The Book of Fate

107

He smells like hospital antiseptic and hamburger meat gone bad. But as Nico digs the barrel of his gun into my scars, it’s not the smell that churns my stomach. I swallow so hard, it feels like there’s a brick in my throat.

“How could you help him? How could you?” he demands. “Do you even know what you’ve unleashed?” His eyes jackrabbit side to side to side to side. He’s been off his medication for two days.

“Answer me!” he seethes, forcing me back with a shove of his gun. He doesn’t even blink as the rain hits his face.

Stumbling off balance, I crash backward into the shrub. A wayward branch stabs me in the spine, but I barely feel it. Just seeing Nico, hearing him — I’m back at the speedway. The crowd roaring. Manning smiling. A hundred thousand fans stand up, pointing and waving. At us. At me. And the bumblebee. Pop, pop, pop. The ambulance doors close on Boyle.

“—ven listening to me?” Nico demands as I blink back to reality. His gun grinds against my cheek, but I still don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I haven’t for years.

“Where’s Boyle?” he says.

“I don’t kn—”

His left hand springs out like a cobra, sinking its fangs into the center of my shirt and tugging me toward him. He pivots to his left, tripping me, and I fall back again, down into a puddle, sending water everywhere. Nico’s right on me, straddling my chest, pinning my biceps with his knees, and never moving his gun from my scarred cheek.

“I found your letter,” Nico growls as the Chinese menu peeks out from the inside pocket of his army jacket. “Where’s Boyle!?”

I want to tell him it’s fake… that The Roman… and the First Lady… that I don’t want to die. But after eight years of imagining this moment, imagining every minute of finally confronting Nico — what I’d say, where I’d stand, how I’d cross my arms against my chest, even what I’d do if he tried to lash out and throw a punch… how I’d duck down at the last instant, how I’d be ready this time, and he’d miss me, and then, before he ever saw it coming, how I’d spin back and clench his throat in my hands, squeezing so hard, hearing him gasp, and still clutching tighter, my fingers digging into his windpipe as we tumbled to the ground and he gasped for mercy — the only words that leave my lips are the ones that have been there since the day he shredded my face. The one question that the doctors, the shrinks, the President, my family, my friends, my parents, and I have never been able to answer:

“Nico,” I blurt. “Why did you do this to me?”

He cocks his head as if he understands perfectly. Then his brow contracts. He hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

“I know you’ve been in contact with him,” he says. “That’s why God steered the bullet your way. The ricochet. That’s why you got broken.”

“That’s not true!” I shout as a brand-new rage swells within me.

“It is true! The Book of Fate is written! Everything for a reason!” he insists in a puff of hot breath that smells like beef jerky. “You sided with the Beast! That bullet in your face — your fate is written — that’s God’s will!”

“Nico, they lied!”

“Did you not speak to him? Did you!? See… it’s true!” he shouts, reading my expression and digging the gun into my cheek. “God gave you your chance at redemption, and you spit at it! That’s why He brought me here — to finish His job! To see your blood!” he insists, his finger tightening around the trigger. I try to fight, but he’s too strong. All I see is the outline of Nico above me, the light behind him, his head shielding me from the rain, the rosary around his neck swaying like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. He pulls the hammer back on his gun. “This is meant to hurt, Wesley.” He tugs me toward him.

I clamp my eyes shut at the sudden beam of light, but all I hear is—

“Oh, Lord! Y-You have it,” Nico whispers as his hand starts to tremble. I see his eyes glitter in the dark.

“What’re you—? What?” I ask, confused.

“I couldn’t see in the photo… but this close,” he stutters, staring at my face. “It’s so clear,” he insists. “Your scars! The way they intersect… jagged in your flesh… one cutting through the other. The papers said it was like railroad tracks, but it’s really a perfect — a perfect — a perfect — a perfect… cross,” he blurts. “Of course! Mother of God, how could I not—? You weren’t meant to die on that day, Wesley — you were meant to be born on it!” Craning his head back and staring up at the sky, he adds, “You transformed him, didn’t You? By my actions… through Your will. That was his role—the crossbearer,” he insists, his head still up as he mumbles a brief prayer.

