The Book of Fate (46 page)

“No—just the usual,” Wes finally offered. He added a quick good-bye to sidestep the awkwardness. It didn’t.

Lisbeth couldn’t blame him. By bringing that tape recorder, she’d shaken his trust. Yet as she slid behind the steering wheel of her car and started dialing a new number, it was clear she wasn’t going to just sit still and let him hold her at a distance.

“
Palm Beach Post
,” a female voice answered on the other line. “This is Eve.”

“Eve, it’s Lisbeth. Are you—?”

“Don’t worry, the column’s all done.”

“Forget the column.”

“Even got the dumb art award in.”

“
Eve!
”

There was a pause on the other line. “Please tell me you didn’t wreck my car.”

“Can you please listen?” Lisbeth pleaded as she stared down at the crossword puzzle Violet had given her and spread it across the steering wheel. “Remember that old guy from comics—y’know, with the creepy glasses and the moon-chin—”

“Kassal? The guy who designed our crossword puzzles?”

“Yeah, that’s the—wait, whattya mean
designed
? Don’t tell me he’s dead.”

“Lisbeth, this newspaper’s so cheap, they shrunk the font size on our headlines to save money on ink. You really think they’d pay an extra employee, extra benefits, extra health insurance, when they can get a syndicated daily crossword for thirty bucks?” Eve pointed out. “They fired him two years ago. But lucky you, I happen to be staring at an employee directory from
three
years ago.”

“You really haven’t cleaned your desk in that long?”

“You want the number or not?”

Ten digits later, Lisbeth watched a light rain skate down her windshield. Her foot anxiously tapped the floor mat as she waited for someone to pick up. “Be home, be home, be home . . .”

“Hiya,” an older man with a horse voice and a creaky Midwest accent answered.

“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Kassal,” Lisbeth explained.

“Martin to you. And you are . . .”

“Lisbeth Dodson—we used to work together at the
Palm Beach Post
—and I promise you, sir, this’ll be the strangest question you get all d—”

“Up the pace, sweetie. I got pancakes cooking for dinner, and it’ll kill me to see ’em burn.”

“Yeah, well, a good friend of mine has a problem . . .” Lisbeth took a full breath, reaching for her pen, then stopping herself. “How good are you at solving puzzles?”

88

W
ith the sunroof open and the light rain still drizzling inside, Nico veered off the highway, cutting in front of a white Lexus and following the exit ramp to Okeechobee Boulevard.

“Edmund, what’s the address again?” Nico asked, readjusting the blanket on Edmund’s chest as they approached the red light at the end of the ramp.

8385 Okeechobee Boulevard.

Nodding to himself, Nico leaned forward in his seat, craning his neck past the steering wheel to get a better look at the street that ran perpendicular in front of them. On his right, the light traffic coasted past gas stations and a lawn-mower repair shop. On his left, the open blue water of Clear Lake ran in front of the Performing Arts Center, while a green highway sign pointed toward the beautiful high-rises in the distance. In the photo Nico stole, Wes was broken, shattered, corrupted by Boyle’s touch. Nothing beautiful about him.

Tugging the wheel to the right, Nico cut off the same white Lexus, who bitched with his horn for a good five seconds. Not hearing it, Nico pumped the gas and dove into traffic.

“Can you read that one?” Nico asked as he pointed to the address on a nearby car dealership. A droplet of rain whizzed through the sunroof and flicked Edmund on the cheek.

2701.

“What about
that
one?” Nico asked, pointing to a cash-advance store half a block ahead.

That one’s, lemme see . . . 2727.

Nico beamed with a beady twinkle in his eyes and hit the gas even harder.

Breathtaking work, Nico. Lord’s definitely on your side with this one.

Thinking the exact same thing, Nico reached for the wooden rosary beads that swayed from the Pontiac’s rearview. “Do you mind, Edmund?”

I’d be honored. You’ve earned them, my son.

My son.
Nico sat bolt upright at the words. Surely, Edmund knew what they meant . . . and once Nico heard them, he could smell the black licorice and hickory whiff of his dad’s old hand-rolled cigars. Back when . . . back before Mom got sick. When they’d go to church. When things were good. Barely able to hide his grin, Nico nodded over and over as he slipped the rosary beads around his neck and glanced back at the passenger seat.

What? What’s wrong, Nico?

