The Book of Fate

109

She’s hurting, Wes!” The Roman called out to the empty darkness as the rain ticked against his umbrella. “Ask her!”

“H-He’s not stupid,” Lisbeth whispered, down on her rear in the wet grass. With her back against the Celtic headstone for support, she pressed both hands against her eye, where The Roman had rammed his knee into her face. She could already feel it swelling shut.

Back by the tree, the First Lady stared coldly at The Roman. “Why did you bring me here?” she demanded.

“Lenore, this isn’t—”

“You said it was an emergency, but to bring me to Wes!”

“Lenore!”

The First Lady studied The Roman, her expression unchanging. “You were planning to shoot me, weren’t you?” she asked.

Lisbeth looked up at the question.

Turning to his right, The Roman squinted up the crooked stone path and, as his Service training kicked in, visually divided the graveyard into smaller, more manageable sections. A grid search, they called it. “Be smart, Lenore. If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve shot you in the car.”

“Unless he wanted to make it look like—puhhh,” Lisbeth said, violently spitting flecks of saliva at the ground as the train whistle screamed of its impending arrival, “… like Wes killed you, and he killed Wes. Th-Then he’s the hero and there’s no one left to point fingers.”

Shaking his head, The Roman stayed glued to the meatball shrubs. “She’s bleeding pretty bad, Wes!”

The First Lady turned toward Boyle’s grave, then back to The Roman, her pinkie flicking harder than ever at the strap of her umbrella as she said in a poisonous, low voice, “She’s right, isn’t she?”

“She’s just trying to rile you, Lenore.”

“No, she’s— You swore no one would ever be hurt!” the First Lady exploded. She spun back toward the front entrance of the cemetery.

There was a metallic click.

“Lenore,” The Roman warned as he raised his gun, “if you take one more step, I think we’re going to have a serious problem.”

She froze.

Turning back toward Lisbeth, The Roman took a deep breath through his nose. It was supposed to be cleaner than this. But if Wes insisted on hiding… Carefully aiming his gun, he announced to Lisbeth, “I need you to put your hand up, please.”

“What’re you talking about?” she asked, still sitting on the ground.

“Put your damn hand out,” The Roman growled. “Palm facing me,” he added, holding up his bandaged right palm to Lisbeth.

Even under the shadows of the umbrella, it was impossible to miss the tight white bandage with the perfectly round, blood-red circle at the center of it. Lisbeth knew what he was planning. Once her body was found with stigmata — like a signature — all the blame would shift to—

Lisbeth stopped seeing the rain. Her whole body started to shake.

“Put your hand up, Lisbeth — or I swear to God I’ll put it in your brain.”

Curling both arms toward her chest, she looked over at the First Lady, who again started to walk away.

“Lenore,” The Roman warned without turning. The First Lady stopped.

Lisbeth felt the wet ground soaking her rear end. Her hands still hadn’t moved.

“Fine,” The Roman said, aiming at Lisbeth’s head as he cocked the hammer. “Have it in your brai—”

Lisbeth raised her left hand in the air. The Roman squeezed the trigger. And the gun roared with a thunderclap that left a ringing silence in its wake.

A spurt of blood erupted from the back of Lisbeth’s hand, just below her knuckles. Before she even felt the pain and screamed, blood was running down her wrist. Already in shock, she kept staring at the dime-sized burned circle in her palm as if it weren’t her own. When she tried making a fist, the pain set in. Her hand went blurry, like it was fading away. She was about to pass out.

Without a word, The Roman aimed his gun at Lisbeth’s now-bobbing head.

“Don’t!” a familiar voice yelled from the back of the cemetery.

The Roman and the First Lady turned to the right, tracing the voice up the tree-lined path.

“Don’t touch her!” Wes shouted, his body a thin silhouette as he rushed out from the shrub. “I’m right here.”

Just like The Roman wanted.