The Book of Fate

68

What, now you don’t believe me?” Lisbeth calls out.

“Just c’mon… let’s go,” I say, cutting between two tourists and running past the ice cream store on our way to the docks. She wasn’t happy when I asked her how she knew what Micah looked like, but it’s tough to argue with her answer.

“Wes, when we were at the newspaper, they drove right past me in the garage,” she insists. “I was hiding right by the entrance — your idea, remember? — waiting for them to leave so I could pick you up. Any of this sounding familiar?”

If I were Rogo, I’d ask her how she knew which was Micah and which was O’Shea.

“I believe you,” I tell her as I leap down two short steps and my feet slap against the wood of the docks. Over the past two days, I could’ve easily described Micah and O’Shea. More important, with everything we’ve been through, everything she’s seen… After eight years of dealing with political schemers, I’m fluent in bullshit. Far as I can tell, Lisbeth doesn’t speak a word of it.

“Wes, if I wanted to burn you—”

“I know — I just had to ask, okay?”

“But if you—”

“Lisbeth, I swear — we’re fine,” I call out, weaving through the maze of docks, back toward the yacht that holds our helicopter. “I swear to you. If we weren’t, you wouldn’t be holding the picture.”

As she runs behind me, the photo we swiped from Kenny flaps in the wind. It’s the only proof we have that Micah was there that day — and the main reason we darted out Kenny’s back door. For the past two days, O’Shea and Micah have played relatively nice in the vain hope that I’d help them get Boyle and Manning. But if they find out we know the truth… that one of them is actually CIA… that he was there at the racetrack and potentially part of The Three… I glance over my shoulder at Lisbeth, who’s glancing over her shoulder at the mostly empty docks. Whoever they were shooting at that day, Micah and O’Shea weren’t afraid to send bullets at the most powerful men in the world. I don’t even want to think how fast they’d make us disappear.

“You think they’re close?” Lisbeth asks, her voice shaking.

Right now it’s the only question that matters. To answer it, I slam the brakes, stopping short right in front of a small wooden hut no bigger than a phone booth. “Keep going,” I say to Lisbeth, waving her along. “Tell Tommaso to get our ride ready. We need to leave now!”

She slows down, already worried I’m ditching her. “Then why’re you—?”

“Just looking for our friends,” I insist, shooting her a look as a man in a blue button-down and a wide-brimmed straw hat steps out of the hut. As dockmaster, he assigns all the boats to their different slips. Which means he sees every person coming and going. Lisbeth takes the hint and keeps running.

“Signing in or heading out?” the man asks, angling his hat back to reveal a mess of muddy tobacco chew in his mouth.

“Actually, was wondering if you happened to see some buddies of mine — probably just came in on a seaplane or helicopter from Palm Beach.”

“Sorry, we don’t log departure cities,” he says quickly.

“What about in the last hour? Anybody new fly in?”

“Naw, we been pretty quiet all morning.”

“You’re sure?”

The dockmaster studies me, checking out my shirt, my slacks, even my shoes. He grins slightly and two dimples dot his cheeks.

“Positive, Dapper Dan. Nobody’s flown in ’cept the billionaires in back,” he says, motioning to our black and cream helicopter at the far end of the docks.

Nodding a thank-you, I dart back toward the yacht and breathe the smallest sigh of relief. At least for now, no one knows we’re here — and as long as we have that… as long as they don’t know what we found… we’ve finally got the advantage.

“Tommaso, you ready?” I call out to the back deck of the yacht.

“Waiting for you, sir,” he calls back with a thumbs-up sign.

“Where’s Lisbeth?”

He points to the glass cabin right next to him. Lisbeth’s inside with her back to the glass. I don’t blame her. Better to be out of sight than be spotted.

Scrambling up the metal steps two at a time, I leap for the door on the main deck and shove it open. “Good news,” I say. “I think we’re sa—”

Lisbeth spins around, her hands fighting to stuff what looks like a small cell phone into her purse.

“This for you or for him?” Kenny’s voice echoes from the device.

“Me. I swear—” my own voice says. She hits a button and the playback stops with the loud pop of a… tape recorder.

My mouth gapes open, and my chest caves in.

Lisbeth looks at me, her wide eyes already shoveling up the apology.

“Wes, before you say anything,” she pleads, stuffing the recorder into her bag.

“You were recording us?”

“It’s not how y—”

“How long were you doing it?”

“It’s not for attribution — just to keep my notes strai—”

“That’s not the question.”

“Listen, Wes — you… you knew I’d be writing the story. That was our deal.”

“How long?”

“You told me it was our deal.”

“Dammit, Lisbeth! How fucking long?”

She watches me carefully, then turns away to avoid the conflict. With her back to me, she stares out at the drumming waves of the Gulf of Mexico. “Since you walked in this morning,” she eventually whispers.

“Including the helicopter ride here?”

She freezes, finally realizing what I’m getting at. Every reporter has a line they promise themselves they’ll never cross. From the look on her face as she turns back to me, Lisbeth just skipped, hurdled, and jumped over it. “I never would’ve used that stuff, Wes.”

My legs buckle, barely able to hold my weight.

“You know that’s true, right?” she asks, reaching out for my shoulder.

As I pull away, an adrenaline surge crackles under my skin. I grit my teeth so tightly, I swear I have feeling in my lip again instead of just phantom pain. “Gimme the recorder,” I growl.

She doesn’t move.

“Gimme the damn recorder!”

Fumbling as she pulls it from her purse, she offers a look that says, You don’t have to do this. But I’m done believing. I snatch the recorder from her hand and stride back to the deck.

“Wes, I know you don’t believe this, but I never meant to hur—”

“Don’t say it!” I snap, whipping back to face her and jamming a finger at her face. “You knew what you were doing! You knew it!”

Shoving my way outside and plowing toward the stern of the yacht, I cross over to the far railing, chuck the tape recorder into the water, and pivot back toward the helicopter.

“Everything okay?” Tommaso asks as he holds the helicopter door open and ushers us inside.

“Perfect,” I snap. “Just get us the hell out of here.”