The Book of Fate (32 page)

Neither said another word to each other until they were inside.

60

Jacksonville, Florida

N
ico, maybe we should stop.

“There’s no need.”

But if you don’t rest
—

“I’ve been resting for eight years, Edmund. This is the calling,” Nico said, sitting so far forward in the driver’s seat, his chest nuzzled the steering wheel of the giant flatbed. Just behind him in his seat was the balled-up army jacket he’d stolen from the Irish Pub. With Florida’s noon sun burning overhead, winter seemed long gone. He didn’t need the jacket. Or Edmund’s blood, which soaked the front of it.

You’re telling me you’re not tired?

Nico glanced over at Edmund’s lifeless body drooping in the seat next to him. His friend knew him all too well.

You’ve been driving nearly ten hours, Nico. It’s okay to take a break—in fact, it’s necessary, son. Especially if we plan on staying out of sight.

Nico knew what he was getting at. “So you still think—?”

Nico, I don’t care how cautious a driver you are—you take a forty-ton flatbed through the dainty streets of downtown Palm Beach, someone’s gonna bat an eye.

Staring at the wooden rosary beads swaying from the rearview, Nico knew Edmund was right. They’d been lucky so far, but if a cop pulled them over . . . if they were taken into custody . . . No, after all this, the cause was too great. And when they were this close . . . to Wes . . . to Boyle . . . to completing God’s will and delivering the redemption for his mother . . . No, this was no time for risk.

“Tell me what you think is best,” he said, looking to Edmund.

Hard as it is to say, we need to dump the truck and get something that’s a bit less noticeable in traffic.

“That’s fine, but how do we do that?”

How do we do anything, Nico?
As the truck hit a divot in the road, Edmund’s head jerked up and back, crashing into the headrest and revealing the bubbling black and red gash across his neck.
You look outside your window and search for the opportunity.

Following Edmund’s gaze through the front windshield, Nico searched the blacktop of highway, eventually spotting what his friend was staring at in the distance. The moment he saw it, a broad smile lifted his cheeks.

“You think we should—?”

Of course, we should, Nico. Heed the Book. Why else would God put them there?

Nodding to himself, Nico hit the brakes, and the truck rumbled and shuddered, eventually screeching to a stop right behind a maroon Pontiac on the shoulder of the highway. On the passenger side of the car, a woman with cropped black hair watched as her tank-topped boyfriend fought to change the flat tire on their car.

“You guys need some help?” Nico asked as he hopped out of the cab.

“You from Triple A?” the woman asked.

“No. It just looked like you needed an assist, so we thought we’d pitch in.”

“I actually think I’m done,” the boyfriend said, tightening the last lug nut.

“Wow, a real Good Samaritan,” the woman teased.

“Funny,” Nico replied, stepping into the woman’s personal space. “Though I much prefer the term
guardian angel.
”

The woman stepped back. But not nearly fast enough.

61

Key West, Florida

H
ere you go,” the cabdriver says as his bright pink Key West cab jerks to a stop. He’s got thick white sunblock caked all over his nose, and a ratty
Shrek
beach blanket with the words
Can I Get a Whoop Whoop
draped over the back of his seat. “Three twenty-seven William Street.”

“You kidding? We barely went three blocks,” Lisbeth barks from our seats in the back. “Why didn’t you just tell us we could walk?”

“You got in the cab,” the driver says, not the least bit riled as he turns up the dial on the
Paul & Young Ron
radio show. Standard Key West—everything’s sunny. “That’ll be two bucks,” he adds, poking a button on the meter.

“I shouldn’t pay you a single—”

“Thanks for the ride,” I interrupt, tossing three bucks into the front seat. When our helicopter touched down on another private yacht in Key West’s Historic Seaport, we decided that the rest of the trip should be low-key and untraceable. The driver studies my face in his rearview mirror, and I realize we’re already well off course. Fortunately, we’ve still got a few tricks left.

Kicking the door open and hopping outside, we watch as the cab disappears up the lush but narrow residential street. We’re standing in front of a modest two-story conch cottage at 327 William, but as the cab turns the corner at the end of the block, we cross the street and trace the house numbers to our actual destination: the pale peach cottage with the white shutters and gingerbread trim at 324.

