The Book Of Fate Part 16

"He's fine," an agent with bad acne insists, grabbing her elbow and tugging her to the door. He says something else to her, but I can't hear it.

Looking back to me over her shoulder, Lisbeth is still off balance as she staggers toward the doorway's white rectangle of light. With one last wrench, she disappears. When the first agent grabbed her, she was p.i.s.sed. But now . . . the last look I see before the door slams behind her . . . the way her eyes go wide . . . whatever the agent said to her, she's terrified.

"Let go-I'm a friendly!" I insist, fighting to get to my ID.

Yellow Tie doesn't care. "Keep moving!" he tells me, practically holding me up by my collar. The last time the Service moved this fast was when Boyle was- No. I stop myself, refusing to replay it. Don't panic. Get the facts.

"Is Manning okay?" I ask.

"Just move!" he insists as we rush toward the corner of the room, where I spot a carpeted, almost hidden door.

"C'mon!" Yellow Tie says, undoing a latch and ramming me into the door to shove it open. Unlike the door that Lisbeth and Dreidel went through, this one doesn't dump us in the lobby. The ceiling rises up, and the concrete hallway is gray and narrow. Loose wires, grimy fire extinguishers, and some random white pipes are the only things on the walls. Maintenance corridor from the ammonia smell of it.

I try to break free, but we're moving too fast. "If you don't tell me where the h.e.l.l we're going, I'll personally make sure you're-"

"Here," Yellow Tie says, stopping at the first door on my right. A red and white sign reads Storage Only. Storage Only. He reaches the door with his free hand, revealing a room that's bigger than my office. With one final shove, he lets go of my collar and flings me inside like the evening's trash. He reaches the door with his free hand, revealing a room that's bigger than my office. With one final shove, he lets go of my collar and flings me inside like the evening's trash.

My shoes slide against the floor as I fight for balance, but it's not until I spot two other sets of black s.h.i.+ny shoes that I realize I'm not alone.

"All yours," Yellow Tie calls out as I hear the door slam behind me.

My skidding stops as my funny bone bangs into a metal utility rack. A hiccup of sawdust belches into the air.

"Busy day, huh?" the man in the U.S. Open hat says, arms folded across his chest. His partner scratches at the nick of skin missing from his ear. O'Shea and Micah. The FBI agents from this morning.

"What the h.e.l.l's going on?" I demand.

"Nico Hadrian escaped from St. Elizabeths about an hour and a half ago. What we wanna know is, why was your name in the hospital's log as his last visitor?"

33.

Richmond, Virginia It was easy for Nico to get the jeans and the blue b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt from the dryer in the Laundromat. Same with the Baltimore Orioles baseball cap he took from a dumpster. But once he made his way into Carmel's Irish Pub, it took a full nine minutes before an older black man, nursing whiskey and a runny nose, hobbled over to the restroom and left his faded army jacket sagging like a corpse on the seat of his bar-stool. Approaching the stool, Nico was calm. The Lord would always provide.

It was the same thought swirling through his head right now as he stood on the gravelly shoulder of I-95 and an eighteen-wheel truck ferociously blew by, kicking up a trail of tiny pebbles and chocolate-brown slush. s.h.i.+elding his eyes, Nico squinted through the instant hurricane as the pull of wind sent him reeling to the right. One hand was pressed down on his head to keep his Orioles hat from blowing away, while the other gripped his cardboard sign that flapped like a kite in the truck's backdraft. As the truck disappeared and the wind died, the sign went limp, brus.h.i.+ng against Nico's right leg. Calmly as ever, Nico raised his hand and put out his thumb.

He was already in Richmond, well out of the thirty-mile radius that the FBI and D.C. Police were currently combing near St. Elizabeths. The first driver took him up South Capitol Street. The second helped him navigate I-295. And the third took him down I-95, all the way to Richmond.

Without question, Nico knew he couldn't afford to be standing out in the open for long. With the nightly news approaching, his picture would be everywhere. Still, there wasn't much he could do. From a statistical standpoint, the odds of a fourth driver picking him up in the next few minutes were already low. Anyone else would be panicking. Not Nico. As with anything in life, statistics meant nothing if you believed in fate.

