The Book of Fate

70

Listen, I’m kinda busy,” Kenny said as he closed the door on O’Shea and Micah. “Maybe you can come back another—”

O’Shea jammed his foot in the doorway, forcing it open. From his pocket, he pulled his FBI badge and slid it through the opening toward Kenny’s nose. “Now is actually a better time for us,” O’Shea insisted. He wasn’t surprised by Kenny’s reaction. After family, old friends were the hardest to crack.

Kenny’s Popeye eye glared at Micah, then back to O’Shea’s badge. “Wes is a good kid,” he insisted.

“No one said he wasn’t,” O’Shea replied as he and Micah stepped inside. O’Shea quickly scanned the kitchen. It didn’t matter that Wes was gone. What mattered was what he saw while he was here.

“So you from Key West?” Micah asked as he made eye contact with his partner. Micah stayed in the kitchen. O’Shea took the living room.

“No one’s from Key West,” Kenny shot back, already riled.

“Then where do you know Wes from?” O’Shea asked as he approached the wall of black-and-white wedding photos.

“D’you mind telling me what this is about?” Kenny asked.

“These are beautiful,” O’Shea replied, stepping toward a shot of a short-haired bride playfully biting the ear of her groom. “You take these?”

“I did, but—”

“Did you work at the White House with Wes?” Micah interrupted, keeping him off balance.

“Kinda,” Kenny replied. “I was there as a—”

“Photographer,” O’Shea blurted as he scooped up the framed photo of President Manning checking his reflection in the White House water pitcher. “I remember this one. You’re a hotshot, aren’t you, Mr. — I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

“I never gave it to you,” Kenny said.

“Well, why don’t we fix that?” O’Shea demanded, laying the silver frame flat down on its back. “I’m Agent O’Shea and you’re…”

“Kenny. Kenny Quinn.”

“Wait… Kenny Quinn?” Micah asked. “How do I know that name?”

“You don’t,” Kenny said. “Not unless you’re a photo editor or working the White House press pool.”

“Actually, I spent some time in D.C.,” Micah said, leaving the kitchen and heading toward Kenny in the living room.

Just behind Kenny, O’Shea eyed the closed three-ring binder on the cocktail table.

“You’re the guy who won the award, didn’t you?” Micah asked, working hard to hold Kenny’s attention.

“The Pulitzer,” Kenny replied dryly.

“So you were there that day?” Micah asked.

“At the racetrack? There were plenty of us there.”

“But you’re the one who took the photo, right? The Cowardly Lion photo?”

“I’m sorry,” Kenny said, turning back toward O’Shea, “but until you tell me what you’re looking for, I don’t think I shou—”

A hushed hiss carved through the air, and a dark red bullet hole singed Kenny’s skin as it pierced his forehead. As Kenny crumpled lifelessly to the floor, Micah stared at O’Shea, who had his gun in one hand and the open three-ring binder in the other.

“You nuts!?” Micah exploded.

“They IDed you, Micah.”

“What’re you talking about? There’s no way!”

“Really? Then what the hell is this?” O’Shea shouted, tapping his gun against an empty Mylar protective sleeve in the binder.

“There could’ve been anything in—”

“Not the sleeve—underneath!” O’Shea said as he flipped aside the empty sheet to reveal a clear view of the photo on the next page. “You’re telling me that’s not you?” he asked, pointing to the enormous crowd shot where, when you looked closely enough, Micah was tucked away, glancing to the side.

“It’s… it’s not possible — we bought every photo out there… went through every tape…”

“Well obviously, there were a few more Kenny decided to keep in his collection! Don’t you get it, Micah? Wes knows! He’s got the thread of the sweater — and when he starts pulling, you’re gonna be the first one they look at!”

“Big deal, so they ask me a few questions. You know I’ll never say anything. But this… y’know what kinda avalanche you just started?”

“Don’t worry,” O’Shea said calmly. “If I set the bodies right, it’ll just look like a botched robbery.”

“Bodies?” Micah asked, confused. “What’re you talking about? You’ve got more than one?”

O’Shea raised his gun and pointed it straight at his partner’s chest.

Following years of training, Micah spun to his right, then leaped like a cheetah at O’Shea. The way Micah’s pointer and middle fingers were curled — like claws — it was clear he was aiming for O’Shea’s eyes.

O’Shea was impressed. No doubt, Micah was fast. But no one was that fast.

As O’Shea tugged the trigger, his fair blond hair glowed in the afternoon Key West sun. “Sorry, Micah.”

There was a soft ssstt. Then a grunt.

And The Three became The Two.