The Book of Fate
Page 35
“Just back to the office,” I blurt. Spinning clumsily to the gate, I stare at the double-plank wooden slats that keep people from looking in. I grip the phone to stop my hand from shaking. The sun’s about to set in the purple-orange sky. Behind me, there’s a metallic click. My heart leaps.
“See you soon,” Stevie calls out. There’s a loud rrrrrr as the wooden gate rolls to the right, sliding open just enough for me to squeeze through.
“I’m out,” I whisper to Lisbeth.
“Fine—then pay attention. Do you have the old puzzle on you?”
Staggering across the street to the car, I don’t answer. All I see is Manning’s grin and his yellow Chiclet teeth—
“Wes! Did you hear what I said!?” she shouts. “Take out the original one!”
Nodding even though she can’t see me, I reach into my pocket and hastily unfold the original crossword.
“See the handwritten initials down the center?” she asks. “M, A, R, J . . .”
“Manning, Albright, Rosenman, Jeffer . . . what about them?”
“He’s got the same list on the new puzzle. Same initials down the middle. Same order. Same everything.”
“Okay, so? Now there’re two lists of top senior staff,” I say, stopping just outside the car. I have to lean against the door to keep standing.
“No. Pay attention, Wes. Same everything. Including those scribbles down the side.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“On the left—before each set of initials: the four dots in a square, the little oval, the cross with a slash through it . . .”
I look at each one:
“The chicken scratch?” “That’s the thing, Wes,” she says, deadly serious. “I don’t think it’s chicken scratch. Unless he’s got some majorly smart chickens.”
86
But those doodles,” I say as I study Manning’s scribbles on the side of the crossword.
“Are you listening?” Lisbeth shouts through the phone. “That’s what they wanted it to look like—random doodles and extra letters that make the hidden initials disappear. But if you look at this new crossword, the exact same scribbled images are in the exact same order. There’s nothing random about it, Wes! The four dots . . . the small oval—Manning was using them as some sort of message.”
“Why would—?”
“You said it yourself: Every politician needs allies—and every President needs to figure out who he can trust. Maybe this is how Manning ranked those closest to him. Y’know, like a report card.”
Nodding at the logic, I glance again at the list, mentally adding the real names.
“And no offense,” Lisbeth adds, “but your boy Dreidel? He’s a piece of shit. Real shit, Wes—as in beating-up-prostitutes-and-ramming-their-faces-into-mirrors kind of shit.”
As she relays Violet’s story, I can still picture the woman in the bathrobe peeking out from Dreidel’s hotel room. Still, to go from that to smashing faces . . . “You sure you can trust this Violet woman?” I ask.
“Look at the list,” Lisbeth says. “That is Manning’s handwriting, right?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Wes, c’mon! Is that Manning’s handwriting or not?”
“It’s his,” I say as my breathing again quickens.
“Exactly. So if he’s the one filling in this report card, then the grade he gives himself—those four dots—you think in his own personal ranking, he’s giving himself an A or a big, steaming F?”
“An A?” I say tentatively, staring at the : :.
“Absolutely an A. He’s the cipher. In fact, I’ll wager those four dots are a sparkling A+. Now look who else was lucky enough to get the exact same ranking.”
I look down at the list. It’s the first time I realize Manning and Dreidel are both ranked with four dots.
“Red rover, red rover, we call Dreidel right over,” Lisbeth says through the phone.
“Lisbeth, that doesn’t prove anything. So what if he trusted Dreidel more than any of the others?”
“Unless he trusted Dreidel to do what none of the others would.”
“Wait, so now Dreidel’s a legbreaker?”
“You were there, Wes. You’re telling me the President never had any personal issues that needed dealing with?”
“Of course, but those usually went to—” I cut myself off.
“What? Those were the problems that went to Boyle?”
“Yeah, they . . . they were supposed to. But what if that’s the point? What if they used to go to Boyle . . .”
“. . . and suddenly they stopped?”
“And suddenly they started going to Dreidel,” I say with a nod. “No one would even know the President made the switch unless . . .”
“. . . unless they happened to find their ranking on the list,” Lisbeth agrees, her voice now racing. “So when Boyle found this, when he saw that Dreidel and Manning were ranked together . . .”
“. . . he could see the real ranking of the totem pole.”
An hour ago, I would’ve told Lisbeth she’s crazy—that there’s no way the President and Dreidel were scheming together. But now . . . I replay the last ten minutes in my head. What the First Lady said . . . what Boyle accused the President of . . . and what Lisbeth’s already confirming . . . if even half of it’s true . . . I inhale a warm burst of muggy air, then grit my teeth to slow my breathing. But it won’t slow down. My chest rises and falls. My neck, my face—I’m soaked.
Up the block, on the corner of County Road, there’s a white car with its blinker on, waiting to turn toward me.
“Get the hell out of there,” Lisbeth says.
“I’m leaving right now.”
