The Book of Fate (13 page)

“Gerald.”

“And I’d love to help, Gerald, but—”

“President Manning said it was okay,” he adds, pulling the trump card. “Claudia too. A true retrospective. So when do you think we can sit down and—?”

“Later, okay? Just . . . call me later.” Rushing off the phone, I click back to Dreidel.

“What’d she say? Does she know?” Dreidel asks, still panicking.

Before I can answer, my phone clicks again. Clearly, my curator friend didn’t get the point. “Let me just get rid of this guy,” I tell Dreidel, once again clicking over. “Gerald, I already told you—”

“Who’s Gerald?” a female voice interrupts.

“E-Excuse me?”

“Hiya there, Wes, this is Lisbeth Dodson from the
Palm Beach Post.
How’d you like to have your name in bold?”

20

Washington,
D.C.

T
he left front tire dove into the pothole at full speed, slicing through the puddle of melted snow and unleashing a jarring punch that shook the black SUV. With a twist of the steering wheel, the car jerked to the right. A second punch pummeled the car. The Roman cursed to himself. D.C. roads were bad enough. But southeast Washington was always the worst.

Flicking on his wipers, he brushed a light dust of snow from the windshield and made a sharp left onto Malcolm X Avenue. The burned-out cars, overpiled trash cans, and boarded-up buildings told him this wasn’t a neighborhood to be lost in. Fortunately, he knew exactly where he was going.

Within a mile, the car bucked to a halt at the light where Malcolm X intersected with Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. The Roman couldn’t help but grin to himself. For eight years, he’d relied a great deal on peaceful coexistence. But now, with Boyle’s reappearance . . . with Wes as a witness . . . even with O’Shea and Micah closing in . . . sometimes there was no choice left but the tough one.

It was no different eight years ago when they first approached Nico. Of course, not all three of them were there. For safety, only one went. Naturally, Nico was hesitant—even belligerent. No one likes seeing his family attacked. But that’s when Nico was shown the proof: the records from his mother’s stay in the hospital.

“What’s this?” Nico had asked, scanning the sheet of paper filled with room numbers and delivery times. The single word
Dinner
was handwritten across the top.

“It’s the hospital’s meal delivery log,” Number Three explained. “From the day your mother died.”

Sure enough, Nico saw his mother’s name.
Hadrian, Mary.
And her old room number.
Room 913.
And even what she ordered.
Meat loaf.
But what confused him was the handwritten notation in the column marked
Attempted Delivery.
On the sheet, every patient had a different delivery time:
6:03 p.m. . . . 6:09 p.m. . . . 6:12 p.m. . . .
Except for Nico’s mom, where it simply said
patient deceased.

Nico looked up, clearly confused. “I don’t understand. This is from her final Sunday . . . from the day she died?”

“Not exactly,” he told him. “Look at the date in the corner. September 16th, right?” As Nico nodded, he quickly explained, “September 16th was a Saturday, Nico. According to these records, your mom died on a Saturday.”

“No,” Nico insisted. “She died Sunday. Sunday, September 17th. I remember, I was— We were in church.” Staring down at the meal delivery log, he added, “How could this happen?”

“No, Nico. The real question is, why would someone do that?”

Nico shook his head furiously. “No, there’s no way. We were in church. In the second row. I remember my father coming in and—”

Nico froze.

“That’s the great thing about church, isn’t it, Nico? When the whole town’s packed into the pews and watching your concerned father praying with his two young kids . . . it really is the perfect alibi.”

“Wait . . . you’re saying my dad killed my—”

“What was it, three years since she’d lapsed into that coma? Three years with no mom. No one running the house. Every day—all those prayers and visits—her illness consuming your lives.”

“He’d never do that! He loved her!”

“He loved you
more
, Nico. You’d already lost three years of your childhood. That’s why he did it. For you. He did it
for you.
”

“B-But the doctors . . . wouldn’t the coroner . . . ?”

“Dr. Albie Morales—the neurologist who pronounced her dead—is the
worshipful master
in charge of your father’s Masonic Lodge. Coroner Turner Sinclair—who filed the rest of the paperwork—is the deacon of that same Lodge. That’s what Masons do, Nico. That’s what they’ve done throughout histor—”

“You’re lying!” Nico exploded, cupping his hands over his ears. “Please be lying!”

