The Book of Fate (60 page)

“So when Boyle was shot . . .”

He stares at me as I say the words. He doesn’t have to tell me a thing. But he knows what I’ve given him all these years. And that this is the only thing I’ve ever asked in return.

“We knew it might happen, but had no idea when,” he says without even hesitating. “Boyle approached me a few weeks earlier and told me about his offer from The Three. From there . . . well, you know how fast the Service moves. I did everything I could to protect my friend. They gave him a vest, stocked his blood in the ambulance, and did their very best to keep him safe.”

“Until I put him in the limo.”

“Until Nico put a bullet in his hand and chest,” he says, turning back to face me. “From there, they rushed him to the Marshals Office, who patched him up, shuttled him from city to city, and put him straight into the highest levels of WITSEC. Naturally, he didn’t want to go, but he knew the alternatives. Even if it wrecks families, it saves more lives than you think.”

I nod as the President stands from his oversize seat. The way he leans on the armrest to slowly boost himself up, he’s more tired than he’s letting on. But he doesn’t ask me to leave.

“If it makes you feel better, Wes, I think she regretted it. Especially what happened with you.”

“I appreciate that,” I tell him, trying to be enthusiastic.

He studies me closely. I’m good at reading him. He’s even better at reading me. “I’m not just saying that, Wes.”

“Mr. President, I never thought otherwi—”

“We prayed together before bed. Did you know that? That was our ritual—ever since we first got married,” he explains. “And during that first year? She prayed for you every night.”

The number one mistake most people make when they meet the President is they always try to extend the conversation. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime moment, so they’ll say the dumbest things to make it last forever.

I stand from my seat and motion to the door. “I should really get going, sir.”

“Understood. Go do what you have to,” he says as he crosses around from his desk. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he adds as he follows me to the door. “I’m glad she made you a pallbearer.” He stops and catches his breath. “She should only be carried by family.”

Halfway through the doorway, I turn around. I’ll carry those words with me for the rest of my life.

But that doesn’t mean I believe them.

He reaches out to shake my hand, and I get the full double-hand clasp that he usually saves for heads of state and presidential-level donors. He even lingers a moment, engulfing part of my wrist.

Maybe it was unspoken. Maybe he figured it out. For all I know, she could’ve even told him outright. But one thing is clear—and it’s the only thing he said that can’t be argued: Leland Manning is not a moron. He knew Boyle was planning to say no to The Three. So when Boyle went down, he had to’ve suspected they could’ve gotten someone bigger.

As I head out through the living room and toward the front door, I spot the huge black-and-white photo of the view from behind his desk in the Oval. Sure, those four years were great. But for him, it would’ve been even better to have four more.

“Let me know if you need
anything
,” the President calls out from the living room.

I wave good-bye and say a final thanks.

The Cowardly Lion may not have courage. But he’s certainly got a brain.

He knows I was running around with a reporter. He knows she’s waiting for my call. And most important, he knows that when it comes to political touch, the best touch is when you don’t feel it at all.

For eight years, I haven’t felt anything. Right now I feel it all.

“Got everything you need?” the bald agent asks as he opens the front door.

“I think so.”

Stepping outside, I pull my phone from my pocket, punch in the number for her hospital room, and head down the red brick path. When Herbert Hoover left the White House, he said that a former President’s greatest service is to remove himself from politics and public life. Time for me to do the same.

“You speak to him?” Lisbeth asks, picking up on the first ring.

“Of course, I spoke to him.”

“And?”

At first, I don’t answer.

“C’mon, Wes, this isn’t the gossip column anymore. What’d you think of Manning?”

Up the path, outside the garage, half a dozen brand-new agents watch me carefully as the closest one tries to usher me toward the Suburban. Outside the front gate, the wolf pack of reporters shake their heads inconsolably as they scramble together video montages to honor the fallen First Lady. With her death comes the inevitable outpouring of sadness and support from commentators who spent their entire careers ripping her to pieces. I can already hear it in their hushed, reverential tones. They loved her. Their viewers loved her. The whole world loved her. All I have to do is keep my mouth shut.

