The Book of Fate

26

Hey, how’s everything?” I sing into my cell phone as Claudia stares me down from the doorway of the copy room.

“You know who this is?” Boyle asks on the other line. His tone is sharp, each syllable chiseling like an ice pick. He’s impatient. And clearly riled.

“Of course. Good to hear your voice, Eric.” I purposely use his old codename instead of Carl Stewart. He doesn’t need to know I’ve figured that one out.

“You alone?” he asks as Claudia’s lips purse even tighter and she lowers her chin with a burning glare.

“Sure, I’ve got Claudia right here—”

“Stay away from this, Wes. This isn’t your fight. Y’hear me? It’s not your fight.”

The line goes dead. Boyle’s gone.

He hung up.

“No, that’s great,” I say to the now-silent line. “See you soon.” I’m not the world’s greatest liar, but I’m still good enough to convince Claudia nothing’s wrong.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“That was… it was Manning. He said he’d be another few minutes…”

Her eyes narrow as she processes the news. Behind me, the fax machine grumbles to life. I jump at the sound, which hits me like a bullet.

“What?” she asks.

“No, it just… it startled me.” For almost a year after the shooting, every car that backfired, every loud door that slammed… even action scenes in movies… the loud noises echoed from Nico’s attack. The doctors said it would fade over time. And it did. Until now.

Knowing that look on my face, Claudia pauses and softens, but as always, reverts to her one priority. “You should still be out there,” she says.

“I will… just let me get this. Y’know how he likes knowing names,” I add, selling it as a benefit for Manning. That alone buys me a few more seconds.

By the time I spin back to the fax, the cover sheet is already through. So is half of the final page.

I grab the left-hand corner of the sheet as it churns out of the machine, then tilt my head, struggling to read it upside down. Top corner says Washington Post. From what I can tell, it’s from the comics section of the paper. Hagar the Horrible… then Beetle Bailey. But as Beetle Bailey rolls out, there’s something handwritten in the open space of the comic strip’s second panel: boxy and clunky cursive lettering that looks like it was written on the dashboard of a moving car. It’s almost unreadable to the untrained eye. Fortunately, my eyes’ve been trained for years. I’d know Manning’s handwriting anywhere.

Gov. Roche… M. Heatson, I read to myself.

On the next line, it makes even less sense. Host — Mary Angel.

Roche is the former governor of New York, but Heatson or Mary Angel… nothing rings a bell.

As the rest of the fax shimmies from the machine, there’s nothing but more comics. Peanuts, Garfield, and Blondie.

This was the final piece of Boyle’s puzzle? I look back at the handwritten note. Gov. Roche… M. Heatson… Mary Angel. Doesn’t even make sense. Three names with no information? I study it again, reading each letter. This is the last page Boyle found before coming out of hiding. Eight years dead, and this is what lured him back into his life? Gov. Roche… M. Heatson… Host — Mary Angel. Still means nothing.

“Wes, he’s here,” Claudia calls out, disappearing up the hallway.

“Coming,” I say as the final lines of Beetle Bailey scroll out from the machine. As I spin around to take off, the cover sheet drops to the floor. Pausing to pick it up, I glance at the line that says Number of Pages. To my surprise, it says 3.

The fax machine again hiccups, and a final sheet of paper crawls toward me. The librarian called it a one-pager. And it is one page… with two sides. Front and back.

I hunch down to the fax and try to read the document as each line of fresh ink is printed on the page. Like the comics page, it has the light gray tone of photocopied newsprint filled with more of the President’s handwriting. But as I read it to myself, the picture in the darkroom feels overexposed, foggier than ever.

“Wes…” the President calls from the front door.

“On my way,” I say, picking up my travel bag, ripping the sheet from the fax, and darting into the hallway. I give it one last glance before shoving it into my jacket pocket. It doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Boyle possibly be doing with this?