The Book Of Fate Part 19

"You're sure it's okay?" the voice asks from our chief of staff's office.

"Absolutely," Claudia promises as they step into the hall. "In fact, if you didn't call-oh, I would've killed killed you. And so would you. And so would he he," she says, referring to the President.

She stops short right in front of my door. "Wes, guess who's going to be working out of our office for the next week?" she asks, stepping inside and waving like a magician's a.s.sistant toward the door.

"H-Hey, pal," Dreidel says as he enters my office, a thick file folder pressed against his hip.

I clap my hands, pretending to be amused. What're you doing? What're you doing? I ask with a glance. I ask with a glance.

"My firm asked if I could-"

"They didn't ask ask," Claudia jumps in, already seizing control. "They had a last-minute rescheduling on a deposition, and since he was down here, they told told him to stay. But we can't let him scrounge in some hotel executive center, right? Not when we've got all this office s.p.a.ce here." him to stay. But we can't let him scrounge in some hotel executive center, right? Not when we've got all this office s.p.a.ce here."

"It's just for a week," Dreidel says, already reading my reaction.

"Wes, you okay?" Claudia asks. "I figured with all this Nico mess, it'd be nice to have someone familiar to-" She cuts herself off, realizing what she's missed. "Nico. Oh, how could I be so stupid stupid? Wes, I'm so sorry . . . I didn't even think that you and Nico-" She steps back, tapping the tight bun in her hair as if she wants to bury herself under it. From there, the pity comes quickly. "How're you holding up? If you need to go home-"

"I'm fine," I insist.

"After all these years, it's just . . . I don't even think of you as-" She doesn't say the word, but I still hear it. Disabled. Scarred. Disabled. Scarred.

"A victim victim," Dreidel clarifies as Claudia offers a thankful nod.

"Exactly. A victim," she repeats, finding her footing. "That's all I meant. Just that you . . . you're not a victim, Wes. Not now, not ever," she insists as if that makes it so. Like any career politician, she doesn't let the apology linger. "Meanwhile, Dreidel, let me show you the volunteer room in back-it's got a computer, a phone-you'll be set for the week. Wes, just so you know, I talked to the Service this morning, and they said they're not expecting any incidents, so unless we hear otherwise, schedule stays pretty much the same."

"Pretty much?"

"They're keeping him home most of the day-y'know, just to be safe," she says, hoping to soothe. The problem is, the last time Manning altered his schedule was when they thought he had rectal cancer a few years back. Life-or-death. "So forget the PSA taping," she quickly adds, heading for the door. "Though he'll still need you for the Madame Tussaud thing at the house tonight."

Before I can say a word, my phone rings on my desk.

"If it's press . . ." Claudia says.

I shoot her a look.

"Sorry," she offers. "I just, if you saw how many calls I got last night . . ."

"Believe me, I've been saying no all morning," I tell her as she waves and leaves. I let the phone ring, waiting for Dreidel to trail behind her. He stays put.

"Claudia, I'll be there in a sec," he calls out, standing next to me at my desk.

I stare at him in disbelief. "What the h.e.l.l're you doing here?" I whisper.

He looks back with the same disbelief. "You kidding? I'm helping you."

The phone rings again, and I glance down at caller ID, which is angled so Dreidel can't read it from his side of the desk. Presidential Library. Presidential Library.

"Could be the archivist," Dreidel says, leaning forward for a quick glance. "Maybe she got Boyle's papers ready."

The phone rings again.

"What, now you don't want the papers?" he adds.

I roll my eyes but can't ignore the logic. Grabbing the receiver, I answer, "Wes here."

Dreidel makes a beeline for the door, peeking out into the hallway to make sure we're alone.

"Heya there, Wes," a soft voice says through the phone. "Gerald Lang . . . from the curator's office? Wondering if you had a moment to talk about that presidential aide exhibit?"

As Dreidel cranes his neck into the hall, a sudden, fake smile lights up his face. Someone's there.

"Heeey!" he announces, motioning them into my office.

