The Book of Fate (28 page)
As she pops out of her seat and heads for the black Formica credenza with the VCR/TV combo, my throat tightens and my hands flood with sweat.
I can already tell this is a bad idea.
W
hat about Claudia?” The Roman asked calmly, strolling over to Bev’s window and staring down at the agents, sheriff, and ambulance crew crowded into the rotary at the front of the building.
“You told me not to—that it was an internal investigation,” Bev said as she watched The Roman from her desk and anxiously picked at an open bag of microwave popcorn.
“And Oren?”
“I just told you—”
“Tell me again!” The Roman insisted, turning from the window, his pale skin and black hair practically glowing in the noon sunlight.
Bev stayed silent, her hand frozen in the popcorn.
The Roman knew he’d scared her, but he wasn’t about to apologize. Not until he had what he wanted.
“You said not to tell anyone—I didn’t tell anyone,” Bev finally offered. “Not B.B., not the President . . . no one.” Fidgeting with the tips of her dyed-black hair, she added, “Though I still don’t get how any of this helps Wes.”
The Roman turned back to the window, taking a moment to choose his words. Bev had known Wes since his first days in the White House. Like any protective parent, she wasn’t turning on her kid unless it was for his own good. “What helps Wes is finding out just who he ran into that night in Malaysia,” The Roman explained. “If what he said in the report is right—that it was just some drunk looking for the bathroom—then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But to have me put a microphone in his pin . . . to hide it from everyone on staff . . . Why can’t you just tell me who you think approached him?”
“Bev, I told you from the start, this is part of a long-term inquiry that we believe—and hope—Wes accidentally stumbled onto. Trust me, we want to protect him as much as you do, which is why—”
“Does it have to do with Nico? Is that why he escaped?”
“This has nothing to do with Nico,” The Roman insisted.
“I just thought . . . with your hand . . .” she said, motioning to the white gauze wrapped around his palm.
The Roman knew that was the risk coming to the office. But with the wiretap silent, and Boyle still unaccounted for . . . some things had to be done face-to-face.
Sitting on the edge of Bev’s desk, The Roman cupped her hand between his palms. “Bev, I know you don’t know me. And I know it’s odd to suddenly get a call from an agent about an investigation you know nothing about, but I swear to you, this has nothing to do with Nico. Understand?
Nothing.
Everything I’ve asked of you . . . it’s only in the interests of national security and for Wes’s benefit,” he added, his pale blue eyes locked on hers. “Now I appreciate how you look out for him . . . we all know the pity you took . . .”
“It’s not pity. He’s a sweet kid . . .”
“. . . who should’ve left this job years ago, but didn’t because he’s terrified of stepping out of the thoughtful but crippling security blanket you’ve all tucked him into. Think about it, Bev. If you really care that much about him,
this
is the moment he needs you. So, is there anyone else out there we might’ve overlooked? Old White House contacts? Current in-house contacts? Anyone you can think of that he might turn to if he’s in trouble?”
Rolling backward on the wheels of her desk chair, Bev was silent at the onslaught of questions. For a moment, her eyes stayed with The Roman’s pale blues. But the more he pushed, the more she glanced around. At her keyboard. At her leather blotter. Even at the blurry 5 x 9 perched under her computer monitor, from her office birthday party a few years back. In the photo, the entire staff was in mid-laugh as the President blew out the candles on Bev’s birthday cake. It was the kind of photo that never existed in the White House, but decorated nearly every office here: slightly off-center, slightly funny, and slightly out of focus. Not a professional photo taken by a White House photographer. A family photo—taken by one of their own.
“Sorry,” Bev said, pulling her hand away and glancing down at The Roman’s gauze pad. “There’s no one else I can think of.”
“—ies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!”
the announcer bellows through the P.A. system as the tape begins to roll, and the shiny black Cadillac One lumbers out onto the racetrack.
From the wide angle—showing half the motorcade in profile—I’m guessing it’s from a camera up in the stadium’s press box.
“There’s the ambulance with Boyle’s blood,” Dreidel points out, running around the conference table so he can get closer to the TV. He stops right next to Lisbeth, who’s just to the left of the screen. On my far right, Rogo’s back at the head of the oval table. But instead of moving toward the screen, he circles back. Toward me.
