The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “He’s still my son.”

  “Then you should’ve taken care of him.”

  “I did take care of him!”

  “No, we took care of him,” O’Shea insisted. “What you did was send fifty bucks a week, hoping it would buy food, diapers, and her silence. We’re the ones who gave her—and him—a true future.”

  Boyle shook his head, already agitated. “Is that how The Roman sold it to you? That you were giving them a future?”

  “She needed cash; we offered it.”

  “Or, more accurately: You paid her to hide, then refused to tell me where they were unless I agreed to be your fourth turncoat,” Boyle said, his voice now booming. “So don’t make it look like you were doing her any favors!”

  Pressing his chin down against his shoulder, O’Shea looked up from the floor, his hazel eyes glowing in the darkness of the van. A slow grin rose like a sunrise on his face. “Boy, we really picked the right push button, didn’t we? To be honest, when The Roman said you cared for her, I thought he was full of crap.”

  Boyle aimed the gun at O’Shea’s face. “Where are they? I’m not asking you agai—”

  Leaning back on his knees, O’Shea erupted with a deep rumbling laugh that catapulted from his throat and echoed through the van. “C’mon, you really think we kept track after all this time? That somehow we kept them as pen pals?”

  As the words left O’Shea’s lips, Boyle could feel each syllable clawing straight through his belly, shredding every organ inside his chest. “Wh-What’re you talking about?”

  “We killed you, jackass. Or at least that’s what we thought. For all I cared, from that moment on, Tiana and her little bastard could’ve moved right back to that dump where we found them in D.C.”

  Hunched over, Boyle took a half-step back. His hand started to shake.

  “Wait . . . oh, you . . . wait,” O’Shea said, already chuckling. “You’re telling me that in all the time you spent trying to track us down, that . . . that you never once considered the possibility that we wouldn’t know where they are?”

  For the second time, O’Shea leaned back for a loud bellowing laugh. Then, without warning, he sprang forward, like a frog, with a ramming headbutt that plowed into Boyle’s chin before he even saw it coming. On impact, Boyle’s head whipped back, sending him crashing into the bucket seats.

  “You feel that?!” O’Shea screamed, his eyes wide with rage. “This time I’ll kill you myself!”

  Boyle shook his head no. Slow at first. Then faster. O’Shea charged forward like a truck. Boyle was already in mid-swing, lashing out with his right hand. And the gun he was still holding in it.

  In a blur, the butt of the pistol slammed O’Shea like a ten-pound weight to the head. Colliding with the corner of his brow, it sent him tumbling sideways toward the wall behind the passenger seat. With his hands still tied behind his back, he didn’t have a chance. Already off balance, he turned just enough to hit the metal wall shoulder-first.

  “That’s for my son,” Boyle snarled, buzzing with adrenaline.

  O’Shea sank to the floor of the van. Boyle didn’t let up, rushing in and pressing the barrel of his gun against O’Shea’s forehead. “And this one’s for my daughter, you thieving piece of shit!”

  Boyle cocked the gun’s pin and started squeezing the trigger.

  O’Shea erupted with another haunting laugh. “Do it,” he demanded, his voice breathless and raw as he lay there, sprawled on his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his body twisted on the floor. Between the bullet wounds from the dog run and his current impact, the pain was overwhelming. “With these metal walls . . . go ahead . . . I-I’d love to see you risk the ricochet.”

  Boyle glanced around at the walls of the van. “It won’t ricochet,” he insisted.

  “You sure about that?” O’Shea gasped, fighting for air and kicking his heel against the metal floor. There was a loud deep thud. “Sounds . . . sounds pretty damn solid to me.”

  Boyle didn’t respond. His hand twitched slightly as he tightened his grip on the trigger.

  “That’s . . . it’s a frightening thought, isn’t it?” O’Shea asked. “Here you are all ready to wreck the few remaining shards of your life by becoming a killer, and . . . and now you have to worry if you’ll shoot yourself in the process.”

  Boyle knew he was lying. He had to be.

  “C’mon, Boyle—here’s your chance to blow my head off. Take your shot!” Defiantly, O’Shea leaned forward, pressing his forehead even harder against the gun.

