The Book of Fate (6 page)

“President’s aide apparently got a look—y’know . . . that kid with the face . . .”

“He have any idea who he was looking at?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

O’Shea stopped to think about it. “What about the thing in India next week?”

“India can wait.”

“So you want me on a plane?”

“Say good-bye to Paris, sweetheart. Time to come home.”

6

St. Elizabeths Mental Hospital
Washington,
D.C.

M
ake it quick, Nico—no futzing around,” said the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath. He didn’t shove Nico inside or stay with him while he undid his pants. That was only for the first few months after Nico’s assassination attempt on the President—back when they were worried he’d kill himself. These days, Nico had earned the right to go to the bathroom alone. Just like he’d earned the right to use the telephone and to have the hospital stop censoring his mail. Each was its own victory, but as The Three had promised him, every victory brought its own cost.

For the telephone, the doctors asked him if he still had anger toward President Manning. For the mail, they asked him if he was still fixated on the crosses—the crucifix around his nurse’s neck, the one the overweight lady wore in the law firm commercial on TV, and most important, the hidden ones only he knew were there: the ones created by windowpanes and telephone poles . . . in intersecting sidewalk cracks, and the T-shaped slats of park benches, and in perpendicular blades of grass, and—when they stopped letting him go outside because the images were too overwhelming—in crisscrossing shoelaces and phone cords and wires and discarded socks . . . in the seams of the shiny tile floor and the closed doors of the refrigerator . . . in horizontal shades and their vertical pull cords, in banisters and their railings . . . and of course, in the white spaces between the columns of the newspaper, in the blank spaces between the push buttons of the telephone, and even in cubes, especially when the cube is unfolded to its two-dimensional version

which then allowed him to include dice, luggage, short egg cartons, and of course, the Rubik’s Cube that sat on the edge of Dr. Wilensky’s desk, right beside his perfectly square Lucite pencil cup. Nico knew the truth—symbols were always signs.

No more drawing crosses, no more carving crosses, no more doodling crosses on the rubber trim of his sneakers when he thought no one was looking, his doctors had told him. If he wanted full mail privileges, they needed to see progress.

It still took him six years. But today, he had what he wanted. Just like The Three promised. That was one of the few truths besides God. The Three kept their promises . . . even back when they first welcomed him in. He had nothing then. Not even his medals, which were lost—
stolen!
—in the shelter. The Three couldn’t bring them back, but they brought him so much more. Showed him the door. Showed him what no one else saw. Where God was. And where the devil was hiding. And waiting. Almost two hundred years, he’d been there, tucked away in the one place the M Men hoped people would never look—right in front of their own faces. But The Three looked. They searched. And they found the devil’s door. Just as the Book had said. That’s when Nico played his part. Like a son serving his mother. Like a soldier serving country. Like an angel serving God’s will.

In return, Nico just had to wait. The Three had told him so on the day he pulled the trigger. Redemption was coming. Just wait. It’d been eight years. Nothing compared to eternal salvation.

Alone in the restroom, Nico closed the toilet seat and kneeled down to say a prayer. His lips mouthed the words. His head bobbed up and down slightly . . . sixteen times . . . always sixteen. And then he closed his left eye on the word
Amen.
With a tight squeeze of his fingertips, he plucked an eyelash from his closed eye. Then he plucked another. Still down on his knees, he took the two lashes and placed them on the cold white slab of the closed toilet seat. The surface had to be white—otherwise, he wouldn’t see it.

Rubbing the nail of his right pointer finger against the grout in the floor, he filed his nail to a fierce, fine point. As he leaned in close like a child studying an ant, he used the sharpened edge of his nail to push the two eyelashes into place. What the doctors took away, he could always put back. As The Three said, it’s all within him. And then, as Nico did every morning, he slowly, tenderly gave a millimeter’s push and proved it. There. One eyelash perfectly intersecting with the other. A tiny cross.

A thin grin took Nico’s lips. And he began to pray.