"Dreidel, don't don't!" I hiss, covering the phone. I don't need the circus to- "Dreidel?" Lang asks on the line, clearly overhearing. "I was just trying to reach him. He was Manning's aide in the White House, no?"

In front of me, Bev and Oren embrace Dreidel in a Mary Tyler Moore group hug. Bev squeezes him so tightly, her fake b.o.o.bs practically crush the personalized Manning letter she's holding. The prodigal son's returned. But as I watch them celebrate, a hollow pain crawls through my stomach. Not out of jealousy. Or envy. I don't need them to ask me about Nico or how I'm holding up. I don't need more pity. But I do need to know why Dreidel, still in mid-hug, keeps glancing over his shoulder, studying me on the phone. His eyes are tired, the dark moons below them betraying his lack of sleep last night. Whatever kept him up, kept him up late.

"Wes, you there?" Lang asks on the other line.

"Yeah, no-I'm here," I reply, crossing around to the seat side of the desk. "Let me just . . . can I think about it for a bit? With all this Nico mess, we're just running a little crazy."

Hanging up the phone, I look back at my friend. My friend who got me my job. And taught me everything I know. And visited me when . . . when only my parents and Rogo visited. I don't care what Rogo says. If Dreidel's here, it's for a good reason.

With a back pat for Oren and a cheek kiss for Bev, Dreidel sends them on their way and bounces back into my office. Curling one leg under my tush, I take a seat behind my desk and study the smile on his face. No doubt about it. He's here to help.

"So no no on the archivist, huh?" he asks. "What about Lisbeth? What time we seeing her?" When I don't answer immediately, he adds, "Last night . . . I was there, Wes. You said you were meeting this morning." on the archivist, huh?" he asks. "What about Lisbeth? What time we seeing her?" When I don't answer immediately, he adds, "Last night . . . I was there, Wes. You said you were meeting this morning."

"We are, but-"

"Then let's not be stupid." He heads for the door and slams it shut for privacy. "Instead of rus.h.i.+ng in like imbeciles, let's make sure we're ready for once." Reading my reaction, he adds, "What? You do want me to come, right?"

"No . . . of course," I stutter, sinking slightly in my seat. "Why wouldn't I want that?"

43.

Kingsland, Georgia THE Thomas Jefferson?

"A trinity-can't you see it?" Nico asked, both hands on the six o'clock position of the steering wheel. Motioning Edmund to the map on the dashboard between them, he added, "Was.h.i.+ngton, Jefferson, L'Enfant. The original Three."

The original three what?

"The Three, Edmund. From the earliest days, there have always been The Three. The Three who were born to destroy-and today, The Three who're here to save."

So The Three are chasing The Three-sorta like a circle . . .

"Exactly! Exactly a circle," Nico said, already excited as he reached up to the sun visor above his seat and pulled out a pen. "That's how they picked the symbol!" Holding the steering wheel and leaning over toward the dashboard, Nico sketched furiously on the corner of the map.

A circle with a star?

"Five-pointed star, also known as a pentagram-the most widely used religious symbol in history-vital to every culture, from the Mayans to the Egyptians to the Chinese."

And Was.h.i.+ngton and Jefferson somehow unearthed this?

No, no, no-pay attention-Was.h.i.+ngton was a Freemason . . . Jefferson was rumored to be one too. D'you really think they didn't know what they were doing? This wasn't something they unearthed. This was something they were taught. taught. Five points on the star, right? In ancient Greece, five was the number of man. And the number of elements: fire, water, air, earth, and psyche. Even the church used to embrace the pentagram-just look at it-the five wounds of Jesus," Nico said, giving a quick glance to the wood rosary on the rearview. "But when the symbol is inverted-turned upside down- it becomes the opposite of that. A sign embraced by witches, by the occult, and by . . . Five points on the star, right? In ancient Greece, five was the number of man. And the number of elements: fire, water, air, earth, and psyche. Even the church used to embrace the pentagram-just look at it-the five wounds of Jesus," Nico said, giving a quick glance to the wood rosary on the rearview. "But when the symbol is inverted-turned upside down- it becomes the opposite of that. A sign embraced by witches, by the occult, and by . . .

