Shrieks and cries went up throughout the crowd where Carl and Lori now stood, embracing each other even more tightly. Chaos erupted all around them. The world seemed to have gone crazy. They were facing a moment of world crisis like nothing in recorded history, and their president had just entered the history books—as the first chief executive of the United States to die by his own hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

WORD SPREAD LIKE WILDFIRE that the president of the United States had just committed suicide before the eyes of the entire nation. The crowds in the Albuquerque International Airport had witnessed the entire spectacle in stunned amazement. Some people cried out loud. Others moaned or spoke in hushed tones. Out of the crowd, a burly man dressed like a construction worker yelled out, “I’m not sorry for the bum! The sniveling coward was a mass murderer! This country’s in serious trouble right now, but we’re sure better off without him.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” someone yelled out. “I’m glad he’s dead!”

Carl Throneberry reacted impulsively. “What are you people saying? You’re glad the president is dead? Have you all gone crazy? We should be glad to be alive at this moment. Enough people are going to die tonight without you standing there gloating over the death of the president.”

Several voices answered back—some supportive, but others obviously angry. Suddenly a tall, athletic-looking, young black man stepped up beside Carl and held up both hands. “Hey, come on, people,” he said, pointing to Carl. “This guy is right. We’re gonna be losing something very precious today, and this is no time to be bad-mouthing anybody— least of all the president of the United States. Let’s just get on with business, what do you say?” There were a few angry murmurs, but they were overwhelmed by a chorus of agreement. Then the crowd began to disburse.

Lori instantly recognized the tall young man. He was Dave Busby, the star forward for the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team. Moving closer, she reached out her hand, “You’re Dave Busby! I can’t believe it’s you!” He smiled and took her hand.

“I’m Lori Throneberry,” she continued, “and this is my husband, Carl. We’re big Lakers fans. . . .” She paused. “Well, actually, I’m a big Lakers fan. Carl has done some ad campaigns for the Lakers, but I’m the real fan in our house!”

Even as Lori was speaking, a wave of sadness rushed over her. In the instant she recalled the fun and excitement of going to the Lakers games, she also remembered the tragedy of their situation and the fact that the Lakers and basketball and Los Angeles itself would soon be things of the past. “In fact,” Lori continued, “I’ve followed you ever since you played at North Carolina State, Dave. I’ll never forget the time you scored forty-nine points against Phoenix in the playoffs! But how odd to finally get to meet you here—and in this situation.”

“Thanks, Lori,” Dave said. “I’m glad to meet you too. It’s always good to meet a fan. But you’re right. This is weird.”