  Boyle’s finger rattled against the trigger as a dribble of blood ran from his nose to his top lip. This was it. The moment he’d begged for . . . prayed for . . . the revenge that had fueled him all these years. The problem was, O’Shea was still right about one thing: Whatever else they’d taken from him, whatever cold shell of himself they turned him into, he’d never be a killer. Though that didn’t mean he couldn’t have his vengeance.

  Shifting his arm to the right, Boyle pointed the barrel at O’Shea’s still-seeping shoulder wound and pulled the trigger. A single bullet tore through O’Shea’s shoulder, taking another chunk of meat with it. To maximize the pain, Boyle kept the gun at an angle, hoping to hit some bone as well. From O’Shea’s scream—which faded into a silent breathless gasp as his eyes rolled back and he finally lost consciousness—it was more than enough to do the trick.

  Kicking O’Shea onto his side, Boyle knelt down to the splatter of blood on the floor. Underneath the mess, through the metal floor of the van, was a small jagged bullet hole. Sticking a finger in and feeling the musty air outside, Boyle shook his head. Of course, it wouldn’t ricochet. Only the President’s limo is bulletproof.

  Wasting no time, Boyle ducked into the front of the van and wriggled into the driver’s seat. Far to his left, another swarm of cars buzzed by on the highway. As he looked down, the digital clock on the dashboard said it was 6:57 p.m. Perfect, he thought as he punched the gas, spun the wheels, and sent bits of gravel chainsawing through the air. One more stop and it’d all be done.

  98

  Haven’t these people ever heard of a parking lot?” Rogo asked as he drove past the landscaping by the frosted-glass entrance and veered around to the back of the white office building.

  “There,” Dreidel pointed out as they turned the corner. Around back, a wide lot was dotted with eight or ten cars.

  “That’s a good sign, right? People still working?”

  “Unless it’s just janitorial staff,” Dreidel said, eyeing the building through the passenger window.

  “How many janitors you know drive brand-new Mustangs?” Rogo asked, parking next to a shiny black convertible Ford Mustang. “The only thing I can’t figure out is why they have all that space in the front of the building and instead put the parking lot around back?”

  “Maybe it’s a zoning issue.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Rogo said.

  “What, you still think it’s some kinda mob doctor?”

  “All I know is, they’re about a block away from the Bada-Bing and the porn shop, there’s a funeral home next door, and that Mustang has a personalized license plate that says Fredo.”

  Dreidel glanced down at the license plate, which read MY STANG. “Will you please stop? It’s a doctor’s office, Rogo. You can tell it from here.”

  “Well, color me a stickler, but I’d still prefer to see it for myself,” Rogo added, flicking the car door open, hopping out into the drizzling rain, and running for the back door of the building. Halfway there, he looked straight up as a soft high-pitched whistle exploded into a deafening, rumbling earthquake. Another 747 coming in for a landing. Behind him, he noticed that Dreidel was at least ten steps behind.

  Rogo finally reached two sliding frosted-glass doors that were almost identical to the entrance in front. Stepping onto the pressure mat, he waited for the doors to slide open. They didn’t move.

  “Anybody home?” Rogo announced, knocking on the frosted glass, then pr
essing his face against it, trying to peer inside. Diagonally up on his right, a pinprick of red light revealed a shiny black security camera that was as thin as a calculator with a tiny round lens no bigger than a dime. Rogo turned away, too smart to stare. No way was a doctor’s office spending money on high-end tech like that.

  “Don’t look up,” Rogo whispered as Dreidel stepped next to him.

  “You sure no one’s—?”

  Rogo raised a knuckle to knock again, but before he could tap the glass, the doors slid open, revealing an annoyed security guard with stringy brown hair and a close-cropped mustache.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, looking at Dreidel, then Rogo, then back at Dreidel.

  “Yeah, we’re looking for Dr. Eng,” Rogo said, trying to step inside. The guard stepped in front of him, cutting him off, but Rogo kept going, his short meatball build ducking quickly under the guard’s arm and into the salmon-colored marble lobby.

  “Sorry . . . it’s just . . . it’s raining,” Rogo said, pointing outside and flicking excess water from his hands.

