The Book Of Fate Part 39

"He'd never-he wouldn't do that-not on purpose," she whispers as I drop Boyle's note back in her lap. Nodding repeatedly, she's already convincing herself. "In fact, maybe . . . maybe he was tricked. Maybe he got approached by The Roman and he didn't realize who he was talking to. He would look like a real agent, right? So-so-so maybe they got worried that Ron was taking so long, and they tried a more manipulative route that went straight to the top branch of the tree. And then . . . he could've thought he was actually helping helping the Service. Maybe-maybe he didn't even realize what he'd done." the Service. Maybe-maybe he didn't even realize what he'd done."

I nod. Maybe she's right. Maybe it wasn't intentional. Maybe it was Manning's greatest, most horrible mistake that he prayed would somehow go away. The problem is, I can still picture the President on his last walk across the South Lawn, clutching the First Lady's hand and refusing to look back as they headed for Marine One. Back then, the leaks from our own staff said she was more devastated than he was. But I was there. I saw how tightly he was squeezing her fingers.

The President's footsteps are nearly at the top of the stairs.

I wobble toward the door, burst into the hallway, and make a sharp right, almost ramming into the President's chest.

"H-Here you go, sir," I say as I skid to a halt, my arm outstretched with his navy blazer.

He takes another step toward me. I stand my ground, making sure he doesn't go any farther.

For a moment, Manning's eyes narrow, his famous grays flattening into matching icy slivers. But just as quickly, a broad, warm smile lifts his cheeks and reveals a hint of yellow on his teeth. "By the way, have you seen the wigs yet?" he asks, referring to the Madame Tussauds folks downstairs. "They brought the one from when we left office. I'm telling you, Wes, it's grayer than I am now. I think I'm getting younger."

I force a laugh and head for the stairs before he gets a good look at me.

"What's wrong?" he asks, barely a step behind.

"No . . . nothing," I say, motioning with the navy sport coat and feeling a flush of hot blood rus.h.i.+ng through my neck. "I just wanted to be sure I didn't give away one of your good jackets."

"I appreciate your looking out for the wax me," he teases, putting a hand on my shoulder. That's the move. Hand on shoulder for instant intimacy and guaranteed trust. I've seen him use it on prime ministers, senators, congressmen, even on his own son. Now he's using it on me.

Halfway down the stairs, I pick up my pace. He stays right with me. Even if working with The Roman was his mistake, to lie to my face every single- Is that why he kept me here? Penance for his own guilt?

In my pocket, my phone starts vibrating. I pull it out and check the phone's tiny screen. Text message: wes, it's lisbeth. pick up.

i solved puzzle.

A second later, the phone vibrates in my hand. "Excuse me one second, sir," I say to the President. "It's Claudia, who- h.e.l.lo?" I say, answering the phone.

"You need to get out of there," Lisbeth says.

"Hey, Claudia. I did? Okay, hold on one sec." Nearing the bottom step, I keep Lisbeth on hold and turn back to Manning, feeling like my body's on fire. "She says I left my house keys in her office. I'm sorry, sir, but if it's okay, I may just run back there and-"

"Relax, Wes, I'm a big boy," he says with a laugh, his shoulder grasp turning into a quick, forceful back pat that almost knocks me off the bottom step. "Go do what you have to. I've handled one or two problems bigger than this."

Handing him his sport coat, I laugh right back and head for the front door. I can feel the President's eyes burning into the back of my head.

"By the way, Wes, do me a favor and let the Service know where you're going too," he says loud enough so the agents outside can hear. "Just in case they need to get in touch."

"Of course, sir," I say as I jog down the front steps.

"You alone yet?" Lisbeth asks through the phone.

The moment the door slams behind me, the two suit-and-tie agents who're standing outside the garage look up.

"Everything okay?" the shorter agent, Stevie, asks.

"Don't look suspicious," Lisbeth says through the phone. "Tell him you forgot your keys."

"Yeah, no . . . I forgot my keys," I say, speed-walking to the tall wooden privacy gate at the end of the driveway and pretending that everything I've built my life on isn't now coming apart. My breathing starts to gallop. I've known Stevie for almost three years. He doesn't care whether I check in or not. But as I reach the gate and wait for it to slide open, to my surprise, it doesn't move.

"So where you headed to, Wes?" Stevie calls out.

"Wes, listen to me," Lisbeth pleads. "Thanks to your low-life friend Dreidel, I found another puzzle. Are you listening?"

I turn back to the two men, who're still standing in front of the closed garage and the matching Chevy Suburbans parked a few feet away. Stevie's hand disappears into his pants pocket. It's not until that moment that I realize that on the night I first saw Boyle, Stevie was driving the lead car in Malaysia. "Wes," he says coldly. "I asked you a-"

"Just back to the office," I blurt. Spinning clumsily to the gate, I stare at the double-plank wooden slats that keep people from looking in. I grip the phone to stop my hand from shaking. The sun's about to set in the purple-orange sky. Behind me, there's a metallic click. My heart leaps.

