The Book of Fate (17 page)
Nico paused, mesmerized by the rosary shimmering in the fading light. The beads continued to sway, matching pace with The Roman’s quick breathing. A puddle of sweat gathered on The Roman’s lip. Staring up from the floor, he could see straight into the barrel. Nico wouldn’t make eye contact. Wouldn’t even acknowledge he was there. Lost in the rosary beads, Nico searched for his answer, never moving the gun. His brow went from creased to calm to creased again, as if he were flipping a coin in his own head. And then the coin landed. Nico pulled the trigger.
The Roman shut his eyes as a single shot hissed out. The bullet pierced his empty left hand, straight through the center of his palm. Jesus’s pain. Before he could even feel it, the blood puddled in his hand, rushing down his wrist toward his elbow.
“Where is he!?” Nico demanded.
“I-I’ll kill you for that,” The Roman growled.
“Another lie.” Turning slightly to the right, Nico took aim at The Roman’s other hand. “After everything you promised . . . to come to me now and protect him. What power does the Beast hold over you?”
“Nico, stop!”
Without hesitation, Nico pulled back the hammer of the gun. “Answer my question: Where is he?”
“I-I have no i—”
“Please move the rosary,” Nico politely asked, motioning to the beads, which were down by The Roman’s leg. As The Roman picked them up, Nico squeezed the trigger and a second silenced shot wisped through the air, burrowing through The Roman’s foot. Both wounds burned like thick needles twisting through his skin. He gritted his teeth and held his breath, waiting for the initial sting to pass. All it did was get worse. “Nnnnuhhh!” he shouted.
“Where. Is. Boyle?” Nico demanded.
“If . . . if I knew, do you really think I’d come here?”
Nico stood silent for a moment, processing the thought. “But you’ve seen him?”
The Roman shook his head, still struggling against the pain. He could feel his foot swelling, filling his shoe.
“Has anyone else seen him?” Nico asked.
The Roman didn’t answer. Nico watched him carefully, tilting his ear slightly toward him.
“Your breathing’s starting to quicken. I hope you don’t have a stroke,” Nico said.
The Roman looked away from the bed. Nico looked right at it.
On the covers, just by the edge, was the black-and-white photograph of Wes. “Him?” Nico asked, reaching for the picture. “Is that—? That’s why you asked me about him, yes? The one I broke . . . he’s the one who saw the Beast.”
“All he did was see hi—”
“But to communicate . . . to be in league with the Beast. Wes is corrupted now, isn’t he? Polluted. That’s why the ricochet—” Nico nodded quickly. “Of course! That’s why God sent the bullet his way. No coincidences. Fate. God’s will. To strike Wes down. And what God began . . .” Nico’s eyes narrowed at the photo. “I will make him bleed again. I missed it before, but I see it now . . . in the Book. Bleeding Wes.”
Looking up from the photo, Nico raised his gun and pointed it at The Roman’s head. From the window over the radiator, the panes in the glass cast the thick shadow of a cross directly onto The Roman’s face.
“God’s mercy,” Nico whispered, lowering his gun, turning his back to The Roman, and staring out the oversize shatterproof window. The gun’s silencer was quiet, but security would be there soon. He didn’t pause for a second. He’d had eight years to think about this moment.
Shatterproof.
Not bulletproof.
Two more shots snarled from the gun, piercing the bottom left and right corners of the glass, exploiting the foundation of the window.
Still on the floor, The Roman pulled off his tie to make a tourniquet for his foot. A tight fist eased the pain in his hand. The blood already filled his shoe, and his heartbeat felt like it was thumping up his arm and down his leg. A few feet away, he heard the thud of a bowling ball, then the crackling of glass. He looked up just in time to see Nico slamming his foot against the bullet hole on the bottom left of the window. True to its name, the glass wouldn’t shatter, but it did give, popping like bubble wrap as the tiny shards fought to stay together in an almost bendable plastic sheet. Now he had an opening. Licking his lips, Nico put his foot against the glass and gripped the radiator for leverage. With another shove, a fist-sized hunk of the sea-green window broke off from the rest. He pushed again. And again. Almost there. There was a tiny tear and a kitten shriek as the window slowly peeled outward and upward like old wallpaper. Then a final thud and— Nothing.