Spotting the pair of owl-eyed headlights in the distance, he calmly stepped toward the road and once again held up his handmade sign with the big block letters: Fellow Christian Looking for a Ride. Fellow Christian Looking for a Ride.

A piercing screech knifed through the night as the driver of a beat-up flatbed hit his brakes, and all ten wheels clenched and skidded along the ice on the shoulder of the road. Even now, as the semi rumbled to a stop fifty yards to his right, Nico relished the belches, shrieks, and hisses of the outside world. He'd been locked away too long.

Tucking his sign under his armpit, he strolled to the side of the main cab just as the door to the pa.s.senger side flew open, and a faint light within the cab poured outward. "G.o.d bless you for stopping," Nico called out. In his pocket, he fingered the trigger of his gun. Just in case.

"Where you need to get at?" a man with a blond mustache and beard asked.

"Florida," Nico replied, mentally replaying Revelation 13:1. And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast. And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast. It was all coming together. Heed the Book. Finish G.o.d's will. Finish Wes, and in his blood, he'd find the Beast. "Palm Beach, to be exact." It was all coming together. Heed the Book. Finish G.o.d's will. Finish Wes, and in his blood, he'd find the Beast. "Palm Beach, to be exact."

"Sick of the cold, eh? Tallaha.s.see good enough?"

Nico didn't say a word as he stared up at the olive wood rosary and silver cross that dangled from the man's rearview. "That'd be perfect," Nico said. Reaching for the grab handle, he tugged himself up into the main cab.

With a lurch and a few more belches from the transmission, the oversize flatbed grumbled back onto I-95.

"So you got family down in Florida?" the driver asked, s.h.i.+fting into gear.

"Naw . . ." Nico said, his eyes still on the wooden cross as it swayed like a child's swing. "Just going to see an old friend."

34.

What're you talking about?" I ask anxiously.

"Your name, Wes. It was on the-"

"When'd he break out?"

"That's the point. We think he had-"

"A-Are you looking for him? Is he gone, or- Are you sure he's gone?" A needle of bile stabs my stomach, making me want to bend over in pain. It took me seven months of therapy before I could hear Nico's name and not feel puddles of sweat fill my palms and soak my feet. It was another year and a half before I could sleep through the night without him jarring me awake as he lurked in the periphery of my dreams. Nico Hadrian didn't take my life. But he took the life I was living. And now . . . with this . . . with him out . . . he could easily take the rest. "Doesn't he have guards?" I ask. "How could they . . . how could this happen?"

O'Shea lets the questions bounce off his chest, never losing sight of his own investigation. "Your name, Wes. It was on the hospital sign-in sheet," he insists. "According to their records, you were there."

"Where? Was.h.i.+ngton? You saw me here on the beach this morning!"

"I saw you leave the Four Seasons at almost nine-thirty. According to the receptionist in your office, you didn't return to work until after three. That's a long time to be gone."

"I was with my fr-my lawyer all morning. He'll tell you. Call him right now: Andrew Rogozinski."

Micah laughs softly. "And I a.s.sume the fact he's also your high school pal and current roommate means he'd never lie to protect you? You were gone for almost six hours, Wes. That's more than enough time to-"

"To what? To jump on my private jet, fly two and a half hours to Was.h.i.+ngton, go free Nico-who, oh yeah, once tried to kill me kill me-and then fly back to work, hoping no one noticed I was gone? Yeah, that sounds like a genius plan. Go see the one guy I still have nightmares about, be dumb enough to use my real name on the sign-in sheet, and let him loose so he can hunt me down."

"Who says he's hunting you?" O'Shea challenges.

"What're you talking about?"

"Enough with the idiot act, Wes. You know Nico's just a bullet. Even back then, someone else pulled the trigger."

"Someone else? What does that-?"

"You speak to Boyle today?" O'Shea interrupts.

I try to bite my top lip, momentarily forgetting the nerve damage that makes it impossible.

"We're not here to hurt you, Wes. Just be honest with us: Are you chasing him or helping him?" Micah adds. He grabs a nearby mop, tossing its handle from one hand to the other, then back again, like the tick-tock of a metronome.

"You know I didn't free Nico," I tell them.

"That wasn't the question."

"And I haven't spoken to Boyle," I shoot back.

"You're sure about that?" O'Shea asks.

