The Book of Fate (58 page)
Shaking off my own beating, I hop to my feet and run my hands through the grass, my fingers brailling against the scattered shards of broken granite. On any given day, I’d have no chance against a six-foot, 220-pound, Secret Service-trained steel wall of a man. But right now The Roman’s got a fresh wound in his neck and another in his hand. And I’ve got a sharp hunk of granite headstone clenched in my fist. As I run toward him, he’s still bent over Lisbeth. I don’t know if I can take him. But I do know I’ll leave one hell of a dent.
Cocking the jagged shard back, I grit my teeth and swing at the back of The Roman’s head with everything I have left. The shard is shaped like a brick cracked in half, with a tiny point in the corner. It strikes right behind his ear. His scream alone is worth it—a throaty whimpering grunt even he can’t contain.
To his credit, as he slaps his hand against the side of his head, he doesn’t fall over. Instead, he catches his balance, turns back to face me, and lumbers to his feet. Before he can completely turn around, I take another full swing, cracking the granite block across his face. He stumbles back, falling on his ass. I still don’t let up. Stealing from his own playbook, I grip the front of his shirt, pull him toward me, and aim for the cut above his eye. Then I wind up and hit him again. The blood comes quickly.
A strand of drool falls like a silk thread from my bottom lip. He’s the reason my mouth won’t close, I tell myself as I swing again, driving the edge of the granite into his wound and watching the blood cover the side of his face. Like me. Like mine.
His eyes roll back in his head. I hit him again, determined to widen the wound. My drool sags lower, and I pummel him harder than ever. I want him to know. I want him to stare at it. Each granite blow takes another hunk of skin. I want him to live with it. I want him to turn away from his
own reflection in storefront windows
! I want him t—
I stop right there, my arm in midair, my chest rising and falling as I catch my breath. Lowering my fist, I wipe the saliva from my lip and once again feel the polite rain as it drips from the tip of my nose and chin.
I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
And with that, I let go of The Roman’s shirt. He collapses across my shoes.
The granite block falls from my hand, clunking against the concrete. I spin back to Lisbeth, who’s still lying on the ground behind me. Her arm is twisted awkwardly above her head. Dropping to my knees, I check her chest. It’s not moving.
“Lisbeth, are you—?
Can you hear me?
” I shout, sliding on my knees next to her.
No response.
Oh, God. No. No, no, no . . .
I grab her arm and feel for a pulse. There’s nothing there. Wasting no time, I tilt her head back, open her mouth, and—
“Hggggh!”
I jump back at the sound as she violently coughs. Her right hand instinctively covers her mouth. But her left—with the wound—stays stranded awkwardly above her head.
She spits and dry-heaves as the blood rushes back to her face.
“Y-You okay?” I ask.
She coughs hard. Good enough. Glancing sideways without moving her neck, she spots The Roman’s body just a few feet away. “But we need—we hafta—”
“Just relax,” I tell her.
She shakes her head, more insistent than ever. “But wh—what abou—?”
“Slow down. We got him, okay?”
“Not him, Wes—
her.
” My throat locks as the light rain pats my shoulders. “Where’s the First Lady?”
S
triding up the block, her umbrella still over her head, the First Lady glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, from the cemetery, two more gunshots exploded. Her ankle twisted at the sound. She didn’t slow down. Hobbling for a moment, she quickly found her balance and continued to march forward, still trembling.
She knew it would end like this. Even when things were quiet, even when she first realized whom she’d inadvertently aligned with, she knew it would never go away. There was no escaping this mistake.
Another two shots rang out, then a final one that echoed from behind the tall trees. She flinched hard at each blast. Was that The Roman or—? She didn’t want Wes to die. Along with Boyle, Wes’s being shot at the speedway was the thing she’d never been able to shake, even after all these years. That’s why she always tried to be supportive . . . why she’d never objected when her husband brought him back on board. But now that Wes knew the truth . . . She shook her head. No. She was tricked. She was. And only trying to help.
With a sharp right, The First Lady turned the corner, her heels clicking against the pavement as she entered the small parking lot that ran along the south side of the cemetery. At this hour, it was empty—except for the shiny black Chevy Suburban that The Roman had brought her over in.