The Roman looked up as a blast of cold air slapped him in the face.
Nico was already gone.
Crawling to the window, The Roman gripped the top of the radiator and pulled himself up. Two stories down, he spotted the small bluff of snow that had broken Nico’s fall. Thinking about giving chase, he took another look at the height and felt the blood seeping through his own sock.
Not a chance
, he told himself. He could barely stand now.
Craning his neck out the window and following the footprints—out of the bluff, through the slush on the service road—he quickly spotted Nico: his sweatshirt creating a tiny brown spot plowing through the bright white layer of snow. Nico never looked back.
Within seconds, Nico’s faded brown spot gained a speck of black as he raised the gun and pointed it downhill. From the angle of the window, The Roman couldn’t see what Nico was aiming at. There was a guard at the gate, but that was over fifty yards a—
A whispered
psst
and a hiccup of smoke belched from the gun’s barrel. Right there, Nico slowed his pace to a calm, almost relaxing walk. The Roman didn’t need to see the body to know it was another direct hit.
Shoving the gun into the pouch of his sweatshirt, Nico looked like a man without a care in the world. Just strolling past the old army building, past the graveyards, past the leafless dogwood, and—as he faded from view—straight out the front gate.
Hobbling toward the door, The Roman grabbed the syringe and the razor blade from the floor.
“You guys okay?” a female voice asked through one of the orderlies’ walkie-talkies.
The Roman leaned down and pulled it off the orderly’s belt clip. “Just fine,” he mumbled into the receiver.
Carrying it with him, he turned around and took a final survey of the room. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized Nico had also taken the black-and-white photograph of Wes. Bleeding Wes.
R
ight this way,” I say as I cup the elbow of the older woman with the beehive of blond hair and escort her and her husband toward President Manning and the First Lady, who’re posed in front of a floral bouquet the size of a small car. Trapped in this small anteroom in the back of the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, the President looks my way, never losing his grin. It’s all the signal I need. He has no idea who they are.
I put it on a platter. “Mr. President, you remember the Talbots—”
“George . . . Leonor . . .” the First Lady jumps in, shaking hands and swapping air kisses. Thirty-four books, five unauthorized biographies, and two TV movies have argued she’s the better politician in the family. All the proof is right here. “And how’s Lauren?” she asks, pulling off their daughter’s name as well. That’s when I’m impressed. The Talbots aren’t longtime donors. They’re NBFs—new best friends, which is what we call the rich groupies who glommed onto the Mannings
after
they’d left the White House. Old friends liked the power; new friends like the fame.
“We just think you’re the greatest,” Mrs. Talbot gushes, her eyes solely on the First Lady. It’s never bothered Manning. Dr. First Lady has always been a part of their political package—and thanks to her science background, the better at analyzing poll numbers, which is why some say she was even more crushed than the President when they handed over their keys to the White House. Still, as someone who was with the President that day as he flew home to Florida, and placed his final call on Air Force One, and lingered on the line just long enough to say his final good-bye to the phone operator, I can’t help but disagree. Manning went from having a steward who used to wear a pager just to bring him coffee, to lugging his own suitcases back to his garage. You can’t give away all that power without some pain.
“What’m I, chopped herring all of a sudden?” Manning asks.
“What do you mean,
all of a sudden
?” the First Lady replies as they all cocktail-party laugh. It’s the kind of joke that’ll be repeated for the rest of the social season, turning the Talbots into minor wine and cheese stars, and simultaneously ensuring that Palm Beach society keeps coming to these thousand-dollar-a-plate charity shindigs.
“On three,” the photographer calls out as I squeeze the Talbots between the Mannings. “One . . . two . . .”
The flashbulb pops, and I race back to the receiving line to palm the next donor’s elbow. Manning’s look is exactly the same.
“Mr. President, you remember Liz Westbrook . . .”
In the White House, we called it the
push/pull.
I
pull
Mrs. Westbrook toward the President, which
pushes
the Talbots out of the way, forcing them to stop gawking and say their good-byes. True to form, it works perfectly—until someone pushes back.
“You’re trying the push/pull with me? I
invented
it!” a familiar voice calls out as the flashbulb pops. By the time I spin back toward the line, Dreidel’s already halfway to the President with a huge smile on his face.
