The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  Nico shook his head, still eyeing the beads. “Names are fictions. He . . . Masks for the devil.” Without warning, Nico’s arm shot forward, snatching the rosary beads from the center of the bed. He pulled them to his chest, his thumb furiously climbing from bead to bead, counting to the rosary’s small engraving of Mary.

  “Nico, take it easy—”

  “Only God is true.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “God is true!” he exploded, climbing the beads quicker than ever. Turning away, Nico rocked back and forth . . . slowly, then faster. Gripping each bead, one by one. His shoulders sagged with each sway, and his body hunched lower and lower, practically curling into a ball at the side of the bed. He kept trying to speak, then abruptly cut himself off. The Roman had seen it before. The battle internal. Without warning, Nico looked back over his shoulder. The Roman didn’t need 20/6 vision to spot the tears in his eyes.

  “Are you here to redeem me?” Nico sobbed.

  The Roman froze, assuming it was all about Boyle . . . and it was, but—

  “Of course,” The Roman said as he moved to the other side of the bed. Putting a hand on Nico’s shoulder, he picked up the violin from the floor. He’d read enough of Nico’s file to know it was still his best transitional item. “That’s why I’m here,” he promised as Nico embraced the neck of the violin.

  “For redemption?” Nico asked for the second time.

  “For salvation.”

  Nico eked out a smile, and the crimson beads sank to the floor. From the way Nico studied the violin with his half-closed eyes, The Roman knew he had a few minutes of calm. Better make it quick.

  “In the name of The Three, I’m here for your cleansing . . . and to be sure that when it comes to Boyl— When it comes to the Beast, that his influence is no longer felt by your spirit.”

  “Who increases our faith . . . Who strengthens our hope . . . Who perfects our love,” Nico began to pray.

  “Then let us begin,” The Roman said. “What is your last memory of him?”

  “At the Revolt,” Nico began. “His hand up in victory . . . preening for the masses with his white teeth glowing. Then the anger in his eyes when I pulled that trigger—he didn’t know he’d been hit. He was angry . . . enraged as he gritted his teeth. That was his first reaction, even in death. Hatred and rage. Until he looked down and spotted his own blood.”

  “And you saw him fall?”

  “Two shots in the heart, one in the hand as they tore me down. Sliced his neck too. I heard him screaming as they clawed at me. Screaming for his life. Begging . . . even amid the roar . . . for himself. Me . . . someone help me . . . And then the screams stopped. And he laughed. I hear things. I could hear it. Through his own blood. Boyle was laughing.”

  The Roman rolled his tongue against his teeth. No doubt, it was true. Laughing all the way to freedom. “What about since?” he asked, choosing each word carefully. Regardless of the risk, he needed to know if Boyle had been here. “Has he haunted you . . . recently?”

  Nico stopped, looking up from the violin. “Haunted?”

  “In . . . in your dreams.”

  “Never in my dreams. His threat was stopped when—”

  “What about anywhere else, in visions or—?”

  “Visions?”

  “Not visions . . . y’know, like—”

  “His power is that great?” Nico interrupted.

  “No, but we—”

  “To be able to do that . . . to call from beyond the ashes . . .”

  “There’s no such power,” The Roman insisted, again reaching for Nico’s shoulder.

  Scootching back on his rear, Nico pulled away from The Roman’s grasp. His back slammed into the radiator and his violin again dropped to the floor. “For the Beast to rise . . .”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t deny it!” Nico said, his eyes zipping back and forth in full panic. Clenching his fists, he swung his hands wildly, like he couldn’t control his movements. A thick vein popped from his neck. “But for him to be alive . . . the Great Tribulation lasts seven years—my time away—followed by resurrection of the dead . . .”

  The Roman stepped back, frozen.

  “You believe it too,” Nico said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “I hear your voice. The quiver! I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Nico—”

  “He is! With resurrection . . . the Beast lives!”

  “I never—”

  “He lives! My God, my Lord, he lives!” Nico yelled, still on his knees as he turned toward the shatterproof window, screaming at the sky.

