The Book of Fate

by Brad Meltzer

  “I swear, Rogo, I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Dreidel insisted.

  As the locks popped, Rogo ripped open the passenger door, reached inside, and hooked his arm around to pound down the lock on the van’s sliding door.

  “What’re you doing?” Dreidel asked. “Unlock it!”

  Rogo didn’t say a word as he leaped into the front passenger seat, which was covered with thick piles of cluttered files, photocopies, old newspapers, and a brand-new digital camera. Leaning in Rogo’s door, Dreidel stuck his arm behind the passenger seat and tried to open the lock himself. Without even hesitating, Rogo tugged the door shut. Dreidel tried to pull away. He wasn’t fast enough. The sixty-pound door chomped down, sinking its metal teeth into his manicured fingertips.

  “Gahhhhh! Open it! Open it, motherf—!”

  “Ooh, sorry,” Rogo offered as he nudged the door open, and Dreidel tucked his hand under his own armpit. “I swear, Dreidel, I wasn’t trying to hurt you either.”

  Staring downward from his seat in the van, Rogo shot him the kind of glare that comes with an ice pick. “Don’t pretend you’re Wes’s friend, dickface.”

  With a hiccup, the van roared to life, and Rogo slammed the door shut. Dreidel just stood there, pelted by the rain.

  “C’mon, we going or not?” Rogo shouted at Boyle.

  “Don’t bark orders at me,” Boyle countered. “I didn’t shoot your friend in the face.”

  “But if you—”

  “I didn’t shoot him, Rogo. They shot me. And if I really wanted to see Wes hurt, I wouldn’t be running to save him right now,” Boyle said as he shifted the car into reverse and jammed his foot on the gas.

  Staring dead ahead as they squealed out of the spot and away from Dreidel, Rogo rolled his jaw, forever looking for the fight. For once, he couldn’t find it. “Just tell me one thing,” he finally said as he motioned back toward the modern building with the thermal security cameras. “What the hell is that place, and why’d they have a bed and conference table connected to the bathroom?”

  “Didn’t you hear who Dreidel made his deal with?” Tapping the glass of his own window, Boyle motioned to the four-story building that was perfectly located two miles from the airport. “Dr. Eng’s just the name that lets them hide in plain sight. Forget what it says on the front door. That’s a WITSEC safehouse.”

  “Wit sack?”

  “WITSEC. As in Witness Security.”

  “You mean like the Witness Protection Program?”

  “Exactly like the Witness Protection Program—which, along with judicial protection, is run solely under the jurisdiction of . . .”

  “. . . the Marshals Service,” Rogo said, shaking his head and finally realizing why Dreidel hadn’t wanted to come.

  “Starting to stink now, isn’t it?” Boyle asked. “But that’s how they work. They’ve got fake offices in every city in America. The only difference here is, it’s Witness Protection 2.0. Instead of just putting you in hiding, they make everyone think you’re dea—”

  Overhead, a 747 shredded the night sky, buzzing down toward the airport and drowning out Boyle.

  Rogo stared at the frosted-glass building as the adrenaline from fighting with Dreidel drained away and the dread of his new reality seeped into his system. “So when the guard called on his radio, he . . .”

  “. . . wasn’t just calling his buddies,” Boyle agreed as they tore past the front of the building. “He was calling the United States Marshals Service. And unless we get out of here, we’re gonna get a personal introduction.”

  106

  Lisbeth’s elbow scraped against the jagged granite as she backed into the clay-colored headstone with the Celtic cross on top.

  “Tell me where Wes is hiding,” The Roman demanded, his gun so close to her head, she saw her own distorted reflection in the tip of the barrel.

  When she didn’t answer, he asked again, but Lisbeth barely heard the words. All her attention was still focused just over The Roman’s shoulder, where the First Lady read Lisbeth’s shock for herself.

  Soaked by the falling rain, Lisbeth tried to back up even further, but the headstone held her in place.

  “Wes?” the First Lady hissed like an angry cat at The Roman. “You brought me to see Wes?”

  “I told you to stay back, ma’am,” The Roman said, never taking his glance or his gun off Lisbeth.

