The Book of Fate

90

Let’s go, Wes. Out,” O’Shea says, gripping the shoulder of my shirt and dragging me from the Subaru. As I stumble across the asphalt of the parking lot, I realize the car’s still running. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t think this’ll take long.

“Keep going… toward the fence,” he adds, barely a step behind. His gun is no longer out in the open. But through the outline in his jacket pocket, it’s still clearly pointed at me.

We head toward the back corner of the parking lot, where there’s an opening in the tall shrubs that leads to a shaded dog run that runs parallel to the lot. The dog run is narrow and not too long. But tucked behind the shrubs, it’ll keep us out of sight.

“So Key West,” O’Shea says, still right behind me. “Your buddy Kenny says hi.”

I glance over my shoulder just as we reach the two lampposts that flank the entrance to the dog run. O’Shea offers a smug grin, but the way his sandy-blond hair is matted to his head, he’s had a tougher day than he’s saying. The drizzle of rain looks like beads of sweat across his pug nose.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, turning back to face him.

He doesn’t even bother calling me on it. “Where’s the photo you took, Wes?”

“I told you, I don’t—”

In a blur, his fist cocks me in the face, jamming into my left eye and sending me crashing to the muddy path. As I skid backward on my butt through the damp grass, my whole eye socket’s throbbing, like a just-rung bell.

“I know you have the photo. Hand it over, and you’re free to go.”

“It-it’s in the glove compartment,” I say, pointing to the car with one hand and holding my eye with the other.

He glances back at the Subaru just as two more cars glide into the parking lot. Their headlights are on, slicing through the early darkness and turning the light drizzle into tiny fireworks that flicker in the distance. Fellow tenants coming home from their day’s work. Planting his foot on my shoulder, O’Shea studies the entire scene like he’s reading someone’s palm.

Without a word, he reaches down, grips the front of my shirt, and pulls me to my feet. Even before I get my balance, he whips me around, and I crash chest-first into the nearest tree. My cheek scrapes against the bark, momentarily forcing me to forget the pain in my eye.

Behind me, O’Shea kicks my legs apart and starts frisking through my pockets, tossing the contents to the ground: wallet, house keys, the folded-up sheet of paper with Manning’s daily schedule on it.

“What’re you doing?” I ask as he pats my chest and works his way down my legs. “I told you it’s in the glove compar—”

There’s a soft crackle as his fingers pat my ankle.

I look down at him. He looks up at me.

I try to fight free of his grip, but he’s too strong. Choking my ankle, he hikes up my pant leg, revealing the glossy black-and-white photo that’s curled around my shin, the top half of it sticking out of my sock.

Enraged, O’Shea rips it free and shoves me aside. His anger swells as he stares down at the speedway photo of Micah, crumpling the corner of it in his hand — but just as quickly, he finds his calm and catches his breath. Relieved that he’s not in it, he locks back on me. The fact I’m still alive means the photo isn’t the only thing he’s here for.

“Where’s Lisbeth?” he asks.

“We had a disagreement.”

“But she still let you use her car? Sounds like she’s being plenty helpful.”

“If you want to know if she’s writing a story—”

“I want to know where she is, Wes. Now. And don’t say I don’t know.”

“But I don—”

“Don’t say I don’t know!” he shouts, pulling his gun and pointing it directly at my face. Lowering his voice, he adds, “I know you were speaking to her about the crossword. Now—”

There’s a crack of broken sticks and a jingle that sounds like Christmas bells. Behind O’Shea, through the opening that leads to the parking lot, a short woman in a pin-striped business suit shakes a metal dog leash as she leads her fluffy beach-colored cocker spaniel through the entrance of the dog run.

Before the woman even realizes what’s happening, O’Shea crosses his arms, hiding his gun under his armpit.

“Sorry,” the woman says, laughing nervously as she ducks down and cuts between us. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem at all,” O’Shea replies, turning just enough that she never gets a clear look at his face. “We’re just waiting for our dogs to come back — they love running down to the end.”

The woman nods, glancing back just long enough to see that neither of us is carrying a leash. Quickly turning away and pretending not to notice, she follows her dog’s lead as she’s tugged to a small patch of grass about ten feet away.

I’m tempted to run. She’s a perfect distraction — and a witness. But as O’Shea lowers his chin and his hazel eyes disappear in the darkness of his brow, I hear the message loud and clear. If I make a move, he’ll kill her too.

“Good girl, Murphy — there you go,” the woman says, tugging the dog back between us and reentering the parking lot. For a full minute, we watch her from behind as she crosses the lot and heads for the back door of the building. The woman looks at her dog, at her watch, for her keys — but to her credit, she never looks back. With a faint crack, the metal door to the building slams, and the woman disappears. O’Shea’s arms unfold, and his gun goes right back to my face.

“Sorry, Wes,” O’Shea says as he pulls back the hammer of his gun. “This is gonna sting.”

“Wait… what’re you doing?” I ask, stumbling backward into a nearby tree.

The light rain taps against his face, but he barely notices. His fair skin shines with a yellow glow in the darkness.

“O’Shea, if you do this… the investigation they’ll open: You’ll never be able to cover it up.”

O’Shea grins as his finger tightens on the trigger. “Funny. That’s what they said to us last ti—”

Pop, pop, pop.

The sound hiccups through the air. My body goes cold. Not from pain. From the sound. Pop, pop, pop—an echo from the past — firing now.

Across from me, O’Shea, a look of angry surprise frozen on his face, shudders and shifts, crashing backward into the lamppost. He slaps his shoulder like he’s slapping a bug bite. His knees start to buckle. His head dips slightly to the side. Still, it’s not until I spot the blood coming from his shoulder that I even realize he’s been shot. His blood looks black in the dim light as it runs down his suit.

“Nuuh!” O’Shea grunts as his head slams back into the lamppost. His gun drops to the muddy ground. The way he’s teetering and leaning on the lightpost, he’s about to follow. Behind me, there’s another crunch of broken sticks. Before I even register the sound, a tall blurred shadow in a black windbreaker races past me, right for O’Shea.

“Move, Wes! Move!” the shadow shouts, ramming his forearm into my back and shoving me out of the way. But as I slip on the grass and fight for my own balance, there’s no mistaking that voice. The voice from Malaysia… from the warning on my phone…

Boyle.