The Book of Fate (47 page)

Enraged, O’Shea rips it free and shoves me aside. His anger swells as he stares down at the speedway photo of Micah, crumpling the corner of it in his hand—but just as quickly, he finds his calm and catches his breath. Relieved that he’s not in it, he locks back on me. The fact I’m still alive means the photo isn’t the only thing he’s here for.

“Where’s Lisbeth?” he asks.

“We had a disagreement.”

“But she still let you use her car? Sounds like she’s being plenty helpful.”

“If you want to know if she’s writing a story—”

“I want to know where she is, Wes. Now. And don’t say
I don’t know.
”

“But I don—”

“
Don’t say I don’t know!
” he shouts, pulling his gun and pointing it directly at my face. Lowering his voice, he adds, “I know you were speaking to her about the crossword. Now—”

There’s a crack of broken sticks and a jingle that sounds like Christmas bells. Behind O’Shea, through the opening that leads to the parking lot, a short woman in a pin-striped business suit shakes a metal dog leash as she leads her fluffy beach-colored cocker spaniel through the entrance of the dog run.

Before the woman even realizes what’s happening, O’Shea crosses his arms, hiding his gun under his armpit.

“Sorry,” the woman says, laughing nervously as she ducks down and cuts between us. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem at all,” O’Shea replies, turning just enough that she never gets a clear look at his face. “We’re just waiting for our dogs to come back—they love running down to the end.”

The woman nods, glancing back just long enough to see that neither of us is carrying a leash. Quickly turning away and pretending not to notice, she follows her dog’s lead as she’s tugged to a small patch of grass about ten feet away.

I’m tempted to run. She’s a perfect distraction—and a witness. But as O’Shea lowers his chin and his hazel eyes disappear in the darkness of his brow, I hear the message loud and clear. If I make a move, he’ll kill her too.

“Good girl, Murphy—there you go,” the woman says, tugging the dog back between us and reentering the parking lot. For a full minute, we watch her from behind as she crosses the lot and heads for the back door of the building. The woman looks at her dog, at her watch, for her keys—but to her credit, she never looks back. With a faint crack, the metal door to the building slams, and the woman disappears. O’Shea’s arms unfold, and his gun goes right back to my face.

“Sorry, Wes,” O’Shea says as he pulls back the hammer of his gun. “This is gonna sting.”

“Wait . . . what’re you doing?” I ask, stumbling backward into a nearby tree.

The light rain taps against his face, but he barely notices. His fair skin shines with a yellow glow in the darkness.

“O’Shea, if you do this . . . the investigation they’ll open: You’ll never be able to cover it up.”

O’Shea grins as his finger tightens on the trigger. “Funny. That’s what they said to us last ti—”

Pop, pop, pop.

The sound hiccups through the air. My body goes cold. Not from pain. From the sound.
Pop, pop, pop
—an echo from the past—firing now.

Across from me, O’Shea, a look of angry surprise frozen on his face, shudders and shifts, crashing backward into the lamppost. He slaps his shoulder like he’s slapping a bug bite. His knees start to buckle. His head dips slightly to the side. Still, it’s not until I spot the blood coming from his shoulder that I even realize he’s been shot. His blood looks black in the dim light as it runs down his suit.

“Nuuh!” O’Shea grunts as his head slams back into the lamppost. His gun drops to the muddy ground. The way he’s teetering and leaning on the lightpost, he’s about to follow. Behind me, there’s another crunch of broken sticks. Before I even register the sound, a tall blurred shadow in a black windbreaker races past me, right for O’Shea.

“Move, Wes!
Move!
” the shadow shouts, ramming his forearm into my back and shoving me out of the way. But as I slip on the grass and fight for my own balance, there’s no mistaking that voice. The voice from Malaysia . . . from the warning on my phone . . .

Boyle.

91

W
es, get the hell out of here! Now!” Boyle hisses, his gun pointed at O’Shea. A wisp of smoke twirls from the barrel.

Sliding to the ground with his back against the lamppost, O’Shea crumples to his knees. Fighting to stand up, he doesn’t get anywhere. He’s already in shock. Taking no chances, Boyle rushes in and jams the barrel of his gun against O’Shea’s head. “Where’s Micah?” he demands.

