The Book Of Fate Part 49

"Whattya think I was?" Boyle asked.

Rogo turned to his left but didn't say a word.

"Rogo, for the snake-oil scam to succeed, people only need to see the cure work once. That's what The Three gave them-courtesy of two bullets in my chest."

Sitting up in his seat, Rogo continued to study Boyle, who was staring at the open back doors of the ambulance that was less than a car's length away.

"Twenty minutes before the shooting, the Secret Service Web site was sent a tip about a man named Nico Hadrian who was planning to a.s.sa.s.sinate President Manning when he stepped out of his limo at Daytona International Speedway. It was signed The Roman. The Roman. From that moment on, anything he would've given them-especially when it was corroborated by the FBI and CIA-well, you know the paranoid world we live in. Forget drugs and arms sales. Information is the opiate of the military ma.s.ses. And terrorist information about attacks on our own soil? That's how you print your own money," Boyle said. "Even better, by taking their stealthier approach with the First Lady, they wouldn't've even had to split the cash four ways." From that moment on, anything he would've given them-especially when it was corroborated by the FBI and CIA-well, you know the paranoid world we live in. Forget drugs and arms sales. Information is the opiate of the military ma.s.ses. And terrorist information about attacks on our own soil? That's how you print your own money," Boyle said. "Even better, by taking their stealthier approach with the First Lady, they wouldn't've even had to split the cash four ways."

As they pulled past the ambulance, they both looked to their left and peered into its open back doors. But before they could even see that there wasn't a victim, a gurney, or a single medical supply inside, there was a metal thud against the back door. Then one from above. On both sides of the van, a half dozen plainclothes U.S. marshals swarmed from the tow truck and silver car, fanning out and pointing their guns against the side windows and front winds.h.i.+eld. Outside Boyle's door, a marshal with bushy caterpillar eyebrows tapped the barrel of his gun against the gla.s.s.

"Nice to see you again, Boyle. Now get the f.u.c.k out of that van."

109.

She's hurting, Wes!" The Roman called out to the empty darkness as the rain ticked against his umbrella. "Ask her!"

"H-He's not stupid," Lisbeth whispered, down on her rear in the wet gra.s.s. With her back against the Celtic headstone for support, she pressed both hands against her eye, where The Roman had rammed his knee into her face. She could already feel it swelling shut.

Back by the tree, the First Lady stared coldly at The Roman. "Why did you bring me here?" she demanded.

"Lenore, this isn't-"

"You said it was an emergency, but to bring me to Wes!"

"Lenore!"

The First Lady studied The Roman, her expression unchanging. "You were planning to shoot me, weren't you?" she asked.

Lisbeth looked up at the question.

Turning to his right, The Roman squinted up the crooked stone path and, as his Service training kicked in, visually divided the graveyard into smaller, more manageable sections. A grid search, they called it. "Be smart, Lenore. If I wanted to kill you, I would've shot you in the car."

"Unless he wanted to make it look like-puhhh," Lisbeth said, violently spitting flecks of saliva at the ground as the train whistle screamed of its impending arrival, ". . . like Wes killed you, and he killed Wes. Th-Then he's the hero and there's no one left to point fingers."

Shaking his head, The Roman stayed glued to the meatball shrubs. "She's bleeding pretty bad, Wes!"

The First Lady turned toward Boyle's grave, then back to The Roman, her pinkie flicking harder than ever at the strap of her umbrella as she said in a poisonous, low voice, "She's right, isn't she?"

"She's just trying to rile you, Lenore."

"No, she's- You swore no one would ever be hurt! You swore no one would ever be hurt!" the First Lady exploded. She spun back toward the front entrance of the cemetery.

There was a metallic click.

"Lenore," The Roman warned as he raised his gun, "if you take one more step, I think we're going to have a serious problem."

She froze.

