by Brad Meltzer
“Hi, Melissa—whattya doin’?” my cinnamon cockatiel asks. She’s got a bright orange circle on each cheek and a pointy yellow crest on her head that curves forward like a feathery tidal wave. “Melissa, whattya doin’?”
The joke’s too old to make me laugh—Lolo’s been calling me by her old owner’s name for almost seven years—but the counselor was right. Focal points are good. Though familiar voices are even better.
“Crap away,” I tell Lolo, who for some reason was trained to poop on command.
True to form, three tiny runny droppings splatter through the bottom of the cage onto the waiting newsprint, which I quickly replace, along with fresh food and water.
The bird was my dad’s idea. It was six months after the accident, when light switches and repetitive prayers were starting to overwhelm me. He’d heard the story from one of his students about a rape victim whose parents bought her a dog so she wouldn’t feel alone when she came home every night. I rolled my eyes. And not just because I’m allergic to dogs.
Still, people never understand. It was never just the bird. It was the need. The need to be needed.
With a quick flick of the lock, I open the cage and offer my left pointer finger as a perch. Lolo hops on immediately, riding it up to her usual spot on my right shoulder. I turn my face toward her, and she tries to bite at my cheek, which means she wants to be scratched. I crouch down to my tan-carpeted floor and cross my legs into Indian position as the stress of the day starts to wash away. Lolo nuzzles in close, her feathers tenderly tickling the grooves of my face. For all their vaunted eyesight, birds don’t see scars.
Her talons loosen their grip on my shoulder, and she lowers her crest, slicking it back Elvis-style. Within a minute, she’s already calmed down, and on most nights, that’d be enough to get me to do the same. But not tonight.
In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates. As I check caller ID, I also see that I got two new messages just during the ride in the elevator. Scrolling down, I see all the old numbers. Current call is L.A. Times. Messages are CNN and Fox News. My answering machine at home is no better. Nineteen new messages. Family, friends, and the few reporters smart enough to track my home address. They all want the same thing. A piece of the action . . . piece of the story . . . piece of me.
The front door to the apartment swings open down the hall. “Wes, you still up?” Rogo calls out. His voice grows louder as he turns the corner. “Your light’s on, so if you’re touching yourself, now’s the time to stop!”
Lolo’s talons dig deep into my shoulder. I know exactly how she feels. The last thing I need is another person reminding me about Nico and Manning and Boyle and every other time bomb ticking in my life. How you doing? How you feeling? How you holding up? Enough with the damn—
My bedroom door opens slowly. Rogo’s been around long enough to know if he kicks it in, it’ll send Lolo flapping.
I look up from the carpet, just waiting for the onslaught of questions.
Rogo scratches at his bald head and leans his meatball physique against the door frame. “So . . . uh, I rented Purple Rain,” he says, pulling the movie from the red knapsack he calls his briefcase. “Figured we could . . . I don’t know . . . order some pizza, maybe just hang—and then, of course, spend some time rewinding the part where Apollonia jumps naked into the river.”
I sit there for a moment, digesting the offer.
“Hi, Melissa—whattya doin’?” Lolo squawks.
“Shut up, bird. I ain’t talking to you,” Rogo threatens.
A tiny smile lifts my left cheek. “Apollonia gets naked? You sure?” I ask.
“Wes, when I was sixteen, I wanted my first car to be a purple motorcycle. Now, who’s ready for some bad pizza and Prince doing that pouty thing with his lips? C’mon, Melissa, time to party like it’s 1999!”
He runs back up the hallway before I can even say thank you.
37
Florence, South Carolina
Nico knew they’d have them.
“Maps?” Nico asked, stepping into the gas station minimart and holding up the map of Michigan he took from Edmund’s truck.
“Back left,” a ponytailed attendant with peach-fuzz sideburns said without looking up from the small TV he was watching behind the counter.