"I just told you-"

"Did you speak to him or not? I'm asking you as an officer in an ongoing investigation."

Micah's mop ticks back and forth. They're acting like they know the answer, but if they did, I'd be in handcuffs right now instead of trapped in a supply closet. I look them dead in the eyes. "No."

O'Shea shakes his head. "At noon today, an unidentified male came into St. Elizabeths requesting a private visit with Nico by identifying himself as a member of the Secret Service, complete with a badge and picture ID, both of which you have access to. Now, I'm willing to accept that only a moron would use his own name, and I'm also willing to keep your name from the press-for no other reason than out of respect for your boss-but in a situation you claim to know nothing about, it's sorta fascinating that yours is the only name that keeps popping up outta the daisy patch."

"What's your point?"

"My point is, when you're in Malaysia, Boyle's there . . . when your name's on a sign-in sheet in Was.h.i.+ngton, Nico escapes. This isn't exactly Morse code. You tracking the trend?"

"I didn't go to Was.h.i.+ngton!"

"And you didn't see a dead man in Malaysia. And you didn't get sent backstage by the President, who wanted you to pick up the message from Boyle, right? Or was that just something we invented to make ourselves feel better-y'know, kinda like your old door-locking and light-switch-on-and-off obsessions? Or better yet, the repet.i.tive praying that-"

"Just because I saw a counselor-"

"Counselor? It was a shrink." It was a shrink."

"He was a critical incident specialist . . ."

"I looked it up, Wes. He was a clinical psychologist who had you medicated for the better part of a year. Alprazolam for the anxiety disorders, coupled with some heavy-duty olanzapine for all the compulsions. That's an antipsychotic. Plus his notes, which said that in a strange way, he thought you actually relished your scars-that you saw the pain as atonement for putting Boyle in that limo. Doesn't say much about the shape you were in."

"The guy blew my friggin' face off!"

"Which is why you've got the best motive and the worst alibis-especially in Malaysia. Do me a favor-for the next few days, unless you're traveling with the President, stay put for a bit. At least until we figure out what's going on."

"What, so now I'm under house arrest? You can't do that."

"Wes, I've got a homicidal paranoid schizophrenic on the loose, who, two hours from now, will feel a brand-new tingling on the right side of his brain as the drugs that help manage his psychosis slowly wear off. He already shot two orderlies and a security guard-all three in their hearts and, like Boyle, with stigmata through their hands-and that's when he was on on medication. So not only can I do whatever the h.e.l.l I want, I'm telling you right now, if you try to take another little jaunt out of town, and I find out you have medication. So not only can I do whatever the h.e.l.l I want, I'm telling you right now, if you try to take another little jaunt out of town, and I find out you have any any involvement with this case-trying to contact Boyle, or Nico, or even the guy who was selling popcorn in the stands at the speedway that day-I will slap you with obstruction of justice charges and rip you apart faster than that nutbag ever did." involvement with this case-trying to contact Boyle, or Nico, or even the guy who was selling popcorn in the stands at the speedway that day-I will slap you with obstruction of justice charges and rip you apart faster than that nutbag ever did."

"That is, unless you want to tell us what message Boyle was bringing the President in Malaysia," Micah offers, the mop-handle metronome smacking into his left palm. "C'mon, Wes-they were clearly trying to meet that night-and trying to maintain all the dirt they thought they'd covered up. You're with him every day now. All we want to know is when they're meeting again."

Like before-like any FBI agents trying to make a name for themselves-all they really want is Manning, who no doubt had a major hand in helping Boyle hide and lie to the entire country. I rat on him, and they'll happily let me out of the mousetrap. The problem is, I don't even know what I'm ratting about. And even when I try sc.r.a.ping deeper . . . Back at the beach, they mentioned Boyle's ability to work people's weaknesses. Fine, so what were Manning's weaknesses? Something from their past? Or maybe that's where The Roman and The Three came in. Whatever the reason, I'm not finding it out unless I buy some time.

"Let me just . . . let me think about it for a bit, okay?" I ask.

O'Shea nods, knowing he's made his point.

I turn to leave the closet but stop short at the door. "What about Nico? Any idea where he's heading?" I add, feeling my fingers start to shake. I shove them into my pants pockets before anyone notices.

