The Book of Fate (24 page)

The White House?

“They tried it for centuries all over the world. Fortresses in Spain, castles in Ireland, even in the old stone churches in Chicago. But for the doorway to open, they needed more than just the right symbols and incantations . . .

. . . they needed power.

“Supreme power. That was the lesson of the pyramids and Solomon’s Temples—centers of power—to this day, the Freemasons still call Solomon their first grand master! That’s why they collected all of history’s leaders! The access to power! I knew you’d see it! Praise be all!” Just watching Edmund’s reaction, Nico could barely contain himself. “I knew you’d see!”

But . . . how could no one in the White House notice there was a door with a pentagram on it?

“
Door?
Doors can be removed and replaced, Edmund. Even the White House has been burned and renovated. No, for this, the Masons marked something far more permanent . . .” Nico again turned to the map. “Follow the landmarks,” he explained, already circling each point on the map. “One—Dupont Circle . . . two—Logan Circle . . . three—Washington Circle . . . four—Mount Vernon Square . . . and five—” He lifted his pen and jabbed down at the final spot: “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“The building
is
the door. Right in front of us for over two hundred years,” he added as he connected the dots. Just as The Three had done for him.

Oh, God.

“God had nothing to do with it, Edmund. Monsters,” Nico insisted. “That’s who we’re fighting. To mark the territory, Jefferson even branded it with their own emblem.”

On the edge of the map, Nico again started to draw. To his own surprise, his eyes welled up with each scratch of his pen. It was the one symbol he’d never forget.

Nico, you okay there?

Nico nodded, grinding his teeth and refusing to look back down at the symbol—the compass and the square.
Remember the lessons. No tears. Just victory.
Locked on the road, he gave the coordinates he’d learned all those years ago. “Start at the Capitol and run your finger down Pennsylvania Avenue, all the way to the White House,” Nico explained, feeling the pressure building in his skull.
Fight it. Fight the monster back.
“Now do the same from the Capitol down Maryland Avenue—follow it all the way to the Jefferson Memorial—his own shrine! Now go to Union Station and draw a line down Louisiana Avenue, then on the south side of the Capitol, draw another down Washington Avenue. The lines will connect in front of the Capitol . . .”

This time, Edmund was silent.

“The compass and the square. The most sacred Masonic symbol . . .”

. . . pointing right to the doorway of the White House . . . all that power in one place. Why would—? What’re they doing, trying to take over the world?

“No,” Nico said coldly. “They’re trying to
destroy
it.” Already forgetting the pain in his skull, he added, “Welcome, Edmund—welcome to the truth.”

I . . . I can’t believe this.

“Those were my words . . . my thoughts too.”

But to get this done with no one knowing . . .

“They did it in plain view! On October 13, 1792, Maryland’s Masonic Lodge number 9 laid the cornerstone of the White House in a ceremony filled with Freemason rituals. Look it up—it’s true! The inscription on the brass plate of that cornerstone says it was laid on the twelfth, but every reputable history book in existence says it was laid on the
thirteenth
!”

Thirteen. The number of the Beast.

“Thirteen blocks north from the White House is where they built the House of the Temple, national headquarters of the Freemasons!”

Thirteen again!

“Now you understand their treachery. They’ve been waiting for centuries! Seven hundred years ago, we thought it was the Holy Roman Emperor—the one the church labeled the first enemy. But the Masons knew to wait. Wait for the signs. Wait for the true world power to emerge. Prepare. Then the end-times would come!”

So the door they were trying to open . . .

“. . . the door to Hell.”

Of course! They were trying to free the Creatures . . . begin the motions! Nico, do you have any idea what you’re on to? Scripture predicts it! It begins when the Two Beasts arrive . . .

“. . . they come through hosts! First, a disciple—a man of sin . . .”

That’s Boyle, right? The man of sin!

“Then the Leader—a man of power . . .”

Manning!

“Through him the Dark One—the true Beast—will arise, creating the most powerful kingdom of all!”

So the Beast they were trying to free . . .

“The Antichrist, Edmund. They want the Antichrist! If it weren’t for The Three, he would’ve come! Tell me you see that! Without The Three, Manning’s reelection was imminent! Supreme power in Manning! A man of sin in Boyle! Together, the keys to open the door!”

The original Three dedicated to birthing him—the final Three dedicated to destroying him! Alpha and Omega! Their destiny fulfilled!