He doesn’t have to say a word. He juts his chin slightly to the left and lowers his eyebrows.
You okay?
Tightening my jaw, I nod confidently. Rogo’s been my friend since before I could drive. He knows the truth.
“Lisbeth,” he calls out. “Maybe we should . . .”
“Leave it—I’m fine,” I insist.
As the limo leaves the final turn and heads toward the finish line, the camera pulls out to reveal the entire motorcade, which is now headed straight at us. I used to call it a funeral procession. I had no idea.
On-screen, the camera slowly pulls in on Cadillac One. I swear, I can smell the leather seats of the car, the oily whiff of Manning’s daily shoeshine, and the sweet tinge of gasoline from pit road.
“Okay, here we go,” Lisbeth says.
The video jump-cuts to a brand-new camera angle from the infield of the track—we’re now at eye level. On the passenger side, the Secret Service detail leader gets out of the limo and races to open the back door. Two other agents swoop into place, blocking any clear shot from the crowd. My feet ball up as my toes try to dig through the soles of my shoes. I know what’s coming. But just as the door opens, the picture freezes and pauses.
“Slow motion?” Dreidel asks.
“It’s the only way to get a good look at who’s in the background,” Lisbeth explains, gripping the edge of the top left corner of the TV. Dreidel crosses over and does the same on the right corner. Both lean in. They don’t want to miss a thing.
On the other side of the conference table, I twist in my seat. In slow motion, two more Secret Service agents slowly creep into the background near the open door that faces the crowd.
“And these are all guys you know?” Lisbeth asks, making a big circle around the five suit-and-tie agents on-screen.
“Geoff, Judd, Greg, Allan, and . . .” Dreidel pauses on the last one.
“Eddie,” I call out, never taking my eyes off the screen.
“It’ll be done in a sec,” Dreidel promises as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. He turns back toward the TV just in time to see five fingertips peek out like tiny pink worms above the roofline of the limo. My toes dig even deeper, practically burrowing through my shoes. I close my eyes for a second and swear I can smell popcorn and stale beer.
“Here he comes,” Dreidel whispers as Manning slowly leaves the limo, one hand already up in a frozen, celebratory wave. Behind him, with her own hand raised, the First Lady does the same.
“Now watch the President here,” Lisbeth says as each frame clicks by, and he slowly turns toward the camera for the first time.
On-screen, Manning’s grin is so wide, his top gums are showing. Same with the First Lady, who holds his hand. They’re definitely enjoying the crowd.
“Doesn’t exactly look like a man who knows shots are about to be fired, does he?” Lisbeth asks as Manning continues to wave, his black windbreaker bubbling up like a helium balloon.
“I’m telling you, he didn’t know it was coming,” Dreidel agrees. “I mean, I don’t care what they were prepared for, or how much of Boyle’s blood they had in the ambulance, there’s no way Manning, the Service, or anyone else is going to risk a head shot.”
“You’re still assuming they were aiming for Manning,” Lisbeth says as Albright appears on-screen, rising at a turtle’s pace from the limo. “I think Nico hit exactly who he wanted to hit. Just look at his escape from the hospital last night. Both orderlies shot through the heart and the palm of their right hand. Sound like anyone you know?”
On TV, at the center of a bushy mess of gray hair, a tiny bald spot rises above the limo’s roofline like the morning sun. Here comes Boyle.
“Now
he’s
the one who’s anxious,” Lisbeth says, tapping his face on the monitor.
“He was always miserable, though. Even on day one,” Dreidel replies.
I swallow hard as Boyle’s profile glows on-screen. The olive skin’s the same, but his thin, pointy nose is far sharper than the stubby nose job I saw him with two days ago. His jowls are longer now too. Even plastic surgery can’t stop the aging process.
“See, he’s not even looking around,” Dreidel adds as Boyle follows behind the President. “They’ve both got no idea what’s coming.”
“There you are,” Dreidel says, tapping the far right-hand corner of the screen, where you can barely see me in profile. As I leave the limo, the camera pans left—away from me—as it tries to stay with the President. But since I’m only a few steps behind, there’s a tiny shot of me gawking in the background.
“Man, you were a
baby
,” Lisbeth says.