Turning back toward Lisbeth, The Roman took a deep breath through his nose. It was supposed to be cleaner than this. But if Wes insisted on hiding . . . Carefully aiming his gun, he announced to Lisbeth, "I need you to put your hand up, please."

"What're you talking about?" she asked, still sitting on the ground.

"Put your d.a.m.n hand out," The Roman growled. "Palm facing me," he added, holding up his bandaged right palm to Lisbeth. The Roman growled. "Palm facing me," he added, holding up his bandaged right palm to Lisbeth.

Even under the shadows of the umbrella, it was impossible to miss the tight white bandage with the perfectly round, blood-red circle at the center of it. Lisbeth knew what he was planning. Once her body was found with stigmata-like a signature-all the blame would s.h.i.+ft to- Lisbeth stopped seeing the rain. Her whole body started to shake.

"Put your hand up, Lisbeth-or I swear to G.o.d I'll put it in your brain."

Curling both arms toward her chest, she looked over at the First Lady, who again started to walk away.

"Lenore," The Roman warned without turning. The First Lady stopped. The Roman warned without turning. The First Lady stopped.

Lisbeth felt the wet ground soaking her rear end. Her hands still hadn't moved.

"Fine," The Roman said, aiming at Lisbeth's head as he c.o.c.ked the hammer. "Have it in your brai-"

Lisbeth raised her left hand in the air. The Roman squeezed the trigger. And the gun roared with a thunderclap that left a ringing silence in its wake.

A spurt of blood erupted from the back of Lisbeth's hand, just below her knuckles. Before she even felt the pain and screamed, blood was running down her wrist. Already in shock, she kept staring at the dime-sized burned circle in her palm as if it weren't her own. When she tried making a fist, the pain set in. Her hand went blurry, like it was fading away. She was about to pa.s.s out.

Without a word, The Roman aimed his gun at Lisbeth's now-bobbing head.

"Don't!" a familiar voice yelled from the back of the cemetery. a familiar voice yelled from the back of the cemetery.

The Roman and the First Lady turned to the right, tracing the voice up the tree-lined path.

"Don't touch her!" Wes shouted, his body a thin silhouette as he rushed out from the shrub. "I'm right here."

Just like The Roman wanted.

110.

Aided by the glow from the floodlit flagpole in the distance, I study the outline of The Roman from the top of the stone path. He stares right back at me, his gun still pointed at Lisbeth.

"That's the right choice, Wes," he calls out from the base of the tree. His voice is warm, like we're at a dinner party.

"Lisbeth, can you hear me?" I shout.

She's fifty yards away and still on the ground. Among the shadows and the overhang of the banyan tree, she's nothing but a small black blob between two graves.

"She's fine," The Roman insists. "Though if you don't come help her, I think she might pa.s.s out."

He's trying to get me closer, and with Lisbeth bleeding on the ground, I don't have a choice.

"I need to check she's okay first," I say as I head toward the path. He knows I'm trying to stall. "Step back and I'll come forward."

"Go f.u.c.k yourself, Wes." Turning back to Lisbeth, he raises his gun.

"No! Wait-I'm coming!" Rus.h.i.+ng down the stone path, I put my hands in the air to let him know I'm done.

He lowers his gun slightly, but his finger doesn't leave the trigger.

If I were smart, I'd continue to watch him, but as I stumble down the path between the rows of headstones, I turn toward the First Lady. Her wide eyes are pleading, her whole body is in a begging position. This time, her tears aren't fake. But unlike before, she's looking in the wrong place for help.

"Don't take it so personally," The Roman tells me, following my gaze.

Moving toward Lisbeth, watching my footing, I keep looking at the silhouette of Lenore Manning. For eight years, she's known I blamed myself for putting Boyle in that limo. For eight years, she's looked into what's left of my face and pretended I was part of her family. On my birthday three years ago, when they were teasing me that I should go on more dates, she even kissed me on my cheek-directly on the scars-just to prove I shouldn't be so self-conscious. I couldn't feel her lips because they were touching my dead spot. But I felt it all. Leaving the office, I cried the whole way home, amazed at what a beautiful and thoughtful gesture it was.