. . . the Freemasons.

"You see it, don't you? I knew you would, Edmund! They've been invoking the symbol for centuries-placing it on their buildings . . . above their archways . . . even here here," Nico said, jabbing down at the map, his pointer finger stabbing the most well known block of Pennsylvania Avenue.

The White House?

"They tried it for centuries all over the world. Fortresses in Spain, castles in Ireland, even in the old stone churches in Chicago. But for the doorway to open, they needed more than just the right symbols and incantations . . .

. . . they needed power.

"Supreme power. That was the lesson of the pyramids and Solomon's Temples-centers of power-to this day, the Freemasons still call Solomon their first grand master! That's why they collected all of history's leaders! The access to power! I knew you'd see it! Praise be all!" Just watching Edmund's reaction, Nico could barely contain himself. "I knew you'd see!"

But . . . how could no one in the White House notice there was a door with a pentagram on it?

"Door? Doors can be removed and replaced, Edmund. Even the White House has been burned and renovated. No, for this, the Masons marked something far more permanent . . ." Nico again turned to the map. "Follow the landmarks," he explained, already circling each point on the map. "One-Dupont Circle . . . two-Logan Circle . . . three-Was.h.i.+ngton Circle . . . four-Mount Vernon Square . . . and five-" He lifted his pen and jabbed down at the final spot: "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue." Doors can be removed and replaced, Edmund. Even the White House has been burned and renovated. No, for this, the Masons marked something far more permanent . . ." Nico again turned to the map. "Follow the landmarks," he explained, already circling each point on the map. "One-Dupont Circle . . . two-Logan Circle . . . three-Was.h.i.+ngton Circle . . . four-Mount Vernon Square . . . and five-" He lifted his pen and jabbed down at the final spot: "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."

"The building is is the door. Right in front of us for over two hundred years," he added as he connected the dots. Just as The Three had done for him. the door. Right in front of us for over two hundred years," he added as he connected the dots. Just as The Three had done for him.

Oh, G.o.d.

"G.o.d had nothing to do with it, Edmund. Monsters," Nico insisted. "That's who we're fighting. To mark the territory, Jefferson even branded it with their own emblem."

On the edge of the map, Nico again started to draw. To his own surprise, his eyes welled up with each scratch of his pen. It was the one symbol he'd never forget.

Nico, you okay there?

Nico nodded, grinding his teeth and refusing to look back down at the symbol-the compa.s.s and the square. Remember the lessons. No tears. Just victory. Remember the lessons. No tears. Just victory. Locked on the road, he gave the coordinates he'd learned all those years ago. "Start at the Capitol and run your finger down Pennsylvania Avenue, all the way to the White House," Nico explained, feeling the pressure building in his skull. Locked on the road, he gave the coordinates he'd learned all those years ago. "Start at the Capitol and run your finger down Pennsylvania Avenue, all the way to the White House," Nico explained, feeling the pressure building in his skull. Fight it. Fight the monster back. Fight it. Fight the monster back. "Now do the same from the Capitol down Maryland Avenue-follow it all the way to the Jefferson Memorial-his own shrine! Now go to Union Station and draw a line down Louisiana Avenue, then on the south side of the Capitol, draw another down Was.h.i.+ngton Avenue. The lines will connect in front of the Capitol . . ." "Now do the same from the Capitol down Maryland Avenue-follow it all the way to the Jefferson Memorial-his own shrine! Now go to Union Station and draw a line down Louisiana Avenue, then on the south side of the Capitol, draw another down Was.h.i.+ngton Avenue. The lines will connect in front of the Capitol . . ."

This time, Edmund was silent.

"The compa.s.s and the square. The most sacred Masonic symbol . . ."

. . . pointing right to the doorway of the White House . . . all that power in one place. Why would-? What're they doing, trying to take over the world?

"No," Nico said coldly. "They're trying to destroy destroy it." Already forgetting the pain in his skull, he added, "Welcome, Edmund-welcome to the truth." it." Already forgetting the pain in his skull, he added, "Welcome, Edmund-welcome to the truth."

