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 whole 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.”
Reagan National Airport
Washington,
D.C.
A
nd 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.
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.”
Rogo scratches again at his head. He’s tempted to argue, but after seeing the shape I was in last night, he knows he can only push so far. Lost in the silence, he taps a knuckle against the passenger window to the tune of “Hail to the Chief.” The only other sound in the car comes from the jingling of the two dangling presidential faces on the lapel pin that’s attached to my navy suit jacket.
“Here’s hoping you’re right,” Rogo offers as he stares down at Yosemite Sam. “Because, no offense, pal—but the last thing you need right now is another enemy.”
W
hat’d she write?” Micah asked, gripping the steering wheel and trying to read the newspaper in O’Shea’s lap. Four cars ahead of them, Wes’s Toyota chugged back and forth through traffic.
“Some fluffy mention about the First Lady’s suit,” O’Shea said from the passenger seat, still scanning Lisbeth’s column. “Though she did manage to work in a Dreidel mention.”
“You think Wes told her what’s going on?”
“No idea—though you saw the body language last night. All the hesitations . . . just barely looking her in the eyes. If he hasn’t said anything, he’s thinking about it.” Pointing ahead to the Toyota, O’Shea added, “Not so close—pull back a hair.”
“But for him to go to the press,” Micah began, hitting the brakes and dropping back a few cars. “He’s safer with us.”
“Not in his eyes. Don’t forget, the kid’s been wrecked by the best, and he’s somehow still standing. Deep down, he knows how the world works. Until he gets a better bargaining chip, in his mind, he’s not safe with anyone.”
“See, that’s why we should just offer him straight clemency.
Okay, Wes, next time you hear from Boyle, tell him Manning wants to meet with him and give him a time and place. Then call us and we’ll take care of the rest.
I know you’ve got big eyes, O’Shea, but unless we finally put hands on Boyle—”
“I appreciate the concern, Micah—but trust me, we stick with Wes and we’ll get our Boyle.”
“Not if Wes thinks we’re gonna bite back. I’m telling you, forget the vague promises—put a deal on the table.”
“No need,” O’Shea said, knowing that Micah always went for the easy way out. “Wes knows what we want. And after everything Boyle’s so-called death put him through, he wants him more than any of us.”