The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “I saw you when you drove in,” Nico said, his voice calm.

  “Oh, God . . . my hand,” she cried, seeing it and clutching her shaking palm as the fiery pain shot up to her elbow.

  “You’re taller than I thought. You were sitting during the competency hearings.”

  “Please,” she begged, the tears already welling in her eyes as her hand went numb. “Please don’t kill me.”

  Nico didn’t move, his right hand holding his gun in his lap. “It surprised me to see you with Number One. What did they call him? The Roman? He hurt me too.”

  In the cracked mirror, the First Lady saw Nico look down at the top of his rib cage, where he’d been shot.

  “Yes . . . yes, of course,” the First Lady insisted. “The Roman hurt both of us, Nico. He threatened me—made me come with him or he’d—”

  “God hurt me also,” Nico interrupted. His left hand gripped the rosary, his thumb slowly climbing from wooden bead to wooden bead, counting its way to the engraving of Mary. “God took my mother from me.”

  “Nico, you . . .” Her voice cracked. “God . . . please, Nico . . . we’ve all lost—”

  “But it was The Three who took my father,” he added as he lifted the gun and pressed it to the back of the First Lady’s head. “That was my error. Not fate. Not the Masons. The Three took him. When I joined them . . . what I did in their name . . . don’t you see? Misreading the Book. That’s why God had to send me the angel.”

  Shivering uncontrollably, the First Lady raised her hands in the air and struggled to glance over her shoulder. If she could turn around . . . get him to look at her face . . . to see her as a human being . . . “Please don’t . . . please don’t do this!” she begged, facing Nico and fighting back tears. It’d been nearly a decade since she’d felt the onslaught of a deep cry. Not since the day they left the White House, when they returned home to Florida, held a small press conference on their lawn and realized, after everyone was gone, that there was no one but themselves to clean up the reporters’ discarded coffee cups that were scattered across their front yard. “I can’t die like this,” she sobbed.

  Unmoved, Nico held his gun in place, pointing it at her head. “But it wasn’t just The Three, was it? I heard the reporter, Dr. Manning. I know. The Four. That’s what she said, right? One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”

  “Nico, that’s not true.”

  “I heard it. You’re Four.”

  “No . . . why would I—?”

  “One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he insisted, his fingers moving across four beads of the rosary.

  “Please, Nico, just listen . . .”

  “One, Two, Three, you’re Four.” His fingers continued to calmly count, bead by bead. He was over halfway through. Just sixteen beads to go. “One, Two, Three, you’re Four. One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”

  “Why aren’t you listening!?” the First Lady sobbed. “If you—I can—I can get you help . . .”

  “One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”

  “. . . I can . . . I’ll even . . .” Her voice picked up speed. “I can tell you how your mother died.”

  Nico stopped. His head cocked sideways, but his expression was calm as ever. “You lie.”

  His finger slithered around the trigger, and he squeezed it. Easily.

  There was a sharp hiss, and a pfffft that sounded like a cantaloupe exploding. The inside front windshield was sprayed with blood.

  The First Lady slumped sideways, and what was left of her head hit the steering wheel.

  Barely noticing, Nico pointed the gun at his own temple. “Your fate is mine, Dr. Manning. I’m coming to get you in Hell.”

  Without closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  He pulled again.

  Click.

  Empty . . . it’s empty, he realized, staring down at the gun. A slight, nervous laugh hiccupped from his throat. He looked up at the roof of the car, then back down at the gun, which quickly became blurred by a swell of tears.

  Of course. It was a test. To test his faith. God’s sign.

  “One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he whispered, his thumb climbing up the last wooden beads and resting on the engraving of Mary. Flushed with a smile even he couldn’t contain, Nico looked back up at the roof, brought the rosary up to his lips, and kissed it. “Thank You . . . thank You, my Lord.”

  The test, at long last, was complete. The Book could finally be closed.