Manning lights up like he’s seeing his childhood pet. I know better than to get in the way of that. “My boy!” Manning says, embracing Dreidel. I still get a handshake. Dreidel gets a hug.
“We wanted it to be a surprise,” I offer, shooting a look at Dreidel.
Behind him, the honcho line is no longer moving. Over the President’s shoulder, the First Lady glares my way. I also know better than to get in the way of that.
“Sir . . . we should really . . .”
“I hope you’re staying for the event,” Manning interrupts as he backs up toward his wife.
“Of course, sir,” Dreidel says.
“Mr. President, you remember the Lindzons,” I say, pulling the next set of donors into place. Manning fake-smiles and shoots me a look. I promised him it was only fifty clicks tonight. He’s clearly been counting. This is souvenir photo number 58. As I head back to the line, Dreidel’s right there with me.
“How many clicks you over?” Dreidel asks.
“Eight,” I whisper. “What happened to your fundraiser?”
“It was cocktails. We finished early, so I figured I’d come say hello. What happened with the gossip columnist?”
“All taken care of.”
A flashbulb pops, and I grab the elbow of the next honcho, an overweight woman in a red pants suit. Falling back into old form, Dreidel puts a hand on the shoulder of her husband and motions him forward.
“Mr. President, you remember Stan Joseph,” I announce as we drop him off for click number 59. Whispering to Dreidel, I add, “I also snagged Boyle’s London address and his last request from the library.”
Dreidel picks up speed as another flashbulb explodes. He’s half a step ahead. He thinks I don’t notice. “So what was on the final sheet?” he asks softly.
As I turn back to the honchos, there’s only one person left in line. One click to go. But when I see who it is, my throat constricts.
“What?” Dreidel asks, reading my expression.
I stop right in front of our final honcho, a young redhead in a modest black suit. Dreidel goes to put a hand on her elbow to escort her forward. She brushes him off and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just the people I’m looking for,” she says proudly. “Lisbeth Dodson—
Palm Beach Post.
You must be Dreidel.”
Mclean, Virginia
L
imping up the icy driveway and holding his fist against his chest, The Roman eyed the front windows of the classic stucco Colonial with the
For Sale
sign in the front yard. Although the lights were off, it didn’t slow him down. After hiding his wound—by slipping his bloody foot into one of Nico’s old shoes—he flashed his badge to push his way out of the hospital and quickly made the call. He knew Benjamin was home.
Sure enough, as he reached the side of the house, he grabbed the cold metal handrail and hobbled down a short cement staircase. At the bottom, he reached a door with a faint glow of light peeking out from under it. A small sign above the doorbell said
Appointments Only.
The Roman didn’t have an appointment. He had something far more valuable.
“Les?” he called out, barely able to stand. Leaning against the doorjamb, he couldn’t feel his left hand, which was still in the same blood-soaked glove that helped him hide it at the hospital. His foot had gone dead almost an hour ago.
“Coming,” a muffled voice said from inside. As the pins and springs of the lock turned, the door opened, revealing a bushy-haired man with bifocals balanced on a plump nose. “Okay, what’d you do this ti—? Oh, jeez, is that blood?”
“I-I need—” Before he could finish, The Roman collapsed, falling forward through the doorway. As always, Dr. Les Benjamin caught him. That’s what brothers-in-law were for.
M
r. President, you remember Ms. Dodson . . . columnist for the
Palm Beach Post
,” Wes said mid-handoff.
“Lisbeth,” she insisted, extending a handshake and hoping to keep things light. She glanced back to Wes, who was already pale white.
“Lisbeth, I would’ve gotten your name,” Manning promised. “Even if I don’t know the donors, only a fool doesn’t remember the press.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Lisbeth said, believing his every word, even as she told herself not to.
Could I be more pathetic?
she asked herself, fighting off a strange desire to curtsy. Sacred Rule #7: Presidents lie best. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Is that Lisbeth?” the First Lady asked, knowing the answer as she moved in for her own cheek-to-cheek hug. “Oh, you know I adore your column,” she gushed. “Except that piece when you listed how much Lee was tipping local waitresses. That one almost had me take you off our invite list.”