Before Nico could even take a step, a loud chime rang from where he crossed into the electric eye of the automated doorbell. Wincing at the sound, he still wasn’t used to being out in public. But the way his heart was jackhammering with excitement, it didn’t slow him down.
Counting three surveillance cameras—one by the attendant, two in the aisles—Nico hit the brakes and eased his pace to a walk as he headed for the spinner rack of maps in the back. It was no different from his old assignments: No need to rush. Don’t look around. Disappear in the mundane.
He read most of the maps from halfway down the aisle. California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware . . .
It was a good sign. But not half as good as stepping in and seeing that the central spine of the spinner rack was made up of dozens of intersecting metal crosses. Exhaling with relief, Nico practically laughed out loud. Of course his map would be here. Just like with Wes. As in the Book, God’s will was always clear.
Tucking his Michigan map under his armpit, he gave the spinner rack a confident whirl, going straight to the end. Sure enough. Second from the top. Right between Washington State and West Virginia. Washington, D.C.
Lightning bolts of adrenaline surged up Nico’s legs. He covered his mouth as his eyes flooded with tears of joy. Even though he never doubted . . . to finally see it after being denied for so long. The nest . . . the devil’s nest . . . the M Men buried it so long ago. And now the proof was back. “Thank you, Father,” Nico whispered.
Without even hesitating, he pulled the D.C. map from its metal tower, replacing it with the Michigan map he’d brought from the truck. Fair trade.
Wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm, he took a moment to catch his breath. Slowly heading back for the door, he tipped his baseball cap at the attendant. “Thanks for the help.”
As the ding-dong of the automated chime sounded, the attendant nodded without even looking up.
Outside, a deep gulp of the crisp South Carolina air chilled Nico’s lungs, but it didn’t come close to cooling the rising thrill bubbling inside his chest. Seeing Edmund pumping gas at the back of the flatbed, Nico darted for the front. As he ducked into the narrow gap between the front grille of Edmund’s truck and the back bumper of the truck in front of them, Nico blinked a fresh set of tears from his eyes. For eight years at St. Elizabeths, it was the one thing he never spoke of. The one truth they’d never understand. Sure, they figured out the crosses through observation, and the whispering to himself that he used to do in the early years. But this . . . like Number Three taught . . . Some secrets weren’t meant to be shared. And when it came to the nest . . .
Open it! he insisted, nodding to himself.
Like a child sneaking a cookie from the jar, Nico kept his shoulders pitched as he studied the front page of the map. Closing his eyes, he took one last scan of the area: the metal clicking of the truck’s idle engines . . . the garden hose hiss from the pumps . . . even the chalky scratch of claws against concrete as a raccoon prowled toward the dumpster around back.
“Thank you, Father,” Nico whispered, keeping his eyes shut as he tugged the map open and let it unfold in front of him. His head bobbed up and down sixteen times as he mouthed his final prayer. Amen.
His eyes sprang open, staring straight at the familiar blue and black grid of the D.C. streets. Orienting himself on the wide-open patches of the Tidal Basin and National Mall, he quickly found the marker for the Washington Monument. From there, he traced a path up to Dupont Circle, where—
“D.C?” Edmund asked, resting a hand on Nico’s shoulder and peeking over at the map. “I thought you wanted Washington State?”
Refusing to turn around, Nico stood up straight as his legs, arms, and wh
ole body stiffened. If it weren’t for his sniper training, his hands would’ve been shaking. Still, he felt the bad vein between his eyebrows. The vein that swelled, pregnant and full, when they took away his violin . . . when his father told him his mother was gone . . . when The Three told him the truth.
Just to keep himself steady, he clenched his toes into tiny fists that gripped the earth right through his shoes. The vein still throbbed. Pulsating even faster. Picking up speed. Father, please don’t let it burst . . . And then . . . as Nico clamped his lips shut and held his breath and focused everything he had on the web of veins swelling against his sinuses, it all went away.
Turning just his head, Nico slowly peered over his own shoulder at Edmund.