  114

  Ten minutes after seven the following morning, under an overcast sky, I’m sitting alone in the backseat of a black Chevy Suburban that’s filled with enough new-car smell to tell me this isn’t from our usual fleet. Usually, that’s cause for excitement. Not after last night.

  In the front seats, both agents sit uncomfortably silent the entire ride. Sure, they toss me some small talk—Your head okay? How’re you feeling?—but I’ve been around the Service long enough to know when they’re under orders to keep their mouths shut.

  As we make the left onto Las Brisas, I spot the news vans and the reporters doing stand-ups. They gently push forward against the yellow tape as they see us coming, but the half dozen agents out front easily keep them at bay. On my left, as the car pulls up to the manicured shrubs out front, and the tall white wooden gate swings open, an Asian female reporter narrates—. . . once again: former First Lady Lenore Manning . . .—but gracefully steps back to give us room.

  For the reporters and press, all they know is she’s dead and that Nico killed her. If they knew her hand in it . . . or what she did . . . an army of agents wouldn’t be able to hold them back. The Service, pretending to be clueless, said that since Nico was still out there, they thought it’d be safer to chauffeur me inside. It’s a pretty good lie. And when the agents knocked on my door this morning, I almost believed it.

  As the gate slowly closes behind us, I know better than to turn around and give them a shot of my face for the morning news—especially with the cuts on my nose and the dark purple swelling in my eye. Instead, I study the Chicago-brick driveway that leads up to the familiar pale blue house. Flanking both sides of the Suburban, six agents I’ve never seen before watch the gate shut, making sure no one sneaks in. Then, as I open my door and step outside, they all watch me. To their credit, they turn away quickly, like they don’t know what’s going on. But when it comes to spotting lingering glances, I’m a black belt. As I head for the front door, every one of them takes another look.

  “Wes, right?” an African-American agent with a bald head asks as he opens the front door and welcomes me inside. On most days, agents aren’t stationed in the house. Today is different. “He’s waiting for you in the library, so if you’ll just follow—”

  “I know where it is,” I say, moving forward to cut around him.

  He takes a step to the side, blocking my way. “I’m sure you do,” he says, throwing on a fake grin. Like the agents out front, he’s in standard suit and tie, but the microphone on his lapel . . . I almost miss it at first. It’s tinier than a small silver bead. They don’t give that kind of tech to guys on former-President duty. Whoever he is, he’s not from the Orlando field office. He’s from D.C. “If you’ll follow me . . .”

  He pivots around, leading me down the center hallway, into the formal living room, and past the gold velvet sofa that yesterday held Madame Tussauds’ set of Leland Manning eyeballs.

  “Here you go,” the agent adds, stopping at the double set of French doors on the far left side of the room. “I’ll be right here,” he says, motioning back to the main hallway. It’s not meant as a comfort.

  Watching him leave, I bite the dead skin on the inside of my cheek and reach for the American eagle brass doorknob. But just as I palm the eagle, the doorknob turns by itself, and the door opens. I was so busy watching the agent, I didn’t see him. Our eyes lock instantly. This time, though, as I spot the brown with the splash of light blue, my stomach doesn’t plummet. And he doesn’t run.

  Sta
nding in the doorway and scratching his fingers against the tiny stubble on his head, Boyle forces an unconvincing smile. From what Rogo told me late last night, I should’ve known he’d be here. Silly me, though, I actually thought I’d be first. Then again, that’s always been my problem when it comes to the President.

  Stepping forward and closing the door behind him, Boyle blocks me even worse than the Service. “Listen, Wes, do you . . . uh . . . do you have a sec?”

  The President’s expecting me in the library. But for the first time since I’ve been in Leland Manning’s personal orbit, well, for once . . . he can wait. “Sure,” I say.

  Boyle nods me a thank-you and scratches from his head down to his cheek. This is hard for him. “You should put a warm compress on it,” he finally says. Reading my confusion, he adds, “For your eye. Everyone thinks cold is better, but the next day, warm helps more.”

  I shrug, unconcerned with my appearance.