“It’s okay,” Lisbeth says. She knows what the press’ll do to my life if I’m the one who spills it. “I’ll just tell them to go with the original story.”

“But what abou—?”

“You already fought your battle, Wes. No one can ask any more of you than that.”

I pull the phone close to my mouth and once again remind myself that every opportunity I’ve had in my life came directly from the Mannings. My words are a whisper. “Have them send over your laptop. I want you to write it. People need to know what she did.”

Lisbeth pauses, giving me plenty of time to take it back. “You sure about this?” she finally asks as a Secret Service agent with a flat nose opens the back door to the Suburban.

Ignoring him, I walk past the car and head straight for the tall wooden gate and the swelling crowd of mourners outside.

“And, Lisbeth?” I say as I shove the door open and the firing squad of cameras turns my way. “Don’t hold back.”

116

Two weeks later

A
rare Italian snow sprinkled down from the dusty sky as the man crossed Via Mazzarino and lowered his chin toward the lapels of his herringbone wool coat. His hair was blond now—short and barely grown in—but he was still careful as he approached Sant’Agata dei Goti, the fifth-century church that seemed to hide on the narrow cobblestone street.

Passing the front entrance but not going inside, he glanced up at the facade. The relief above the door was an ancient carving of Saint Agatha holding her severed breast on a plate, the victim of torturers who’d attacked her when she refused to renounce her faith.

“Praise Him,” the man whispered to himself as he cut right, followed the signs to the side entrance on Via Panisperna, and quietly marched up the bumpy brick driveway that was blanketed in the light snow.

At the end of the driveway, he wiped his feet on the battered welcome mat, shoved open the brown double doors, and winced as the old hinges shrieked. Inside, the smell of damp wood and rose candles welcomed and transported him right back to the old stone church where he grew up, right back to the Wisconsin winters of his childhood, right back to when his mom passed.

The hinges shrieked again—and he winced again—as the door slammed shut behind him. Wasting no time, the man scanned the empty pews, eyed the empty altar, then glanced between the Oriental granite columns that ran down the center aisle. No one in sight. His eyes narrowed as he listened. The only thing there was a single hushed whisper. Praise Him. Just like it was supposed to be.

Feeling his heart punch inside his chest, he raced toward his destination, tracing the faded colors of the mosaic floor to the mahogany stall on the far right side of the altar.

As he got closer, he followed the faint whisper from inside. He’d never been here before, but when he saw the picture in the travel brochure—he knew to always trust fate.

Unbuttoning his coat and taking one last glance around, he kneeled in front of the mahogany stall. The whispering stopped. Through a square cutaway in the booth, a small burgundy curtain was pulled shut, and the priest inside stopped praying.

It was only then, only in the screaming silence of the empty Sant’Agata dei Goti church, that Nico lowered his head toward the confessional.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—”

“Let’s go, Nico—make it quick!” the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath shouted.

Glancing over his shoulder, Nico looked past the industrial beige carpet, the cheap oak lectern, and the dozen or so metal folding chairs that made up the small chapel on the fourth floor of St. Elizabeths’ John Howard Pavilion, and focused hard on the two orderlies who waited for him back by the only door to the room. It’d been nearly two weeks since they found him in Wisconsin. But thanks to a new lawyer, for the first time in years, he finally had chapel privileges.

Without a word, Nico turned back toward the wooden cross attached to the otherwise bare front wall of the room. Within seconds, the carpet, the lectern, and the folding chairs once again disappeared and were replaced by the mosaic floor, the ancient pews, and the mahogany confessional. Just like the ones in the pamphlet that his counselor gave him.

“. . . it’s been far too long since my last confession.”

He took a deep breath of the rose candles—the sweet smell that was always on his mom—and shut both eyes. The rest came easy.

God provided an ending. And brought him back home for a new beginning.

Epilogue

The biggest wounds in life are all self-inflicted.

—President Bill Clinton

Palm Beach, Florida

J
ust yourself?” the waitress asks, approaching my table in the corner of the café’s small outdoor patio.

“Actually, I’ve got one more coming,” I tell her as she puts a water glass on my place mat to keep the wind from blowing it away. We’re at least two blocks from the ocean, but thanks to the narrowness of the street, it always packs a nice breeze.

