The Book of Fate (45 page)

“I’m out,” I whisper to Lisbeth.

“Fine—then pay attention. Do you have the old puzzle on you?”

Staggering across the street to the car, I don’t answer. All I see is Manning’s grin and his yellow Chiclet teeth—

“Wes! Did you hear what I said!?” she shouts. “Take out the original one!”

Nodding even though she can’t see me, I reach into my pocket and hastily unfold the original crossword.

“See the handwritten initials down the center?” she asks. “M, A, R, J . . .”

“Manning, Albright, Rosenman, Jeffer . . . what about them?”

“He’s got the same list on the new puzzle. Same initials down the middle. Same order. Same everything.”

“Okay, so? Now there’re two lists of top senior staff,” I say, stopping just outside the car. I have to lean against the door to keep standing.

“No. Pay attention, Wes. Same
everything.
Including those scribbles down the side.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“On the left—before each set of initials: the four dots in a square, the little oval, the cross with a slash through it . . .”

I look at each one:

“That’s the thing, Wes,” she says, deadly serious. “I don’t think it’s chicken scratch. Unless he’s got some majorly smart chickens.”

86

B
ut those doodles,” I say as I study Manning’s scribbles on the side of the crossword.

“Are you listening?” Lisbeth shouts through the phone. “That’s what they wanted it to look like—random doodles and extra letters that make the hidden initials disappear. But if you look at this new crossword, the exact same scribbled images are in the
exact same order.
There’s nothing random about it, Wes! The four dots . . . the small oval—Manning was using them as some sort of message.”

“Why would—?”

“You said it yourself: Every politician needs allies—and every President needs to figure out who he can trust. Maybe this is how Manning ranked those closest to him. Y’know, like a report card.”

Nodding at the logic, I glance again at the list, mentally adding the real names.

“And no offense,” Lisbeth adds, “but your boy Dreidel? He’s a piece of shit. Real shit, Wes—as in beating-up-prostitutes-and-ramming-their-faces-into-mirrors kind of shit.”

As she relays Violet’s story, I can still picture the woman in the bathrobe peeking out from Dreidel’s hotel room. Still, to go from that to smashing faces . . . “You sure you can trust this Violet woman?” I ask.

“Look at the list,” Lisbeth says. “That
is
Manning’s handwriting, right?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Wes, c’mon! Is that Manning’s handwriting or not?”

“It’s his,” I say as my breathing again quickens.

“Exactly. So if he’s the one filling in this report card, then the grade he gives himself—those four dots—you think in his own personal ranking, he’s giving himself an A or a big, steaming F?”

“An A?” I say tentatively, staring at the : :.

“Absolutely an A. He’s the cipher. In fact, I’ll wager those four dots are a sparkling A+. Now look who else was lucky enough to get the exact same ranking.”

I look down at the list. It’s the first time I realize Manning and Dreidel are both ranked with four dots.

“Red rover, red rover, we call Dreidel right over,” Lisbeth says through the phone.

“Lisbeth, that doesn’t prove anything. So what if he trusted Dreidel more than any of the others?”

“Unless he trusted Dreidel to do what none of the others would.”

“Wait, so now Dreidel’s a legbreaker?”

“You were there, Wes. You’re telling me the President never had any personal issues that needed dealing with?”

“Of course, but those usually went to—” I cut myself off.

“What? Those were the problems that went to Boyle?”

“Yeah, they . . . they were supposed to. But what if that’s the point? What if they
used
to go to Boyle . . .”

“. . . and suddenly they stopped?”

“And suddenly they started going to Dreidel,” I say with a nod. “No one would even know the President made the switch unless . . .”

“. . . unless they happened to find their ranking on the list,” Lisbeth agrees, her voice now racing. “So when Boyle found this, when he saw that Dreidel and Manning were ranked together . . .”

“. . . he could see the real ranking of the totem pole.”

An hour ago, I would’ve told Lisbeth she’s crazy—that there’s no way the President and Dreidel were scheming together. But now . . . I replay the last ten minutes in my head. What the First Lady said . . . what Boyle accused the President of . . . and what Lisbeth’s already confirming . . . if even half of it’s true . . . I inhale a warm burst of muggy air, then grit my teeth to slow my breathing. But it won’t slow down. My chest rises and falls. My neck, my face—I’m soaked.

Up the block, on the corner of County Road, there’s a white car with its blinker on, waiting to turn toward me.

“Get the hell out of there,” Lisbeth says.

“I’m leaving right now.”

Ripping the door open, I hop into the car and frantically claw through my pocket for my keys. I came here to confess . . . to get help from the biggest and the best. But now—with the President as The Fourth, and Dreidel feeding us directly to the Lion . . . I ram the key at the ignition, but the way my hand’s shaking, the key bounces off the steering column. I try again.
Dammit, why won’t it—?
I take another stab, and the tip of the key scratches across the metal column, pinching my fingertip. The pain’s sharp, like being jabbed with a needle. But as my eyes swell with tears, I know it’s not from the pain. Or at least not this pain.