I . . . I can't believe this.

"Those were my words . . . my thoughts too."

But to get this done with no one knowing . . .

"They did it in plain view! On October 13, 1792, Maryland's Masonic Lodge number 9 laid the cornerstone of the White House in a ceremony filled with Freemason rituals. Look it up-it's true! The inscription on the bra.s.s plate of that cornerstone says it was laid on the twelfth, but every reputable history book in existence says it was laid on the thirteenth thirteenth!"

Thirteen. The number of the Beast.

"Thirteen blocks north from the White House is where they built the House of the Temple, national headquarters of the Freemasons!"

Thirteen again!

"Now you understand their treachery. They've been waiting for centuries! Seven hundred years ago, we thought it was the Holy Roman Emperor-the one the church labeled the first enemy. But the Masons knew to wait. Wait for the signs. Wait for the true world power to emerge. Prepare. Then the end-times would come!"

So the door they were trying to open . . .

". . . the door to h.e.l.l."

Of course! They were trying to free the Creatures . . . begin the motions! Nico, do you have any idea what you're on to? Scripture predicts it! It begins when the Two Beasts arrive . . .

". . . they come through hosts! First, a disciple-a man of sin . . ."

That's Boyle, right? The man of sin!

"Then the Leader-a man of power . . ."

Manning!

"Through him the Dark One-the true Beast-will arise, creating the most powerful kingdom of all!"

So the Beast they were trying to free . . .

"The Antichrist, Edmund. They want the Antichrist! If it weren't for The Three, he would've come! Tell me you see that! Without The Three, Manning's reelection was imminent! Supreme power in Manning! A man of sin in Boyle! Together, the keys to open the door!"

The original Three dedicated to birthing him-the final Three dedicated to destroying him! Alpha and Omega! Their destiny fulfilled!

"Yes, yes . . . destiny-their fate-just as in scripture! 'Dear children . . . the antichrist is coming. He is now already in the world!'" Nico screamed as spit flew from his mouth and sprayed the inside winds.h.i.+eld.

So the reason you shot Boyle instead of Manning . . .

"In a coliseum of his admirers? Surrounded by his supplicants? Manning's influence was at its peak! Manning's influence was at its peak! What if that were the catalyst for his awakening? No-like The Three said . . . better to go with Boyle, who was-was-was- What if that were the catalyst for his awakening? No-like The Three said . . . better to go with Boyle, who was-was-was- Don't you see? Don't you see?" he yelled, pounding the steering wheel. "Without Boyle, there'd be only one one Beast! Beast! One key instead of two! With only one, the door couldn't open! One key instead of two! With only one, the door couldn't open!" He kept looking to Edmund, then back to the road. His breathing was galloping, his whole body shaking. Being silent for so long . . . to finally let it out . . . he could barely catch his breath.

"Th-Th-The man of sin-like my father-has always been the sign! Have you not . . . have you not heard of Boyle's sin?" Nico shouted, gasping between breaths as a sudden flush of tears blurred the road in front of him. He hunched forward, gripping the wheel as a dry heave clenched his stomach. "What he did to his own-? And then to my-?" He jabbed a finger at his eyes, digging away the tears. They rolled down his face, dangling like raindrops from his jaw. Don't fight it, Don't fight it, he told himself. he told himself. Be thankful to get it out . . . Heed the Book . . . Thank you, Mother . . . Thank you . . . Be thankful to get it out . . . Heed the Book . . . Thank you, Mother . . . Thank you . . .

"D-D'ya understand?" he pleaded with Edmund, his voice cracking with the Wisconsin accent he'd buried years ago. "People know nothing, Edmund. Teacher and student. Master and supplicant. Manning and Boyle," he repeated, sinking forward on the steering wheel. "Like father and son. That's why I was chosen. Why my mother was taken. To test me . . . to stop my father . . . to close the devil's door. To keep the door shut and the Great Darkness from coming."

In the pa.s.senger seat next to him, Edmund didn't say a word.

"P-Please, Edmund . . . please tell me you understand . . ."