The Book of Fate (9 page)

“It was three minutes.”

“Pretty fast.”

“Actually, pretty slow considering Halifax Medical Center is only a mile and a half from the speedway. Now guess how long it took for the ambulance that drove there with Boyle, who was—no offense—a whole lot more important than you were to the administration, not to mention far more injured?”

I shake my head, refusing to play along.

“Twelve minutes,” Dreidel blurts.

We sit in silence as I take it in.

“So?” I ask.

“C’mon, Wes.
Twelve minutes
for a speeding ambulance with a critically injured White House senior staff member to travel a mile and a half? The average person
walks
faster. My grandmother walks faster. And she’s dead.”

“Maybe they got stuck in the panicking riot outside.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what
they
said.”

“They?”

From the briefcase that’s leaning against the side of his chair, Dreidel pulls out a bound document about half as thick as a phone book. He drops it on the table with a thud that sends our spoons bouncing. I recognize the congressional logo immediately.
Investigation into the Assassination Attempt on President Leland F. Manning.
Congress’s official investigation into Nico’s attack. Dreidel leaves it on the table, waiting to see if I pick it up. He knows me better than I thought.

“You never read it, did you?” he asks.

I stare at the book, still refusing to touch it. “I flipped through it once . . . It’s just . . . it’s like reading your own obituary.”

“More like Boyle’s obituary. You lived, remember?”

I brush my hand against my face. My fingertips rise and fall in the craters of my scars. “What’s your point?”

“Play the numbers, Wes. Two trains leave the station at almost the exact same time. Both race for the hospital. It’s a matter of life and death. One takes three minutes. The other takes twelve. You don’t see a problem there? And if that weren’t enough, remember what the real security screwup was that Congress ripped our doctors apart for?”

“You mean bringing the President’s wrong blood type?”

“See, that’s where they always got it wrong. When Congress did their investigation, they tore out what little hair they had left in their heads because they found pints of O-negative blood along with the President’s B-positive. Naturally, they assumed someone made a mistake and brought the wrong blood. But knowing who you saw at the speech that night—well, guess who else happened to be O-negative?”

“Boyle?”

“And that’s how he pulled off his big magic trick.”

“It wasn’t a magic trick,” I insist.

“No, you’re right. But it
was
an illusion.” Waving his left hand back and forth in front of me, he adds, “You’re so busy watching the moving hand, you completely ignore the sly hand’s misdirection.” From his right hand, he drops a quarter on the table.

“Way to be melodramatic,” I point out.

He shakes his head as if I’m missing the point. “Do you have any idea what you’ve stumbled onto? This thing was more fixed than a Harlem Globetrotters game. You, me, Congress, the whole world . . . we got—” He leans in close, lowering his voice. “We got
fooled
, Wes. They lied. I mean, if that was really Boyle—”

“It was him! I saw him!”

“I’m not saying you didn’t. I just . . .” He looks around, his voice getting even quieter. “This isn’t one of those petty news stories they save until the end of the broadcast.”

He’s right about that. “I don’t understand, though—why would the President’s ambulance be hauling around Boyle’s blood?”

“I know. That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dreidel asks. “But when you pick it apart, only one explanation makes sense. They only carry around blood . . .”

“. . . when they think someone’s life is in danger.” I pick up the quarter and tap it against the white tablecloth. “Oh, God. If they were expecting it . . . you think Boyle was wearing a vest?”

“Had to,” Dreidel says. “He took two shots in the chest . . .”

“But all that blood—”

“. . . and one shot that went through the back of his hand and straight into his neck. Read the report, Wes. Nico was an army-trained sniper who specialized in heart shots. Boyle went facedown the moment it happened. That shot to the neck . . . I’ll bet that’s what you saw pooling below him.”

I close my eyes and hear myself offering to put Boyle in the limo. There’s a jagged piece of metal in my cheek. The bumblebee’s still screaming . . . “But if he was wearing a vest . . .” I look out toward the ocean. The waves are deafening. “. . . th-they knew. They had to’ve known . . .”