A sob rises like a bubble in my throat. I again clench my teeth, but it won’t go down.
No, don’t do this . . . not now,
I beg as I press my forehead as hard as I can against the steering wheel. But as I picture the President—all these years—I didn’t just learn his shoe size and pillow preference. I know what he thinks: who annoys him, who he trusts, who he hates, even who he thinks is still using him. I know his goals, and what he’s afraid of, and what he dreams about, and what he hopes . . . what I hoped . . . The bubble in my throat bursts and my body begins to shake with silent, heaving sobs. After eight years . . . every single day . . .
Oh, God—how could I not know this man?

“Wes, you there?” Lisbeth asks through the phone.

Still breathing heavily and fighting for calm, I swallow hard, sit up straight, and finally shove the key into the ignition. “One sec,” I whisper into the phone. Punching the gas, I feel the wheels gnaw through the grassy divider, eventually catching and whipping me forward. As I wipe the last tears from my eyes, I notice a Chinese restaurant menu tucked underneath my windshield wiper. Steering with one hand and lowering the window with the other, I flick on the wipers, reach outside, and nab the menu just as the wiper blade slings it across the glass. But as I toss the menu into the passenger seat, I spot familiar handwriting running across the back page of the menu, just below the coupons. I jam my foot against the brake, and the car skids to a halt a full twenty feet shy of the stop sign at the end of the block.

“You okay?” Lisbeth asks.

“Hold on . . .”

I dive for the menu. The handwriting’s unmistakable. Perfect tiny block letters.

Wes, turn around. Make sure you’re alone.

(Sorry for the melodrama)

Whipping around in my seat, I check through the back window and sniff away the rest of the tears. The gate to the Mannings’ house is shut. The sidewalks are empty. And the grassy divider that splits the narrow street holds only the quiet navy-blue rental car of the Madame Tussauds folks.

“Did you find something?” Lisbeth asks.

Struggling to read the rest of the note, I can barely keep my hands from shaking.

You need to know what else he did. 7 p.m. at—

My eyes go wide when I see the location. Like before, it’s signed with a simple flourish. The tip of the
R
drags longer than the rest.
Ron.

There’s a flush of sweet-sour wetness across the left half of my tongue. I touch my lip and spot the bright red liquid on my fingertips. Blood. I was biting my lip so hard, I didn’t even feel myself break the skin.

“What is it, Wes? What’s there?” Lisbeth asks, now frantic.

I’m about to tell her, but I catch myself, remembering what she’s done.

“Wes, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I say as I reread the note. “Just nervous.”

There’s a pause on the line. She’s been lied to by the best. I’m not even in the top ten. “Okay, what’re you not saying?” she asks.

“Nothing, I just—”

“Wes, if this is about the tape, I’m sorry. And if I could take it back—”

“Can we not talk about this?”

“I’m just trying to apologize. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Lisbeth. You just treated me like a story.”

For the second time, she’s silent. It’s cutting her deeper than I thought. “Wes, you’re right: This
is
a story. It’s a big story. But there’s one thing I need you to understand: That doesn’t mean it’s
only
a story to me.”

“And that’s it?” I ask. “You make the pretty speech, the musical score swells, and now I’m supposed to trust you again?”

“Of course not—if I were you, I wouldn’t trust
anyone.
But that doesn’t mean you don’t need help. Or friends. And just FYI, if I were trying to burn you, when I got the new crossword . . . when I got the Violet and Dreidel story . . . I would’ve called my editor instead of you.”

I think on that for a moment. Just like I think about our first ride in the helicopter.

“And remember that trade where you promised that you’d give me the story?” she asks. “Forget it. I’m off. I don’t even want it anymore.”

“You’re serious about that?”

“Wes, for the past ten minutes, my notepad has been in my purse.”

I believe Lisbeth. I think she’s telling the truth. And I’m convinced she’s trying to do the right thing. But after today . . . after Manning . . . after Dreidel . . . after damn near everyone . . . the only person I can really put my faith in is myself.

“What about your visit to the Mannings?” she adds. “They say anything I can help you with?”

I stare down at Boyle’s handwritten note and the signature with his long-tipped
R.

“No—just the usual,” I reply, rereading the message for myself.

You need to know what else he did. 7 p.m.

87

W
hat about your visit to the Mannings?” Lisbeth said into her phone as she walked briskly through the rain just outside the townhouse where she met Violet. “They say anything I can help you with?”

Wes paused barely half a second. For Lisbeth, it was more than enough. If he wanted to lie, he would’ve already made up some story. A pause like this . . . whatever he’s debating, it’s tearing at him. And to her own surprise, the more she saw what he’d been through—and was still going through—the more it tore at her as well. Sacred Rule #10, she told herself: Get attached to the story, not the people in it.