The Book of Fate (52 page)
RONALD BOYLE
TREASURED HUSBAND, FATHER, SON
WHOSE MAGIC WILL ALWAYS BE WITH US
“This is him?” Lisbeth asks, spotting the name and almost crashing into me from behind.
It was Manning’s last gift to his friend—a final resting place that kept Boyle out of the land of flat markers, and instead put him next to a general from World War II, and across from one of Palm Beach’s most respected judges from the 1920s. It was vintage Palm Beach. Even in death, honchos still want the best seat in the house.
Behind us, the train fades and the sound of crickets returns, engulfing us on all sides. I just stand there, staring at Boyle’s grave in the dim light.
“Y’okay?” Lisbeth asks.
She thinks I’m afraid. But now that we’re here . . . now that I know there isn’t a body underneath this stone . . . and most important, that I never put him there . . . My fists tighten as I reread the epitaph. Like everything in their lives, it’s polished and pretty—and a festering tumor of lies. For eight years, Manning—my boss, my mentor—for eight years, he knew I was eating shit, but he never once took it off my plate. He just served it. Day after day. With a perfect presidential grin.
My fists clench. Then I feel Lisbeth’s hand on the small of my back. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.
I take one last look around the empty cemetery. For eight years, I’ve been afraid. That’s what death does when it haunts you. But right now, as I stand here in the soft rain and bleeding darkness, I’m ready to meet my ghost. And so is Lisbeth.
We take our separate places, just like we discussed. Lisbeth looks down at her watch. All we have to do is wait.
O
utta there! Now!” the guard yelled as he gripped the back of Rogo’s shirt.
“Get off me!” Rogo shouted back, tugging free and running deeper into the poorly lit room. Two steps later, motion sensors kicked in, flooding the room with the buzz of fluorescent light. On Rogo’s left was a single bed with a beat-up oak headboard, immaculately folded white sheets, and a Bible sitting on a fuzzy, olive-green wool blanket. Rounding out the cheap motel decor was a mismatched white Formica side table and a faux-wood dresser that held a pile of old magazines and a ten-year-old twelve-inch TV. To the right, oak double doors opened into what looked like a conference room, complete with a long mahogany table and half a dozen modern black leather chairs. None of it made sense. Why’s a public bathroom connect to a separate bedr—?
From behind, Rogo felt a sharp tug on his shirt. He again tried to pull away, but this time, the guard was ready, yanking him backward toward the bathroom.
“Y’know how much trouble you just got me into?!” the guard shouted.
“I was just—the door was open—”
“Bull . . .
shit
,” the guard insisted, whipping Rogo around and sending him smashing face-first into the room’s half-closed door, which slammed into the tile wall as he shoved Rogo into the bathroom.
“Are you nuts?!” Rogo screamed, twisting to break free. The guard held tight, marching him back through the men’s room and toward the door to the hallway. A full head taller than Rogo, he gripped Rogo’s wrists and held them behind his back.
“I’m a lawyer, you stupid monkey. By the time I’m done suing, I’m gonna own this place and turn it into an Arby’s!”
As Rogo stumbled from the bathroom into the salmon marble hall, the guard shoved him to the right, back toward the lobby’s white frosted-glass doors.
“Dreidel, tell him who you are!” Rogo called out, his voice echoing up the hall.
“W-What’d you do?” Dreidel asked, already stepping backward, away from the check-in desk.
“Don’t move!” the guard warned Dreidel.
Panicking, Dreidel spun around and took off for the sliding doors.
“No . . .
don’t!
” the guard shouted.
Too late.
Before Dreidel even registered the words, his foot hit the sensor mat. But it wasn’t until the doors started to slide open that Rogo noticed shadows on the other side of the frosted glass.
With a hushed swoosh, the doors yawned open, revealing a thin bald man with chiseled cheeks and a crusted-up bloody nose. Slumped over his shoulder was a fit blond man whose head was drooped down, unconscious. His shirt was soaked with what looked like blood.
