The Book of Fate

85

The First Lady starts to say something, but it’s like she’s talking underwater. Teetering backward, I crash into the desk with all the Manning photos, which wobble and shake. Like me. To do that to me— The room whirls, and my life swirls into the kaleidoscope. All these years… to lie to my— God, how could he—? There’s no time for an answer. From the footsteps outside the bedroom, it’s clear the President is almost at the top of the stairs. If he sees me with her—

“Wes?” he calls out.

“Coming, sir!” I yell as I rush to his closet, tug a navy sport coat off its hanger, and shoot one last look at the First Lady, who’s still frozen on the hand-painted trunk. Her eyebrows lift, her cheeks seem almost hollow. She doesn’t say a word, but the cry for help is deafening.

“He’d never — he wouldn’t do that — not on purpose,” she whispers as I drop Boyle’s note back in her lap. Nodding repeatedly, she’s already convincing herself. “In fact, maybe… maybe he was tricked. Maybe he got approached by The Roman and he didn’t realize who he was talking to. He would look like a real agent, right? So — so — so maybe they got worried that Ron was taking so long, and they tried a more manipulative route that went straight to the top branch of the tree. And then… he could’ve thought he was actually helping the Service. Maybe — maybe he didn’t even realize what he’d done.”

I nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it wasn’t intentional. Maybe it was Manning’s greatest, most horrible mistake that he prayed would somehow go away. The problem is, I can still picture the President on his last walk across the South Lawn, clutching the First Lady’s hand and refusing to look back as they headed for Marine One. Back then, the leaks from our own staff said she was more devastated than he was. But I was there. I saw how tightly he was squeezing her fingers.

The President’s footsteps are nearly at the top of the stairs.

I wobble toward the door, burst into the hallway, and make a sharp right, almost ramming into the President’s chest.

“H-Here you go, sir,” I say as I skid to a halt, my arm outstretched with his navy blazer.

He takes another step toward me. I stand my ground, making sure he doesn’t go any farther.

For a moment, Manning’s eyes narrow, his famous grays flattening into matching icy slivers. But just as quickly, a broad, warm smile lifts his cheeks and reveals a hint of yellow on his teeth. “By the way, have you seen the wigs yet?” he asks, referring to the Madame Tussauds folks downstairs. “They brought the one from when we left office. I’m telling you, Wes, it’s grayer than I am now. I think I’m getting younger.”

I force a laugh and head for the stairs before he gets a good look at me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, barely a step behind.

“No… nothing,” I say, motioning with the navy sport coat and feeling a flush of hot blood rushing through my neck. “I just wanted to be sure I didn’t give away one of your good jackets.”

“I appreciate your looking out for the wax me,” he teases, putting a hand on my shoulder. That’s the move. Hand on shoulder for instant intimacy and guaranteed trust. I’ve seen him use it on prime ministers, senators, congressmen, even on his own son. Now he’s using it on me.

Halfway down the stairs, I pick up my pace. He stays right with me. Even if working with The Roman was his mistake, to lie to my face every single— Is that why he kept me here? Penance for his own guilt?

In my pocket, my phone starts vibrating. I pull it out and check the phone’s tiny screen. Text message:

A second later, the phone vibrates in my hand. “Excuse me one second, sir,” I say to the President. “It’s Claudia, who— Hello?” I say, answering the phone.

“You need to get out of there,” Lisbeth says.

“Hey, Claudia. I did? Okay, hold on one sec.” Nearing the bottom step, I keep Lisbeth on hold and turn back to Manning, feeling like my body’s on fire. “She says I left my house keys in her office. I’m sorry, sir, but if it’s okay, I may just run back there and—”

“Relax, Wes, I’m a big boy,” he says with a laugh, his shoulder grasp turning into a quick, forceful back pat that almost knocks me off the bottom step. “Go do what you have to. I’ve handled one or two problems bigger than this.”

Handing him his sport coat, I laugh right back and head for the front door. I can feel the President’s eyes burning into the back of my head.

“By the way, Wes, do me a favor and let the Service know where you’re going too,” he says loud enough so the agents outside can hear. “Just in case they need to get in touch.”

“Of course, sir,” I say as I jog down the front steps.

“You alone yet?” Lisbeth asks through the phone.

The moment the door slams behind me, the two suit-and-tie agents who’re standing outside the garage look up.

“Everything okay?” the shorter agent, Stevie, asks.

“Don’t look suspicious,” Lisbeth says through the phone. “Tell him you forgot your keys.”

“Yeah, no… I forgot my keys,” I say, speed-walking to the tall wooden privacy gate at the end of the driveway and pretending that everything I’ve built my life on isn’t now coming apart. My breathing starts to gallop. I’ve known Stevie for almost three years. He doesn’t care whether I check in or not. But as I reach the gate and wait for it to slide open, to my surprise, it doesn’t move.

“So where you headed to, Wes?” Stevie calls out.

“Wes, listen to me,” Lisbeth pleads. “Thanks to your low-life friend Dreidel, I found another puzzle. Are you listening?”

I turn back to the two men, who’re still standing in front of the closed garage and the matching Chevy Suburbans parked a few feet away. Stevie’s hand disappears into his pants pocket. It’s not until that moment that I realize that on the night I first saw Boyle, Stevie was driving the lead car in Malaysia. “Wes,” he says coldly. “I asked you a—”

“Just back to the office,” I blurt. Spinning clumsily to the gate, I stare at the double-plank wooden slats that keep people from looking in. I grip the phone to stop my hand from shaking. The sun’s about to set in the purple-orange sky. Behind me, there’s a metallic click. My heart leaps.

“See you soon,” Stevie calls out. There’s a loud rrrrrr as the wooden gate rolls to the right, sliding open just enough for me to squeeze through.

“I’m out,” I whisper to Lisbeth.

“Fine — then pay attention. Do you have the old puzzle on you?”

Staggering across the street to the car, I don’t answer. All I see is Manning’s grin and his yellow Chiclet teeth—

“Wes! Did you hear what I said!?” she shouts. “Take out the original one!”

Nodding even though she can’t see me, I reach into my pocket and hastily unfold the original crossword.

“See the handwritten initials down the center?” she asks. “M, A, R, J…”

“Manning, Albright, Rosenman, Jeffer… what about them?”

“He’s got the same list on the new puzzle. Same initials down the middle. Same order. Same everything.”

“Okay, so? Now there’re two lists of top senior staff,” I say, stopping just outside the car. I have to lean against the door to keep standing.

“No. Pay attention, Wes. Same everything. Including those scribbles down the side.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“On the left — before each set of initials: the four dots in a square, the little oval, the cross with a slash through it…”

I look at each one:

“The chicken scratch?”

“That’s the thing, Wes,” she says, deadly serious. “I don’t think it’s chicken scratch. Unless he’s got some majorly smart chickens.”