Racing for the driver’s door, she ripped it open and climbed inside, already rehearsing her side of the story. With Nico there . . . with the hole in Lisbeth’s hand . . . that part was easy. America loves to blame the psycho. And even if Wes managed to survive . . .
Playing out the permutations, she reached up to adjust the rearview mirror. There was a sharp hiss from behind. A dime-sized black circle burst through the back of the First Lady’s hand as the rearview mirror shattered. At first, she didn’t even feel it. In the few remaining shards of glass, she could see a familiar figure in the backseat, his fingers creeping along his rosary.
“I saw you when you drove in,” Nico said, his voice calm.
“Oh, God . . . my hand,” she cried, seeing it and clutching her shaking palm as the fiery pain shot up to her elbow.
“You’re taller than I thought. You were sitting during the competency hearings.”
“Please,” she begged, the tears already welling in her eyes as her hand went numb. “Please don’t kill me.”
Nico didn’t move, his right hand holding his gun in his lap. “It surprised me to see you with Number One. What did they call him? The Roman? He hurt me too.”
In the cracked mirror, the First Lady saw Nico look down at the top of his rib cage, where he’d been shot.
“Yes . . . yes, of course,” the First Lady insisted. “The Roman hurt both of us, Nico. He threatened me—made me come with him or he’d—”
“God hurt me also,” Nico interrupted. His left hand gripped the rosary, his thumb slowly climbing from wooden bead to wooden bead, counting its way to the engraving of Mary. “God took my mother from me.”
“Nico, you . . .” Her voice cracked. “God . . . please, Nico . . . we’ve all lost—”
“But it was The Three who took my father,” he added as he lifted the gun and pressed it to the back of the First Lady’s head. “That was my error. Not fate. Not the Masons. The Three took him. When I joined them . . . what I did in their name . . . don’t you see? Misreading the Book. That’s why God had to send me the angel.”
Shivering uncontrollably, the First Lady raised her hands in the air and struggled to glance over her shoulder. If she could turn around . . . get him to look at her face . . . to see her as a human being . . . “Please don’t . . . please don’t do this!” she begged, facing Nico and fighting back tears. It’d been nearly a decade since she’d felt the onslaught of a deep cry. Not since the day they left the White House, when they returned home to Florida, held a small press conference on their lawn and realized, after everyone was gone, that there was no one but themselves to clean up the reporters’ discarded coffee cups that were scattered across their front yard. “I can’t die like this,” she sobbed.
Unmoved, Nico held his gun in place, pointing it at her head. “But it wasn’t just The Three, was it? I heard the reporter, Dr. Manning. I know. The Four. That’s what she said, right? One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“Nico, that’s not true.”
“I heard it. You’re Four.”
“No . . . why would I—?”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he insisted, his fingers moving across four beads of the rosary.
“Please, Nico, just listen . . .”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four.” His fingers continued to calmly count, bead by bead. He was over halfway through. Just sixteen beads to go. “One, Two, Three, you’re Four. One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“Why aren’t you listening!?” the First Lady sobbed. “If you—I can—I can get you help . . .”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“. . . I can . . . I’ll even . . .” Her voice picked up speed. “I can tell you how your mother died.”
Nico stopped. His head cocked sideways, but his expression was calm as ever. “You lie.”
His finger slithered around the trigger, and he squeezed it. Easily.
There was a sharp hiss, and a
pfffft
that sounded like a cantaloupe exploding. The inside front windshield was sprayed with blood.
The First Lady slumped sideways, and what was left of her head hit the steering wheel.
Barely noticing, Nico pointed the gun at his own temple. “Your fate is mine, Dr. Manning. I’m coming to get you in Hell.”
Without closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.
Click.
He pulled again.
Click.
Empty . . . it’s empty,
he realized, staring down at the gun. A slight, nervous laugh hiccupped from his throat. He looked up at the roof of the car, then back down at the gun, which quickly became blurred by a swell of tears.
Of course. It was a test. To test his faith. God’s sign.