  The Roman had been afraid it’d come to this. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, an old, thick model. With a shove of his thumb, he unlatched the back of the phone and unveiled a lead compartment holding a small syringe and a loose razor blade. His fake ID and Secret Service badge allowed him to bring in the gun that was tucked into his ankle holster, but syringes and razors? Not in a mental hospital.

  “Nico, time to calm down,” he said as he slid the syringe between his pointer and middle fingers. The fentanyl would easily knock him out, but it’d take the razor to make it look like a suicide.

  “Y-You attack me?” Nico asked as he turned around and saw the needle. His eyes grew dark and his nostrils flared. “He sent you!” Nico shouted, pressed against the radiator and trapped in the corner. “You’re of them!”

  “Nico, I’m with you,” The Roman soothed as he stepped closer. There was no pleasure in putting an animal down. “This is just to calm you down,” he added, knowing he had no choice. Leaving a body would certainly bring questions, but it wouldn’t be half as bad as letting Nico scream for the next month that The Three existed and that Boyle was still alive.

  Nico’s eyes narrowed, focusing on The Roman’s gun in the ankle holster. As if he’d spotted an old friend.

  “Don’t think it, Nico. You can’t—”

  The door to the room whipped open, slamming into the wall. “What’s all the hollering abou—? What the hell you think you’re doing?!” a deep voice asked.

  The Roman glanced back just in time to see two orderlies burst inside. That was all Nico needed.

  Like an uncoiled snake, Nico sprang toward The Roman’s legs. His right hand gripped The Roman’s kneecap, twisting it like a bottle cap. His left hand went straight for the gun in the ankle holster.

  “Gaaaah!” The Roman howled, crumbling backward toward the floor. Even before the impact, Nico was tearing the gun from its holster.

  “Nico, don’t—” the orderly with the hoop earring threatened.

  It was already too late. Like a virtuoso painter reunited with his long-lost brush, Nico grinned as the gun slid into his palm. Still on his knees, he bounced his hand slightly, letting the gun wobble in his grip. “Built-in silencer . . . neither muzzle nor butt heavy,” he said to The Roman, who was still writhing on the floor. “Beautiful work,” he added with a handsome squint as he smiled at the orderlies.

  “Nico—!”

  Four muffled shots hissed out. Both orderlies screamed. The first two shots pierced their hands. Just like he did with his father. And with Boyle. The stigmata. To show them Jesus’s pain. Both slammed into the wall before they even realized the final two bullets were in their hearts.

  Climbing to his feet, Nico didn’t even watch as the orderlies wilted to the floor, their bodies leaving parallel red streaks down the white wall. Spinning around, he turned the gun toward The Roman, who was on his back, clutching something close to his chest. The shot would be quick and easy, but as Nico’s finger hugged the trigger . . .

  “Man of God!” The Roman shouted, holding up Nico’s red glass rosary beads. They dangled down from his fist, swaying like a hypnotist’s pocketwatch. “You know it, Nico. Whatever else you think . . . Never kill a man of God.”

  Nico paused, mesmerized by the rosary shimmering in the fading light. The beads continued to
sway, matching pace with The Roman’s quick breathing. A puddle of sweat gathered on The Roman’s lip. Staring up from the floor, he could see straight into the barrel. Nico wouldn’t make eye contact. Wouldn’t even acknowledge he was there. Lost in the rosary beads, Nico searched for his answer, never moving the gun. His brow went from creased to calm to creased again, as if he were flipping a coin in his own head. And then the coin landed. Nico pulled the trigger.

  The Roman shut his eyes as a single shot hissed out. The bullet pierced his empty left hand, straight through the center of his palm. Jesus’s pain. Before he could even feel it, the blood puddled in his hand, rushing down his wrist toward his elbow.

  “Where is he!?” Nico demanded.

  “I-I’ll kill you for that,” The Roman growled.

  “Another lie.” Turning slightly to the right, Nico took aim at The Roman’s other hand. “After everything you promised . . . to come to me now and protect him. What power does the Beast hold over you?”

  “Nico, stop!”

  Without hesitation, Nico pulled back the hammer of the gun. “Answer my question: Where is he?”

