The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [118]
“At the racetrack? There were plenty of us there.”
“But you’re the one who took the photo, right? The Cowardly Lion photo?”
“I’m sorry,” Kenny said, turning back toward O’Shea, “but until you tell me what you’re looking for, I don’t think I shou—”
A hushed hiss carved through the air, and a dark red bullet hole singed Kenny’s skin as it pierced his forehead. As Kenny crumpled lifelessly to the floor, Micah stared at O’Shea, who had his gun in one hand and the open three-ring binder in the other.
“You nuts!?” Micah exploded.
“They IDed you, Micah.”
“What’re you talking about? There’s no way!”
“Really? Then what the hell is this?” O’Shea shouted, tapping his gun against an empty Mylar protective sleeve in the binder.
“There could’ve been anything in—”
“Not the sleeve—underneath!” O’Shea said as he flipped aside the empty sheet to reveal a clear view of the photo on the next page. “You’re telling me that’s not you?” he asked, pointing to the enormous crowd shot where, when you looked closely enough, Micah was tucked away, glancing to the side.
“It’s . . . it’s not possible—we bought every photo out there . . . went through every tape . . .”
“Well obviously, there were a few more Kenny decided to keep in his collection! Don’t you get it, Micah? Wes knows! He’s got the thread of the sweater—and when he starts pulling, you’re gonna be the first one they look at!”
“Big deal, so they ask me a few questions. You know I’ll never say anything. But this . . . y’know what kinda avalanche you just started?”
“Don’t worry,” O’Shea said calmly. “If I set the bodies right, it’ll just look like a botched robbery.”
“Bodies?” Micah asked, confused. “What’re you talking about? You’ve got more than one?”
O’Shea raised his gun and pointed it straight at his partner’s chest.
Following years of training, Micah spun to his right, then leaped like a cheetah at O’Shea. The way Micah’s pointer and middle fingers were curled—like claws—it was clear he was aiming for O’Shea’s eyes.
O’Shea was impressed. No doubt, Micah was fast. But no one was that fast.
As O’Shea tugged the trigger, his fair blond hair glowed in the afternoon Key West sun. “Sorry, Micah.”
There was a soft ssstt. Then a grunt.
And The Three became The Two.
71
Don’t tell me you lost him. Don’t say those words.”
“I didn’t lose him,” Lisbeth told her editor, clutching her cell phone as she walked in through the front door of the building. “I let him go.”
“Did I tell you not to tell me that? Do I speak and you not hear?” Vincent asked. “What’s Sacred Rule #1?”
“Always keep ’em talking.”
“Fine, then Sacred Rule #26 1/2: Don’t let Wes out of your damn sight!”
“You weren’t there, Vincent—you didn’t see how upset he was. For fifty minutes—the entire flight back—the only thing he said to me was—” Lisbeth went silent.
“Lisbeth, you there?” Vincent asked. “I can’t hear you.”
“Exactly!” she replied, waving to security and heading for the elevators. “Fifty minutes of dead silence! The guy wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even curse me out. And believe me, I gave him every opportunity. He just stared out the window, pretending I wasn’t there. And when he dropped me off, he wouldn’t even say good-bye.”
“Okay, so you hurt his feelings.”
“See, but that’s the thing—I didn’t just hurt his feelings. He’s been at this too long to feel burned by a reporter, but the pain on his face . . . I hurt him.”
“Spare me the sentimental, Lisbeth—you were doing your job. Oh, wait, you actually weren’t. If you were, the moment he dropped you off, you would’ve turned around and followed him.”
“In what? He has my car.”
“He stole your car?”
Lisbeth paused. “No.”
Vincent paused even longer. “Oh, jeez—you gave it to him? You gave him your car?” Vincent shouted. “Sacred Rule #27: Don’t go soft! Rule 28: Don’t fall in love with a dreamer. And 29: Don’t let sad disfigured boys pluck your heartstrings and send you sailing on a guilt trip just because they’re sad and disfigured!”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Just because someone’s in a wheelchair doesn