The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [178]
“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 whackjob’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