The Book of Fate

25

Nice room,” The Roman said, eyeing the mostly bare, sun-faded walls of Nico’s home for the past eight years. Above the nightstand was a free Washington Redskins calendar from the local grocery store. Above the bed was a small crucifix. On the ceiling, a spiderweb of cracked plaster rounded out the sum total of the decor. “Really nice,” The Roman added, remembering how much Nico thrived on positive reinforcement.

“It is nice,” Nico agreed, his eyes locked on the orderly as he left the room.

“And you’ve been well?” The Roman asked.

Keeping his arms wrapped around his violin and hugging it like a doll, Nico didn’t answer. The way his ear was cocked, it was clear he was listening to the fading squeaks of the orderly’s rubber soles against the linoleum.

“Nico—”

“Wait…” Nico interrupted, still listening.

The Roman stayed silent, unable to hear a thing. Of course, that was yet another reason why they’d picked Nico all those years ago. The average adult hears at a level of twenty-five decibels. According to his army reports, Nico was gifted with the ability to hear at ten decibels. His eyesight was even more uncanny, measured officially at 20/6.

Nico’s army supervisors labeled it a gift. His doctors labeled it a burden, suggesting that overwhelming auditory and visual stimuli caused his desensitization with reality. And The Roman… The Roman knew it was an opportunity.

“Tell me when we’re clear,” The Roman whispered.

As the sound faded, Nico scratched his bulbous nose and studied The Roman carefully, his close chocolate eyes flicking back and forth, slowly picking apart his guest’s hair, face, overcoat, shoes, even his leather briefcase. The Roman had forgotten how methodical he was.

“You forgot an umbrella,” Nico blurted.

The Roman patted down the back of his slightly damp hair. “It’s just a short walk from the parking lo—”

“You brought a gun,” Nico said, staring at The Roman’s ankle holster as it peeked out from his pant leg.

“It’s not loaded,” The Roman said, remembering that short answers were the best way to rein him in.

“That’s not your name,” Nico again interrupted. He pointed at the visitor ID sticker on The Roman’s lapel. “I know that name.”

The Roman didn’t even bother looking down. He used his badge to get past the guards, but for the ID, of course the name was fake. Only a fool would put his real name on a list that regularly got sent to his supervisors at the Service. Still, with all Nico’s years here, with all the drugs the doctors pumped into him, he was sharp. Sniper training didn’t dull easily. “Names are fictions,” The Roman said. “Especially the enemy’s.”

Still holding tight to his fiddle, Nico could barely contain himself. “You’re of The Three.” From the excitement in his voice, it wasn’t a question.

“Let’s not—”

“Are you One or Two? I only spoke to Three. He was my liaison — with me when my father — when he passed. He said the rest of you were too big, and that the President was one of—” Nico bit his lip, straining to restrain himself. “Praise all! Did you see the cross on the brick chapel?”

The Roman nodded, remembering what they told Nico all those years ago. That he should look for the signs. That physical structures have always been sources of inexplicable power. The Druids and Stonehenge… the Egyptian pyramids… even Solomon’s First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. The Freemasons spent centuries studying them all — each one an architectural marvel that’s served as a doorway to a greater miracle. Centuries later, that knowledge was passed to Freemason James Hoban, who designed the White House, and Freemason Gutzon Borglum, who did Mount Rushmore. But as they also explained to Nico, some doors weren’t meant to be opened.

“Praise all!” Nico repeated. “He said when you came, redemption would—”

“Redemption will come,” The Roman promised. “As the Book promises.”

For the first time, Nico was silent. He lowered the fiddle to the ground and bowed his head.

“That’s it, my son,” The Roman said with a nod. “Of course, before redemption, let’s start with a little…” He reached over to the dresser and picked up the red glass rosary beads. “… confession.”

Dropping to his knees, Nico clasped his hands together and leaned on the side of his mattress like a child at bedtime.

The Roman wasn’t surprised. He did the same thing when they found him in the shelter. And for almost two full days after he confronted his father. “There’ll be time for prayer later, Nico. Right now I just need you to tell me the truth about something.”

“I’m always truthful, sir.”

“I know you are, Nico.” The Roman sat on the opposite side of the bed and placed the rosary beads between them. The fading sun boomeranged through the prisms of red glass. Still on his knees, Nico studied it, mesmerized. From his briefcase, The Roman pulled out a black-and-white photo and tossed it between them on the bed. “Now, tell me everything you know about Wes Holloway.”