  “And I told you to never contact me again—but that didn’t stop you from showing up at my house—entering my home! Do you have any idea what kind of risk that—?” She cut herself off as the consequences sank in. “Good God! He’s—Wes is here right now?” She anxiously looked up the stone path, scanning nearby headstones. “You brought him here t— Is that why you had me give him that note?”

  The Roman stared at Lisbeth, then glared back at the First Lady. “Don’t play for the reporter, Lenore.”

  “Playing? That’s not— Why didn’t you tell me!?” the First Lady exploded, her umbrella jerking wildly with each syllable.

  The Roman laughed softly, his sandpaper voice grating. “No different than a decade ago, is it? You’re telling me you really wanted to know?”

  The First Lady went silent as the rain tapped on her umbrella. Across from her, Lisbeth stood unprotected, the drizzle slowly soaking her red hair, which flattened and dangled across her face like wet yarn.

  “Please tell me they blackmailed you,” Lisbeth pleaded, her voice cracking and her eyebrows knotting.

  The First Lady ignored the question, still searching the lot for Wes. Just in front of her, The Roman flashed the smallest of grins.

  “And that’s it? You just did it?” Lisbeth asked.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Dr. Manning insisted.

  “But you knew. He just said it: Even if you ignored it, you—”

  “I didn’t know anything!” she screamed.

  “That’s because you didn’t want to!” Lisbeth shot back.

  The First Lady did her best to stay calm.

  “They came to me through the Service, saying they could help on security issues—that our senior staff was holding us back by not paying for Blackbird and other good tips. Back then, I . . . we needed to show we were strong. I thought I was helping!”

  “And so you just did whatever they said?”

  “Are you listening? They were from the Service! From our side!” she insisted, her voice booming. “I figured they knew best—d’you understand? I never thought they’d— I was helping!”

  “Until what? Until Boyle suddenly turned up dead and you realized you’d been had?” Lisbeth asked. No question, that could certainly be the case. But it didn’t explain why the First Lady had continued to stay silent in the days that followed—or how, when she was first approached by The Roman—when the White House was swarming with an internal investigation of Boyle and the group they started calling The Three—how she could’ve been so naive and not even questioned what The Roman was selling. It’s not like national security was her pet issue. In fact, that close to reelection—especially when they were down in the polls—the only issue any First Lady should’ve been focused on was bringing home a second ter—

  “You wanted to win,” Lisbeth blurted.

  “Roman, I’m leaving now,” the First Lady said, turning away, her pinkie flicking the strap of her umbrella handle.

  “That’s why you never reported him, isn’t it? Maybe you wanted to believe it; maybe you just turned the blind eye. But as long as he could help you on security issues—if he could give you the bump in the polls, just this one time—”

  “Did you hear me?” she shouted at The Roman, almost crying.

  “They learned their lesson with Boyle, didn’t they? They approached you with a softer touch. Then suddenly, Boyle got shot . . .”

  “Roman, tell her I didn’t know! I never knew you’d do that!”

  “And now they had it all,” Lisbeth added. “A sitting President behind in the polls . . . the guaranteed bump from some hired w
hackjob’s assassination attempt. If it all went right and the President hadn’t been pulled back by the crowd, The Three would say good-bye to Boyle, while putting you, their unknowing new member with far more inside influence than Boyle, in the perfect spot to pass along your helpful new recommendations to your husba—”

  The Roman’s good hand jabbed forward in a blur, pounding the butt of his gun into Lisbeth’s face. Blood burst from her top lip, and her head whipped back, cracking against the headstone. Gasping, she swallowed something tiny and jagged. A lick with her tongue quickly told her it was the tooth next to her left front. “Hkkkkk!” As it scraped down her throat, she hunched forward like she was about to throw up, then dry-heaved twice as a mouthful of blood drooled down to her shoes and the soaking grass.

  Two miles away, the faint wail of an approaching train moaned.

  Staring at the ground as a dry heave flushed all the blood to her face, Lisbeth didn’t even hear the whistle. Indeed, as the rain dripped like a leaky faucet from her hair, her chin, her nose, the only thing Lisbeth registered was the squish of The Roman’s shoes as he stepped forward.

