The Book of Fate (59 page)

I shrug, unconcerned with my appearance.

“By the way, how’s your friend?” Boyle asks.

“My friend?”

“The reporter. I heard she got shot.”

“Lisbeth? Yeah, she got shot,” I say, staring at Boyle’s sharpened features. “The one in her hand was the worst.”

Boyle nods, glancing down at the old stigmata scar at the center of his own palm. He doesn’t linger on it, though.

“Wes, I—I’m sorry I had to keep you in the dark like that. In Malaysia, when I was trying to get to Manning . . . All these years, I thought he might’ve screwed me—that maybe
he
was The Fourth—so to find the crossword . . . to see it was her—and then when I saw you, I just—I panicked. And when O’Shea and Micah started trailing you . . .”

He waits for me to complete the thought—to yell at him for using me as bait these past few days. To blame him for the lies, for the deception . . . for every ounce of guilt he dumped on my shoulders for eight years. But as I stare across at him . . . as I see the deep circles under his eyes and the pained vertical line etched between his brows . . . Last night, Ron Boyle won. He got everyone—The Roman . . . Micah and O’Shea . . . even the First Lady—everyone he’d hunted for so long. But it’s painful to see him now, anxiously licking his lips. There’s no joy in his features, no victory on his face. Eight years after his ordeal began, all that’s left is an aged man with crummy nose and chin jobs, a haunted vacancy in his eyes, and an unstoppable need to keep checking every nearby door and window, which he does for the third time since we started talking.

Suffering is bad. Suffering alone is far worse.

My jaw clenches as I try to find the words. “Listen, Ron . . .”

“Wes, don’t pity me.”

“I’m not—”

“You
are
,” he insists. “I’m standing right in front of you, and you’re still mourning me like I’m gone. I can see it in your face.”

He’s talking about the swell of tears in my eyes. But he’s reading it wrong. I shake my head and try to tell him why, but the words feel like they’re stapled in my throat.

He says something else to make me feel better, but I don’t hear it. All I hear are the words that’re trapped within me. The words I’ve practiced in my sleep at night—every night—and in my mirror every morning, knowing full well they’d never get to leave my lips. Until this moment.

I swallow hard and again hear the crowd at the speedway that day. Everyone happy, everyone waving, until
pop, pop, pop,
there it is, the scream in C minor as the ambulance doors close. I swallow hard again and slowly, finally, the screams begin to fade as the first few syllables leave my lips.

“Ron,” I begin, already panting hard. “I—I . . .”

“Wes, you don’t have to—”

I shake my head and cut him off. He’s wrong. I do. And after nearly a decade, as the tears stream down my face, I finally get my chance. “Ron, I . . . I’m sorry for putting you in the limo that day,” I tell him. “I know it’s stupid—I just—I need you to know I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, Ron,” I plead as my voice cracks and the tears drip from my chin. “I’m so sorry I put you in there.”

Across from me, Boyle doesn’t respond. His shoulders rise, and for a moment, he looks like the old Boyle who screamed in my face that burning July day. As I wipe my cheeks, he continues staring at me, keeping it all to himself. I can’t read him. Especially when he doesn’t want to be read. But even the best facades crack in time.

He rubs his nose and tries to hide it, but I still spot the quivering of his chin and the heartbroken arch of his eyebrows.

“Wes,” he eventually offers, “no matter what car you put me in, that bullet was always going to hit my chest.”

I look up, still fighting to catch my breath. Over the years, my mom, Rogo, my shrinks, Manning, even the lead investigator from the Service, told me the exact same thing. But Ron Boyle was the one I needed to hear it from.

Within seconds, a tentative smile spreads across my face. I spot my own reflection in the glass panels of the French doors. The smile itself is crooked, broken, and only lifts one of my cheeks. But for the first time in a long time, that’s plenty.

That is, until I spot the flash of movement and the familiar posture on the other side of the glass. With a twist, the brass eagle doorknob once again turns, and the door opens inward, behind Boyle’s back. Boyle turns, and I look up. Towering above us, President Manning sticks his head out and nods at me with an awkward hello. His mane of gray hair is matted just enough that I can tell it’s unwashed; the whites of his eyes are crackling with red. His wife died last night. He hasn’t slept ten minutes.