“Nothing . . . I just . . .” He nodded again and took another deep breath of black licorice. “I’m happy,” he said. “And in a few more minutes, Mom—like Dad—is finally gonna get her justice.”

89

F
ive minutes ago, I started telling Rogo the story about The Four, and the note from Boyle, and what Lisbeth said about Dreidel. Under normal circumstances, Rogo would’ve been screaming for a fistfight and stacking up the I-told-you-sos. But like any good actor, he’s well aware of his audience.

“What’s he saying?” Dreidel asks in the background.

“Tell him the Mannings gave me tomorrow off,” I shoot back through the phone, my newfound anger barely covering my still-smoldering anxieties.

“The Mannings gave him tomorrow off—just to calm down from all the Nico mess,” Rogo says like an old pro. Back to me, he adds, “You have any idea why he did it?”

“Who? Manning? I have no idea—the First Lady said maybe they suckered him. All I know is when The Three recruited Boyle, they were blackmailing him with this supposed kid. But to get something on a sitting President of the United States . . .”

“. . . we’re talking one hell of a secret,” he agrees. “Wes, you’re gonna need to be careful.”

“Careful of what?” Dreidel interrupts, clearly frustrated. “What’s he saying?”

“Rogo,” I warn, “don’t give him—”

“Just relax, okay? We’re talking about O’Shea and Micah,” Rogo says, clearly in control. When Dreidel doesn’t respond, I wonder if I’m being too harsh. Even if what Lisbeth said is true—about Manning and Dreidel being ranked the same . . .

“Ask Wes if he wants to meet up,” Dreidel calls out in the background. “Just so we can compare our notes in one place.”

“Actually, that’s a great idea,” Rogo says. For Dreidel, Rogo’s tone is completely enthusiastic. For me, his undertone is just as clear: He’d gnaw his own thumbs off before letting that meeting ever happen.

As Rogo continues to hold him at bay, I make a sharp right out of the rush-hour traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard and cut through the wide-open space of the Publix supermarket parking lot. It’s not my usual path, but as I check the rearview, the vast emptiness of the lot is the best way to see I’m still alone.

“So when should we meet?” Rogo asks, still trying to keep Dreidel happy.

“I assume you’re joking, right?” I ask, looping back through the parking lot and following the narrow two-lane street to the familiar building at the end of the block.

“Ya-huh . . . of course.”

“Fine, then just keep him away,” I say. “Away from me and away from Boyle.”

“Dammit, Rogo, you missed the turn!” Dreidel shouts in the background. “The on-ramp’s back that way!”

Without a word, I know Rogo understands. By the time they get to Dr. Eng’s office, then back to Palm Beach, Dreidel’s officially one less crisis I have to deal with.

“Okay, eight o’clock tonight at Dreidel’s hotel—you got it, Wes,” Rogo says. “Ya-huh, yeah . . . of course,” he adds, even though I’m silent. Through the phone, he takes a deep breath. His voice slows down. “Just make sure you’re safe, okay?” I know that tone. The last time I heard it, he was standing by my hospital bed. “I’m serious, Wes. Be safe.”

“I will,” I tell him as a sharp right takes me up the paved brick driveway that’s shaped like a horseshoe in front of my apartment building. Driving past the main entrance, I pull around to the open-air parking lot in back. “Though I gotta be honest, Rogo—I figured you’d be happy I was finally fighting back.”

“Yeah, well . . . next time try swimming a few laps before you decide to cross the English Channel.”

“I gave my life to him, Rogo. I need to get it back.”

“You’re telling
me
? Wes, I fight with everyone. I
love
fighting with everyone—I fight with the snot bagboy who tries to cheap me out by giving me plastic instead of paper. But let me tell you something: You don’t fight with people like this. You get your proof, you lock it up somewhere safe, and then you run to the press . . . to the authorities . . . to whoever’s in the best position to keep them from knocking your teeth out through your colon. And believe me, when they find you, they’re gonna hit back.”

“You still talking about Micah and O’Shea?” Dreidel interrupts in the background.

“Who else would we talk about?” Rogo shoots back.

“Rogo,” I interrupt, “I
know
how they hit. They’re not getting another crack.”

“Good—that’s what I wanna hear. Okay, so if you can’t go home, where you gonna hide out for the next few hours: that crappy hotel my mom stayed at, or maybe somewhere more out in the open, y’know, like the lobby of the Breakers or something?”