  “She’s gonna need an ambulance, Wes,” he called out calmly into the darkness. Reaching down to the back of Lisbeth’s head, he grabbed a fistful of her soaking hair, holding her so she was bowed down in front of him.

  “Get the hell off me!” Lisbeth shouted.

  “Keep hiding, Wes!” The Roman announced, clenching her hair even tighter and taking a half-step back. Almost like he was winding up.

  The last thing Lisbeth saw was the flecks of mud on the tips of The Roman’s black calfskin shoes. And the ball of his knee as he rammed it toward her face.

  107

  He smells like hospital antiseptic and hamburger meat gone bad. But as Nico digs the barrel of his gun into my scars, it’s not the smell that churns my stomach. I swallow so hard, it feels like there’s a brick in my throat.

  “How could you help him? How could you?” he demands. “Do you even know what you’ve unleashed?” His eyes jackrabbit side to side to side to side. He’s been off his medication for two days.

  “Answer me!” he seethes, forcing me back with a shove of his gun. He doesn’t even blink as the rain hits his face.

  Stumbling off balance, I crash backward into the shrub. A wayward branch stabs me in the spine, but I barely feel it. Just seeing Nico, hearing him—I’m back at the speedway. The crowd roaring. Manning smiling. A hundred thousand fans stand up, pointing and waving. At us. At me. And the bumblebee. Pop, pop, pop. The ambulance doors close on Boyle.

  “—ven listening to me?” Nico demands as I blink back to reality. His gun grinds against my cheek, but I still don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. I haven’t for years.

  “Where’s Boyle?” he says.

  “I don’t kn—”

  His left hand springs out like a cobra, sinking its fangs into the center of my shirt and tugging me toward him. He pivots to his left, tripping me, and I fall back again, down into a puddle, sending water everywhere. Nico’s right on me, straddling my chest, pinning my biceps with his knees, and never moving his gun from my scarred cheek.

  “I found your letter,” Nico growls as the Chinese menu peeks out from the inside pocket of his army jacket. “Where’s Boyle!?”

  I want to tell him it’s fake . . . that The Roman . . . and the First Lady . . . that I don’t want to die. But after eight years of imagining this moment, imagining every minute of finally confronting Nico—what I’d say, where I’d stand, how I’d cross my arms against my chest, even what I’d do if he tried to lash out and throw a punch . . . how I’d duck down at the last instant, how I’d be ready this time, and he’d miss me, and then, before he ever saw it coming, how I’d spin back and clench his throat in my hands, squeezing so hard, hearing him gasp, and still clutching tighter, my fingers digging into his windpipe as we tumbled to the ground and he gasped for mercy—the only words that leave my lips are the ones that have been there since the day he shredded my face. The one question that the doctors, the shrinks, the President, my family, my friends, my parents, and I have never been able to answer:

  “Nico,” I blurt. “Why did you do this to me?”

  He cocks his head as if he understands perfectly. Then his brow contracts. He hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  “I know you’ve been in contact with him,” he says. “That’s why God steered the bullet your way. The ricochet. That’s why you got broken.”

  “That’s not true!” I shout as a brand-new rage swells within me.

  “It is true! The Book of Fate is written! Everything for a reason!” he insists in a puff of hot breath that smells like beef jerky. “You sided with the Beast! That bullet in your face—your fate is written—that’s God’s will!”

  “Nico, they lied!”

  “Did you not speak to him? Did you!? See . . . it’s true!” he shouts, reading my expression and digging the gun into my cheek. “God gave you your chance at redemption, and you spit at it! That’s why He brought me here—to finish His job! To see your blood!” he insists, his finger tightening around the trigger. I try to fight, but he’s too strong. All I see is the outline of Nico above me, the light behind him, his head shielding me from the rain, the rosary around his neck swaying like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. He pulls the hammer back on his gun. “This is meant to hurt, Wesley.” He tugs me toward him.

  I clamp my eyes shut at the sudden beam of light, but all I hear is—

  “Oh, Lord! Y-You have it,” Nico whispers as his hand starts to tremble. I see his eyes glitter in the dark.

  “What’re you—? What?” I ask, confused.

