The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [136]
Trying to shake it, I flush the toilet, run the faucet, and step out of the bathroom as if everything’s normal. A quick scan of the hallway tells me no one’s there. “Dr. Manning?” I say softly. No answer. I’m all alone.
Through the open door of the Mannings’ bedroom, the antique writer’s desk is less than ten feet away. In all our years together, I’ve never once betrayed their trust. I tell myself that again as I stare at the book on her desk. It’s just sitting there. With the answer inside.
If I were Rogo, I’d do it. If I were Dreidel, I’d do it. If I were Lisbeth, I’d have done it two minutes ago. But I’m me. And therein lies the real problem. I know myself. I know my limitations. And I know if I go in there, it’s an action I can never take back. The old me would’ve never even considered it. But I don’t think I’m that man anymore.
Tightening my fists, I take four steps into the bedroom and up to the desk. The black book is thick with gold embossing on the cover. Holy Bible. I don’t know why I’m surprised.
As I pick up the Bible and thumb through it from back to front, the folded-up sheet practically leaps out. I unfold it so fast, it almost rips. I thought it was a photograph or some kind of official memo. It’s not. It’s a letter. Handwritten on plain, unmarked stationery. The handwriting is unfamiliar but precise—perfect tiny block letters undistinguished by any style or idiosyncrasy. Like it was written by someone who’s spent years perfecting ways to go unnoticed.
To be sure, I flip the sheet over to the signature on the back. Like the rest, the letters are simple, almost commonplace. The tip of the R drags longer than the rest. Ron. Ron Boyle.
Dear Lenore, I read as I flip it back, my brain hurtling so fast, all I can do is skim. Please forgive me . . . never meant to mislead you . . . I just thought, for everyone’s good . . . for all my sins . . . to finally protect those I hurt . . . My punishment, Lenore. My atonement. Please understand, they said it could be anyone—that it could’ve been you . . . And after there was no payment for Blackbird, when I found what he . . .
He? Who’s he? I wonder, still skimming. And Blackbird? Is that what they called the six-million-dollar—?
“Hey!” a female voice calls out behind me.
My lungs collapse and my body freezes. I’m already off balance as I spin back to face her.
The First Lady stands in the doorway, her leaf-green eyes on fire. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
81
You gotta be kidding me.”
“It’s bad?” Rogo asked, leaning in and reading over Dreidel’s shoulder.
On the worktable in front of them, Boyle’s datebook was opened to the week of May 22. In the square labeled Monday, May 23 was the handwritten note Manning in NY. On Wednesday the twenty-fifth was the note Elliot in the Morning interview. And on Thursday the twenty-sixth was the note Senator Okum fundraiser—Wash. Hilton—7 p.m. But what caught Rogo’s eye was the box for May 27, which was blacked out with a thick marker:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“They crossed it out?” Rogo asked.
“That’s the library’s job—read through all the files and figure out what can be released to the public.”
“I understand how. I just mean . . . Hold on—” he said, cutting himself off and reaching down to touch the right-hand page of the calendar. Even before he rubbed it with his fingers, Rogo could see it was made from a thinner and brighter paper stock than the off-white sheets that filled the rest of the datebook. “This isn’t even the original, is it?”
“Photocopy—that’s how redactions are done,” Dreidel explained. “They can’t ruin