The Book of Fate (20 page)

Micah laughs softly. “And I assume the fact he’s also your high school pal and current roommate means he’d never lie to protect you? You were gone for almost six hours, Wes. That’s more than enough time to—”

“To what? To jump on my private jet, fly two and a half hours to Washington, go free Nico—who, oh yeah, once tried to
kill me
—and then fly back to work, hoping no one noticed I was gone? Yeah, that sounds like a genius plan. Go see the one guy I still have nightmares about, be dumb enough to use my real name on the sign-in sheet, and let him loose so he can hunt me down.”

“Who says he’s hunting you?” O’Shea challenges.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Enough with the idiot act, Wes. You know Nico’s just a bullet. Even back then, someone else pulled the trigger.”

“Someone else? What does that—?”

“You speak to Boyle today?” O’Shea interrupts.

I try to bite my top lip, momentarily forgetting the nerve damage that makes it impossible.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Wes. Just be honest with us: Are you chasing him or helping him?” Micah adds. He grabs a nearby mop, tossing its handle from one hand to the other, then back again, like the tick-tock of a metronome.

“You know I didn’t free Nico,” I tell them.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“And I haven’t spoken to Boyle,” I shoot back.

“You’re sure about that?” O’Shea asks.

“I just told you—”

“Did you speak to him or not? I’m asking you as an officer in an ongoing investigation.”

Micah’s mop ticks back and forth. They’re acting like they know the answer, but if they did, I’d be in handcuffs right now instead of trapped in a supply closet. I look them dead in the eyes. “No.”

O’Shea shakes his head. “At noon today, an unidentified male came into St. Elizabeths requesting a private visit with Nico by identifying himself as a member of the Secret Service, complete with a badge and picture ID, both of which you have access to. Now, I’m willing to accept that only a moron would use his own name, and I’m also willing to keep your name from the press—for no other reason than out of respect for your boss—but in a situation you claim to know nothing about, it’s sorta fascinating that yours is the only name that keeps popping up outta the daisy patch.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, when you’re in Malaysia, Boyle’s there . . . when your name’s on a sign-in sheet in Washington, Nico escapes. This isn’t exactly Morse code. You tracking the trend?”

“I didn’t go to Washington!”

“And you didn’t see a dead man in Malaysia. And you didn’t get sent backstage by the President, who wanted you to pick up the message from Boyle, right? Or was that just something we invented to make ourselves feel better—y’know, kinda like your old door-locking and light-switch-on-and-off obsessions? Or better yet, the repetitive praying that—”

“Just because I saw a counselor—”

“
Counselor?
It was a shrink.”

“He was a critical incident specialist . . .”

“I looked it up, Wes. He was a clinical psychologist who had you medicated for the better part of a year. Alprazolam for the anxiety disorders, coupled with some heavy-duty olanzapine for all the compulsions. That’s an antipsychotic. Plus his notes, which said that in a strange way, he thought you actually relished your scars—that you saw the pain as atonement for putting Boyle in that limo. Doesn’t say much about the shape you were in.”

“The guy blew my friggin’ face off!”

“Which is why you’ve got the best motive and the worst alibis—especially in Malaysia. Do me a favor—for the next few days, unless you’re traveling with the President, stay put for a bit. At least until we figure out what’s going on.”

“What, so now I’m under house arrest? You can’t do that.”

“Wes, I’ve got a homicidal paranoid schizophrenic on the loose, who, two hours from now, will feel a brand-new tingling on the right side of his brain as the drugs that help manage his psychosis slowly wear off. He already shot two orderlies and a security guard—all three in their hearts and, like Boyle, with stigmata through their hands—and that’s when he was
on
medication. So not only can I do whatever the hell I want, I’m telling you right now, if you try to take another little jaunt out of town, and I find out you have
any
involvement with this case—trying to contact Boyle, or Nico, or even the guy who was selling popcorn in the stands at the speedway that day—I will slap you with obstruction of justice charges and rip you apart faster than that nutbag ever did.”

“That is, unless you want to tell us what message Boyle was bringing the President in Malaysia,” Micah offers, the mop-handle metronome smacking into his left palm. “C’mon, Wes—they were clearly trying to meet that night—and trying to maintain all the dirt they thought they’d covered up. You’re with him every day now. All we want to know is when they’re meeting again.”

