The Book of Fate (10 page)
“Excuse me,” someone says over my left shoulder. I turn, expecting to see the waiter. Instead, it’s a blond guy in a black T-shirt. And a U.S. Open baseball hat.
“Wes Holloway?” he asks, opening his wallet to show me an FBI badge. “Terrence O’Shea. You have a few seconds to chat?”
St. Elizabeths Mental Hospital
Washington,
D.C.
B
reakfast bell’s ringing, Nico. French toast or western omelet?” asked the petite black food service woman with the vinegar smell and the pink rhinestones set into her pink fingernails.
“What’s for dinner?” Nico asked.
“You listening? We’re on breakfast. French toast or western omelet?”
Putting on his shoes and kneeling just in front of his narrow bed, Nico looked up at the door and studied the rolling cart with the open tray slots. He’d long ago earned the right to eat with his fellow patients. But after what happened to his mother all those years ago, he’d rather have his meals delivered to his room. “French toast,” Nico said. “Now what’s for dinner?”
Throughout St. Elizabeths, they called Nico an NGI. He wasn’t the only one. There were thirty-seven in total, all of them living in the John Howard Pavilion, a red brick, five-story building that was home to Nico and the other thirty-six patients
n
ot
g
uilty by reason of
i
nsanity.
Compared to the other wards, the NGI floors were always quieter than the rest. As Nico heard one doctor say, “When there’re voices in your head, there’s no need to talk to anyone else.”
Still down on one knee, Nico yanked hard to fasten the Velcro on his sneakers (they took away the laces long ago) and carefully watched as the food service woman carried a pink plastic tray filled with French toast into his small ten-by-fifteen room, which was decorated with a wooden nightstand and a painted dresser that never had anything but a Bible and a set of vintage red glass rosary beads on it. The doctors offered to get Nico a sofa, even a coffee table. Anything to make it feel more like home. Nico refused, but never said why. He wanted it this way. So it looked like her room. His mom’s room. In
her
hospital.
Nodding to himself, he could still picture the stale hospital room where his mother lay silent for almost three years. He was only ten when the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease hit . . . when one faulty gene in her brain ignited the CJD protein that eventually kick-started her coma. When the diagnosis first came back, she didn’t complain—not even when young Nico asked why God was taking her. She smiled, even then, and respectfully told him that’s how it was written in the Book. The Book of Fate. Her head was shaking, but her voice was strong as she told him never to argue with it. The Book had to be respected. Had to be heeded. Let it guide you. But it wasn’t just respect. She took strength from it. Security. No doubt, his mother knew. She wasn’t afraid. How could anyone be afraid of God’s will? But he still remembered his father standing behind him, squeezing his shoulders and forcing him to pray every day so Jesus would bring his mom back.
For the first few weeks, they prayed in the hospital chapel. After six months, they visited every day but Sunday, convinced that their Sunday prayers would be more effective if they came from church. It was three years later that Nico changed his prayers. He did it only once. During a frozen snow day in the fist of Wisconsin’s winter. He didn’t want to be in church that day, didn’t want to be in his nice pants and church shirt. Especially with all the great snowball fights going on outside. So on that Sunday morning, as he lowered his head in church, instead of praying for Jesus to bring his mom back, he prayed for him to take her. The Book had to be wrong. That day, his mother died.
Staring at the plastic tray of French toast and still kneeling by his bed, Nico, for the third time, asked, “What’s for dinner?”
“It’s meat loaf, okay?” the delivery woman replied, rolling her eyes. “You happy now?”
“Of course, I’m happy,” Nico said, flattening the Velcro with the heel of his hand and smiling to himself. Meat loaf. Just like his mom was supposed to have on
her
last night. On the day she died. The Three told him so. Just like they told him about the M Men . . . the Masons . . .
Nico’s father had been a Freemason—proud of it too. To this day, Nico could smell the sweet cigar smoke that wafted in the door with his dad when he came back from Lodge meetings.
Nothing more than a social club, Nico had told them. All the Masons did was sell raffle tickets to raise money for the hospital. Like the Shriners.