“I should go,” Boyle offers. From what I heard last night, he’s blaming his death and reappearance on Nico and The Three. Not The Four. For that alone, Manning’ll make him a hero. I’m not sure I blame him. But as Manning knows, I deal with things differently than Boyle.

Before I can say a word, Boyle walks past me, offers a quick shoulder pat, and casually leaves the room, like he’s going to lunch. The problem is, I’m the one about to be eaten.

On most days, Manning would simply head back into the library and expect me to follow. Today, he opens the door wider and motions me inside. “There you are, Wes,” the President says. “I was starting to worry you weren’t coming.”

115

I
appreciate your getting here so early, Wes.”

“Believe me, I wanted to come last night.”

Nodding soberly and ushering me to the seat in front of his desk, Manning turns his back to me and scans the framed photos and leather-bound books that line the built-in maple shelves that surround us on all sides. There are pictures of him with the pope, with both Presidents Bush, with Clinton, Carter, and even with an eight-year-old boy from Eritrea, who weighed barely twenty pounds when Manning met him during one of our first trips abroad. Unlike his office, where we cover the walls, here at home he displays only the pictures he loves best—his own personal greatest hits—but it’s not until I sit down in the antique Queen Anne chair that I realize that the only photo on his desk is one of him and his wife.

“Sir, I’m sorry about—”

“The funeral’s Wednesday,” he says, still scanning his shelves as if some brilliant answer were there among the peace prizes, bricks from the Hanoi Hilton, and imprints of the Wailing Wall. Across from him, I also stare—at the bronze casting of Abraham Lincoln’s fist that sits on the edge of the desk.

“We’d like you to be a pallbearer, Wes.”

He still doesn’t face me. The snag in his voice tells me how hard this is. The way his hand’s shaking as he shoves it in his pocket shows me the same. As President, Leland Manning buried three hundred and two American soldiers, nine heads of state, two senators, and a pope. None of it prepared him for burying his wife.

“A pallbearer?” I ask.

“It was her request,” he says, trying to pull it together. “From her checklist.”

When a President and First Lady leave the White House, as if they’re not depressed enough, one of the very first things they’re forced to do is make arrangements for their own funerals. State funerals are national events that need to be mounted in a few hours, almost always without any notice—which is why the Pentagon gives the President a checklist of all the gruesome details: whether you want to lie in state in the Capitol, if you want a public viewing, whether you want the final burial at your library or in Arlington, how many friends, family, and dignitaries should attend, who should do the eulogies, who
shouldn’t
be invited, and of course, who should be the pallbearers.

Once, they even sent the military honor guard to our offices at the Manning Library to practice carrying the casket that would eventually hold him. I tried to keep Manning from coming to his office that day. But there he was, watching from his window as they carried his flag-covered weighted-down casket to the meditation garden in back. “I look heavy,” he’d joked, trying his best to make light of it. Still, he was quiet as they passed by. He’s more quiet now.

“Mr. President, I’m not sure that’s the best idea anymore. After last night—”

“That was her own doing, Wes. You know that. Her own doing. And her undoing as well,” he says as his voice again breaks. He’s trying hard to be strong—to be the Lion—but I can see that he’s gripping the back of his brown leather chair to stand. However it happened, it’s still his wife. Looking like a shell of the man I used to know, he sighs and sits down. We both sit there in silence, staring at Lincoln’s fist.

“Did the Service say anything about Nico?” I finally ask.

“His fingerprints were all over the car. The blood in the backseat was his. No question he pulled the trigger. But as far as where he disappeared to, they’re still looking,” he explains. “If you’re worried he’s coming after you, though, I’ve already asked the Service to—”

“He’s not coming after me. Not anymore.”

Manning looks me over. “So in the cemetery . . . you spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“You made peace with him?”

“Peace? No. But—” I pause to think about it. “He’s not coming back.”

“Good. I’m glad for you, Wes. You deserve some peace of mind.”

He’s generous to say it, but it’s clear his mind is elsewhere. That’s fine. So is mine.