"See you soon," Stevie calls out. There's a loud rrrrrr rrrrrr as the wooden gate rolls to the right, sliding open just enough for me to squeeze through. as the wooden gate rolls to the right, sliding open just enough for me to squeeze through.

"I'm out," I whisper to Lisbeth.

"Fine-then pay attention. Do you have the old puzzle on you?"

Staggering across the street to the car, I don't answer. All I see is Manning's grin and his yellow Chiclet teeth- "Wes! Did you hear what I said!?" she shouts. "Take out the original one!"

Nodding even though she can't see me, I reach into my pocket and hastily unfold the original crossword.

"See the handwritten initials down the center?" she asks. "M, A, R, J . . ."

"Manning, Albright, Rosenman, Jeffer . . . what about them?"

"He's got the same list on the new puzzle. Same initials down the middle. Same order. Same everything."

"Okay, so? Now there're two lists of top senior staff," I say, stopping just outside the car. I have to lean against the door to keep standing.

"No. Pay attention, Wes. Same everything. everything. Including those scribbles down the side." Including those scribbles down the side."

"What're you talking about?"

"On the left-before each set of initials: the four dots in a square, the little oval, the cross with a slash through it . . ."

I look at each one: "The chicken scratch?"

"That's the thing, Wes," she says, deadly serious. "I don't think it's chicken scratch. Unless he's got some majorly smart chickens."

86.

But those doodles," I say as I study Manning's scribbles on the side of the crossword.

"Are you listening?" Lisbeth shouts through the phone. "That's what they wanted it to look like-random doodles and extra letters that make the hidden initials disappear. But if you look at this new crossword, the exact same scribbled images are in the exact same order. exact same order. There's nothing random about it, Wes! The four dots . . . the small oval-Manning was using them as some sort of message." There's nothing random about it, Wes! The four dots . . . the small oval-Manning was using them as some sort of message."

"Why would-?"

"You said it yourself: Every politician needs allies-and every President needs to figure out who he can trust. Maybe this is how Manning ranked those closest to him. Y'know, like a report card."

Nodding at the logic, I glance again at the list, mentally adding the real names.

"And no offense," Lisbeth adds, "but your boy Dreidel? He's a piece of s.h.i.+t. Real s.h.i.+t, Wes-as in beating-up-prost.i.tutes-and-ramming-their-faces-into-mirrors kind of s.h.i.+t."

As she relays Violet's story, I can still picture the woman in the bathrobe peeking out from Dreidel's hotel room. Still, to go from that to smas.h.i.+ng faces . . . "You sure you can trust this Violet woman?" I ask.

"Look at the list," Lisbeth says. "That is is Manning's handwriting, right?" When I don't answer, she adds, "Wes, c'mon! Is that Manning's handwriting or not?" Manning's handwriting, right?" When I don't answer, she adds, "Wes, c'mon! Is that Manning's handwriting or not?"

"It's his," I say as my breathing again quickens.

"Exactly. So if he's the one filling in this report card, then the grade he gives himself-those four dots-you think in his own personal ranking, he's giving himself an A or a big, steaming F?"

"An A?" I say tentatively, staring at the : :.

"Absolutely an A. He's the cipher. In fact, I'll wager those four dots are a sparkling A+. Now look who else was lucky enough to get the exact same ranking."

I look down at the list. It's the first time I realize Manning and Dreidel are both ranked with four dots.

"Red rover, red rover, we call Dreidel right over," Lisbeth says through the phone.

"Lisbeth, that doesn't prove anything. So what if he trusted Dreidel more than any of the others?"

"Unless he trusted Dreidel to do what none of the others would."

"Wait, so now Dreidel's a legbreaker?"

"You were there, Wes. You're telling me the President never had any personal issues that needed dealing with?"

"Of course, but those usually went to-" I cut myself off.

"What? Those were the problems that went to Boyle?"

"Yeah, they . . . they were supposed to. But what if that's the point? What if they used used to go to Boyle . . ." to go to Boyle . . ."

". . . and suddenly they stopped?"

"And suddenly they started going to Dreidel," I say with a nod. "No one would even know the President made the switch unless . . ."

". . . unless they happened to find their ranking on the list," Lisbeth agrees, her voice now racing. "So when Boyle found this, when he saw that Dreidel and Manning were ranked together . . ."

". . . he could see the real ranking of the totem pole."