  “I-I have no i—”

  “Please move the rosary,” Nico politely asked, motioning to the beads, which were down by The Roman’s leg. As The Roman picked them up, Nico squeezed the trigger and a second silenced shot wisped through the air, burrowing through The Roman’s foot. Both wounds burned like thick needles twisting through his skin. He gritted his teeth and held his breath, waiting for the initial sting to pass. All it did was get worse. “Nnnnuhhh!” he shouted.

  “Where. Is. Boyle?” Nico demanded.

  “If . . . if I knew, do you really think I’d come here?”

  Nico stood silent for a moment, processing the thought. “But you’ve seen him?”

  The Roman shook his head, still struggling against the pain. He could feel his foot swelling, filling his shoe.

  “Has anyone else seen him?” Nico asked.

  The Roman didn’t answer. Nico watched him carefully, tilting his ear slightly toward him.

  “Your breathing’s starting to quicken. I hope you don’t have a stroke,” Nico said.

  The Roman looked away from the bed. Nico looked right at it.

  On the covers, just by the edge, was the black-and-white photograph of Wes. “Him?” Nico asked, reaching for the picture. “Is that—? That’s why you asked me about him, yes? The one I broke . . . he’s the one who saw the Beast.”

  “All he did was see hi—”

  “But to communicate . . . to be in league with the Beast. Wes is corrupted now, isn’t he? Polluted. That’s why the ricochet—” Nico nodded quickly. “Of course! That’s why God sent the bullet his way. No coincidences. Fate. God’s will. To strike Wes down. And what God began . . .” Nico’s eyes narrowed at the photo. “I will make him bleed again. I missed it before, but I see it now . . . in the Book. Bleeding Wes.”

  Looking up from the photo, Nico raised his gun and pointed it at The Roman’s head. From the window over the radiator, the panes in the glass cast the thick shadow of a cross directly onto The Roman’s face.

  “God’s mercy,” Nico whispered, lowering his gun, turning his back to The Roman, and staring out the oversize shatterproof window. The gun’s silencer was quiet, but security would be there soon. He didn’t pause for a second. He’d had eight years to think about this moment. Shatterproof. Not bulletproof.

  Two more shots snarled from the gun, piercing the bottom left and right corners of the glass, exploiting the foundation of the window.

  Still on the floor, The Roman pulled off his tie to make a tourniquet for his foot. A tight fist eased the pain in his hand. The blood already filled his shoe, and his heartbeat felt like it was thumping up his arm and down his leg. A few feet away, he heard the thud of a bowling ball, then the crackling of glass. He looked up just in time to see Nico slamming his foot against the bullet hole on the bottom left of the window. True to its name, the glass wouldn’t shatter, but it did give, popping like bubble wrap as the tiny shards fought to stay together in an almost bendable plastic sheet. Now he had an opening. Licking his lips, Nico put his foot against the glass and gripped the radiator for leverage. With another shove, a fist-sized hunk of the sea-green window broke off from the rest. He pushed again. And again. Almost there. There was a tiny tear and a kitten shriek as the window slowly peeled outward and upward like old wallpaper. Then a final thud and— Nothing.

  The Roman looked up as a blast of cold air slapped him in the face.

  Nico was already gone.

  Crawling to the window, The Roman gripped the top of the radiator and pulled himself up. Two stories down, he spotted the small bluff of snow that had broken Nico’s fall. Thinking about giving chase, he took another look at the height and felt the blood seeping through his own sock. Not a chance, he told himself. He could barely stand now.

  Craning his neck out the window and following the footprints—out of the bluff, through the slush on the service road—he quickly spotted Nico: his sweatshirt creating a tiny brown spot plowing through the bright white layer of snow. Nico never looked back.

  Within seconds, Nico’s faded brown spot gained a speck of black as he raised the gun and pointed it downhill. From the angle of the window, The Roman couldn’t see what Nico was aiming at. There was a guard at the gate, but that was over fifty yards a—

  A whispered psst and a hiccup of smoke belched from the gun’s barrel. Right there, Nico slowed his pace to a calm, almost relaxing walk. The Roman didn’t need to see the body to know it was another direct hit.