Down on his knees, O’Shea grits his teeth in obvious pain. “You finally found his name, huh? I told him this wou—”

“I’m asking you one more time,” Boyle threatens. Moving the gun from O’Shea’s head, he jabs the barrel into the wound in O’Shea’s shoulder. O’Shea tries to scream, but Boyle puts his hand over O’Shea’s mouth. “
Last time, O’Shea! Where’s he hiding?
” Pulling back the hammer, he digs his gun into O’Shea’s wound.

O’Shea’s body shakes as he tries to speak. Boyle lets go of his mouth. “H-He’s dead,” O’Shea growls, more pissed than ever.

“Who did it? You or The Roman?”

When O’Shea hesitates, Boyle twists the gun even deeper. “M-M-Me . . .” O’Shea grunts, his eyes wild like an animal’s. “Just like I’ll do with y—”

Boyle doesn’t give him the chance, pulling the trigger and shooting him through the same wound. There’s a muffled pop and a splat as a hunk of flesh explodes out the back of his shoulder. The pain’s so intense, O’Shea doesn’t even have time to scream. His eyes roll back. His arms go slack.

Crumpling like a sack of pennies, O’Shea rag-dolls forward. The instant he hits the dirt, Boyle’s all over him, pulling O’Shea’s hands behind his back and snapping his wrists into plastic flex cuffs that Boyle’s pulled from his pocket.

“Wh-What’re you doing here?” I ask, barely catching my breath.

With a loud
zzzip
, the cuffs clench, locking O’Shea’s wrists behind his back. If Boyle wanted him dead, he’d fire another shot. But the way he’s wrapping him up, he clearly wants something else. What’s more amazing is the way Boyle moves—patting down O’Shea’s body, working so fast . . . the way his triceps tense underneath his windbreaker . . . he’s been training for this.

“Wes, I told you to leave!” Boyle shouts, finally turning my way.

It’s the first time I get a good look at his eyes. Even in the dim light, they glow like a cat’s. Brown with a splash of blue.

In the distance, a car door slams with a metal
chunk.
Boyle jerks to the left, following the sound. The tall shrubs block his view, but the way he freezes, leaning in to listen . . . like he knows someone’s coming.

“We gotta go!” he insists, suddenly frantic as he pulls O’Shea’s gun from the mud and pockets it.

“How’d you know I’d be here?”

Refusing to answer, he furiously rolls the unconscious O’Shea like a log, flipping him on his back. “Help me get him up!” Boyle demands.

Without even thinking, I move in, grabbing O’Shea under his left armpit. Boyle grabs the right.

“Were you following me?” I add as we lug O’Shea to his feet.

Boyle ignores the question, cutting in front of O’Shea and dropping to one knee. As O’Shea topples forward, Boyle hoists his shoulder under O’Shea’s midsection, boosting him up like he’s lugging an old rolled-up carpet.

“I asked you a—”

“I heard you, Wes. Get out of my way.” He tries to step around me. I sidestep, staying in front of him.

“You
were
following me? Is that to track them down or—?”

“Are you paying attention, Wes? Nico can be here any minute!”

I stumble at the words. My mouth goes dry, and I swear, every sweat gland in my body opens.

“Now get the hell out of here before you get both of us killed!” Shaking his head, Boyle rushes around me with O’Shea on his shoulder. I spin back and watch as he plows down to the end of the dog run.

“Where’re you taking him?”

“Don’t be stupid!” he calls out, shooting me one last look and making sure I get the point. “There’ll be time for chatting later.”

In the distance, as he turns away from me, Boyle’s black windbreaker camouflages everything but his bald head. Draped over his shoulder, it’s the same for O’Shea, whose pale neck shines as his head dangles toward the ground. Boyle yells something else, but I can’t hear it. At the clip they’re going down the tree-lined path, they quickly fade in the darkness. The sun’s already set. And I’m once again standing in silence. In shock. All alone.

Behind me, a car door slams in the parking lot. On my left, a cricket’s chirp scratches the night air. The drizzle continues and another twig cracks. Then another. It’s more than enough.

Spinning back toward the parking lot, I run as fast as I can. Another car door slams. This one’s quiet—like it’s on the very far end of the lot. No time to take chances. Scooping up my wallet, house keys, and the photo, I dart between the lampposts, back to the parking lot. As I cut between two cars, no one’s there.