An hour ago, I would've told Lisbeth she's crazy-that there's no way the President and Dreidel were scheming together. But now . . . I replay the last ten minutes in my head. What the First Lady said . . . what Boyle accused the President of . . . and what Lisbeth's already confirming . . . if even half of it's true . . . I inhale a warm burst of muggy air, then grit my teeth to slow my breathing. But it won't slow down. My chest rises and falls. My neck, my face-I'm soaked.

Up the block, on the corner of County Road, there's a white car with its blinker on, waiting to turn toward me.

"Get the h.e.l.l out of there," Lisbeth says.

"I'm leaving right now."

Ripping the door open, I hop into the car and frantically claw through my pocket for my keys. I came here to confess . . . to get help from the biggest and the best. But now-with the President as The Fourth, and Dreidel feeding us directly to the Lion . . . I ram the key at the ignition, but the way my hand's shaking, the key bounces off the steering column. I try again. Dammit, why won't it-? Dammit, why won't it-? I take another stab, and the tip of the key scratches across the metal column, pinching my fingertip. The pain's sharp, like being jabbed with a needle. But as my eyes swell with tears, I know it's not from the pain. Or at least not this pain. I take another stab, and the tip of the key scratches across the metal column, pinching my fingertip. The pain's sharp, like being jabbed with a needle. But as my eyes swell with tears, I know it's not from the pain. Or at least not this pain.

A sob rises like a bubble in my throat. I again clench my teeth, but it won't go down. No, don't do this . . . not now, No, don't do this . . . not now, I beg as I press my forehead as hard as I can against the steering wheel. But as I picture the President-all these years-I didn't just learn his shoe size and pillow preference. I know what he thinks: who annoys him, who he trusts, who he hates, even who he thinks is still using him. I know his goals, and what he's afraid of, and what he dreams about, and what he hopes . . . what I hoped . . . The bubble in my throat bursts and my body begins to shake with silent, heaving sobs. After eight years . . . every single day . . . I beg as I press my forehead as hard as I can against the steering wheel. But as I picture the President-all these years-I didn't just learn his shoe size and pillow preference. I know what he thinks: who annoys him, who he trusts, who he hates, even who he thinks is still using him. I know his goals, and what he's afraid of, and what he dreams about, and what he hopes . . . what I hoped . . . The bubble in my throat bursts and my body begins to shake with silent, heaving sobs. After eight years . . . every single day . . . Oh, G.o.d-how could I not know this man? Oh, G.o.d-how could I not know this man?

"Wes, you there?" Lisbeth asks through the phone.

Still breathing heavily and fighting for calm, I swallow hard, sit up straight, and finally shove the key into the ignition. "One sec," I whisper into the phone. Punching the gas, I feel the wheels gnaw through the gra.s.sy divider, eventually catching and whipping me forward. As I wipe the last tears from my eyes, I notice a Chinese restaurant menu tucked underneath my winds.h.i.+eld wiper. Steering with one hand and lowering the window with the other, I flick on the wipers, reach outside, and nab the menu just as the wiper blade slings it across the gla.s.s. But as I toss the menu into the pa.s.senger seat, I spot familiar handwriting running across the back page of the menu, just below the coupons. I jam my foot against the brake, and the car skids to a halt a full twenty feet shy of the stop sign at the end of the block.

"You okay?" Lisbeth asks.

"Hold on . . ."

I dive for the menu. The handwriting's unmistakable. Perfect tiny block letters.

Wes, turn around. Make sure you're alone.

(Sorry for the melodrama) Whipping around in my seat, I check through the back window and sniff away the rest of the tears. The gate to the Mannings' house is shut. The sidewalks are empty. And the gra.s.sy divider that splits the narrow street holds only the quiet navy-blue rental car of the Madame Tussauds folks.

"Did you find something?" Lisbeth asks.

Struggling to read the rest of the note, I can barely keep my hands from shaking.

You need to know what else he did. 7 p.m. at- My eyes go wide when I see the location. Like before, it's signed with a simple flourish. The tip of the R R drags longer than the rest. drags longer than the rest. Ron. Ron.

There's a flush of sweet-sour wetness across the left half of my tongue. I touch my lip and spot the bright red liquid on my fingertips. Blood. I was biting my lip so hard, I didn't even feel myself break the skin.

"What is it, Wes? What's there?" Lisbeth asks, now frantic.

I'm about to tell her, but I catch myself, remembering what she's done.

"Wes, what's wrong?"

"I'm fine," I say as I reread the note. "Just nervous."

There's a pause on the line. She's been lied to by the best. I'm not even in the top ten. "Okay, what're you not saying?" she asks.

"Nothing, I just-"

"Wes, if this is about the tape, I'm sorry. And if I could take it back-"

"Can we not talk about this?"

"I'm just trying to apologize. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me, Lisbeth. You just treated me like a story."