The video flickers, and my head turns like a creaky robot toward the camera. It’s the first time we all get a clear look. In my right hand, my middle and ring fingers quickly knead at the heel of my palm. My eyes well up just seeing it. My face . . . God, it’s been so long—but there it is . . . the real me.
On-screen, President Manning’s hand rises to meet the NASCAR CEO and his now-famous wife. The First Lady adjusts her sapphire necklace, her lips spread in an eternal
hello.
Albright sticks his hands in his pockets. Boyle straightens his tie. And I chase behind them all, frozen midstep with my bag of tricks dangling from my shoulder and a sharp, cocky squint in my eyes.
I know what happens next.
Pop, pop, pop.
On TV, the camera angle jerks upward in a blur, panning past the fans in the stands as the cameraman ducks at the shots. The screen is quickly filled with the blue sky. But to me, it’s already fading to black and white. A boy in a Dolphins T-shirt screams for his mom. Boyle falls to the ground, facedown in his own vomit. And a bee sting rips through my cheek. My head whips back at just the thought of it.
The camera jerks again, sliding back down to earth, past the blur of fans running and shouting and stampeding from the stands. On the left side of the screen, Cadillac One rumbles and takes off. The President and First Lady are already inside. Already safe.
As the car leaves, the camera whizzes back and forth, searching the aftermath and sifting through the ballet of slow-motion chaos: Secret Service agents with their mouths frozen open in mid-yell . . . bystanders darting in every direction . . . and on the top right of the screen, just as the limo pulls away, a pale, skinny kid crashing to the ground, twisting in pain like a worm along the concrete, his hand gripping his face.
The tears tumble down my cheeks. My fingers press so tight into the heel of my palm, I feel my own pulse. I tell myself to look away . . . to get up and turn on the lights . . . but I can’t move.
On-screen, two suit-and-tie agents carry Boyle off the battlefield and to the ambulance. Since their backs are to us, it’s impossible to make them out. But in the swirl of dust behind the limo, I’m still lying on my back, pressing my face so hard, I look like I’m pinning the back of my head to the asphalt. And while it’s all in full color on TV, I still see it in black and white. A flashbulb goes supernova. My fingertips scratch against the sharpened metal in my face. Boyle’s ambulance doors slam shut.
“Wes, you with us?” Rogo whispers.
Why won’t they stop slamming shut—?
“Wes . . .” Rogo continues to whisper. He says it again, and I realize it’s not a whisper. His voice is loud. Like he’s yelling.
Something clenches my right shoulder, shaking.
“Wes!” Rogo shouts as I blink back to reality and find his meaty paw holding my shirt.
“No, no . . . yeah . . . I’m fine,” I insist, pulling my shoulder free of his grip. It’s not until I look around the conference room that I realize the videotape is no longer running. In the corner, Lisbeth flicks on the lights, looking back to see what’s going on.
“He’s fine,” Rogo insists, trying to block her view. “He’s just . . . just give him a second, okay?”
Heading back from the light switch, Lisbeth still continues to stare, but if she sees what’s going on, she’s kind enough to keep it to herself.
“So that basically accomplished a big fat nothing, huh?” Dreidel asks, still clearly annoyed we’re even here. “I mean, except for giving Wes a few brand-new nightmares to deal with.”
“That’s not true,” Lisbeth says, heading back to the opposite side of the table. Instead of sitting next to Dreidel, she decides to stand. “We got to see the agents that carried Boyle off.”
“Which means nothing since we can’t see their faces—not to mention the fact that since the Service clearly helped, I personally don’t think it’s safe asking any of their agents for help.”
“We would’ve gotten more if the camera weren’t swirling like my mom taking home movies,” Lisbeth points out.
“Yeah, that cameraman was a real jerk-off for ducking down and trying to protect his life like that,” Dreidel shoots back.
“Dreidel,” I interrupt.
“Don’t
Dreidel
me, Wes.”
“How ’bout if
I
Dreidel you?” Rogo threatens.
“How ’bout you sit back down and let the boy fight his own fight for once?” Dreidel pushes back. “Wes, no offense, but this was stupid. Except for getting inside juice for when Drudge-ette here writes her best-selling tell-all, there’s not a single good reason to come here. She could’ve just sent us the info we needed.”
“I was trying to help,” Lisbeth insists.