The Book of Fate

114

Ten minutes after seven the following morning, under an overcast sky, I’m sitting alone in the backseat of a black Chevy Suburban that’s filled with enough new-car smell to tell me this isn’t from our usual fleet. Usually, that’s cause for excitement. Not after last night.

In the front seats, both agents sit uncomfortably silent the entire ride. Sure, they toss me some small talk—Your head okay? How’re you feeling? — but I’ve been around the Service long enough to know when they’re under orders to keep their mouths shut.

As we make the left onto Las Brisas, I spot the news vans and the reporters doing stand-ups. They gently push forward against the yellow tape as they see us coming, but the half dozen agents out front easily keep them at bay. On my left, as the car pulls up to the manicured shrubs out front, and the tall white wooden gate swings open, an Asian female reporter narrates—… once again: former First Lady Lenore Manning… — but gracefully steps back to give us room.

For the reporters and press, all they know is she’s dead and that Nico killed her. If they knew her hand in it… or what she did… an army of agents wouldn’t be able to hold them back. The Service, pretending to be clueless, said that since Nico was still out there, they thought it’d be safer to chauffeur me inside. It’s a pretty good lie. And when the agents knocked on my door this morning, I almost believed it.

As the gate slowly closes behind us, I know better than to turn around and give them a shot of my face for the morning news — especially with the cuts on my nose and the dark purple swelling in my eye. Instead, I study the Chicago-brick driveway that leads up to the familiar pale blue house. Flanking both sides of the Suburban, six agents I’ve never seen before watch the gate shut, making sure no one sneaks in. Then, as I open my door and step outside, they all watch me. To their credit, they turn away quickly, like they don’t know what’s going on. But when it comes to spotting lingering glances, I’m a black belt. As I head for the front door, every one of them takes another look.

“Wes, right?” an African-American agent with a bald head asks as he opens the front door and welcomes me inside. On most days, agents aren’t stationed in the house. Today is different. “He’s waiting for you in the library, so if you’ll just follow—”

“I know where it is,” I say, moving forward to cut around him.

He takes a step to the side, blocking my way. “I’m sure you do,” he says, throwing on a fake grin. Like the agents out front, he’s in standard suit and tie, but the microphone on his lapel… I almost miss it at first. It’s tinier than a small silver bead. They don’t give that kind of tech to guys on former-President duty. Whoever he is, he’s not from the Orlando field office. He’s from D.C. “If you’ll follow me…”

He pivots around, leading me down the center hallway, into the formal living room, and past the gold velvet sofa that yesterday held Madame Tussauds’ set of Leland Manning eyeballs.

“Here you go,” the agent adds, stopping at the double set of French doors on the far left side of the room. “I’ll be right here,” he says, motioning back to the main hallway. It’s not meant as a comfort.

Watching him leave, I bite the dead skin on the inside of my cheek and reach for the American eagle brass doorknob. But just as I palm the eagle, the doorknob turns by itself, and the door opens. I was so busy watching the agent, I didn’t see him. Our eyes lock instantly. This time, though, as I spot the brown with the splash of light blue, my stomach doesn’t plummet. And he doesn’t run.

Standing in the doorway and scratching his fingers against the tiny stubble on his head, Boyle forces an unconvincing smile. From what Rogo told me late last night, I should’ve known he’d be here. Silly me, though, I actually thought I’d be first. Then again, that’s always been my problem when it comes to the President.

Stepping forward and closing the door behind him, Boyle blocks me even worse than the Service. “Listen, Wes, do you… uh… do you have a sec?”

The President’s expecting me in the library. But for the first time since I’ve been in Leland Manning’s personal orbit, well, for once… he can wait. “Sure,” I say.

Boyle nods me a thank-you and scratches from his head down to his cheek. This is hard for him. “You should put a warm compress on it,” he finally says. Reading my confusion, he adds, “For your eye. Everyone thinks cold is better, but the next day, warm helps more.”

I shrug, unconcerned with my appearance.

“By the way, how’s your friend?” Boyle asks.

“My friend?”

“The reporter. I heard she got shot.”

“Lisbeth? Yeah, she got shot,” I say, staring at Boyle’s sharpened features. “The one in her hand was the worst.”

Boyle nods, glancing down at the old stigmata scar at the center of his own palm. He doesn’t linger on it, though.

