The Book of Fate

101

It took him six seconds to flick the four pins and pop the rusted old padlock, and that was with an umbrella in his hand. He knew there was no alarm — that was why he’d come by earlier. Indeed, as the lock sprang open, he quietly tugged the rusted metal chain and unthreaded it from the iron front gates of the cemetery without even looking to see if anyone was coming. With a final push, he shoved the gates open just enough for the two of them to squeeze inside.

“This is where you—? Who would possibly meet you here?”

“Just trust me,” the man said, tipping his umbrella back and glancing up at the ornate stone archway that framed the gates. Sandblasted into the stone, in classic block letters, was the one epitaph that had been on the cemetery’s entrance since it was built two hundred years ago: That which is so universal as death must be a blessing. “Wait here,” he said.

“Why? Where’re you going?” his partner asked, shielded under a separate umbrella and carefully hanging back. “You’re not leaving me in a graveyard.”

“What I’m leaving you is out of sight,” the man insisted, knowing that Wes had to be here already. “If you want me to clean up this mess — which I assume you do — I suggest you stay here until I tell you it’s clear.” Leaving his partner behind, he eyed the floodlit flagpole that bathed the main entrance in light, then quickly cut left and plowed across a plot of graves. Ignoring the stone pathways, he strode toward the south end of the cemetery, using the trees for cover.

Behind him, he could hear his partner following, holding back far enough to stay hidden. But still following. Good. That’s what he needed.

Heading toward Wes, he stopped behind a cracked limestone column on the corner of a crypt with a pointed cathedral roof. To his right, across from the crypt, a small gray 1928 headstone for someone named J. G. Anwar was engraved with a Masonic and a five-pointed star. Hidden in the darkness, he couldn’t help but grin at the irony. How perfect.

Still ignoring his partner creeping twenty feet behind him, he peered around the crypt as the tines of his umbrella scratched against the mushy wet moss that was slowly working its way up the limestone column. Diagonally across the graveyard, at the base of an oversize banyan tree, Wes’s single thin shadow paced back and forth, hunched under his own crooked umbrella.

“That him?” his partner whispered, quickly catching up and staying hidden by the crypt.

“I told you t—”

But before he could get the words out, the shadow by the grave pivoted toward him, and he could immediately tell who it was. The ankles were the giveaway.

The man’s fist tightened on his umbrella handle. His eyes narrowed, and as he leaned forward, the umbrella tines scratched deeper against the mossy crypt. With a burst, he raced forward. That stupid motherf—

“Wait… where’re you—?”

“Stay here!” he seethed at his partner, this time meaning it. All this time… All he needed was for Wes to be alone. Half running, he cut diagonally across a row of graves. He knew full well they’d hear him coming.

Sure enough, the shadow turned his way, lifting its umbrella and revealing a glint of auburn hair.

“Boyle, that you?” Lisbeth called out. Getting no answer, she cocked her head, squinting into the darkness. “Boyle…?”

Barely ten feet away, the man reached into his pocket and used his good hand — his left hand — to grab his gun.

“Boyle, just relax,” Lisbeth said, backing up as the man approached, his face still hidden by his umbrella. For a split second, he ducked under a wayward branch that caught the umbrella and pulled it aside. The instant Lisbeth saw his jet-black hair, she knew she was in trouble. According to Wes, Boyle was bald. “Listen, whoever you are, I’m just here to—”

Ramming through a row of bushes and bursting from the darkness, he pulled his gun, pointed it at Lisbeth’s chest, and stepped in so close, he forced her back against a tall clay-colored headstone with a carved Celtic cross on top.

“I don’t care why the hell you’re here,” The Roman exploded, knocking her umbrella from her hand. As he moved closer, his skin glowed as gray as the headstones. “But if you don’t tell me where Wes is, I swear to my God, you’ll be begging me to blow your face off.”

Frozen in shock, Lisbeth glanced over The Roman’s shoulder and spotted his associate stepping between the bushes.

The reporter’s mouth sagged open as the final member of The Four came forward.