7

Palm Beach, Florida

S
ee that redheaded mummy in the Mercedes?” Rogo asks, motioning out the window at the shiny new car next to us. I glance over just in time to see the fifty-something redhead with the frozen face-lift and an equally stiff (and far more fashionable) straw hat that probably costs as much as my crappy little ten-year-old Toyota. “She’d rather die than call,” he adds.

I don’t respond. It doesn’t slow him down. “But that guy driving that midlife crisis?” he adds, pointing at the balding man in the cherry-red Porsche that pulls out around us. “He’ll call me right after he gets the ticket.”

It’s Rogo’s favorite game: driving around, trying to figure out who’ll be a potential client. As Palm Beach’s least-known but most aggressive speeding ticket lawyer, Rogo is the man to call for any moving violation. As my roommate and closest friend since eighth grade, when he and his mom moved from Alabama to Miami, he’s also the only person I know who loves his job even more than the President does.

“Oooh, and that girl right there?” he asks as he motions across two lanes of traffic to the sixteen-year-old with braces driving a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. “Pass the bread, ’cause that’s my
butter
!” Rogo insists in a wet lick of a Southern accent. “New car and braces? Choo, choo—here comes the
gravy train
!”

He slaps me on the shoulder like we’re watching a rodeo.

“Yee-hah,” I whisper as the car climbs up the slight incline of Royal Park Bridge and across the Intracoastal Waterway. On both sides of us, the morning sun ricochets off glossy waves. The bridge connects the communities of working-class West Palm Beach with the millionaire haven known as Palm Beach. And as the car’s tires rumble and we cross to the other side, the well-populated, fast-food-lined Okeechobee Boulevard gives way to the perfectly manicured, palm-tree-lined Royal Palm Way. It’s like leaving a highway rest stop and entering Oz.

“Do you feel rich? ’Cause I feel
silver dollar
!” Rogo adds, soaking up the surroundings.

“Again, yee-hah.”

“Don’t get all sarcastic,” Rogo warns. “If you’re not nice, I’m not gonna let you drive me to work for the next week while my car’s in the shop.”

“You said it’d only be in the shop for a day.”

“Ah, the negotiation continues!” Before I can argue, he does a double take on the braces girl, who’s now right next to us. “Wait, I think she
was
a client!” he shouts, rolling down his window. “Wendy!” he yells, leaning over and honking my horn.

“Don’t do that,” I tell him, trying to push his hand away. When we were fourteen, Rogo was short. These days, at twenty-nine, he’s added bald and fat to his repertoire. And strong. I can’t move him.

“Braces Girl!” he shouts, honking again. “Hey, Wendy, is that you!?”

She finally turns and rolls down her own window, struggling to keep her eyes on the road.

“Your name Wendy?” he yells.

“No,” she calls back. “Maggie!”

Rogo seems almost hurt by his own misinformation. It never lasts long. He’s got a smile like a butcher’s dog. “Well, if you get a speeding ticket, go to downwithtickets.com!”

Rolling up his window, he scratches at his elbow, then readjusts his crotch, proud of himself. It’s vintage Rogo—by the time he’s done, I can’t even remember what the argument’s about. It’s the same way he bulldozed into the legal profession. After two bad sets of LSAT scores, Rogo flew to Israel for his third attempt. Not even close to being Jewish, he’d heard that in Israel, they took a more relaxed approach to the concept of a
timed
exam. “What, an extra twenty minutes? Who’s it gonna kill?” he asked for a full month, imitating his proctor in full Israeli accent. And with those twenty minutes, Rogo finally got a score that would get him into law school.

So as he found a home in speeding tickets and for the first time had some money in his pocket, the last thing he needed was a boring roommate who’d have trouble making the rent. Back then, my only job prospect was staying with the President, who’d moved to P.B. after the White House.
P.B.
being what the locals call Palm Beach, as in, “We’ll be in P.B. all winter.” I was living with my parents in Boca Raton; because of the low salary, I couldn’t afford the tony neighborhood near the President’s Palm Beach compound. With a roommate, though, I’d at least be able to live closer. It was right after the shooting. The scars were still purple on my face. Eighth grade goes a long way. Rogo didn’t even hesitate.