“Anything else to drink besides w—?” She freezes as I look up. It’s the first time she sees my face. To her credit, she recovers quickly, faking a smile—but the damage is already—

“Wait . . . you’re that guy,” she says, suddenly excited.

“Excuse me?”

“Y’know, with the thing . . . with the President . . . that was you, wasn’t it?”

I cock my head, offering the slightest nod.

Studying me for a moment, she cracks a tiny smile, tucks a strand of straight black hair behind her ear, and calmly heads back to the kitchen.

“Holy salami, what was
that
?” a familiar voice asks from the sidewalk. On my left, Rogo rushes up to the low wrought-iron railing that surrounds the outdoor patio.

“Rogo, don’t hop the—”

Before I say it, he throws a leg onto the railing, boosts himself over, and plops into the seat across from me.

“Can’t you use the door like the rest of the bipeds?” I ask him.

“No, no, no—no changing the channel. What was that rendezvous with the waitress?”

“Rendezvous?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Ethel—I saw it—the longing glance . . . the hair tuck . . . the little finger-phone where she held her thumb to her ear and whispered
Call me
into her pinkie.”

“There was no finger-phone.”

“She recognized you, didn’t she?”

“Can you please stop?”

“Where’d she see you,
60 Minutes
? That’s the one, isn’t it? The girls love the Morley Safer.”

“Rogo . . .”

“Don’t fight with me, Wes—it’s an unarguable fact: A waitress can make the dining experience or ruin it. Read the signal. She’s trying to make it. Make it.
Maaaake iiiiiit
,” he whispers, rolling his eyes upward as he reaches over and steals a sip of my water. Noticing the menu in front of him, he adds, “They got fajitas here?”

“It’s a panini place.”

“Panini?”

“Y’know, with the bread and the—”

“I’m sorry, do you have a cramp in your ovaries?”

When I don’t laugh, he twirls the straw in the water, never taking his eyes off me. Right there, I know what he’s really after. “It’s okay, Rogo. You don’t have to use every conversation to try and cheer me up.”

“I’m not trying to cheer you up,” he insists. He twirls the straw again as the waitress returns with another place mat and some silverware. He’s silent as she puts it in front of him. When she leaves, I glance back at him.

“Still trying to think of a clever comeback to make me happy?” I ask him.

“I was until you just
ruined it
,” he sulks, chucking his straw into his water like a mini-javelin.

When I still don’t laugh, he shakes his head, finally giving up. “Y’know, you’re really not a fun person.”

“And that’s it? That’s your best retort?”

“
And!
” he adds, pointing a finger at me. “And . . . and . . . and . . .
and
—” He cuts himself off.
“C’mon
,
”
he whines, “just put a smile on your face—please. If you do, I’ll order an orange juice and do the fake-laugh thing at the waitress where I make it come out of my nose. It burns like the sun. You’ll love it.”

“That’s very generous of you, Rogo. I just need—just give me a little time.”

“Whattya think the past two weeks have been? You’re moping around like it’s an Olympic event. I mean, it’s not like your life sucks: interviews coming out the ying-yang, you get all the credit for saving the day,
and
semi-hot waitresses are recognizing you and bringing you water with little slices of lemon. You’ve had the greatest fourteen days of your life. Enough with the woe-is-me.”

“It’s not woe-is-me. It’s just . . .”

“. . . you’re sad to watch them go down in flames like that. I heard the speech yesterday, and the day before, and the day before:
They gave you so many opportunities. You feel like Benedict Arnold.
I understand, Wes. I really do. But like everyone in your office said—the one thing the Mannings
didn’t
give you was much of a choice. That castle you were in was built on sand.”

I stare out at the pedestrians walking past us on the sidewalk. “I know. But even so . . . I’ve been by Manning’s side for the better part of a decade. I was there before he got to the office, and I didn’t leave until he headed upstairs for bed. And not just weekdays.
Every
day. For nearly
ten years
! You know what that’s—?” I close my eyes, refusing to say it. “I didn’t go to your sister’s wedding; I was in the Ukraine during my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary; my college roommate had a baby, and I haven’t even met him yet.”