The Three were patient, even then. They brought him the maps— taught him the history. How the Freemasons had grown worldwide hiding under the cover of charity. How they’d perfected their deceptions, telling people they were born out of the master stonemason guilds in the Middle Ages—a harmless organization where members could gather and share trade secrets, artisan-to-artisan. But The Three knew the truth: The Masons’ craftwork had built some of the most holy and famous places in the world—from King Solomon’s Temple to the Washington Monument—but the secrets the Masons protected were more than just inside tips for how to build archways and monuments. The night before Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, he was in a Mason Temple in Memphis. “I might not get there with you,” King said that night to his followers. Like he knew that bullet was coming the next day. And the fact he was in a Masonic Temple . . . it was no coincidence. Fate. Always fate. At their highest levels, the Masons’ ancient goal had never changed.
Even the church stood against the Masons at their founding, The Three explained.
It was a fair point, but Nico wasn’t stupid. In the Middle Ages, there was much the church opposed.
The Three still didn’t waver. Instead, they hit him with the hardest truth of all: what really happened to his mother the night she died.
B
ut you can’t tell anyone I told you,” the woman whispered through the receiver.
Brushing a stray strand of red hair behind her ear, Lisbeth reached for the tiny tape recorder on her desk, double-checked it was plugged into the phone, and hit
Record.
“You have my word,” Lisbeth promised. “Our secret.”
As a reporter for the
Palm Beach Post
, Lisbeth was well aware that Florida law made it illegal to record private conversations unless the person recording first asked the other party. But as the gossip columnist for Below the Fold—the
Post
’s most popular section of the paper—Lisbeth also knew that the moment she asked permission, her source would freeze and fall silent. Plus she had to get the quote right. Plus she had to have proof for when the paper’s lawyers gave her their usual libel thumbwrestle. It’s the same reason why she had a mini-refrigerator stocked with wine and beer in the corner of her tiny beige cubicle, and a fresh bowl of peanuts on the corner of her desk. Whether it was her fellow reporters coming by to chat or a stranger calling on the phone, it was the sacred rule she learned when she took over the column six years ago: Always keep ’em talking.
“So about your story, Mrs. . . . ?”
“I’m just passing this along,” the woman insisted. “Free of charge.”
Making a note to herself, Lisbeth wrote the word
Pro?
in her spiral notepad. Most people fall for the name trap.
“Again, you didn’t hear it from me . . .” the woman continued.
“I promise, Mrs. . . .”
“. . . and I’m not falling for your little trick the second time either,” the woman said.
Lisbeth crossed out the question mark, leaving only
Pro.
Excited by the challenge, Lisbeth started spinning her phone cord like a mini-jump rope. As the cord picked up speed, the sheets of paper thumbtacked to the right-hand wall of her cubicle began to flutter. When Lisbeth was seventeen, her dad’s clothing store had shut down, forcing her family into bankruptcy. But when her local newspaper in Battle Creek, Michigan, reported the story, the smart-ass reporter who wrote it up threw in the words
alleged poor sales
, implying a certain disingenuousness to her dad’s account. In response, Lisbeth wrote an op-ed about it for her school newspaper. The local paper picked it up and ran it with an apology. Then the
Detroit News
picked it up from there. By the time it was done, she got seventy-two responses from readers all across Michigan. Those seventy-two letters were the ones that lined every inch of her cubicle walls, a daily reminder of the power of the pen—and a current reminder that the best stories are the ones you never see coming.
“Regardless,” the woman said, “I just thought you’d want to know that although it won’t officially be announced until later this afternoon, Alexander John—eldest son of the Philadelphia Main Line Johns, of course—will be awarded a Gold Key in the National Scholastic Art Awards.”
Lisbeth was writing the words
National Schola
- when she lifted her pen from the page. “How old is Alexander again?”
“Of course—seventeen—seventeen on September ninth.”
“So . . . this is a high school award?”
“And national—not just statewide. Gold Key.”
Lisbeth scratched at her freckled neck. She was slightly overweight, which she tried to offset with lime-green statement glasses that a rail-thin salesclerk promised would also shave some time off her thirty-one years. Lisbeth didn’t believe the clerk. But she did buy the glasses. As she continued to scratch, a strand of red hair sagged from its ear perch and dangled in front of her face. “Ma’am, do you happen to be
related
to young Alexander?”