Right now, walking past a shadowed stone crypt with red and blue stained-gla.s.s doors, I again well up with tears. Not from sadness. Or fear. My eyes squint, squeezing each drop to my cheeks. These tears sting from rage.

Down on my left, Lenore Manning's lips pucker like she's starting to whistle. She's about to say my name.

I glare back, telling her not to bother.

Even in this dim cemetery, she's fluent in reading her staff. And that's all I've ever been. Not family. Not friend. Not even a wounded puppy that you take in to clear your conscience from the other c.r.a.p you do in your life. Hard as it is to admit, I've never been anything more than staff.

I'm tempted to yell, curse, scream at what she did to me. But there's no need. The closer I get, the more clearly she can see it for herself. It's carved deep into my face.

For a second, her eyebrows tilt. Then she takes a tiny step back and lowers her umbrella so I can't see her face. I'll take it as a victory. Lenore Manning has faced just about everything. But at this moment, she can't face me.

Shaking my head, I turn back to The Roman, who's now forty feet away.

"Keep coming," he says.

I stop. Diagonally to my right, between two stubby headstones, Lisbeth is down on her knees, cradling her b.l.o.o.d.y hand toward her chest. In the eerie bluish light, I can see that her hair is soaked, her left eye puffy and already swollen. I'm nearly there.

"I'm sorry," she stutters as if it's her fault.

"I said keep coming keep coming," The Roman insists.

"Don't!" Lisbeth interrupts. "He's gonna kill you." Lisbeth interrupts. "He's gonna kill you."

The Roman doesn't argue.

"Promise me you'll let her leave," I say.

"Of course," he sings.

"Wes!" Lisbeth says, her breathing growing heavy. It's all she can do to stay conscious.

There are no sirens in the distance, no one riding to the rescue. From here on in, the only way Lisbeth's getting out of here is if I step forward and try to make the trade.

The train gets louder in the distance. There's a whisper over my shoulder. I turn back to follow the sound, but the only thing there is my own reflection in the red and blue stained-gla.s.s doors of the crypt. Inside, behind the gla.s.s, I swear something moves.

"You're hearing ghosts now?" The Roman teases.

As the whispers get louder, I continue toward him on the path. I've got barely twenty feet to go. The rain lightens overhead as I reach the cover of the tree. Its tendrils dangle from above like a puppeteer's fingers. I'm so close, I can see Lisbeth's body shaking . . . and the First Lady's pinkie flicking her umbrella strap . . . and the hammer on The Roman's gun as he c.o.c.ks it back with his thumb.

"Perfect," he says with a wry grin. Before I can even react, he turns to the side and raises his gun. Directly at Lisbeth's heart.

111.

No-don't!" I shout, already running. I shout, already running.

There's a high-pitched hiss. But not from his gun. From behind me.

Before I even realize what's happening, a burst of blood spurts from The Roman's right hand, through the back of his palm, just below his knuckles. He's been shot. At the impact, The Roman's own gun goes off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lisbeth slapping her shoulder like she's swatting a mosquito. I can make out something dark-blood-leaking out between her fingers, like water seeping from a cracked well. She pulls her hand away from her shoulder and holds it up in front of her face. When she sees the blood, her face goes white, and her eyes roll back in her head. She's already unconscious.

"s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t s.h.i.+t!" The Roman yells, bent over, jerking wildly and holding his shattered right hand to his chest. On his right, the First Lady takes off, running back toward the main entrance and disappearing into the darkness. The Roman's in too much pain to stop her. On the back of his hand, the hole's no bigger than a penny. But the signature with the stigmata is unmistakable.

