The Book of Fate

55

Flat on my back underneath a silver Audi, I press my chin to my chest and stare out between the back tires and sagging muffler into the silence of the Palm Beach Post’s parking garage. It’s been nearly fifteen minutes since Rogo and Dreidel pulled out in my Toyota. And nearly fourteen minutes since O’Shea and Micah’s blue Chevy slinked down the incline of the garage and trailed Rogo out to the street.

Based on the mic in my lapel pin, we knew we were dealing with pros. Dreidel said it was the FBI. We needed to see if he was right.

When Dreidel and I first came down to my car, I pulled out my keys and popped the locks. But it wasn’t until I gripped the door handle that I spotted his shadow underneath. Below the car, Rogo stuck his head out like a mechanic and pumped his eyebrows.

“You owe me a new suit,” he’d whispered from a puddle of grease.

All he needed was ten minutes of lead time to crawl on his stomach underneath the cars.

“You’re lucky I fit,” he’d said.

Looking up at the grease- and dirt-caked axle directly above me, he was right about that. Just like he was right that if we pulled it off fast enough, no one would notice.

I had to step back to give him some room, but from there, Rogo was a pro. I pulled open the car door just as he rolled out from underneath. Dropping my keys covered most of the sound. Even I started to get excited. Climbing to his knees, Rogo held up his fingers to count. One… two…

In one quick motion, I ducked down to pick up my keys just as Rogo popped up in my place and slid into my car.

“No, you’re right,” I’d called out from the ground to complete the illusion. With a quick roll, I went under the car next to mine, which is where I’ve been ever since. Houdini would’ve been proud.

Staring out between the back tires, I turn on my side, and my elbow slides through the grease. By now, Rogo should have O’Shea and Micah halfway to Boca Raton. Still, I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that they were watching, or the fact we got rid of them. With Nico still out there… At least with the FBI around, I was safe.

As I’m about to roll out, there’s a faint creak on my left. Hushed… like corduroy rubbing together. Craning my neck and peering out from under the car, I search the pocked concrete floor of the garage. The sound’s long gone. But something else takes its place.

I know it from years of people’s stares. It’s even worse in public places — at a movie or in the supermarket — when they’re trying to pretend they don’t care. There’s no scientific term to explain it. But I feel it every day. At this point, I’ve probably honed it. That haunting tug at the back of your skull… the nearly telepathic scream that demands you turn around. That indescribable feeling when you know you’re being watched.

A single set of footsteps echoes through the garage, followed by the mild roar of another engine.

Right on time.

Tires churn and brakes squeal as the car flies in reverse up the ramp, backing halfway into my Toyota’s now-empty parking spot. Rolling out from my hiding place, I’m face-to-face with a full row of Grateful Dead bumper stickers, which lurch to a stop barely an inch from my forehead.

“Hey, magic man — David Copperfield called… wants to know if you can still sub for him next Thursday?” Lisbeth says, leaning out the driver’s-side window.

Most people would laugh, which is the only reason I force a grin. She doesn’t buy it for a second. Fake smiles are a gossip columnist’s bread and butter. Climbing to my feet, I brush the dirt from my clothes.

“If it makes you feel better, Wes, all the hiding and rolling under cars? That was the scary part.”

She waits for some plucky response like I’m some lantern-jawed action-movie hero. “That’s not even true,” I tell her.

Shaking her head, she studies me carefully. “Is it actually against the law to try and cheer you up?”

Again, she waits for a smile. Again, I don’t give it.

“Just get in the car, Wes. The only way we’re pulling this off is if we move fast.”

She’s right about that. Hopping in the passenger seat, I slam the door as Lisbeth tosses me a silver cell phone with a little ladybug sticker on it.

“I traded with a friend who writes for the gardening section,” she explains. “Now we’re untraceable.”

Refusing to celebrate, I flip open the phone and punch in the number.

“It’s a beautiful day in President Manning’s office. How can I help you?” the receptionist answers.

“Jana, it’s Wes. Can you put me through to Oren?”

“Hiya, Wes. Of course — transferring you to Oren right now.” There’s a soft click, two chirps, and then…

“This is Oren,” my officemate answers.

“How we looking?”

“They’re getting it set up right now,” he replies. He’s even faster than I thought. “All you have to do is go pick it up.”

I nod to Lisbeth. She rams the gas. And away we go.