The Book of Fate

72

I don’t wanna talk about it,” I insist.

“She was recording the whole time?” Rogo asks, still in shock as his voice crackles through the cell phone.

“Rogo, can we please not—?”

“Maybe it’s not how it looked. I mean, she gave you her car and her phone, right? Maybe you misread it.”

“I heard my voice on the tape! How else could that possibly be read!?” I shout, squeezing my fist around the steering wheel and jamming even harder on the gas. As I blow past the thick twisting banyan trees that shield both sides of County Road from the sun, I hear the shift in Rogo’s voice. At first, he was surprised. Now he’s just hurt, with a dab of confused. When it comes to judging someone’s character, he’s usually a master.

“I told you she’d burn us — didn’t I call it?” Dreidel hisses in the background. His voice is barely a whisper, which means someone’s there with them.

“Did she say why?” Rogo adds. “I mean, I know Lisbeth’s a reporter, but—”

“Enough already, okay? How many times do I need to say it? I don’t wanna talk about it!”

“Where are you now anyway?” Rogo asks.

“No offense, but I shouldn’t say. Y’know, just in case someone’s listening.”

“Wes, you’re full of manure — where the hell are you?” Rogo insists.

“On US-1.”

“You’re lying — that was too fast.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Too fast again. C’mon, Pinocchio — I know the little stutter and stammer when you’re fibbing. Just tell me where you are.”

“You have to understand, Rogo, he—”

“He? He? The royal He,” he moaned, more angry than ever. “Son of Betsy Ross, Wes! You’re going to see Manning?”

“He’s expecting me. Schedule says I have to be there at four.”

“Schedule? The man’s been lying to you for eight years about the single greatest tragedy in your life. Doesn’t that—?” He lowers his voice, forcing himself to calm down. “Doesn’t that let you say F-you to the schedule for once?”

“He’s going to Manning?” Dreidel asks in the background.

“Rogo, you don’t understand—”

“I do understand. Lisbeth made you sad… The Three got you scared… and as always, you’re running for your favorite presidential pacifier.”

“Actually, I’m trying to do the one thing we should’ve done the first moment I saw Boyle alive: go to the source and find out what the hell actually happened that day.”

Rogo’s silent, which tells me he’s seething. “Wes, let me ask you something,” he finally says. “That first night you saw Boyle, why didn’t you go to Manning and tell him the truth? Because you were in shock? Because it seemed that Boyle was somehow invited to that hotel by his old best friend? Or because deep in the pit of your chest, no matter how much you’ve rationalized it over the years, you know that before he’s a father, a mentor, or even a husband, Leland F. Manning is a politician — one of the world’s greatest politicians — and for that alone, he’s fully capable of lying to your face for eight years without you ever knowing it.”

“But that’s what you’re missing, Rogo — what if he didn’t lie? What if he’s just as clueless as we are? I mean, if O’Shea and Micah and whoever this Roman guy is — if they’re the ones who sent Nico to shoot Boyle — maybe Manning and Boyle aren’t the villains in all this.”

“What, so now they’re victims?”

“Why not?”

“Please, he’s the—” Catching himself and knowing I won’t listen if he yells, Rogo adds, “If Boyle and Manning were complete angels — if they had nothing to hide and were only doing good — why didn’t they just take Boyle to the hospital and let the authorities investigate? C’mon, Wes, these two guys lied to the entire world — and the only reason people lie is because they have something to hide. Now, I’m not saying I have all the pieces, but just by the lie alone, there’s no way Manning and Boyle are just helpless victims.”

“That still doesn’t mean they’re the enemy.”

“And you really believe that?”

“What I believe is that Ron Boyle’s alive. That The Three, with all their connections, helped Nico sneak into the racetrack that day. That O’Shea, Micah, and this Roman, as members of The Three, clearly have some grudge against Boyle. And for that reason, they’re now doing anything in their power to find out where he is. As for how Manning fits into this, I’ve got no idea.”

“Then why race to him like a battered wife back to her abuser?”

“What’re my other choices, Rogo? Go to the FBI, where O’Shea works? Or the Service, where The Roman is? Or better yet, I can go to the local authorities and tell them I saw dead man walking. Ten minutes after that happens, you think O’Shea and his little posse won’t show up with their federal badges, take me into private custody, and put a bullet in the back of my head claiming I was trying to escape?”

“That’s not even—”

“It is true and you know it’s true, Rogo! These guys went after one of the most powerful men in the White House at a stadium filled with 200,000 people. You think they won’t slice my neck open on some deserted road in Palm Beach?”

“Tell him not to mention my name to Manning,” Dreidel calls out in the background.

“Dreidel wants you to—”

“I heard him,” I interrupt, twisting the steering wheel into a sharp left on Via Las Brisas. As I curve around a well-manicured divider, the street narrows, and the privacy hedges rise, stretching as tall as twenty feet and blocking my view of all the multimillion-dollar homes hidden behind them. “Rogo, I know you don’t agree, but for the past two days, the only reason I stayed away from Manning is because O’Shea and Micah convinced me to. D’you understand? The man’s been by my side for eight years, and the only reason I doubted him is because they—two strangers with badges—told me to. No offense, but after all our time together, Manning deserves better than that.”

“That’s fine, Wes, but let’s be clear about one thing: Manning hasn’t been by your side for eight years. You’ve been by his.”

I shake my head and pull up to the last house on my right. For security reasons, they don’t allow parking in the driveway, so I head for the shoulder of the grassy divider and park directly behind a navy-blue rental car that’s already there. His guests are early — which means, as I hop out and rush across the street, I’m officially late.

Even before I stop at the ten-foot-high, double-planked wooden fence, the intercom that’s hidden in the shrubs crackles. “Can I help you?” a deep voice asks.

“Hey there, Ray,” I call out to the agent on duty. “It’s Wes.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Rogo pleads through my phone.

He’s never been more wrong. This is exactly what I need to do. Not for Manning. For me. I need to know.

A metallic thunk unlocks the wooden gate, which slowly yawns open.

“Wes, at least just wait until we get through Boyle’s personnel file,” Rogo begs.

“You’ve been searching for four hours already — it’s enough. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Good-bye, Rogo,” I say, hanging up the phone. It’s so easy for someone outside the ring to tell a fighter how to fight his fight. But this is my fight. I just never realized it.

As I walk up the driveway, there’s no house number on the front door, and no mailbox to identify the occupants. But the four suit-and-tie Secret Service agents standing outside the garage are quite a giveaway. With Nico on the loose, they kept Manning at home. Fortunately, as I lift my chin and stare up at the pale blue British Colonial, I know where the former President lives.