  “I couldn’t see in the photo . . . but this close,” he stutters, staring at my face. “It’s so clear,” he insists. “Your scars! The way they intersect . . . jagged in your flesh . . . one cutting through the other. The papers said it was like railroad tracks, but it’s really a perfect—a perfect—a perfect—a perfect . . . cross,” he blurts. “Of course! Mother of God, how could I not—? You weren’t meant to die on that day, Wesley—you were meant to be born on it!” Craning his head back and staring up at the sky, he adds, “You transformed him, didn’t You? By my actions . . . through Your will. That was his role—the crossbearer,” he insists, his head still up as he mumbles a brief prayer.

  In the sudden silence, I faintly hear the First Lady’s voice in the distance. Lisbeth shouts something back. They’re too far for me to make it out, but with his heightened hearing, Nico should—

  His eyes pop wide as if he’s heard his own name. Slowly, he lowers his chin, following the—

  “That’s not true,” he whispers, holding his stomach like someone put a corkscrew in his gut. I can’t hear what Lisbeth’s saying, but as I look up at Nico, it’s not hard to translate. “No . . . The Three never—”

  Nico’s knees still pin my arms, but his weight—all the pressure—is gone, and his body starts shuddering with his own personal earthquake. Behind us and miles to the left, a train engine’s faint howl pierces the air.

  Nico’s chin quivers; his eyes swell with tears. Reaching up to the sides of his head, he clutches the tops of his ears, tilts his head down, and pulls tight, as if he’s trying to rip them from his skull. “Please, God,” he begs. “Tell me they’re lying . . .”

  “She’s gonna need an ambulance, Wes,” The Roman bellows in the distance.

  Lisbeth.

  Jerking wildly, I struggle to sit up. Nico doesn’t bother to fight. Sliding from my chest, he crumbles like a rag doll onto the wet grass and curls in full fetal position. Sixty to zero in less than ten seconds.

  “Don’t say that, God,” he sobs and pleads, his hands tugging at his ears. “Please . . . don’t . . . don’t turn Your back on me! Help me heed the Book! Please!”

  “Keep hiding, Wes!” The Roman shouts, even louder than before.

  Scrambling to my feet, I peer through the shrub’s branches, down the stone-paved, tree-lined path, straining
to see shapes in the faint light. Down at the end, at the base of the ancient banyan tree, I can just make out two figures as The Roman rams his knee into Lisbeth’s face and she lurches backward. Just behind them, the First Lady has her back turned. Seeing her, I should be boiling, raging. But as I study the back of her crooked neck . . . all I feel now is a bitter empty chill. I need to get to Lis—

  “I know you’re there!” The Roman taunts. For the first time, it pisses me off.

  Lisbeth’s still—

  “She’s hurting, Wes!” The Roman adds. “Ask her!”

  I tense to run, but there’s a tug on my slacks. And a familiar click.

  Behind me, Nico rises from the mud—climbing to one knee, then the other—his tall frame unfolding like an Erector set. His short black hair is soaked and matted against his head, while his gun is pointed at my chest.

  “Nico, let go of me.”

  “You’re my crossbearer, Wesley,” he says as he wipes tears from his eyes. “God selected you. For me.”

  “She’s bleeding pretty bad, Wes!” The Roman shouts.

  Lisbeth yells something too, but I’m so focused on Nico, I can’t hear it.

  “Nico, listen to me—I know you heard them . . .”

  “The crossbearer carries the weight!” Smiling sweetly, he points his gun at his own head. “Will you catch my body when I fall?”

  “Nico, don’t—”

  “Will you catch me when I fall, fall, fall from grace . . . the crossbearer to bear witness . . . ?” He lowers his gun, then raises it up again, pressing it against his temple. I hear Lisbeth moaning.

  “God sent you to save her too, didn’t He?” He stares at me, transfixed, the gun still at his head. “Save me as well, my angel.”

  Behind us, the train whistle howls, so close it’s almost deafening. Nico presses his lips together, trying to look like he’s not cringing. But I can see his jaw tightening. For me, it’s noisy. For him, it’s overwhelming. Wild-eyed, he points the gun back at me to keep me from running.