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he whispered, his thumb climbing up the last wooden beads and resting on the engraving of Mary. Flushed with a smile even he couldn’t contain, Nico looked back up at the roof, brought the rosary up to his lips, and kissed it. “Thank You . . . thank You, my Lord.”
The test, at long last, was complete. The Book could finally be closed.
T
en minutes after seven the following morning, under an overcast sky, I’m sitting alone in the backseat of a black Chevy Suburban that’s filled with enough new-car smell to tell me this isn’t from our usual fleet. Usually, that’s cause for excitement. Not after last night.
In the front seats, both agents sit uncomfortably silent the entire ride. Sure, they toss me some small talk—
Your head okay? How’re you feeling?
—but I’ve been around the Service long enough to know when they’re under orders to keep their mouths shut.
As we make the left onto Las Brisas, I spot the news vans and the reporters doing stand-ups. They gently push forward against the yellow tape as they see us coming, but the half dozen agents out front easily keep them at bay. On my left, as the car pulls up to the manicured shrubs out front, and the tall white wooden gate swings open, an Asian female reporter narrates—. . .
once again: former First Lady Lenore Manning
. . .—but gracefully steps back to give us room.
For the reporters and press, all they know is she’s dead and that Nico killed her. If they knew her hand in it . . . or what she did . . . an army of agents wouldn’t be able to hold them back. The Service, pretending to be clueless, said that since Nico was still out there, they thought it’d be safer to chauffeur me inside. It’s a pretty good lie. And when the agents knocked on my door this morning, I almost believed it.
As the gate slowly closes behind us, I know better than to turn around and give them a shot of my face for the morning news—especially with the cuts on my nose and the dark purple swelling in my eye. Instead, I study the Chicago-brick driveway that leads up to the familiar pale blue house. Flanking both sides of the Suburban, six agents I’ve never seen before watch the gate shut, making sure no one sneaks in. Then, as I open my door and step outside, they all watch me. To their credit, they turn away quickly, like they don’t know what’s going on. But when it comes to spotting lingering glances, I’m a black belt. As I head for the front door, every one of them takes another look.
“Wes, right?” an African-American agent with a bald head asks as he opens the front door and welcomes me inside. On most days, agents aren’t stationed in the house. Today is different. “He’s waiting for you in the library, so if you’ll just follow—”
“I know where it is,” I say, moving forward to cut around him.
He takes a step to the side, blocking my way. “I’m sure you do,” he says, throwing on a fake grin. Like the agents out front, he’s in standard suit and tie, but the microphone on his lapel . . . I almost miss it at first. It’s tinier than a small silver bead. They don’t give that kind of tech to guys on former-President duty. Whoever he is, he’s not from the Orlando field office. He’s from D.C. “If you’ll follow me . . .”
He pivots around, leading me down the center hallway, into the formal living room, and past the gold velvet sofa that yesterday held Madame Tussauds’ set of Leland Manning eyeballs.
“Here you go,” the agent adds, stopping at the double set of French doors on the far left side of the room. “I’ll be right here,” he says, motioning back to the main hallway. It’s not meant as a comfort.
Watching him leave, I bite the dead skin on the inside of my cheek and reach for the American eagle brass doorknob. But just as I palm the eagle, the doorknob turns by itself, and the door opens. I was so busy watching the agent, I didn’t see him. Our eyes lock instantly. This time, though, as I spot the brown with the splash of light blue, my stomach doesn’t plummet. And he doesn’t run.
Standing in the doorway and scratching his fingers against the tiny stubble on his head, Boyle forces an unconvincing smile. From what Rogo told me late last night, I should’ve known he’d be here. Silly me, though, I actually thought I’d be first. Then again, that’s always been my problem when it comes to the President.
Stepping forward and closing the door behind him, Boyle blocks me even worse than the Service. “Listen, Wes, do you . . . uh . . . do you have a sec?”
The President’s expecting me in the library. But for the first time since I’ve been in Leland Manning’s personal orbit, well, for once . . . he can wait. “Sure,” I say.
Boyle nods me a thank-you and scratches from his head down to his cheek. This is hard for him. “You should put a warm compress on it,” he finally says. Reading my confusion, he adds, “For your eye. Everyone thinks cold is better, but the next day, warm helps more.”