“Whoa . . . y’okay?” Edmund asked, stepping back slightly and pointing at Nico’s face. “Your nose . . . it’s bleedin’ like a bitch, bro.”
“I know,” Nico said, dropping the map as he reached out and palmed Edmund’s shoulder. “Blood of our savior.”
38
Reagan National Airport
Washington, D.C.
And you’re all set, Mr. Benoit,” the airline attendant said at the boarding gate.
“Great,” The Roman replied, careful to keep his head tilted down to the left. He didn’t have to hide. Or use the fake name. Indeed, the one benefit of Nico’s escape was that it gave The Roman the perfect excuse to justify his trip down South. As deputy assistant director, that was his job. Still, he kept his head down. He knew where the cameras were hidden. No need to tell anyone he was coming.
After heading toward the plate-glass window behind the check-in desk and sitting at the far end of a long row of seats, The Roman dialed a number on his phone, ignored the chitchatting of his fellow passengers, and focused on the black, predawn sky.
“D-Do you have any idea what time it is?” a groggy voice begged, picking up the other line.
“Almost six,” The Roman replied, staring outside. It was still too early to see slivers of orange cracking through the horizon as prologue to the sun’s arrival. But that didn’t mean he had to sit in the dark.
“Did you get the new schedule yet?” The Roman asked.
“I told you last night, with Nico running around, Manning’s entire day is in flux . . . you of all people should know that.”
Staring at his own reflection in the glass, The Roman nodded. Behind him, an armed agent in a Security windbreaker weaved through the food court, scanning the crowd. Back by the metal detectors when he first came in, he’d counted three more agents doing the same—and that didn’t include the dozen or so who operated in plainclothes to stay out of sight. The FBI wanted Nico back—and in their minds, the best way to get him was to cover every airport, train station, and travel hub. It was a good plan, following years of typical FBI procedure. But Nico was far from typical. And at this point, in all likelihood, far from here.
“What about Wes? When does he get his copy of the schedule?” The Roman asked.
“It’s not like the White House anymore. No matter how close he is to Manning, he gets it same as the rest of us—first thing in the morning.”
“Well, when he does get it—”
“You’ll have it,” his associate said. “Though I still don’t understand why. You already have the microphone f—”
“Send it!” The Roman roared. On his right, a few passengers turned to stare. Refusing to lose it, he shut the phone and calmly slipped it back into the pocket of his overcoat. It wasn’t until he unclenched his fist that he saw a tiny dot of blood seeping through the gauze.
39
A reporter?” Rogo asks in full Southern twang as we weave through morning traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard. “You’re sitting on the biggest political scandal since Boss Tweed started Teapot Dome, and you threw it in the lap of a reporter?”
“First, Boss Tweed had nothing to do with Teapot Dome. They were fifty years apart,” I tell him. “Second, what happened to all that Purple Rain calmness from last night?”
“I was trying to make you feel better! But this . . . You threw it in the lap of a reporter?”
“We didn’t have a choice, Rogo. She heard us talking.” Just below the glove compartment, his feet barely touch the Yosemite Sam floor mat with the words Back Off! in giant white letters. He bought the mat for me for my birthday a few years back as some sort of personal lesson. From the look on his face, he still thinks I need to learn it. “If she wanted, she could’ve run the story today,” I add.
“And this is she? Below the Fold?” he asks, flipping open the newspaper and turning to Lisbeth’s column in the Accent section. The headline reads Still the One—Dr. First Lady Outshines All. It opens with a fawning item about Mrs. Manning’s chartreuse Narciso Rodriguez suit as well as her gold eagle pin, which Lisbeth calls “Americana elegance.” To her credit, she doesn’t even go for the snarky mention of Nico’s escape.
“See, she’s making nice,” I point out.
“That’s just so you don’t notice that she’s maneuvering you in front of the bull’s-eye. Think for a sec.”
“Believe me, I know what Lisbeth wants.”