“He did it for you, Nico.”

Nico was rocking fast—forward and back—as his tears rained down in thick drops to the sheet of paper that held his mother’s final dinner order. “When she died . . . that was . . . she died for
my
sins!
Not his
!” he wailed like a ten-year-old boy, his entire belief system shattered. “She was supposed to die for
my sins
!”

And that’s when The Three knew they had him.

Of course, that’s also why they picked him in the first place. It wasn’t difficult. With The Roman’s access to military files, they focused on the records of Fort Benning and Fort Bragg, which housed two of the army’s top sniper schools. Add the words
dishonorable discharge
and
psychological problems
, and the list narrowed quickly. Nico was actually third. But when they did some more digging—when they saw his religious devotion and found his father’s group affiliation—Nico went right to the top of the list.

From there, all they had to do was find him. Since all transitional housing and homeless shelters receiving government funds must submit the names of those using the facility, that part was easy. Then they had to prove he could be controlled. That’s why they took him back to his dad’s mobile home. And gave him the gun. And told him that there was only one way to set his mother’s spirit free.

During sniper training, Nico was taught to shoot between heartbeats to reduce barrel motion. Standing over his father, who was sobbing for mercy on the peeling linoleum floor, Nico pulled the trigger without hesitation.

And The Three realized they had their man.

All thanks to nothing more than a single sheet of paper with a fake hospital meal log.

As the traffic light blinked green, The Roman turned left and slammed the gas, sending his back wheels spinning and bits of slush spraying through the air. The car fishtailed on the never-plowed road, then quickly settled under The Roman’s tight grip. He’d put in far too much time to lose control now.

In the distance, the old storefronts and buildings gave way to rusted black metal gates that fenced in the wide-open grounds and were supposed to make the neighborhood feel safer. But with twenty-two patients escaping in the last year, most neighbors understood that the gates weren’t exactly living up to their expectations.

Ignoring the chapel and another towering brick building just beyond the gates, The Roman made a sharp right and stayed focused on the small guardhouse right inside the main entrance. It’d been almost eight years since the last time he was here. And as he rolled down his window and saw the peeling paint on the black and yellow gate arm, he realized nothing had changed, including the security procedures.

“Welcome to St. Elizabeths,” a guard with winter-grizzled lips said. “Visitor or delivery?”

“Visitor,” The Roman replied, flashing a Secret Service badge and never breaking eye contact. Like every agent before him, when Roland Egen first joined the Service, he didn’t start in Protective Operations. With the Service’s authority over financial crimes, he first spent five years investigating counterfeit rings and computer crime in the Houston field office. From there, he got his first protective assignment, assessing threats for the Intelligence Division, and from there—thanks to his flair for criminal investigations—he rose through the ranks in the Pretoria and Rome offices. It was raw determination that helped him claw his way up through the Secret Service hierarchy to his current position as deputy assistant director of Protective Operations. But it was in his after-hours work as
The Roman
where he reaped his best rewards. “I’m here for Nicholas Hadrian.”

“Nico’s in trouble, huh?” the guard asked. “Funny, he always says someone’s coming. For once, he’s actually right.”

“Yeah,” The Roman said, glancing up at the tiny cross on the roof of the old brick chapel in the distance. “Pretty damn hysterical.”

21

Palm Beach, Florida

A
nyway, it’s just a cute little squib with you and Dreidel eating at the Four Seasons,” Lisbeth says as Rogo squeezes in next to me and puts his ear to the phone. “Sorta making the restaurant like a White House reunion in the sunny South. The President’s boys and all that.”

“Sounds fun,” I tell her, hoping to keep her upbeat. “Though I’m not sure that’s actually news.”

“Amazing,” she says sarcastically. “That’s exactly what Dreidel said. You guys separated at birth, or does it just come naturally with the job?”

I’ve known Lisbeth since the day she took over the
Post
’s gossip column. We have a clear understanding. She calls and politely asks for a quote from the President. I politely tell her we’re sorry, but we don’t do those things anymore. It’s a simple waltz. The problem is, if I don’t play this carefully, I’ll be giving her something to jitterbug to.