  “By the way, how’s your friend?” Boyle asks.

  “My friend?”

  “The reporter. I heard she got shot.”

  “Lisbeth? Yeah, she got shot,” I say, staring at Boyle’s sharpened features. “The one in her hand was the worst.”

  Boyle nods, glancing down at the old stigmata scar at the center of his own palm. He doesn’t linger on it, though.

  “Wes, I—I’m sorry I had to keep you in the dark like that. In Malaysia, when I was trying to get to Manning . . . All these years, I thought he might’ve screwed me—that maybe he was The Fourth—so to find the crossword . . . to see it was her—and then when I saw you, I just—I panicked. And when O’Shea and Micah started trailing you . . .”

  He waits for me to complete the thought—to yell at him for using me as bait these past few days. To blame him for the lies, for the deception . . . for every ounce of guilt he dumped on my shoulders for eight years. But as I stare across at him . . . as I see the deep circles under his eyes and the pained vertical line etched between his brows . . . Last night, Ron Boyle won. He got everyone—The Roman . . . Micah and O’Shea . . . even the First Lady—everyone he’d hunted for so long. But it’s painful to see him now, anxiously licking his lips. There’s no joy in his features, no victory on his face. Eight years after his ordeal began, all that’s left is an aged man with crummy nose and chin jobs, a haunted vacancy in his eyes, and an unstoppable need to keep checking every nearby door and window, which he does for the third time since we started talking.

  Suffering is bad. Suffering alone is far worse.

  My jaw clenches as I try to find the words. “Listen, Ron . . .”

  “Wes, don’t pity me.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You are,” he insists. “I’m standing right in front of you, and you’re still mourning me like I’m gone. I can see it in your face.”

  He’s talking about the swell of tears in my eyes. But he’s reading it wrong. I shake my head and try to tell him why, but the words feel like they’re stapled in my throat.

  He says something else to make me feel better, but I don’t hear it. All I hear are the words that’re trapped within me. The words I’ve practiced in my sleep at night—every night—and in my mirror every morning, knowing full well they’d never get to leave my lips. Until this moment.

  I swallow hard and again hear the crowd at the speedway that day. Everyone happy, everyone waving, until pop, pop, pop, there it is, the scream in C minor as the ambulance doors close. I swallow hard again and slowly, finally, the screams begin to fade as the first few syllables leave my lips.

  “Ron,” I begin, already panting hard. “I—I . . .”

  “Wes, you don’t have to—”

  I shake my head and cut him off. He’s wrong. I do. And after nearly a decade, as the tears stream down my face, I finally get my chance. “Ron, I . . . I’m sorry for putting you in the limo that day,” I tell him. “I know it’s stupid—I just—I need you to know I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, Ron,” I plead as my voice cracks and the tears drip from my chin. “I’m so sorry I put you in there.”

  Across from me, Boyle doesn’t respond. His shoulders rise, and for a moment, he looks like the old Boyle who screamed in my face that burning July day. As I wipe my cheeks, he continues staring at me, keeping it all to himself. I can’t read him. Especially when he doesn’t want to be read. But even the best facades crack in time.

  He rubs his nose and tries to hide it, but I still spot the quivering of his chin and the heartbroken arch of his eyebrows.

  “Wes,” he eventually offers, “no matter what car you put me in, that bullet was always going to hit my chest.”

  I look up, still fighting to catch my breath. Over the years, my mom, Rogo, my shrinks, Manning, even the lead investigator from the Service, told me the exact same thing. But Ron Boyle was the one I needed to hear it from.

  Within seconds, a tentative smile spreads across my face. I spot my own reflection in the glass panels of the French doors. The smile itself is crooked, broken, and only lifts one of my cheeks. But for the first time in a long time, that’s plenty.