Ripping the door open, I hop into the car and frantically claw through my pocket for my keys. I came here to confess . . . to get help from the biggest and the best. But now—with the President as The Fourth, and Dreidel feeding us directly to the Lion . . . I ram the key at the ignition, but the way my hand’s shaking, the key bounces off the steering column. I try again. Dammit, why won’t it—? I take another stab, and the tip of the key scratches across the metal column, pinching my fingertip. The pain’s sharp, like being jabbed with a needle. But as my eyes swell with tears, I know it’s not from the pain. Or at least not this pain.
A sob rises like a bubble in my throat. I again clench my teeth, but it won’t go down. No, don’t do this . . . not now, I beg as I press my forehead as hard as I can against the steering wheel. But as I picture the President—all these years—I didn’t just learn his shoe size and pillow preference. I know what he thinks: who annoys him, who he trusts, who he hates, even who he thinks is still using him. I know his goals, and what he’s afraid of, and what he dreams about, and what he hopes . . . what I hoped . . . The bubble in my throat bursts and my body begins to shake with silent, heaving sobs. After eight years . . . every single day . . . Oh, God—how could I not know this man?
“Wes, you there?” Lisbeth asks through the phone.
Still breathing heavily and fighting for calm, I swallow hard, sit up straight, and finally shove the key into the ignition. “One sec,” I whisper into the phone. Punching the gas, I feel the wheels gnaw through the grassy divider, eventually catching and whipping me forward. As I wipe the last tears from my eyes, I notice a Chinese restaurant menu tucked underneath my windshield wiper. Steering with one hand and lowering the window with the other, I flick on the wipers, reach outside, and nab the menu just as the wiper blade slings it across the glass. But as I toss the menu into the passenger seat, I spot familiar handwriting running across the back page of the menu, just below the coupons. I jam my foot against the brake, and the car skids to a halt a full twenty feet shy of the stop sign at the end of the block.
“You okay?” Lisbeth asks.
“Hold on . . .”
I dive for the menu. The handwriting’s unmistakable. Perfect tiny block letters.
Wes, turn around. Make sure you’re alone.
(Sorry for the melodrama)
“Did you find something?” Lisbeth asks.
Struggling to read the rest of the note, I can barely keep my hands from shaking.
You need to know what else he did. 7 p.m. at—
My eyes go wide when I see the location. Like before, it’s signed with a simple flourish. The tip of the R drags longer than the rest. Ron.
There’s a flush of sweet-sour wetness across the left half of my tongue. I touch my lip and spot the bright red liquid on my fingertips. Blood. I was biting my lip so hard, I didn’t even feel myself break the skin.
“What is it, Wes? What’s there?” Lisbeth asks, now frantic.
I’m about to tell her, but I catch myself, remembering what she’s done.
“Wes, what’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I say as I reread the note. “Just nervous.”
There’s a pause on the line. She’s been lied to by the best. I’m not even in the top ten. “Okay, what’re you not saying?” she asks.
“Nothing, I just—”
“Wes, if this is about the tape, I’m sorry. And if I could take it back—”
“Can we not talk about this?”
“I’m just trying to apologize. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me, Lisbeth. You just treated me like a story.”
For the second time, she’s silent. It’s cutting her deeper than I thought. “Wes, you’re right: This is a story. It’s a big story. But there’s one thing I need you to understand: That doesn’t mean it’s only a story to me.”
“And that’s it?” I ask. “You make the pretty speech, the musical score swells, and now I’m supposed to trust you again?”
“Of course not—if I were you, I wouldn’t trust anyone. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need help. Or friends. And just FYI, if I were trying to burn you, when I got the new crossword . . . when I got the Violet and Dreidel story . . . I would’ve called my editor instead of you.”
I think on that for a moment. Just like I think about our first ride in the helicopter.
“And remember that trade where you promised that you’d give me the story?” she asks. “Forget it. I’m off. I don’t even want it anymore.”
“You’re serious about that?”
“Wes, for the past ten minutes, my notepad has been in my purse.”
I believe Lisbeth. I think she’s telling the truth. And I’m convinced she’s trying to do the right thing. But after today . . . after Manning . . . after Dreidel . . . after damn near everyone . . . the only person I can really put my faith in is myself.
“What about your visit to the Mannings?” she adds. “They say anything I can help you with?”
I stare down at Boyle’s handwritten note and the signature with his long-tipped R.
“No—just the usual,” I reply, rereading the message for myself.
You need to know what else he did. 7 p.m.
87
What about your visit to the Mannings?” Lisbeth said into her phone as she walked briskly through the rain just outside the townhouse where she met Violet. “They say anything I can help you with?”
Wes paused barely half a second. For Lisbeth, it was more than enough. If he wanted to lie, he would’ve already made up some story. A pause like this . . . whatever he’s debating, it’s tearing at him. And to her own surprise, the more she saw what he’d been through—and was still going through—the more it tore at her as well. Sacred Rule #10, she told herself: Get attached to the story, not the people in it.
“No—just the usual,” Wes finally offered. He added a quick good-bye to sidestep the awkwardness. It didn’t.
