew smaller as it moved down the highway. Then it was gone.
    The interstate was clearly too dangerous. He started down the narrow back road, wondering where it would take him. The road wound back and forth, rising and falling with the rugged terrain. On his left was a steep, thickly wooded ridge. On his right, below him, was a picturesque valley dotted with farm buildings and pastures and small fields of crops.
    His brain wouldn’t stop going over the events of the past few weeks, rehashing every conversation he’d had with Lott and McQueen, reexamining every word of their conversations and everything that had happened.
    Were they for real? Lott had led him right to the place where the President was shot. That was incredible. How did that happen? Was Lott somehow part of an assassination plot?
    He drove past a trailer park, then a small development of cheap frame houses. When he glanced up at his rearview mirror, he saw a car immediately behind him and pulled over to let it pass.
    He came to a cross road and turned onto it. It was more secluded, with nothing but woods and scattered daisies on either side of it.
    A mile farther on, he passed a dozen mobile homes scattered among the trees.
    Behind him, a horn blared.
    In the mirror he saw a red pickup almost on his bumper. The driver was a teenager with shoulder-length blond hair. A girl was nestled beside him.
    Denny got out of their way. As they sped past, the girl gawked at him. The pickup continued down the road for a half mile, then halted on the shoulder. He slowed down but the pickup didn’t move. When he went past them, the two teenagers stared at him.
    Had they heard the news reports? Had they noticed the shattered rear window or his stubble beard?
     
    In the mirror, he saw them start forward again, staying about a block behind him. He wanted to floor the gas pedal, but resisted the impulse. That would only make them more suspicious.
    At the next crossroad,