I’m silent for a moment, coasting toward my parking spot in back. “Whattya mean?”

“Look at the time, Wes—you’ve still got two hours to kill—so assuming you don’t wanna be at home . . .”

I’m silent again.

I swear I can hear Rogo shaking his head. “You’re home right now, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” I say as the car bounces over a speed bump.

“
Not exactly?
What’s
not exactly
?”

“It’s . . . it means I’m . . . it means I’m kinda in the parking lot.”

“Aw, jeez! Wes, why would you—? Get out of there!”

“You don’t think our security in front can—?”

“That’s not security. It’s a doorman with a sewn-on badge!”

“I’m talking about the cameras, Rogo. That’s what they’re afraid of—being seen! And no offense, but until you just blurted it to Dreidel, I probably would’ve been fine.”

“Just go. Now!”

“Y’think?” I ask, pulling into an open spot for a quick three-point turn.

“Just turn the car around and get your ass outta there before—!”

As I throw the car into reverse, there’s a knock against the driver’s-side window. Turning to my left, I spot the tip of a gun tapping against the glass.

O’Shea points his pistol right at me and raises his pointer finger to his lips.

“Tell them you’re fine,” O’Shea says, his voice muffled through the window.

I stare at the gun. “L-Listen, Rogo—I’m fine,” I say into the phone.

Rogo says something, but I can’t hear him.

“Tell them you’ll call back when you find someplace safe,” O’Shea adds.

For a moment, I hesitate. O’Shea tightens his finger against the trigger.

“Rogo, I’ll call you back when I find someplace safe.”

I shut the phone. O’Shea rips open my car door.

“Nice to see you again,” he says. “How was Key West?”

90

L
et’s go, Wes. Out,” O’Shea says, gripping the shoulder of my shirt and dragging me from the Subaru. As I stumble across the asphalt of the parking lot, I realize the car’s still running. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t think this’ll take long.

“Keep going . . . toward the fence,” he adds, barely a step behind. His gun is no longer out in the open. But through the outline in his jacket pocket, it’s still clearly pointed at me.

We head toward the back corner of the parking lot, where there’s an opening in the tall shrubs that leads to a shaded dog run that runs parallel to the lot. The dog run is narrow and not too long. But tucked behind the shrubs, it’ll keep us out of sight.

“So Key West,” O’Shea says, still right behind me. “Your buddy Kenny says hi.”

I glance over my shoulder just as we reach the two lampposts that flank the entrance to the dog run. O’Shea offers a smug grin, but the way his sandy-blond hair is matted to his head, he’s had a tougher day than he’s saying. The drizzle of rain looks like beads of sweat across his pug nose.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, turning back to face him.

He doesn’t even bother calling me on it. “Where’s the photo you took, Wes?”

“I told you, I don’t—”

In a blur, his fist cocks me in the face, jamming into my left eye and sending me crashing to the muddy path. As I skid backward on my butt through the damp grass, my whole eye socket’s throbbing, like a just-rung bell.

“I know you have the photo. Hand it over, and you’re free to go.”

“It-it’s in the glove compartment,” I say, pointing to the car with one hand and holding my eye with the other.

He glances back at the Subaru just as two more cars glide into the parking lot. Their headlights are on, slicing through the early darkness and turning the light drizzle into tiny fireworks that flicker in the distance. Fellow tenants coming home from their day’s work. Planting his foot on my shoulder, O’Shea studies the entire scene like he’s reading someone’s palm.

Without a word, he reaches down, grips the front of my shirt, and pulls me to my feet. Even before I get my balance, he whips me around, and I crash chest-first into the nearest tree. My cheek scrapes against the bark, momentarily forcing me to forget the pain in my eye.

Behind me, O’Shea kicks my legs apart and starts frisking through my pockets, tossing the contents to the ground: wallet, house keys, the folded-up sheet of paper with Manning’s daily schedule on it.

“What’re you doing?” I ask as he pats my chest and works his way down my legs. “I told you it’s in the glove compar—”

There’s a soft crackle as his fingers pat my ankle.

I look down at him. He looks up at me.

I try to fight free of his grip, but he’s too strong. Choking my ankle, he hikes up my pant leg, revealing the glossy black-and-white photo that’s curled around my shin, the top half of it sticking out of my sock.