“Wes, I–I’m sorry I had to keep you in the dark like that. In Malaysia, when I was trying to get to Manning… All these years, I thought he might’ve screwed me — that maybe he was The Fourth — so to find the crossword… to see it was her — and then when I saw you, I just — I panicked. And when O’Shea and Micah started trailing you…”

He waits for me to complete the thought — to yell at him for using me as bait these past few days. To blame him for the lies, for the deception… for every ounce of guilt he dumped on my shoulders for eight years. But as I stare across at him… as I see the deep circles under his eyes and the pained vertical line etched between his brows… Last night, Ron Boyle won. He got everyone — The Roman… Micah and O’Shea… even the First Lady — everyone he’d hunted for so long. But it’s painful to see him now, anxiously licking his lips. There’s no joy in his features, no victory on his face. Eight years after his ordeal began, all that’s left is an aged man with crummy nose and chin jobs, a haunted vacancy in his eyes, and an unstoppable need to keep checking every nearby door and window, which he does for the third time since we started talking.

Suffering is bad. Suffering alone is far worse.

My jaw clenches as I try to find the words. “Listen, Ron…”

“Wes, don’t pity me.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he insists. “I’m standing right in front of you, and you’re still mourning me like I’m gone. I can see it in your face.”

He’s talking about the swell of tears in my eyes. But he’s reading it wrong. I shake my head and try to tell him why, but the words feel like they’re stapled in my throat.

He says something else to make me feel better, but I don’t hear it. All I hear are the words that’re trapped within me. The words I’ve practiced in my sleep at night — every night — and in my mirror every morning, knowing full well they’d never get to leave my lips. Until this moment.

I swallow hard and again hear the crowd at the speedway that day. Everyone happy, everyone waving, until pop, pop, pop, there it is, the scream in C minor as the ambulance doors close. I swallow hard again and slowly, finally, the screams begin to fade as the first few syllables leave my lips.

“Ron,” I begin, already panting hard. “I–I…”

“Wes, you don’t have to—”

I shake my head and cut him off. He’s wrong. I do. And after nearly a decade, as the tears stream down my face, I finally get my chance. “Ron, I… I’m sorry for putting you in the limo that day,” I tell him. “I know it’s stupid — I just — I need you to know I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, Ron,” I plead as my voice cracks and the tears drip from my chin. “I’m so sorry I put you in there.”

Across from me, Boyle doesn’t respond. His shoulders rise, and for a moment, he looks like the old Boyle who screamed in my face that burning July day. As I wipe my cheeks, he continues staring at me, keeping it all to himself. I can’t read him. Especially when he doesn’t want to be read. But even the best facades crack in time.

He rubs his nose and tries to hide it, but I still spot the quivering of his chin and the heartbroken arch of his eyebrows.

“Wes,” he eventually offers, “no matter what car you put me in, that bullet was always going to hit my chest.”

I look up, still fighting to catch my breath. Over the years, my mom, Rogo, my shrinks, Manning, even the lead investigator from the Service, told me the exact same thing. But Ron Boyle was the one I needed to hear it from.

Within seconds, a tentative smile spreads across my face. I spot my own reflection in the glass panels of the French doors. The smile itself is crooked, broken, and only lifts one of my cheeks. But for the first time in a long time, that’s plenty.

That is, until I spot the flash of movement and the familiar posture on the other side of the glass. With a twist, the brass eagle doorknob once again turns, and the door opens inward, behind Boyle’s back. Boyle turns, and I look up. Towering above us, President Manning sticks his head out and nods at me with an awkward hello. His mane of gray hair is matted just enough that I can tell it’s unwashed; the whites of his eyes are crackling with red. His wife died last night. He hasn’t slept ten minutes.

“I should go,” Boyle offers. From what I heard last night, he’s blaming his death and reappearance on Nico and The Three. Not The Four. For that alone, Manning’ll make him a hero. I’m not sure I blame him. But as Manning knows, I deal with things differently than Boyle.

Before I can say a word, Boyle walks past me, offers a quick shoulder pat, and casually leaves the room, like he’s going to lunch. The problem is, I’m the one about to be eaten.

On most days, Manning would simply head back into the library and expect me to follow. Today, he opens the door wider and motions me inside. “There you are, Wes,” the President says. “I was starting to worry you weren’t coming.”