“Yes, yes . . . destiny—their fate—just as in scripture! ‘
Dear children . . . the antichrist is coming. He is now already in the world!
’” Nico screamed as spit flew from his mouth and sprayed the inside windshield.

So the reason you shot Boyle instead of Manning . . .

“In a coliseum of his admirers? Surrounded by his supplicants?
Manning’s influence was at its peak!
What if that were the catalyst for his awakening? No—like The Three said . . . better to go with Boyle, who was—was—was—
Don’t you see?
” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel. “Without Boyle, there’d be only
one
Beast!
One key instead of two! With only one, the door couldn’t open!
” He kept looking to Edmund, then back to the road. His breathing was galloping, his whole body shaking. Being silent for so long . . . to finally let it out . . . he could barely catch his breath.

“Th-Th-The man of sin—like my father—has always been the sign! Have you not . . . have you not heard of Boyle’s sin?” Nico shouted, gasping between breaths as a sudden flush of tears blurred the road in front of him. He hunched forward, gripping the wheel as a dry heave clenched his stomach. “What he did to his own—? And then to my—?” He jabbed a finger at his eyes, digging away the tears. They rolled down his face, dangling like raindrops from his jaw.
Don’t fight it,
he told himself.
Be thankful to get it out . . . Heed the Book . . . Thank you, Mother . . . Thank you . . .

“D-D’ya understand?” he pleaded with Edmund, his voice cracking with the Wisconsin accent he’d buried years ago. “People know nothing, Edmund. Teacher and student. Master and supplicant. Manning and Boyle,” he repeated, sinking forward on the steering wheel. “Like father and son. That’s why I was chosen. Why my mother was taken. To test me . . . to stop my father . . . to close the devil’s door. To keep the door shut and the Great Darkness from coming.”

In the passenger seat next to him, Edmund didn’t say a word.

“P-Please, Edmund . . . please tell me you understand . . .”

Once again, Edmund was silent. As silent as he’d been for the past five hours when they pulled out of the gas station in South Carolina.

With his seat belt in a diagonal bear hug across his chest, Edmund slumped slightly to the right, his shoulder pressed against the passenger door. His arms dangled at his side, his left wrist bent in his lap.

As the flatbed truck rumbled onto the overpass that ran across St. Marys River, a bump of uneven concrete sent Edmund’s head sagging to the right, his forehead thumping lightly into the glass of the passenger window. With each new seam in the asphalt, the flatbed hiccupped. With each hiccup, Edmund’s head thumped over and over against the glass.

“I knew you would, Edmund,” Nico said excitedly. “Thank you. Thank you for believing . . .”

Thump . . . thump . . . thump.
Like a hammer to a stubborn nail, Edmund’s head banged the glass. The baritone drumbeat was ruthlessly unavoidable. Nico didn’t notice. Just like he didn’t notice the slurpy sound of Edmund’s bloody fingers sticking and unsticking from the truck’s vinyl seats. Or the dried waterfall of blood that’d poured down Edmund’s chest from where Nico slit his throat with his car keys.

“I know, but I’m just glad you understand,” Nico said, catching his breath and wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. With one final thump, the truck cleared the St. Marys River overpass and officially crossed the state line of Georgia. On the right, they blew past a faded orange and green highway sign.
Welcome to Florida—The Sunshine State.

44

A
n hour and a half later, I pull up to the curb in front of First of America Bank, which houses Rogo’s offices on the second floor. As my car bucks to a stop, Rogo trudges slowly out the building’s front door, heading for the front passenger door. He’s still pissed I’m meeting with Lisbeth. But not half as pissed as seeing Dreidel sitting in his seat.

“How’s the world of traffic tickets?” Dreidel calls out as he rolls down the window.

“Same as Chicago politics,” Rogo replies, shooting me a look as he opens the door for the backseat. “Completely corrupt.”

It was no better the first time they met, years ago. Both lawyers, both opinionated, both too stubborn to see anything but the other’s flaws.

For the rest of the ride, Rogo sulks in the back as we blow by the past-their-prime mom-and-pop shops that line South Dixie Highway. Every once in a while, he peers out the back to make sure we’re not being followed. I use my side mirror for the same.

“There . . .” Dreidel points as if I haven’t been here a dozen times. Hitting the brakes, I make a sharp right into the front lot of our destination: the wide, off-white office building that takes up most of the block. Just in front of the building is a small plaza with a statue of a turtle dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, comically playing an electric keyboard. It’s supposed to be funny. None of us laugh.