“Guess who I found?” Boyle announced as he stepped inside. “All that’s left is—” Spotting Dreidel, he froze. Without even thinking, he let go of O’Shea, who clattered to the ground, splayed out across the sensor mat.
“Boyle,” Dreidel blurted.
“
Boyle?
” Rogo asked.
“Don’t move!” the guard yelled at Boyle, pulling his gun and shoving Rogo aside.
“Put your gun away,” Boyle ordered.
“I said
don’t move
!” the guard repeated. Turning to his radio, he shouted, “Fellas,
I need some help down here
!”
Regaining his balance, Rogo couldn’t take his eyes off Boyle. It was just like Wes said. The pointy features . . . the gaunt cheeks . . . but still so much the same.
“R-Ron, are you okay?” Dreidel asked, still in shock.
Before Boyle could answer, his brown and blue eyes locked with Rogo’s. “You’re Wes’s roommate, aren’t you?”
Rogo nodded, his head bobbing slowly. “Why?”
“Is Wes here too?” Boyle asked, his eyes swiftly scanning the lobby.
Confused and completely overwhelmed, Rogo followed Boyle’s glance, searching the lobby, the elevators, the check-in desk, almost half expecting Wes to jump out. “I-I thought he was meeting
you.
”
“Meeting
him
?” Dreidel asked.
“Meeting
me
?” Boyle replied.
“Yeah, no—
you
,” Rogo shot back. “That note you sent . . . for Wes to meet you . . . seven p.m. Y’know, at the graveyard.”
Staring at Rogo, Boyle shook his head, clearly clueless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, son. Why would I invite Wes to meet me at a graveyard?”
I
t took him six seconds to flick the four pins and pop the rusted old padlock, and that was with an umbrella in his hand. He knew there was no alarm—that was why he’d come by earlier. Indeed, as the lock sprang open, he quietly tugged the rusted metal chain and unthreaded it from the iron front gates of the cemetery without even looking to see if anyone was coming. With a final push, he shoved the gates open just enough for the two of them to squeeze inside.
“This is where you—? Who would possibly meet you here?”
“Just trust me,” the man said, tipping his umbrella back and glancing up at the ornate stone archway that framed the gates. Sandblasted into the stone, in classic block letters, was the one epitaph that had been on the cemetery’s entrance since it was built two hundred years ago:
That which is so universal as death must be a blessing.
“Wait here,” he said.
“Why? Where’re you going?” his partner asked, shielded under a separate umbrella and carefully hanging back. “You’re not leaving me in a graveyard.”
“What I’m leaving you is
out of sight
,” the man insisted, knowing that Wes had to be here already. “If you want me to clean up this mess—which I assume you do—I suggest you stay here until I tell you it’s clear.” Leaving his partner behind, he eyed the floodlit flagpole that bathed the main entrance in light, then quickly cut left and plowed across a plot of graves. Ignoring the stone pathways, he strode toward the south end of the cemetery, using the trees for cover.
Behind him, he could hear his partner following, holding back far enough to stay hidden. But still following. Good. That’s what he needed.
Heading toward Wes, he stopped behind a cracked limestone column on the corner of a crypt with a pointed cathedral roof. To his right, across from the crypt, a small gray 1928 headstone for someone named
J. G. Anwar
was engraved with a Masonic
Still ignoring his partner creeping twenty feet behind him, he peered around the crypt as the tines of his umbrella scratched against the mushy wet moss that was slowly working its way up the limestone column. Diagonally across the graveyard, at the base of an oversize banyan tree, Wes’s single thin shadow paced back and forth, hunched under his own crooked umbrella.
“That him?” his partner whispered, quickly catching up and staying hidden by the crypt.
“I told you t—”
But before he could get the words out, the shadow by the grave pivoted toward him, and he could immediately tell who it was. The ankles were the giveaway.