  That is, until I spot the flash of movement and the familiar posture on the other side of the glass. With a twist, the brass eagle doorknob once again turns, and the door opens inward, behind Boyle’s back. Boyle turns, and I look up. Towering above us, President Manning sticks his head out and nods at me with an awkward hello. His mane of gray hair is matted just enough that I can tell it’s unwashed; the whites of his eyes are crackling with red. His wife died last night. He hasn’t slept ten minutes.

  “I should go,” Boyle offers. From what I heard last night, he’s blaming his death and reappearance on Nico and The Three. Not The Four. For that alone, Manning’ll make him a hero. I’m not sure I blame him. But as Manning knows, I deal with things differently than Boyle.

  Before I can say a word, Boyle walks past me, offers a quick shoulder pat, and casually leaves the room, like he’s going to lunch. The problem is, I’m the one about to be eaten.

  On most days, Manning would simply head back into the library and expect me to follow. Today, he opens the door wider and motions me inside. “There you are, Wes,” the President says. “I was starting to worry you weren’t coming.”

  115

  I appreciate your getting here so early, Wes.”

  “Believe me, I wanted to come last night.”

  Nodding soberly and ushering me to the seat in front of his desk, Manning turns his back to me and scans the framed photos and leather-bound books that line the built-in maple shelves that surround us on all sides. There are pictures of him with the pope, with both Presidents Bush, with Clinton, Carter, and even with an eight-year-old boy from Eritrea, who weighed barely twenty pounds when Manning met him during one of our first trips abroad. Unlike his office, where we cover the walls, here at home he displays only the pictures he loves best—his own personal greatest hits—but it’s not until I sit down in the antique Queen Anne chair that I realize that the only photo on his desk is one of him and his wife.

  “Sir, I’m sorry about—”

  “The funeral’s Wednesday,” he says, still scanning his shelves as if some brilliant answer were there among the peace prizes, bricks from the Hanoi Hilton, and imprints of the Wailing Wall. Across from him, I also stare—at the bronze casting of Abraham Lincoln’s fist that sits on the edge of the desk.

  “We’d like you to be a pallbearer, Wes.”

  He still doesn’t face me. The snag in his voice tells me how hard this is. The way his hand’s shaking as he shoves it in his pocket shows me the same. As President, Leland Manning buried three hundred and two American soldiers, nine heads of state, two senators, and a pope. None of it prepared him for burying his wife.

  “A pallbearer?” I ask.

  “It was her request,” he says, trying to pull it together. “From her checklist.”

  When a President and First Lady leave the White House, as if they’re not depressed enough, one of the very first things the
y’re forced to do is make arrangements for their own funerals. State funerals are national events that need to be mounted in a few hours, almost always without any notice—which is why the Pentagon gives the President a checklist of all the gruesome details: whether you want to lie in state in the Capitol, if you want a public viewing, whether you want the final burial at your library or in Arlington, how many friends, family, and dignitaries should attend, who should do the eulogies, who shouldn’t be invited, and of course, who should be the pallbearers.

  Once, they even sent the military honor guard to our offices at the Manning Library to practice carrying the casket that would eventually hold him. I tried to keep Manning from coming to his office that day. But there he was, watching from his window as they carried his flag-covered weighted-down casket to the meditation garden in back. “I look heavy,” he’d joked, trying his best to make light of it. Still, he was quiet as they passed by. He’s more quiet now.

  “Mr. President, I’m not sure that’s the best idea anymore. After last night—”

  “That was her own doing, Wes. You know that. Her own doing. And her undoing as well,” he says as his voice again breaks. He’s trying hard to be strong—to be the Lion—but I can see that he’s gripping the back of his brown leather chair to stand. However it happened, it’s still his wife. Looking like a shell of the man I used to know, he sighs and sits down. We both sit there in silence, staring at Lincoln’s fist.

  “Did the Service say anything about Nico?” I finally ask.

  “His fingerprints were all over the car. The blood in the backseat was his. No question he pulled the trigger. But as far as where he disappeared to, they’re still looking,” he explains. “If you’re worried he’s coming after you, though, I’ve already asked the Service to—”