“I still don’t understand why you have to be in so early,” Rogo adds in mid-yawn. “It’s barely seven. You just got back from Malaysia last night.”

“The President’s—”

“—an early riser . . . the world’s greatest guy . . . can heal the sick while cooking a six-course meal. Jesus and Emeril all in one body. I know how the cult works, Wes.” He points out the window at a hidden cop car about two blocks up. “Careful, speed trap.” Right back into it, he adds, “I’m just saying he should let you sleep in.”

“I don’t need to sleep in. I’m good. And FYI, it’s not a cult.”

“First of all, it
is
a cult. Second, don’t say
FYI.
My mother says
FYI.
So does yours.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s a cult,” I push back.

“Really? So it’s healthy that almost eight years after you left the White House, you’re still running errands like some overhyped intern? What happened to grad school, or that event coordinator job, or even that threat of being a chef you made a few years back? Do you even enjoy work anymore, or d’you just stay there because it’s safe and they protect you?”

“We do more good for the community than you’d ever know.”

“Yeah, if you’re chief of staff. You, on the other hand, spend half your day wondering whether he wants iceberg or romaine lettuce in his salad!”

I grip the steering wheel and stare straight ahead. He doesn’t understand.

“Don’t do that!” Rogo threatens. “Don’t save your confidence for Manning. I just attacked you—you’re supposed to fight back!”

There’s a curdle in his voice that he usually saves just for traffic cops. He’s getting riled, which isn’t saying much for Rogo. In high school, he was the kid who threw his cards when he lost at Monopoly . . . and threw his tennis racket when he missed a shot. Back then, that temper got him in way too many fights, which was only made worse by the fact that he didn’t have the physical size to back it up. He says he’s 5'7". He’s 5'6" if he’s lucky.

“You know I’m right, Wes. Something internally bad happens when you give your entire existence to a single person. You feel me?”

He may be the smartest dumbest friend I have, but for once, he’s reading me all wrong. My silence isn’t from acquiescence. It’s from my mental picture of Boyle, still staring at me with those brown and blue eyes. Maybe if I tell Rogo—

My phone vibrates in my pocket. This early in the morning, it’s only bad news. I flip open the phone and check caller ID. I’m wrong. Here comes the cavalry.

“Wes here,” I say as I answer.

“Got time to chat?” Dreidel asks on the other end.

I glance over at Rogo, who’s back to hunting for potential clients. “Let me call you right back.”

“Don’t bother. How about meeting for breakfast?”

“You’re in town?” I ask, confused.

“Just for a quick business meeting. I tried to tell you when you called from Malaysia. You were too busy panicking,” he points out in his usual perfect calm. “So breakfast?”

“Gimme an hour. I got one thing to do at work.”

“Perfect. I’m at the Four Seasons. Call me from the lobby. Room 415.”

I shut the phone and for the first time enjoy the passing palm trees. Today’s suddenly looking up.

8

Miami, Florida

O
’Shea carried two passports. Both of them legal. Both with the same name and address. One was blue, like any other U.S. citizen’s. The other was red . . . and far more powerful. For diplomats only. Fingering the embossed letters of the passports in his breast pocket, he could tell the red was on top. With a flick of his wrist, he could easily pull it out. And once the airport agents saw it, he’d no longer be stuck in the customs line that swerved through the back corridors of Miami International Airport. After the nine-and-a-half-hour flight from Paris to Florida, he’d walk right to the front. With a flick of his wrist, he’d be gone.

Of course, he’d also leave a trail of paperwork that tracked red passports everywhere. And as his FBI training taught him, all trails were eventually followed. Still, in most cases, that trail would be manageable. But in this one—between Boyle and The Three . . . and all they’d done—nothing was worth the risk. Not with so much at stake.