“Sir, I know this may not be the best time, but I was wondering if I could—” I stop right there, reminding myself I don’t need his permission. I look up from Lincoln’s fist. “I’d like to talk to you about my status.”

“What status?”

“My job, Mr. President.”

“Of course, of course—no . . . of course,” he says, clearly caught off guard.

“I thought that under the circumstances—”

“You don’t have to say it, Wes. Regardless of the end result, you’re still family to us. So if you’re wondering if the job’s still yours—”

“Actually, Mr. President, I was thinking it’s time for me to move on.”

Our eyes lock, but he doesn’t blink. I think he’s most shocked by the fact it’s not a question.

Eventually, he offers a small, gentle laugh. “Good for you, Wes,” he says, pointing. “Y’know, I been waiting a long time for you to say that.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“And if you need help finding a job or a recommendation or something like that . . . don’t forget, it still says
President
on my stationery, and let’s hope there’re still a few people out there who’re impressed by that.”

“I’m sure there are, sir,” I say with my own laugh. “Thank you, Mr. President.” The way he nods at me—like a proud dad—it’s a truly sweet moment. A warm moment. And the perfect moment for me to leave. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I find out.

“So what do you plan on doing next?” he asks.

I don’t answer. Shifting in my seat, I tell myself to forget it.

“Wes, do you have any plans f—?”

“Did you know?” I blurt.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

I stare right at him, pretending they’re not the most awkward three words to ever leave my lips. Steeling myself, I again ask, “Did you know about the First Lady? About your wife?”

Across from me, his fingers lace together, resting on the desk. I know his temper. The fuse is lit. But as he sits there and watches me, the explosion never comes. His lips part, and the lacing of his fingers comes undone. He’s not mad. He’s wounded. “After all our—you really think that?” he asks.

I sink in my seat, feeling about three centimeters tall. But that doesn’t mean I’m not getting my answer. “I saw the crosswords—your ratings—even from the earliest days, you were obviously worried. So does that—? Did you know she was The Fourth?”

At this point, he has every right to wring my throat; to argue that she was tricked and innocent. But he just sits there, pummeled by the question. “Wes, don’t cast her as Lady Macbeth. She was many things—but never a mastermind.”

“I saw her last night. Even in the best light—even if she didn’t know who The Roman was when he first approached her—once Boyle got shot, all these years, and she never said
anything
? Doesn’t sound like someone being manipulated.”

“And I’m not saying she was. My point is simply that what you found in those puzzles . . . even what you saw firsthand yourself . . .” He cups a hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “I’m not a moron, Wes. Lenore is my wife. I’m well aware of her weaknesses. And when it came to staying in the grand white castle—c’mon, son, you saw it too. You were there with us—when you fly that high, when you’re looking down on all the clouds, the only thing that scared her was losing altitude and plummeting back to earth.”

“That didn’t give her the right t—”

“I’m not defending her,” Manning says, practically pleading for me to understand what’s clearly kept him up all night. He can’t share this with the Service or anyone else on staff. Without his wife, he’s got no one to tell but me. “You know how desperate she was. Everyone wanted that second term. Everyone. Including you, Wes.”

“But what you said . . . with the clouds, and knowing her weaknesses . . . if you knew all that—”

“I didn’t know anything!” he shouts as his ears flush red. “I knew she was scared. I knew she was paranoid. I knew that in the early days she used to toss details to reporters, like the early internal arguing, or the fact she wasn’t consulted for redecorating the Oval—because she was convinced that if she could make them like her, they wouldn’t kick us out and take it all away. So yes—
that
part I knew.” He puts his head down and massages the front of his forehead. “But,” he adds, “I never
ever
thought she’d let herself get dragged into something like this.”

I nod like I understand. But I don’t. “After you left office and it all calmed down, why’d . . . ?” I search for softer words, but there’s no other way to say it. “Why’d you stay with her?”

“She’s my wife, Wes. She’s been by my side since we were hand-painting campaign posters in my mother’s garage. Since we were-” Finally lifting his head, he closes his eyes, struggling hard to reclaim his calm. “I wish you could put that question to Jackie Kennedy, or Pat Nixon, or even the Clintons.” He looks back at the photos with his fellow Presidents. “Everything’s easy . . . until it gets complicated.”