  The guard didn’t say a word, still staring at Dreidel. Rogo noticed that the guard was armed with a 9mm pistol in his belt.

  “Anyway,” Dreidel interrupted, “we’re here to see Dr. Eng.”

  “Sorry, he left already,” the guard shot back.

  “That’s fine—if we could just see his office assistant.”

  “Dr. Eng is gone. His office is closed for the day.”

  Up the hallway, Rogo spotted a tenant directory on the wall next to the elevators. “Listen, if we came at a bad time, I apologize, but can I just ask one favor?” Rogo pleaded. “I’ve been driving for over an hour in tear-your-hair-out traffic. We’ll get out of your way—we’ll call Dr. Eng tomorrow—but first, can I please just use your bathroom? We’re talking real emergency here.”

  The guard stared at him, unmoving.

  “Please,” Rogo pleaded, doing an anxious shuffle with his feet. “If I wait any longer—”

  “Men’s room is past the elevators on the left-hand side,” the guard said, pointing up the hall.

  “My bladder thanks you,” Rogo said, taking off.

  Dreidel took a step to follow behind him. The guard shot him a look, and Dreidel stopped.

  “We’ll . . . I’ll just wait here,” Dreidel decided.

  “Great idea,” the guard said.

  Without looking back, Rogo cruised up the hallway, which, like the outside of the building, was worn and weary: cracked marble along the floor, cheap art deco light fixtures overhead, and eighties-era aqua and sea-foam modern art paintings on the wall. Brushing past it all, Rogo focused on the office directory next to the elevators.

  “Did I pass it yet?” he called back to the guard as he stopped in front of the directory’s gold metal frame. Skimming the alphabetical list, he saw:

  Eng, Dr. Brian——Suite 127

  But to Rogo’s surprise, it didn’t list the type of practice or even a business name. Same with every other doctor in the directory. Six in total, but not a single one included their practice.

  “Next door down,” the security guard called back. “On the left.”

  Waving his thanks, Rogo ducked into the small restroom, which greeted him with the sharp reek of bleach. Knowing he had to take some time before rushing out, he walked to the sink, hit the lever on the dispenser for a few paper towels, and wiped the rest of the rain from his face. He looked in the mirror to make sure he got it all. That’s when he noticed the oak door behind him, just over his shoulder.

  Turning back, he studied it carefully. To anyone else, it was nothing more than a storage closet. And to him, on any other day, it would be too. But tonight . . . with everything going on . . . Rogo glanced to his left. There was already a narrow door with the word Storage stenciled on it.

  Stepping toward the oak door, Rogo gave the doorknob a twist. Locked.

  Quick as he could, he glanced around the restroom—the stalls, the urinals, the garbage can in the corner—searching for—there.

  Next to the sink, Rogo rushed for the paper towel dispenser, slamming the lever as hard as he could. A single paper towel stuck its tongue out. Perfect, Rogo decided, pulling the plastic case off the dispenser and leaving just the lever and the exposed paper towels. He hit the gray plastic lever again, but this time, didn’t let go of it, gripping as tight as he could with his fingertips, leaning in with his chest, and putting his full weight against it.

  Within seconds, he could hear the damage. There was a loud plastic pop as the dispenser started to crack. Rogo held on, standing on his tiptoes and lifting one foot off the ground to increase the weight. Another pop pierced the air. Almost there. Rogo didn’t let up, gritting his teeth and breathing hard through his nose. Don’t let go . . . not until . . . With a final short hop, he picked his other foot off the ground. That was it. Plastic shattered with a crack as the boomerang-shaped metal lever snapped free through the bottom of the dispenser. Rogo crashed to the tile floor, and a grin took his face.

  As he climbed to his feet, he examined the metal lever, turning the boomerang sideways. Definitely thin enough. Lunging for the oak door, but trying to keep quiet, he slid the boomerang-shaped sliver of metal into the narrow gap between the angled latch and the door’s threshold. His forehead and nose were pressed against the door seam as he peered downward and pulled the boomerang toward his belly. Like a child fishing for coins through a sewer grate, he wiggled his hand, trying to jigger the lever against the door’s latch. Slowly, the latch started to giv—

  Click.