“C’mon, Lisbeth, no one even knows who me and Dreidel are.”

“Yep, Dreidel tried that one too. Right before he asked if he could call me back, which I also know is a guaranteed sign I’ll never hear from him again. I mean, considering he’s got that little fundraiser tonight, you’d think he’d want his name in the local paper. Now do you just wanna give me a throwaway quote on how great it was for you and your friend to reminisce about your old White House days, or do you want me to start worrying that there’s something wrong in Manningville?” She laughs as she says the words, but I’ve been around enough reporters to know that when it comes to filling their columns, nothing’s funny.

Careful
, Rogo writes on a scrap of paper.
Girl ain’t stupid.

I nod and turn back to the phone. “Listen, I’m happy to give you whatever quote you want, but honestly, we were only in the restaurant for a few minutes—”

“And that’s officially the third time you’ve tried to downplay this otherwise yawn of a story. Know what they teach you in journalism school when someone tries to downplay, Wes?”

On the scrap of paper, Rogo adds an exclamation point next to
Girl ain’t stupid.

“Okay, fine. Wanna know the real story?” I ask.

“No, I’d much prefer the fake runaround.”

“But this is off the record,” I warn. She stays silent, hoping I’ll keep talking. It’s an old reporter’s trick so she can say she never agreed. I fell for it my first week in the White House. That was the last time. “Lisbeth . . .”

“Fine . . . yes . . . off the record. Now what’s the big hubbub?”

“Manning’s birthday,” I blurt. “His surprise sixty-fifth, to be exact. Dreidel and I were in charge of the surprise part until you called this morning. I told Manning I had some errands to run. Dreidel was in town and told him the same. If Manning reads in tomorrow’s paper that we were together . . .” I pause for effect. It’s a crap lie, but her silence tells me it’s doing the trick. “You know we never ask for anything, Lisbeth, but if you could keep us out just this once . . .” I pause again for the big finale. “We’d owe you one.”

I can practically hear her smile on the other line. In a city of social chits, it’s the best one to bargain with: a favor owed by the former President of the United States.

“Gimme ten minutes face-to-face with Manning on the night of the surprise party,” Lisbeth says.

“Five minutes is the most he’ll sit for.”

Rogo shakes his head.
Not enough
, he mouths silently.

“Deal,” she says.

Rogo makes a double okay sign with his fingers.
Perfect
, he mouths.

“So my breakfast with Dreidel . . . ?” I ask.

“Breakfast? Come now, Wes—why would anyone care what two former staffers had on their morning toast? Consider it officially dead.”

22

Y
ou know we never ask for anything, Lisbeth, but if you could keep us out just this once . . .”

As she listened to Wes’s words, Lisbeth sat up in her seat and began to spin the phone cord, jump-rope-style. From the forced pause on the other line, Wes sounded like he was ready to trade. “We’d owe you one,” he offered, right on cue. Lisbeth stopped the phone cord’s spinning. Sacred Rule #4: Only the guilty trade. Sacred Rule #5: And the opportunists.

“Gimme ten minutes face-to-face with Manning on the night of the surprise party,” she said, knowing that like any good publicist, he’d knock the time in half.

“Five minutes is the most he’ll sit for.”

“Deal,” she said as she started rifling through the thick stack of invites on the far corner of her desk. Opening concert at the opera. The annual craft bazaar at the Sailfish Club. Baby naming at the Whedons. It had to be here somewhere . . .

“So my breakfast with Dreidel . . . ?” Wes asked.

Still flipping through the stack, Lisbeth was barely paying attention. “Breakfast? Come now, Wes—why would anyone care what two former staffers had on their morning toast? Consider it officially dead.”

Manning’s surprise party—and her promised five minutes—weren’t for at least another month. But that didn’t mean she had to stay away until then. Especially when there were so many other ways to get in close. Slamming down the phone, Lisbeth never took her eyes off the stack. Reception for the Leukemia Society, Historical Society, Knesset Society, Palm Beach Society, Renaissance Society, Alexis de Tocqueville Society . . . and then . . . there . . .