Lisbeth couldn’t blame him. By bringing that tape recorder, she’d shaken his trust. Yet as she slid behind the steering wheel of her car and started dialing a new number, it was clear she wasn’t going to just sit still and let him hold her at a distance.
“Palm Beach Post,” a female voice answered on the other line. “This is Eve.”
“Eve, it’s Lisbeth. Are you—?”
“Don’t worry, the column’s all done.”
“Forget the column.”
“Even got the dumb art award in.”
“Eve!”
There was a pause on the other line. “Please tell me you didn’t wreck my car.”
“Can you please listen?” Lisbeth pleaded as she stared down at the crossword puzzle Violet had given her and spread it across the steering wheel. “Remember that old guy from comics—y’know, with the creepy glasses and the moon-chin—”
“Kassal? The guy who designed our crossword puzzles?”
“Yeah, that’s the—wait, whattya mean designed? Don’t tell me he’s dead.”
“Lisbeth, this newspaper’s so cheap, they shrunk the font size on our headlines to save money on ink. You really think they’d pay an extra employee, extra benefits, extra health insurance, when they can get a syndicated daily crossword for thirty bucks?” Eve pointed out. “They fired him two years ago. But lucky you, I happen to be staring at an employee directory from three years ago.”
“You really haven’t cleaned your desk in that long?”
“You want the number or not?”
Ten digits later, Lisbeth watched a light rain skate down her windshield. Her foot anxiously tapped the floor mat as she waited for someone to pick up. “Be home, be home, be home . . .”
“Hiya,” an older man with a horse voice and a creaky Midwest accent answered.
“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Kassal,” Lisbeth explained.
“Martin to you. And you are . . .”
“Lisbeth Dodson—we used to work together at the Palm Beach Post—and I promise you, sir, this’ll be the strangest question you get all d—”
“Up the pace, sweetie. I got pancakes cooking for dinner, and it’ll kill me to see ’em burn.”
“Yeah, well, a good friend of mine has a problem . . .” Lisbeth took a full breath, reaching for her pen, then stopping herself. “How good are you at solving puzzles?”
88
With the sunroof open and the light rain still drizzling inside, Nico veered off the highway, cutting in front of a white Lexus and following the exit ramp to Okeechobee Boulevard.
“Edmund, what’s the address again?” Nico asked, readjusting the blanket on Edmund’s chest as they approached the red light at the end of the ramp.
8385 Okeechobee Boulevard.
Nodding to himself, Nico leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck past the steering wheel to get a better look at the street that ran perpendicular in front of them. On his right, the light traffic coasted past gas stations and a lawn-mower repair shop. On his left, the open blue water of Clear Lake ran in front of the Performing Arts Center, while a green highway sign pointed toward the beautiful high-rises in the distance. In the photo Nico stole, Wes was broken, shattered, corrupted by Boyle’s touch. Nothing beautiful about him.
Tugging the wheel to the right, Nico cut off the same white Lexus, who bitched with his horn for a good five seconds. Not hearing it, Nico pumped the gas and dove into traffic.
“Can you read that one?” Nico asked as he pointed to the address on a nearby car dealership. A droplet of rain whizzed through the sunroof and flicked Edmund on the cheek.
2701.
“What about that one?” Nico asked, pointing to a cash-advance store half a block ahead.
That one’s, lemme see . . . 2727.
Nico beamed with a beady twinkle in his eyes and hit the gas even harder.
Breathtaking work, Nico. Lord’s definitely on your side with this one.
Thinking the exact same thing, Nico reached for the wooden rosary beads that swayed from the Pontiac’s rearview. “Do you min
d, Edmund?”
I’d be honored. You’ve earned them, my son.
My son. Nico sat bolt upright at the words. Surely, Edmund knew what they meant . . . and once Nico heard them, he could smell the black licorice and hickory whiff of his dad’s old hand-rolled cigars. Back when . . . back before Mom got sick. When they’d go to church. When things were good. Barely able to hide his grin, Nico nodded over and over as he slipped the rosary beads around his neck and glanced back at the passenger seat.
What? What’s wrong, Nico?
“Nothing . . . I just . . .” He nodded again and took another deep breath of black licorice. “I’m happy,” he said. “And in a few more minutes, Mom—like Dad—is finally gonna get her justice.”
89
Five minutes ago, I started telling Rogo the story about The Four, and the note from Boyle, and what Lisbeth said about Dreidel. Under normal circumstances, Rogo would’ve been screaming for a fistfight and stacking up the I-told-you-sos. But like any good actor, he’s well aware of his audience.
“What’s he saying?” Dreidel asks in the background.
“Tell him the Mannings gave me tomorrow off,” I shoot back through the phone, my newfound anger barely covering my still-smoldering anxieties.
“The Mannings gave him tomorrow off—just to calm down from all the Nico mess,” Rogo says like an old pro. Back to me, he adds, “You have any idea why he did it?”
“Who? Manning? I have no idea—the First Lady said maybe they suckered him. All I know is when The Three recruited Boyle, they were blackmailing him with this supposed kid. But to get something on a sitting President of the United States . . .”