“Wes, will you stop—” Dreidel cuts himself off and lowers his voice. We don’t need anyone staring. “They didn’t know,” he whispers. “They could’ve had an open threat on Boyle’s life. He could’ve been wearing that vest for a month. In fact, according to the report, the President
wasn’t
wearing
his
vest that day. Didja hear that?” He waits until I nod, just to make sure I’m focused. “If they’d known there was a gunman, Manning never would’ve been there, much less been allowed to go without that vest.”

“Unless he
was
wearing one and that’s just part of their story,” I point out.

“Listen, I know you’re close to this—”

“Close to it? It ruined my life! D’you understand that?” I finally explode. “This wasn’t just some crappy afternoon. Little kids point at me and hide behind their moms! I can’t fucking smile anymore! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

The restaurant goes silent. Every single person is looking at us. The preppy family with two twin girls. The sandy-haired man with the U.S. Open cap. Even our waiter, who quickly approaches, hoping to calm things down.

“Everything okay, sir?”

“Yeah . . . sorry . . . we’re fine,” I tell him as he fills our coffee cups that don’t need refilling.

As the waiter leaves, Dreidel watches me closely, giving me a moment. It’s how he taught me to deal with the President when he loses his cool. Put your head down and let the fire burn itself out.

“I’m okay,” I tell him.

“I knew you would be,” he says. “Just remember, I’m here to help.”

I take a deep breath and bury it all away. “So assuming there was a threat on Boyle’s life at the time, why not just take him to the hospital?”

“That’s the nail I keep stepping on. They caught Nico . . . Boyle was injured, but obviously alive . . . why pretend you’re dead and walk away from your life and your entire family? Maybe that’s what they were talking about during those twelve minutes in the ambulance. Maybe that’s when Boyle made his decision to hide.”

I shake my head. “In twelve minutes? You can’t just shuck your whole life in twelve minutes—especially when you’re bleeding out of your neck. They had to’ve made plans before that.”

“They?”
Dreidel asks.

“C’mon, this isn’t like hiding from your little brother in a pillow fort. To pull something this big off, you need the Service, plus the ambulance driver, plus the doctor who took care of his neck.” I pause for a moment to make the point clear. “Plus someone to authorize it.”

Dreidel lowers his chin, looking at me from just above the rounded rim of his glasses. He knows what I’m getting at. “You really think he’d—? You think he’d do that?”

It’s the question I’ve been fighting with since the moment I saw Boyle’s fake name back at that hotel. You don’t use that name to hide. You use it so someone can find you. “I just . . . I don’t see how the President
wouldn’t
know. Back then, Manning couldn’t pee in a bush unless someone checked it first. If Boyle was wearing a vest—which he clearly had to’ve been—there had to be a credible threat. And if there was a credible threat . . . and extra blood in the ambulance . . . and contingencies in place to make sure Boyle was safe . . . Manning had to’ve signed off on that.”

“Unless Albright signed off for him,” Dreidel counters, referring to our old chief of staff and the one other person in the limo with us that day at the speedway.

It’s a fair point, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to an answer. Albright died of testicular cancer three years ago. “Now you’re blaming it all on a corpse?”

“Doesn’t make it any less credible,” Dreidel challenges. “Albright used to sign off on security details all the time.”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Manning and Boyle had known each other since college. If Boyle was planning on disappearing, that’s a hell of a prank to pull on a friend, much less the President of the United States.”

“You joking? Boyle walked away from his family, his wife . . . even his own daughter. Look at the full picture, Wes: Nico the nutjob takes a potshot at the President. Instead, he hits Boyle square in the chest. But instead of going to the hospital to get patched up, Boyle takes that exact moment to fake his own death and disappear off the face of the earth. You do something like that, you’ve obviously got a damn good reason.”

“Like father, like son?” I ask.

“Yeah, I thought about that. Problem is, Boyle’s dad was just a petty scumbag. This is . . . this is big-league. With a capital
big.
”

“Maybe Boyle hired Nico. Maybe the shooting was a giant smoke screen to give Boyle a way to get out.”

“Way too
Mission: Impossible
sequels,” Dreidel says. “If Nico misses, you’re risking a head shot. More important, if the Service was helping, they’re not putting the President, and his staff, and 200,000 spectators in danger while entrusting it all to some whacked looney tune. You’ve seen Nico in the interviews—he’s Stephen King-movie crazy. If Boyle wanted to do this to himself, he’d fake a heart attack at home and be done with it.”