Grabbing the wooden railing that leans slightly when you put weight on it, Lisbeth bounds up the weather-beaten front porch like she’s racing home for lemonade. But before she reaches the front door, her phone rings. Or rather, her colleague’s phone rings, since they switched back at the paper. “Lemme just check this,” Lisbeth says as she pulls the phone from her purse. She told her friend to only call if it was life-or-death. I look over her shoulder as we both check caller ID. The number is Lisbeth’s work line. Here comes death.

“Eve?” Lisbeth answers.

“Oh, thank God,” her colleague from the gardening section says, loud enough that it’s easy to hear. “Hold on, I’m patching her in right now.”

“Huh—patching
who
in?”

“Your phone call. I know you said not to pick up, but when I saw who it was . . . I mean, how’m I gonna say no to Lenore Manning?”

“Wait . . .
what?
The First Lady?”

“She asked for you—says she wants to talk to you about your column this morning.”

I nod, telling her it’s okay, and with a click, Eve announces, “Dr. Manning, you’re on with Lisbeth.”

“Hi, there,” the First Lady opens, always first out of the gate.

“H-Hi, Dr. Manning.”

“Oh, dear—you sound busy,” the First Lady says, reading it perfectly as always. “Listen, I don’t mean to waste your time—I just wanted to thank you for the generous mention for cystic fibrosis. You’re a darling for that.”

Lisbeth is speechless as she hears the words. But for Lenore Manning, it’s standard fare. She used to do the same thing in the White House—anytime a mention ran, good or bad, she’d call or send a thank-you note to the reporter. It’s not out of kindness. It’s a trick used by nearly every President. Once a reporter knows there’s a person on the other end, it’s twice as hard for them to tear you down.

“No, happy to help,” Lisbeth says, meaning every word.

“Ask her if Manning went into the office,” I whisper in Lisbeth’s ear.

“Ma’am, can I also—?”

“Let me let you run,” the First Lady says, sidestepping with such grace, Lisbeth barely realizes she hasn’t even gotten the question out. With a click, Dr. Manning is gone.

Lisbeth turns my way and shuts her phone. “Wow, she doesn’t miss an opportunity, huh?”

“She’s just happy you called her an icon.”

“She actually cares abou—?”

“Let me tell you something: On days like today, when the wires are filled with Nico’s escape, and old clips are running from the Manning administration, she misses it more than anyone.”

Lisbeth races back across the sun-faded porch, where a hand-painted wooden crab on the front door pinches a sign that says
Crabby on more than just Mondays.
She tugs on the screen door and reaches for the doorbell.

“It’s open!”
a throaty, cigarette-stained voice calls from inside, awakening a flush of old memories.

I reach over Lisbeth’s shoulder and give the door a shove. Inside, the bitter acidic smell of chemicals drills through my sinuses.

“Sorry, been airing out the darkroom,” a short, overweight man with a spotty gray beard and a matching head of brushed-back thinning gray hair announces. Wiping his hands with a baby wipe, he rolls up the sleeves of his creased shirt and steps a bit too close to Lisbeth. That’s the problem with White House photographers—always overstepping their limits.

“You’re not Wes,” he says to Lisbeth with no hint of irony.

“You must be Kenny,” she says, shaking his hand and taking half a step back. “Lisbeth. From the President’s library.”

He doesn’t even notice. He’s far too focused on me as I step inside. Never taking his eyes off his subject.

“The Boy King,” he says, whipping out my old nickname.

“Popeye the Photographer Man,” I say, whipping his right back. He taps his pointer finger against the crow’s-feet of his left eye. After years of looking through a lens with his right eye, Kenny’s left is always closed a hair more.

“C’mere, Bluto, gimme a kiss,” he teases, embracing me with the kind of hug you get from an old camp friend—a deep-tissue squeeze that brings with it a flush of memories. “You look fantastic,” he says, believing every word.

During trips on Air Force One, Kenny ran the press pool’s poker game in back. As I step inside, he’s already searching for my tells.

“Still can’t leave it behind, can you?” he asks, tracing my glance to the
New York Times
on his painted Arts and Crafts-style kitchen table. On the front page, there’s a huge picture of current President Ted Hartson standing at a podium, his hands resting just below the microphone.

“Who took that? Kahan?” I ask.

