The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [139]
“Dr. Manning, I’m sure this . . . I know it seems impossible—”
“That’s not—God!—it’s not like I’m naive,” she insists. “I’m not naive. I mean, I-I-I knew he’d keep things from me—not to deceive—that’s just what he has to do. That’s the job of being President.”
As she stumbles through the words, I realize she’s no longer talking about Boyle. She’s talking about her husband.
“There are secrets he has to keep, Wes. Troop positions . . . surveillance capabilities . . . those are the secrets we need,” she says. “But something like this . . . good Lord, I was at Ron’s funeral. I read a psalm!”
“Ma’am, what’re you—?”
“I went to his house and cried with his wife and daughter! I was on my knees praying for his peaceful rest!” she shouts, her sadness shifting to rage. “And now to find out it was all a sham . . . some weak-minded escape for his own cowardice . . .” The tears again flood forward and she sways off balance. “Oh, Lord, if what Ron says . . . if it’s true . . .” Stumbling toward me, she grabs the corner of the low Empire dresser on my left, barely able to stay on her feet.
“Ma’am!”
She holds up a hand to keep me back. Her eyes flit around the room. At first, I assume she’s mid-panic-attack. But the way she keeps looking . . . from the side table on the left of the bed, to Manning’s side table on the right, to the writer’s desk, back to the Empire dresser . . . each is covered with picture frames—all shapes and sizes—all with photos of Manning. “H-How could he . . . how could they do that?” she asks, looking at me for the answer.
All I can offer is a shell-shocked stare. I can’t feel my arms. Everything’s numb. Is she saying that Manning knew abou—?
“Did Boyle say anything when you saw him? Did he offer any explanation?”
“I just . . . I walked in on him,” I explain, barely hearing my own words. “He took off before I even realized what was happening.”
The First Lady’s hand starts shaking again. She’s like me in Malaysia. Thanks to the letter, she’s finally hearing that her dead friend is actually alive. And from what Boyle wrote, for some reason he blames himself, saying he did it to protect his family. Overwhelmed by the moment, Dr. Manning takes a seat on the hand-painted American flag chest at the foot of the bed and stares down at Boyle’s handwritten letter. “I just can’t—”
“He called me yesterday and told me to stay away,” I add for no good reason. “That it wasn’t my fight.” I feel a flush of rage. “But it is my fight.”
She looks at me absently as if she’d forgotten I was there. Her jaw tightens, and she presses her hand against her lap until it stops shaking. It’s bad enough she’s so emotionally distraught. It’s even worse that it’s happening in front of me. Within an eyeblink, her chin and posture stiffen, and her political instincts, honed by years of keeping private matters private, kick in. “He’s right,” she blurts.
“What’re you talking about?”
“Listen to Boyle,” she says. Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”
“But, ma’am—”
“Forget you ever saw him, forget he ever called you.” As her voice cracks, I realize I was wrong. This isn’t about her being emotionally exposed. It’s about her being protective. And not just of her husband. Of me too. “Wes, if you walk away now, at least they won’t know that you—”
“They already know. They know I saw him . . .”
“They? Who’s they?” she asks, cocking an anxious eyebrow.
“The Three,” I insist.
She looks up as I say the words, and I spot the recognition in her eyes. They were messing with her friend too—of course, she knows the details. But that doesn’t mean she wants to drag me into the rest of it.
“I know who