  Shoving the gun into the pouch of his sweatshirt, Nico looked like a man without a care in the world. Just strolling past the old army building, past the graveyards, past the leafless dogwood, and—as he faded from view—straight out the front gate.

  Hobbling toward the door, The Roman grabbed the syringe and the razor blade from the floor.

  “You guys okay?” a female voice asked through one of the orderlies’ walkie-talkies.

  The Roman leaned down and pulled it off the orderly’s belt clip. “Just fine,” he mumbled into the receiver.

  Carrying it with him, he turned around and took a final survey of the room. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized Nico had also taken the black-and-white photograph of Wes. Bleeding Wes.

  28

  Right this way,” I say as I cup the elbow of the older woman with the beehive of blond hair and escort her and her husband toward President Manning and the First Lady, who’re posed in front of a floral bouquet the size of a small car. Trapped in this small anteroom in the back of the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, the President looks my way, never losing his grin. It’s all the signal I need. He has no idea who they are.

  I put it on a platter. “Mr. President, you remember the Talbots—”

  “George . . . Leonor . . .” the First Lady jumps in, shaking hands and swapping air kisses. Thirty-four books, five unauthorized biographies, and two TV movies have argued she’s the better politician in the family. All the proof is right here. “And how’s Lauren?” she asks, pulling off their daughter’s name as well. That’s when I’m impressed. The Talbots aren’t longtime donors. They’re NBFs—new best friends, which is what we call the rich groupies who glommed onto the Mannings after they’d left the White House. Old friends liked the power; new friends like the fame.

  “We just think you’re the greatest,” Mrs. Talbot gushes, her eyes solely on the First Lady. It’s never bothered Manning. Dr. First Lady has always been a part of their political package—and thanks to her science background, the better at analyzing poll numbers, which is why some say she was even more crushed than the President when they handed over their keys to the White House. Still, as someone who was with the President that day as he flew home to Florida, and placed his final call on Air Force One, and lingered on the line just long enough to say his final good-bye to the phone operator, I can’t help but disagree. Manning went from having a
steward who used to wear a pager just to bring him coffee, to lugging his own suitcases back to his garage. You can’t give away all that power without some pain.

  “What’m I, chopped herring all of a sudden?” Manning asks.

  “What do you mean, all of a sudden?” the First Lady replies as they all cocktail-party laugh. It’s the kind of joke that’ll be repeated for the rest of the social season, turning the Talbots into minor wine and cheese stars, and simultaneously ensuring that Palm Beach society keeps coming to these thousand-dollar-a-plate charity shindigs.

  “On three,” the photographer calls out as I squeeze the Talbots between the Mannings. “One . . . two . . .”

  The flashbulb pops, and I race back to the receiving line to palm the next donor’s elbow. Manning’s look is exactly the same.

  “Mr. President, you remember Liz Westbrook . . .”

  In the White House, we called it the push/pull. I pull Mrs. Westbrook toward the President, which pushes the Talbots out of the way, forcing them to stop gawking and say their good-byes. True to form, it works perfectly—until someone pushes back.

  “You’re trying the push/pull with me? I invented it!” a familiar voice calls out as the flashbulb pops. By the time I spin back toward the line, Dreidel’s already halfway to the President with a huge smile on his face.

  Manning lights up like he’s seeing his childhood pet. I know better than to get in the way of that. “My boy!” Manning says, embracing Dreidel. I still get a handshake. Dreidel gets a hug.

  “We wanted it to be a surprise,” I offer, shooting a look at Dreidel.

  Behind him, the honcho line is no longer moving. Over the President’s shoulder, the First Lady glares my way. I also know better than to get in the way of that.

  “Sir . . . we should really . . .”

  “I hope you’re staying for the event,” Manning interrupts as he backs up toward his wife.

  “Of course, sir,” Dreidel says.

  “Mr. President, you remember the Lindzons,” I say, pulling the next set of donors into place. Manning fake-smiles and shoots me a look. I promised him it was only fifty clicks tonight. He’s clearly been counting. This is souvenir photo number 58. As I head back to the line, Dreidel’s right there with me.