In the sudden silence, I faintly hear the First Lady’s voice in the distance. Lisbeth shouts something back. They’re too far for me to make it out, but with his heightened hearing, Nico should—

His eyes pop wide as if he’s heard his own name. Slowly, he lowers his chin, following the—

“That’s not true,” he whispers, holding his stomach like someone put a corkscrew in his gut. I can’t hear what Lisbeth’s saying, but as I look up at Nico, it’s not hard to translate. “No… The Three never—”

Nico’s knees still pin my arms, but his weight — all the pressure — is gone, and his body starts shuddering with his own personal earthquake. Behind us and miles to the left, a train engine’s faint howl pierces the air.

Nico’s chin quivers; his eyes swell with tears. Reaching up to the sides of his head, he clutches the tops of his ears, tilts his head down, and pulls tight, as if he’s trying to rip them from his skull. “Please, God,” he begs. “Tell me they’re lying…”

“She’s gonna need an ambulance, Wes,” The Roman bellows in the distance.

Lisbeth.

Jerking wildly, I struggle to sit up. Nico doesn’t bother to fight. Sliding from my chest, he crumbles like a rag doll onto the wet grass and curls in full fetal position. Sixty to zero in less than ten seconds.

“Don’t say that, God,” he sobs and pleads, his hands tugging at his ears. “Please… don’t… don’t turn Your back on me! Help me heed the Book! Please!”

“Keep hiding, Wes!” The Roman shouts, even louder than before.

Scrambling to my feet, I peer through the shrub’s branches, down the stone-paved, tree-lined path, straining to see shapes in the faint light. Down at the end, at the base of the ancient banyan tree, I can just make out two figures as The Roman rams his knee into Lisbeth’s face and she lurches backward. Just behind them, the First Lady has her back turned. Seeing her, I should be boiling, raging. But as I study the back of her crooked neck… all I feel now is a bitter empty chill. I need to get to Lis—

“I know you’re there!” The Roman taunts. For the first time, it pisses me off.

Lisbeth’s still—

“She’s hurting, Wes!” The Roman adds. “Ask her!”

I tense to run, but there’s a tug on my slacks. And a familiar click.

Behind me, Nico rises from the mud — climbing to one knee, then the other — his tall frame unfolding like an Erector set. His short black hair is soaked and matted against his head, while his gun is pointed at my chest.

“Nico, let go of me.”

“You’re my crossbearer, Wesley,” he says as he wipes tears from his eyes. “God selected you. For me.”

“She’s bleeding pretty bad, Wes!” The Roman shouts.

Lisbeth yells something too, but I’m so focused on Nico, I can’t hear it.

“Nico, listen to me — I know you heard them…”

“The crossbearer carries the weight!” Smiling sweetly, he points his gun at his own head. “Will you catch my body when I fall?”

“Nico, don’t—”

“Will you catch me when I fall, fall, fall from grace… the crossbearer to bear witness…?” He lowers his gun, then raises it up again, pressing it against his temple. I hear Lisbeth moaning.

“God sent you to save her too, didn’t He?” He stares at me, transfixed, the gun still at his head. “Save me as well, my angel.”

Behind us, the train whistle howls, so close it’s almost deafening. Nico presses his lips together, trying to look like he’s not cringing. But I can see his jaw tightening. For me, it’s noisy. For him, it’s overwhelming. Wild-eyed, he points the gun back at me to keep me from running.

I don’t care. “I’m innocent,” I tell him as I step toward him. He knows it’s a warning.

“Nobody’s innocent, Dad.”

Dad?

“Lord have mercy on my son,” he continues, his gun moving from my chest, to my head, back to my chest. He’s crying again. He’s in agony. “You understand, Dad, right?” he begs. “I had to do it. They told me… Mom said to follow the Book! Please tell me you understand!”

“Y-Yes,” I say as I put a hand on his shoulder. “Of course, I understand. Son.”

Nico laughs out loud, the tears still streaming down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he says, barely able to contain himself as he clutches his rosary. “I knew… I knew you’d be my angel.”

Turning left, I glance through an opening in the shrub. The Roman’s aiming his gun down at Lisbeth.

“Nico, move!” I say as I shove my way past him. All I need to do is—

Blam!

I jump back as The Roman’s gun explodes. Down the path, a tiny supernova of light breaks the darkness like a burst firefly, then disappears.

I run as fast as I can.

Lisbeth’s already screaming.