Like before—like any FBI agents trying to make a name for themselves—all they really want is Manning, who no doubt had a major hand in helping Boyle hide and lie to the entire country. I rat on him, and they’ll happily let me out of the mousetrap. The problem is, I don’t even know what I’m ratting about. And even when I try scraping deeper . . . Back at the beach, they mentioned Boyle’s ability to work people’s weaknesses. Fine, so what were Manning’s weaknesses? Something from their past? Or maybe that’s where The Roman and The Three came in. Whatever the reason, I’m not finding it out unless I buy some time.

“Let me just . . . let me think about it for a bit, okay?” I ask.

O’Shea nods, knowing he’s made his point.

I turn to leave the closet but stop short at the door. “What about Nico? Any idea where he’s heading?” I add, feeling my fingers start to shake. I shove them into my pants pockets before anyone notices.

O’Shea studies me carefully. This is the easiest moment for him to be a prick. He readjusts his U.S. Open baseball cap. “D.C. Police found his clothes in a Laundromat about a mile away from St. Elizabeths. According to his doctors, Nico hasn’t talked about Manning in years, but the Service is still adding double duty just to be safe.”

I nod but still don’t take my hands out of my pockets. “Thanks.”

Micah’s about to give me some good cop, but O’Shea puts a hand on his chest, cutting him off. “You’re not alone, Wes,” O’Shea adds. “Not unless you want to be.”

It’s a perfect offer presented in the kindest way. But that doesn’t make it any less of a tactic. Tattling to the FBI . . . taking on Manning . . . all start a domino game that eventually sends me falling. From here on in, the only safe way out of this mess is finding the truth and wrapping myself in it. That’s the only bulletproof vest that works.

In my pocket, my phone begins to vibrate. I pull it out and spot Lisbeth’s name on the caller ID. Good-bye rock, hello hard place. “It’s my mother,” I tell O’Shea. “I should go. She probably heard about Nico on the news.”

“Be careful what you say,” Micah calls out.

No doubt about that. Still, it’s a simple choice. Going with the FBI means they’ll ram me at Manning. But before I put the knife in Caesar’s back, I need to make sure I have the right target. At least with Lisbeth, I’ll buy that time to figure out what’s really going on.

“Think about it, Wes. You’re not alone,” O’Shea calls back as I duck out of the closet. Back in the hallway, I wait until the third ring just to make sure I’m out of earshot.

“Wes here,” I answer.

“Where are you?” Lisbeth asks. “You okay? Did they tell you Nico—?”

“Just listen,” I interrupt. “What you said earlier about finding stuff out for us . . . were you serious?”

There’s a slight pause on the other line. “More serious than a Pulitzer.”

“You sure? I mean, if you put yourself in this— You sure you’re ready to put yourself in this?”

Now the silence lasts even longer. This isn’t some fifty-word favor about the First Lady’s new dress. However they did this—Boyle, Manning, the Secret Service—you don’t pull this off without help from people at the highest levels of government and law enforcement. That’s the fight she’s picking. Even worse, when the word gets out, they’ll be using all that power to make us look like lunatics who saw a ghost. And the worm in the apple is, with Boyle alive, Nico has the best reason of all to come back here and finish his original job.

At the end of the hallway, I ram my hip into the metal latch of the door, which opens to the empty lobby of the theater. A rumble of laughter echoes from the auditorium. The Secret Service may’ve swarmed the back rooms, but from the sound of it, the President’s still killing onstage. On my right, a woman with white hair sells a four-dollar bottle of water to a man in a pin-striped suit. A set of two other Secret Service agents rushes through the lobby on a standard sweep. But what catches my eye is the slightly overweight redhead standing outside the theater, just beyond the tall plate-glass doors. Her back’s to me, and as she paces slightly in the cottony moonlight and presses her phone to her ear, Lisbeth has no idea I’m there.

“This is why I became a reporter, Wes,” she says through the phone, her voice strong as ever. “I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

“And that’s a nice speech,” I tell her, still watching from behind. “But you do know who you’re messing with, right?”