  With a frantic tug, he pulled the oak door open. Rogo craned his neck to look inside. “Hello?” he whispered.

  Inside, it was dark, but as the light from the bathroom flooded forward, it was clear this wasn’t a little storage closet. The room was deep, almost as big as his and Wes’s living room. And as Rogo stepped forward—as he saw what was inside—his eyes widened. It didn’t make sense. Why would they—?

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” a deep voice asked from the bathroom door.

  Rogo spun around just in time to see the security guard coming at him.

  99

  I know where Boyle’s grave is. I’ve been there before.

  The first time was after my sixth and final surgery—the one where they tried to dig the last bits of metal shrapnel from my cheek. Fifteen minutes into it, the doctor decided the pieces were too deep—and far too small, like steel grains of sand—so better to leave them where they are. “Lay it to rest,” Dr. Levy told me.

  Taking his advice, I left the hospital and had my mom drive me here, to Woodlawn Cemetery. Seven months after Boyle was buried on national television, I approached his grave with my right hand stuffed deep in my pants pocket, clutching my newest prescription and silently, repetitively apologizing for putting him in the limo that day. I could hear my mother sobbing behind me, mourning me like I wasn’t even there. It was one of the toughest visits of my life. To my own surprise, this one’s tougher.

  “Stop thinking about it,” Lisbeth whispers, plowing through the unmowed, shin-high grass that wraps like tiny bullwhips around our ankles. As we approach the chain-link fence behind the back of the cemetery, I try to hold the umbrella over both of us, but she’s already two steps ahead, not even noticing the light rain. I don’t blame her for being excited. Even if she’s not writing the story, the reporter in her can’t wait to get the truth. “Y’hear what I said, Wes?”

  When I don’t answer, she stops and spins back to face me. She’s about to say something; most likely, Calm down . . . take it easy.

  “I know it’s hard for you,” she offers. “I’m sorry.”

  I nod and thank her with a glimpse of eye contact. “To be honest, I didn’t think it’d—I thought I’d be more eager.”

  “It’s okay to be scared, Wes.”

  “It’s not scared—believe me, I want Boyle’s answers—but just being here . . . where they buried—where they buried wha
tever they buried. It’s like a—it’s not the best place for me.”

  I look up, and she steps toward me, back under the umbrella. “I’m still glad you let me come.”

  I smile.

  “C’mon, I got a good vibe,” she says, tugging my shoulder as she sprints back out from under the umbrella. Gripping the top of the four-foot-tall chain-link fence, she stabs her toe into one of the openings.

  “Don’t bother,” I reply, motioning to a mound of dirt that’s piled so high it buries the fence and leads right inside. Despite the pep talk, I still hesitate. That’s extra dirt from the graves. Lisbeth has no such problem. Ignoring the rain, which is still a light drizzle, she’s up the small mound and over the fence in an instant.

  “Careful,” I call out. “If there’s an alarm—”

  “It’s a cemetery, Wes. I don’t think they’re worried about people stealing.”

  “What about grave rob—?” But as I follow her over the dirt mound, we’re met with nothing but the soft buzz of crickets and the thick black shadows of two-hundred-year-old banyan trees, whose branches and tendrils stretch out like spiderwebs in every direction. Diagonally to our left, the eighteen acres of Woodlawn Cemetery expand in a perfect rectangle that measures over seventeen football fields. The cemetery eventually dead-ends, with no apparent irony, at the back of the Jaguar dealership, which probably wasn’t the intention in the late 1800s when city founder Henry Flagler plowed over seventeen acres of pineapple groves to build West Palm Beach’s oldest and most lavish cemetery.

  I take off for the main stone-paved path. Grabbing the umbrella, Lisbeth pulls me back and leads us to our left, behind a tall meatball-shaped shrub just inside the back fence. As we get closer, I spot another huge meatball next to it, then another, then another . . . at least a hundred in total, ten feet tall . . . the row of them lining the entire back length of the graveyard. Her instinct’s perfect. By staying back here, we’re off the main path, meaning we’re out of sight, meaning no one can see us coming. With what we’ve got planned, we’re not taking chances.