“What? Of course not,” the woman insisted.
“You’re sure?”
“Are you suggesting—? Young lady, this award is an honor that is—”
“Or are you in the employ of young Alexander’s family?”
The woman paused. “Not full-time, of course, but—”
Lisbeth hit the
Stop
button on her tape recorder and chucked her pen against her desk. Only in Palm Beach would a mother hire a publicist for her eleventh grader’s elbow macaroni art masterpiece. “It’s a national award,” Lisbeth muttered to herself, ripping the sheet of paper from her notepad. But as she crumpled it up, she still didn’t hang up the phone. Sacred Rule #2: A crappy source today might be a great one tomorrow. Sacred Rule #3: See Sacred Rule #2.
“If I have space, I’ll definitely try to get it in,” Lisbeth added. “We’re pretty full, though.” It was an even bigger lie than the thinning and de-aging effects of her lime-green glasses. But as Lisbeth hung up the phone and tossed the crumpled paper into the trash, she couldn’t help but notice the near-empty three-column grid on her computer screen.
Twenty inches. About eight hundred words. That’s what it took every day to fill Below the Fold. Plus a photo, of course. So far, she had five inches on a local socialite’s daughter marrying a professional pool player (B+, Lisbeth thought to herself), and four inches on a week-old cursing match between some teenager and the head of the DMV (C- at best). Eyeing the balled-up paper in the plastic garbage can, Lisbeth glanced back at her still mostly empty screen. No, she told herself. It was still too early in the day to be desperate. She hadn’t even gotten the—
“Mail!” a voice called out as a hand reached over the top edge of the cubicle, wagging a short pile of envelopes in the air. Looking up, Lisbeth knew that if she reached for the stack, he’d just pull it away, so she waited for the hand . . . and its owner . . . to turn the corner. “Morning, Vincent,” she said before he even appeared.
“Tell me you got something good today,” Vincent said, his salt-and-pepper mustache squirming like a caterpillar on his lip. He tossed the pile of mail on Lisbeth’s already oversubscribed desk. It wasn’t until it fanned out accordion-style in front of her that Lisbeth saw the tear in each envelope.
“You opened my mail?” she asked.
“I’m your editor. That’s my job.”
“Your job is opening my mail?”
“No, my job is to make sure your column is the best it can be. And when it is, and when every person in this town is whispering to their neighbors about whatever scandal you so cleverly unearthed, we usually get about twenty to thirty letters a day, plus the usual press releases and invitations. Know what you got this morning? Six. And that’s including the invites.” Peering over her shoulder and reading from the mostly empty grid on Lisbeth’s computer screen, Vincent added, “You spelled
DMV
wrong.”
Lisbeth squinted toward the screen.
“Made you look,” Vincent added, laughing his little huffing laugh. With his navy and red Polo-knockoff suspenders and matching bow tie, Vincent dressed like Palm Beach royalty on an editor’s salary.
Annoyed, Lisbeth pulled his left suspender back like a bowstring and let it snap against his chest.
“Ow . . . that . . . that actually hurt,” he whined, rubbing his chest. “I was making a point.”
“Really? And what was that? That I should find more stories about handjobs in hot tubs?”
“Listen, missy, that was a fun story.”
“
Fun?
I don’t want fun. I want
good.
”
“Like what? Like your supposed top-secret source who whispered all those promises in your ear, then jumped off the face of the earth? What was her name again? Lily?”
“Iris.” As Lisbeth said the word, she could feel the blood rush to her ears. Four months ago, a woman identifying herself only as Iris cold-called Lisbeth on the office’s main line. From the shakiness in Iris’s voice, Lisbeth could hear the tears. And from the hesitation . . . she knew what fear sounded like. For twenty minutes, Iris told her the story: about how, years ago, she used to do Thai massages at a local bathhouse . . . that it was there she first met the man she called Byron . . . and the thrill of secretly dating one of Palm Beach’s most powerful men. But what got Lisbeth’s attention was Iris’s graphic detail of how, on a number of occasions, he lashed out physically, eventually breaking her collarbone and jaw. For Lisbeth, that was a story that mattered. And that was what the letters on her wall were there for. But when she asked for Byron’s real name—and Iris’s, for that matter—the line went dead.