"You lied to me! He's an angel!" Nico howls from the back of the graveyard, up by the shrubs. He plows toward us through the darkness, his gun straight out, ready for the kill shot. He's in silhouette. I can't see his face. But his arm is steady as ever. Nico howls from the back of the graveyard, up by the shrubs. He plows toward us through the darkness, his gun straight out, ready for the kill shot. He's in silhouette. I can't see his face. But his arm is steady as ever.

"Y-You're going to h.e.l.l," The Roman whispers as he anxiously throws his own personal Hail Mary. "Like Judas, Nico. You're Judas now."

The way Nico flinches, it's clear he hears it. It still doesn't slow him down. "G.o.d's laws last longer than those who break them!" he insists as he gathers his strength. "Your fate is rewritten!" Up the path, he grips his rosary with one hand and aims the gun with the other.

"Nico, think of your mother!" The Roman begs.

Nico nods as the tears again stream down his face. "I am," he growls, but as he takes aim, there's a loud whoosh from behind the back fence of the cemetery. Up on the train tracks, a silver pa.s.senger train bursts into view, moving so fast it almost appears from nowhere. The clanking is deafening. My ears pop from the sudden vacuum in the air. For Nico, it's fifty times worse.

He still fights it, gritting his teeth as he squeezes the trigger. But the noise is already too much. His arm jerks for half a second, the shot hisses from his gun, and as the bullet zings past The Roman's shoulder and shatters a hunk of bark from the nearby tree, Nico Hadrian actually misses.

A dark grin returns to The Roman's face as the train continues to whip by. Barely able to hold his gun with his right hand, he tosses aside the umbrella and switches the gun to his bandaged left. The way his right fist is shaking, he's clearly in pain. He doesn't care. His shoulders straighten. His knees steady. As he raises his gun and takes aim, I'm already running at him. So is Nico, who's at least thirty feet behind me.

The Roman has time for just one shot. There's no question who's more dangerous.

Bam!

As the shot explodes from The Roman's gun, it's drowned out by the still-pa.s.sing train. Behind me, just over my right shoulder, there's a deep guttural grunt as Nico takes it in the chest. He still keeps running toward us. He doesn't get far. Within two steps, his legs lock and his too-close-together eyes widen into full circles. Tumbling forward and off balance, his body hurtles face-first toward the ground. In mid-fall, the rosary flies from his hand. He's not getting up.

As Nico crashes, The Roman turns his gun toward me. I'm already moving too fast. Lost in momentum, I collide with The Roman like he's a tackling dummy, my arms wrapping around his shoulders as I ram him at full speed. The impact sends him staggering backward to his left. To my own surprise, it feels like there's a metal plate against his chest. He learned it from Boyle. Bulletproof vest. The good news is, he's already weakened from being shot in the hand. We trip over his umbrella in the dirt. I hold tight to his chest, riding him like a lumberjack on a falling tree.

As we crash to the ground, his gun flies from his hand across the wet gra.s.s. His back slams into a zigzagging tree root bursting up from the earth, while his head smacks backward into a jagged rock. The vest helps with his back, but his face clenches in pain as the rock jabs his skull.

Scrambling up and digging my knee into his stomach, I grab the collar of The Roman's s.h.i.+rt with my left hand, pull him toward me, and punch as hard as I can with my right, ramming my fist just above his eye. His head whips into the jagged rock again, and a small cut opens above his left eye. He grits his teeth at the pain, his eyes squeezing shut to protect his sockets. Flushed with adrenaline, I hit him again, and the cut reddens and widens.

The real damage, though, comes from the rock under The Roman's head. With each of my punches, there's a sickening dull gkkkk gkkkk as it drills through his black hair, into the back of his head. Still reeling from being shot, he thrashes his bandaged left hand toward his head, trying to protect himself from the rock. as it drills through his black hair, into the back of his head. Still reeling from being shot, he thrashes his bandaged left hand toward his head, trying to protect himself from the rock.

Refusing to let up, I punch him again. And again. This one's for all the surgeries. And for having to learn to chew on the left side of my cheek. And for not being able to lick stuff off my lips . . .