She stops pacing and takes a seat on the edge of one of the half dozen concrete planters that serve as a barrier against any sort of vehicular attack on the Kravis Center. When Manning moved to town, they went up all over. But as Lisbeth scootches back, her body practically sags into it. She can barely keep her head up as her chin sinks down, kissing her neck. Her right hand still holds the phone, but her left slithers like a snake around her own waist, cradling herself. The concrete planters are built to withstand an impact from an almost five-thousand-pound pickup truck traveling over forty-five miles per hour. But that doesn’t mean they offer any protection against the sickening recognition of your own self-doubt.

Lisbeth said she’d been waiting her whole life for this. I believe her. But as she looks out at the crush of Secret Service black sedans, their flashing red lights spraying crimson shadow puppets across the facade of the building, it’s clear she’s wondering if she has what it takes to make it happen. She sinks slightly as her arms cradle her waist even tighter. There’s nothing more depressing than when aspirations get guillotined by limitations.

Standing alone in the lobby, I don’t say a word. Eight years ago, Nico Hadrian served me my own limits on a public platter. So as I watch Lisbeth sink lower, I know exactly how she—

“I’m in,” she blurts.

“Lisbeth—”

“I’ll do it . . . I’m in. Count me in,” she demands, her shoulders bolting upright. Hopping off the planter, she looks around. “Where are you anyw—?” She cuts herself off as our eyes lock through the glass.

My instinct is to turn away. She comes marching toward me, already excited. Her red hair fans out behind her. “Don’t say no, Wes. I can help you. I really can.”

I don’t even bother to argue.

35

St. Pauls, North Carolina

N
ico told himself not to ask about the maps. Don’t ask for them, don’t talk about them, don’t bring them up. But as he sat Indian-style in the cab of the flatbed truck . . . as the olive wood rosary beads swayed from the rearview mirror . . . he couldn’t help but notice the frayed edge of paper peeking out from the closed glove compartment. Like the crosses he saw in every passing telephone pole and lamppost that lined the darkness of the highway, some things were better left unsaid.

Focusing his attention through the front windshield, he watched as the highway’s bright yellow dividing lines were sucked one by one beneath the truck’s tires.

“You don’t have any maps, do you?” Nico asked.

In the driver’s seat next to him, Edmund Waylon, a rail-thin man hunched like a parenthesis, gripped the wide steering wheel with his palms facing upward. “Check the glove box,” Edmund said as he licked the salt of his sour cream and onion potato chips from the tips of his blond mustache.

Ignoring the scratch of Edmund’s fingernails against the black rubber steering wheel, Nico popped open the glove box. Inside was a pack of tissues, four uncapped pens, a mini-flashlight, and—tucked between a thick manual for the truck and an uneven stack of napkins from fast-food restaurants—a dog-eared map.

Twisting it around as it tumbled open like a damaged accordion, Nico saw the word
Michigan
printed in the legend box. “Any others?” he asked, clearly disappointed.

“Might be some more in the doghouse,” Edmund said, pointing to the plastic console between his seat and Nico’s. “So you were saying about your momma . . . she passed when you were little?”

“When I was ten.” Studying the truck’s swaying rosary to bury the image, Nico leaned left in his seat and ran his hand down past the cup holders, to the mesh netting attached to the back of the console. Feeling the tickle of paper, he pulled at least a dozen different maps from the netting.

“Man, losing your momma at ten . . . that’ll mess you up good. What about your daddy?” Edmund asked. “He passed too?”

“Everyone but my sister,” Nico replied, flipping through the stack of maps. North Carolina, Massachusetts, Maine . . . It’d been almost twelve hours since he last had his medication. He never felt better in his life.

“Can’t even imagine it,” Edmund said, eyes still on the road. “My daddy’s a sombitch—used to smack all of us . . . my sisters too . . . fist closed, knuckles right across the nose—but the day we have to put him in the ground . . . when a man loses his daddy, it cracks him in two.”

Nico didn’t bother to answer. Georgia, Louisiana, Tennessee, Indiana . . .

“Whatcha looking for anyway?” Edmund asked with a quick lick of his mustache.

Don’t tell him Washington,
Nico insisted.

“Washington,” Nico said, shuffling the maps into a clean pile.

“Which—state or D.C.?”

Tell him
state.
If he hears otherwise . . . if he sees the proof of the Masons’ sin . . . and their nest . . . The last hour approaches. The Beast is already loosed—communicating, corrupting Wes.