“So you think when Nico fired those shots, Boyle and the Service just used the instant chaos to sneak him out of there?” I ask, trying hard to keep it to a whisper.

“I don’t know what to think. All I know is, for Boyle to put on a bulletproof vest, he must’ve been expecting something. I mean, you don’t bring an umbrella unless you think it’s gonna rain, right?”

I nod, unable to argue. Still, it doesn’t get us any closer to the
why.
Why was Nico taking shots at Boyle? Why was Manning’s motorcade traveling around with Boyle’s blood? And why would Boyle walk away from his life, his wife, and his teenage daughter? I mean, what could possibly tempt—or terrify—a man so much that he’d throw his entire life away?

“Maybe you should just ask,” Dreidel blurts.

“Who, Manning? Oh, right—I’ll just run up and say, ‘By the way, sir, I just saw your dead buddy—yeah, the one whose assassination wrecked your entire presidency. Oh, and since he’s alive, while I’ve been slaving for your ass every single day since I got out of the hospital, why’d you lie to me for over eight years about the single worst moment of my life?’ Yeah, that’d be genius.”

“What about the Service?”

“Same difference. Boyle could’ve never disappeared all those years ago if he didn’t have their help. The last thing I need is to shout from the roof that I’m the one to blow it all open. Until I know what’s going on, better to keep things quiet.”

Dreidel leans back in his wicker chair. “When you saw Boyle backstage in that dressing room, you think he was trying to kill Manning?”

“Kill him?”

“Why else would he come out of hiding after almost eight years? Just to say hello?”

“I guess, but . . . to kill him? Isn’t that—?”

“Kaiser Soze,” Dreidel interrupts. “
Greatest trick the devil pulled off: convincing the world he didn’t exist.
” He looks back up at me, and I swear there’s almost a smile on his face. “Man, can you imagine? Being legally dead but still alive? Y’know how much freedom that gives you?”

I stare down at Dreidel’s room key and try hard not to picture the fluffy white bathrobe that comes with it.

“Maybe that’s what Boyle wanted all those years ago,” he adds. “Just a way out.”

I shake my head but still catch the deeper point. The only way to understand what’s going on is to understand Boyle. “So where does that leave us?” I ask.

“
Us?
This ain’t
my
disaster.” He laughs as he says it, but he’s definitely not joking. “C’mon, Wes, you know I’m just joking,” he adds, knowing I get the point. Like any great political trickster, his first move is to remove his own fingerprints. It’s why I called him in the first place. He spent almost four years by the President’s side, but you’ll never find him in the background of a single photograph. No one’s better at being invisible, which is, right now, the number one thing I need if I plan on finding out the truth.

“Got any connections with law enforcement?” he adds, already two moves ahead. “If they can take a peek at Boyle’s background—”

“I’ve got someone perfect for that,” I tell him. But he’s glancing over my shoulder, back toward the entrance to the restaurant. Following his stare, I turn around to find the black woman with the braids. She’s traded the bathrobe for the other Palm Beach uniform: white slacks with a pale orange designer T-shirt. All set for a day on the town.

“Listen, I should run,” Dreidel says, already out of his seat. “Just be smart about this.”

“Smart?”

“Careful. Be careful. Because if Manning
is
in on this . . .” He takes another look around, then leans in close. “You thought America turned on him before? They’ll crucify him, Wes. Seriously. Crucify.”

I nod. Across the restaurant, his girlfriend shoots us a look. “And while we’re on the subject, Wes. I’m happy to keep your secret—just promise me you’ll keep mine.”

“O-Of course. I’d never say a word.”

He turns to go, leaving me with the bill. “By the way, you interested in forking over five hundred bucks and coming to my fundraiser tonight?”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Dreidel, how much did your soul cost when you finally sold it?”

“You coming or not?”

“I would, but I’ve got a Manning event tonight.”

Dreidel nods and doesn’t linger. He knows who always comes first.

As he heads for the door, I decide not to turn and stare at the girl. Instead, I hold up my spoon and use the bottom of it as my own little fun-house mirror. Over my shoulder, I spot Dreidel just as he approaches her. He doesn’t reach out to hold her hand until he thinks they’re out of sight.