The man’s fist tightened on his umbrella handle. His eyes narrowed, and as he leaned forward, the umbrella tines scratched deeper against the mossy crypt. With a burst, he raced forward.
That stupid motherf—
“Wait . . . where’re you—?”
“
Stay here!
” he seethed at his partner, this time meaning it. All this time . . . All he needed was for Wes to be alone. Half running, he cut diagonally across a row of graves. He knew full well they’d hear him coming.
Sure enough, the shadow turned his way, lifting its umbrella and revealing a glint of auburn hair.
“Boyle, that you?” Lisbeth called out. Getting no answer, she cocked her head, squinting into the darkness. “Boyle . . . ?”
Barely ten feet away, the man reached into his pocket and used his good hand—his left hand—to grab his gun.
“Boyle, just relax,” Lisbeth said, backing up as the man approached, his face still hidden by his umbrella. For a split second, he ducked under a wayward branch that caught the umbrella and pulled it aside. The instant Lisbeth saw his jet-black hair, she knew she was in trouble. According to Wes, Boyle was bald. “Listen, whoever you are, I’m just here to—”
Ramming through a row of bushes and bursting from the darkness, he pulled his gun, pointed it at Lisbeth’s chest, and stepped in so close, he forced her back against a tall clay-colored headstone with a carved Celtic cross on top.
“I don’t care why the hell you’re here,” The Roman exploded, knocking her umbrella from her hand. As he moved closer, his skin glowed as gray as the headstones. “But if you don’t tell me where Wes is, I swear to my God, you’ll be begging me to blow your face off.”
Frozen in shock, Lisbeth glanced over The Roman’s shoulder and spotted his associate stepping between the bushes.
The reporter’s mouth sagged open as the final member of The Four came forward.
M
artin Kassal could read when he was three years old. He could write when he was four. And by five, he would sit next to his father at the breakfast table, eating his raisins and French toast while reading the headlines in the newspaper. But it wasn’t until he was seven that he finished his first crossword puzzle. Designing it, that is.
Sixty-one years later, Kassal tapped at his moon-chin, skimming his way through a small beaten paperback called
Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization.
Even with his tinted reading glasses, he still needed to lean close to see, and as he pulled back slightly to flip to a new page, he was so engrossed in the symbols of the sacred rivers, he didn’t even register his phone until the third ring.
“Is this Ptomaine1?” a female voice asked with an accusatory tone.
“I’m sorry—who’s this?” Kassal asked.
“
Tattarrattat
is my screen name. Also known as Mary Beth Guard to my friends,” she added with a huffy laugh at her use of the longest palindrome in the Oxford Dictionary, second edition. “I saw your posting on the message boards . . . about the glyphs you were trying to identify . . . the four dots and the cross with the slash . . .”
“Of course. No, of course. And thank you for getting back so quickly.”
“Hey, you posted your phone number. I figured it was an emergency. By the way, I like your screen name. Ptomaine. From NPR, right?
Famous historic American. Put his first name inside his last name to get a word.
Ptomaine. Tom Paine. Cute,” the woman said, almost as if she were looking for a date.
“Yeah, well . . . aheh,” Kassal said, wiping his forehead. “So about those symbols . . .”
“The glyphs—sure—I knew them immediately. I mean, I stare at them every day.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I work at Monticello. Y’know, Virginia? Home of our wisest and greatest President, Thomas Jefferson—and I don’t just say that as an employee.”
“These were symbols used by Jefferson?”
“Actually, by Meriwether Lewis.”
“Of Lewis and Clark?”
“Oooh, you know your history, Ptomaine,” she said sarcastically. “Of course. But what people don’t realize is that the main reason Meriwether Lewis was picked to explore the Louisiana Purchase—in fact, maybe the
only
reason he was trusted with the task—was because a few years earlier, he did such an incredible job as Jefferson’s personal secretary.”
“Huh,” Kassal said, already scribbling a note to use the info in an upcoming puzzle. “I didn’t realize Lewis was Jefferson’s aide.”