“Yet you’re ignoring the fact she’ll eventually stop writing about the First Lady’s suit and instead be using your name to cut to the head of the class. Screw the gossip column, Wes—she’ll have the whole front page to herself.”
“She can have it right now! Don’t you understand? She heard it all last night: Boyle being alive, us not trusting Manning . . . but like me, she knows that if she goes public now, it’ll bring a tidal wave of feces crashing down on all of us.”
“Actually, it’ll just be crashing down on Manning and Boyle. Y’know, the people who, well, actually caused this!”
“Are you even listening, Rogo? Whatever happened that day, it was pulled off by some of the most powerful people around, including—according to these FBI guys—the former President of the United States, who’s also been like a father to me for nearly a decade . . .”
“Here we go—always afraid to hurt Daddy.”
“I’m not afraid to hurt anyone—especially whoever the hell did this to me,” I say, pointing to my cheek. “But your solution? You want me—before I even know what’s going on—to shout everything from the rooftops and go stick a fistful of dynamite into the dam.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It is what you said. But if I unleash this, Rogo—if I go public—I can’t take it back. And you know that the moment I open my mouth, these people—people who were powerful and connected enough to convince millions that their illusion was real—are going to aim all their resources and energy at making me look like the crackpot who swears he saw a dead man. So if the water’s gonna be raging, and I’m wrecking every professional relationship in my entire life, I want to be absolutely sure before I blow it all up.”
“No doubt,” Rogo says calmly. “Which is why if you go with the FBI—”
“I what? Save myself? I have nothing to offer the FBI. They already know Boyle’s alive. They only want me so they can get Manning and light the dynamite themselves. At least my way, I’m the one holding the fuse, and we’ll get some information, which is more than we got from your so-called law enforcement buddies.”
“They’re trying their best. They’re just . . .”
“. . . traffic cops. I understand. And I appreciate you trying. But between The Roman and The Three, we need some actual answers.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice yourself. Lisbeth’s still gonna burn you in the end.”
Holding tight to the wheel, I pump the gas and speed through a yellow light. The car dips and bounces as we climb up Royal Park Bridge.
“Sixty-nine bucks for the ticket and three points on your license,” Rogo warns as the yellow light turns red just above us. “Though I guess that’s nothing compared to wrecking your life with an overanxious reporter.”
“Rogo, y’know why no one knew who Deep Throat was all those years? Because
he controlled the story.”
“And that’s your grand plan? Be Deep Throat?”
“No, the grand plan is to get all the facts, put my hands around Boyle’s throat, and find out why the hell all this actually happened!” I don’t motion to my face, but Rogo knows what I’m talking about. It’s the one thing he won’t argue.
Rogo goes back to reading Lisbeth’s column, which ends with a quick mention of Dreidel stopping by. Old Friends Still Visit, according to the subhead. It’s Lisbeth’s way of reminding us that she could’ve easily gone with the mention of Dreidel’s and my breakfast.
“Dreidel was there last night?” Rogo asks. “I thought he had a fundraiser.”
“He did. Then he came over to see Manning.”
Rogo scratches at his bald head, first on the side, then back behind his ear. I know that scratch. He’s silent as the car reaches the peak of the bridge. Three, two, one . . .
“You don’t think that’s odd?” he asks.
“What, that Dreidel likes to suck up to Manning?”
“No, that on the day after you spot Boyle, Dreidel happens to be in Palm Beach, and happens to get you in trouble with the press, and just happens to be raising money in Florida for a congressional race that only matters to people in Illinois. That doesn’t smell a little stinky feet to you?”
I shake my head as we leave the metal droning of the bridge and glide onto the perfectly paved Royal Palm Way. On both sides of the street, tucked between the towering, immaculate palm trees, are the private banks and investment firms that juggle some of the biggest accounts in the city. “You know how fundraising works,” I tell Rogo. “Palm Beach was, is, and will always be the capital of Manningland. If Dreidel wants to cash in on his old connections, here’s where he has to come to kiss the rings.”