O'Shea studies me carefully. This is the easiest moment for him to be a p.r.i.c.k. He readjusts his U.S. Open baseball cap. "D.C. Police found his clothes in a Laundromat about a mile away from St. Elizabeths. According to his doctors, Nico hasn't talked about Manning in years, but the Service is still adding double duty just to be safe."

I nod but still don't take my hands out of my pockets. "Thanks."

Micah's about to give me some good cop, but O'Shea puts a hand on his chest, cutting him off. "You're not alone, Wes," O'Shea adds. "Not unless you want to be."

It's a perfect offer presented in the kindest way. But that doesn't make it any less of a tactic. Tattling to the FBI . . . taking on Manning . . . all start a domino game that eventually sends me falling. From here on in, the only safe way out of this mess is finding the truth and wrapping myself in it. That's the only bulletproof vest that works.

In my pocket, my phone begins to vibrate. I pull it out and spot Lisbeth's name on the caller ID. Good-bye rock, h.e.l.lo hard place. "It's my mother," I tell O'Shea. "I should go. She probably heard about Nico on the news."

"Be careful what you say," Micah calls out.

No doubt about that. Still, it's a simple choice. Going with the FBI means they'll ram me at Manning. But before I put the knife in Caesar's back, I need to make sure I have the right target. At least with Lisbeth, I'll buy that time to figure out what's really going on.

"Think about it, Wes. You're not alone," O'Shea calls back as I duck out of the closet. Back in the hallway, I wait until the third ring just to make sure I'm out of earshot.

"Wes here," I answer.

"Where are you?" Lisbeth asks. "You okay? Did they tell you Nico-?"

"Just listen," I interrupt. "What you said earlier about finding stuff out for us . . . were you serious?"

There's a slight pause on the other line. "More serious than a Pulitzer."

"You sure? I mean, if you put yourself in this- You sure you're ready to put yourself in this?"

Now the silence lasts even longer. This isn't some fifty-word favor about the First Lady's new dress. However they did this-Boyle, Manning, the Secret Service-you don't pull this off without help from people at the highest levels of government and law enforcement. That's the fight she's picking. Even worse, when the word gets out, they'll be using all that power to make us look like lunatics who saw a ghost. And the worm in the apple is, with Boyle alive, Nico has the best reason of all to come back here and finish his original job.

At the end of the hallway, I ram my hip into the metal latch of the door, which opens to the empty lobby of the theater. A rumble of laughter echoes from the auditorium. The Secret Service may've swarmed the back rooms, but from the sound of it, the President's still killing onstage. On my right, a woman with white hair sells a four-dollar bottle of water to a man in a pin-striped suit. A set of two other Secret Service agents rushes through the lobby on a standard sweep. But what catches my eye is the slightly overweight redhead standing outside the theater, just beyond the tall plate-gla.s.s doors. Her back's to me, and as she paces slightly in the cottony moonlight and presses her phone to her ear, Lisbeth has no idea I'm there.

"This is why I became a reporter, Wes," she says through the phone, her voice strong as ever. "I've waited my whole life for this."

"And that's a nice speech," I tell her, still watching from behind. "But you do know who you're messing with, right?"

She stops pacing and takes a seat on the edge of one of the half dozen concrete planters that serve as a barrier against any sort of vehicular attack on the Kravis Center. When Manning moved to town, they went up all over. But as Lisbeth scootches back, her body practically sags into it. She can barely keep her head up as her chin sinks down, kissing her neck. Her right hand still holds the phone, but her left slithers like a snake around her own waist, cradling herself. The concrete planters are built to withstand an impact from an almost five-thousand-pound pickup truck traveling over forty-five miles per hour. But that doesn't mean they offer any protection against the sickening recognition of your own self-doubt.

Lisbeth said she'd been waiting her whole life for this. I believe her. But as she looks out at the crush of Secret Service black sedans, their flas.h.i.+ng red lights spraying crimson shadow puppets across the facade of the building, it's clear she's wondering if she has what it takes to make it happen. She sinks slightly as her arms cradle her waist even tighter. There's nothing more depressing than when aspirations get guillotined by limitations.

Standing alone in the lobby, I don't say a word. Eight years ago, Nico Hadrian served me my own limits on a public platter. So as I watch Lisbeth sink lower, I know exactly how she- "I'm in," she blurts.