“Arms resting flat . . . no motion . . . no reaction shot . . . of course, it’s Kahan. President might as well be a corpse.”

In the world of podiums and White House photographers, the only real action shot comes when the President moves. A hand gesture. Raised eyebrows. That’s when the firing squad of cameras pulls its triggers. Miss that and you miss the shot.

Kenny rarely missed the shot. Especially when it mattered. But after thirty-five years of running city to city and country to country, it became clear that even if it’s not a young man’s game, it’s not an old one’s either. Kenny never took it personally. Even the best horses get put out to pasture.

“So how’re the twilight years?” I joke, even though he’s barely pushing sixty.

Cocking his Popeye eye, he motions us into his living room, which is clearly more of a welcome area for his studio. Centered around a pine cocktail table surrounded by four Mission-style armchairs, the room is covered almost to the ceiling with dozens of black-and-white photographs, all displayed in sleek white matting and museum-quality black frames. As I step toward them, I’m surprised to see that while most of the photos are in the candid journalistic style that White House photographers are famous for, the shots themselves are of young brides throwing bouquets, and well-clad grooms being fed mouthfuls of cake.

“You’re doing
weddings
?” I ask.

“Six Presidents, forty-two kings, countless ambassadors . . . and Miriam Mendelsohn’s bridal party, complete with a reunion shot of her Pi Phi pledge class,” Kenny says, all excitement and no shame.

“You’re serious?”

“Don’t laugh, Wes—I work two days a month, then get to go sailing all week. All I gotta do is make ’em look like the Kennedys.”

“They’re really beautiful,” Lisbeth says, examining the photos.

“They should be,” Kenny says, straightening one of the frames. “I pour my heart into them. I mean, life doesn’t just peak in the White House, right?”

I nod instinctively. So does Lisbeth, who reaches out and straightens another frame. Just over her shoulder, on a nearby end table, I spot one of Kenny’s most famous photos of Manning: a crisp black-and-white shot of the President in the White House kitchen, fixing his tie in the reflection of a shining silver water pitcher just before his first state dinner. Turning back to the wall of brides, I find a blond beauty queen looking over her own shoulder and admiring her French braid in the mirror. The new shot’s just as good. Maybe even better.

“So how’s the Kingfish?” Kenny adds, referring to Manning. “Still mad at me for taking the shot?”

“He’s not mad at you, Popeye.”

“Really? You tell him you were coming here?”

“You crazy?” I ask. “You have any idea how mad he is at you?”

Kenny laughs, well aware of his social standing in the Manning house. “Some laws are immutable,” he says, pulling a thick three-ring binder off the end table with Manning’s picture. “White used cars sell best . . . strip clubs only shut down if there’s a fire . . . and President Leland Manning will never forgive the man who gave him
this
. . .” Flipping open the three-ring binder, Kenny reveals a plastic-encased, pristine copy of the most famous presidential photo since Truman held up the
Dewey Defeats Truman
headline: the black-and-white Cowardly Lion shot—Manning in mid-scream at the shooting, tugged down in the pile as the CEO’s wife became his human shield.

“God, I remember seeing this on the front page the next day,” Lisbeth says, sitting in one of the armchairs as he lowers the binder onto her lap. “This’s . . . it’s history . . .”

“What paper?” Kenny asks.

“Palm Beach Post,”
Lisbeth replies, looking up.

“Yep, that was me. Another few thousand dollars I’ll never see.”

Reading the incomprehension on Lisbeth’s face, I explain, “Since Kenny was working for the AP at the time, they made all the money from the reprint sales.”

“Hundreds of newspapers and forty-nine magazine covers—all for bubkes,” Kenny says. “Meanwhile, that college kid NASCAR hired to take some shots for their Web site? He was freelance, lucky schmuck. Made $800,000—
eight hundred thousand
—and he
missed the shot
!”

“Yeah, but who’s the one who got the Pulitzer for the full sequence?” I point out.

“Pulitzer? That was a pity vote,” Kenny interrupts. “I didn’t squeeze the shutter in a hail of gunfire. I panicked at the noise and accidentally hit the button. Manning’s only in three of the frames.” Turning back to Lisbeth, he adds, “It happened so fast, if you looked away and then looked back, you missed it.”