The Book of Fate

113

Striding 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.