After stuffing my wallet back into my pocket—and the photo back inside the ankle of my sock—I run through the lot, searching row by row and scanning the hood of each car. Along every metal roof, the overhead lamps cast a circular reflection that ripples with each raindrop. Still no one in sight. It doesn’t make me feel any safer. If Boyle’s been following me the whole time, then anyone cou— No, don’t even think about it.

Shifting into a full sprint, I plow toward Lisbeth’s car, rip open the door, and practically dive into the driver’s seat. The car’s still running. My phone’s still sitting on the armrest.

Flipping open my cell, I frantically punch in Rogo’s number and throw the car in reverse. But as I listen to it ring, all I can think about is who Rogo’s traveling with . . . and how many questions Dreidel was asking . . . and how—somehow—O’Shea knew I was talking to Lisbeth. Rogo and I were convinced that Dreidel couldn’t hear anything from our last conversation, but if we were wrong . . .

Jamming my thumb against the
End
button, I hang up, replaying Boyle’s words in my head.
There’ll be time for chatting later.
I look down at the digital clock on the dash. An hour and forty-five minutes, to be precise.

As my thumb pounds out a brand-new number and my foot pounds the gas, I tell myself it’s the only way. And it is. However Boyle pulled it off, even if he was using me as bait for The Three, by nabbing O’Shea and finding out Micah’s dead, he finally gave us a chance. So instead of just showing up at seven tonight—instead of just rushing in blind—I need to make the most of it. Even if it means taking some risks.

As I finish dialing the last digit, all I have to do is hit
Send.
Still, I stop myself. Not because I don’t trust her. But because I
do.
Rogo would tell me I shouldn’t. But he didn’t hear her apology. He didn’t hear the pain in her voice. She knew she’d hurt me. And that hurt her.

I hit
Send
, praying I won’t regret it. I listen as the phone rings. And rings again. She’s got caller ID. She knows who it is.

The phone rings for a third time as I zip through the parking lot toward the front of the building. I don’t blame her for not picking up. If I’m calling, it only means trou—

“Wes?” Lisbeth finally answers, her voice softer than I expected. “That you?”

“Yeah.”

It’s not tough to read my tone. “Everything okay?” she asks.

“I-I don’t think so,” I say, gripping the steering wheel.

She doesn’t even hesitate.

“How can I help?” she asks.

92

D
riving up the curving brick driveway in front of Wes’s building, Nico rechecked Edmund’s wool blanket and nudged the brakes, reminding himself to take it slow. From the army to the speedway to this, his first goal was never to get noticed. Still, just being this close . . . Nico took his foot off the brake and gave a tap to the gas. The wooden rosary beads seemed to burn against his chest.

Almost there, son. Don’t get riled.

Nico nodded, throwing a wave to one of the tenants running out the front door for a jog. As the Pontiac followed the road to the parking lot in back, its headlights stabbed through the dusk like twin glowing lances.

Know where you’re going?

“Five twenty-seven,” Nico replied, pointing with his chin at the black apartment numbers painted on the concrete stops at the front of each parking spot.

Within a minute, he’d weaved up and down the first two aisles.

525 . . . 526 . . . and . . .

Nico hit the brakes, bucking the car to a halt. 527. Wes’s apartment number. But the parking spot was empty.

He could still be upstairs.

Nico shook his head. “He’s not upstairs.”

Then we should go up there and wait for him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nico said, still studying the lot. Refusing to give up, he took another pass down the next aisle. His eyes narrowed, and he lowered the windows for a better look. To his ears, the rain on the nearby cars sounded like a ten-year-old letting loose on a drum set.

Weaving up and down each aisle, the Pontiac eventually looped back around to the far side of the lot where they first came in.

D’you even know what kind of car he drives?

Slowing down, Nico shook his head and opened the driver’s-side door. “I’m not looking for his car.”

What’re you—?

The Pontiac was barely in park as Nico hopped outside, crossed in front of his own headlights, and squatted down toward the ground. On the asphalt, a matching set of curved tire marks formed identical, partially overlapping Vs just outside a parking spot. Like someone left in a hurry.

Standing up straight, Nico looked over his shoulder, rescanning the full length of the lot. Lamppost by lamppost, aisle by aisle, he took in every piece, including the twenty-foot shrubs that completely circled the whole— No. Not the whole lot. Cocking his head, Nico blinked twice to make sure he was seeing it right.