The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [179]
“I found your letter,” Nico growls as the Chinese menu peeks out from the inside pocket of his army jacket. “Where’s Boyle!?”
I want to tell him it’s fake . . . that The Roman . . . and the First Lady . . . that I don’t want to die. But after eight years of imagining this moment, imagining every minute of finally confronting Nico—what I’d say, where I’d stand, how I’d cross my arms against my chest, even what I’d do if he tried to lash out and throw a punch . . . how I’d duck down at the last instant, how I’d be ready this time, and he’d miss me, and then, before he ever saw it coming, how I’d spin back and clench his throat in my hands, squeezing so hard, hearing him gasp, and still clutching tighter, my fingers digging into his windpipe as we tumbled to the ground and he gasped for mercy—the only words that leave my lips are the ones that have been there since the day he shredded my face. The one question that the doctors, the shrinks, the President, my family, my friends, my parents, and I have never been able to answer:
“Nico,” I blurt. “Why did you do this to me?”
He cocks his head as if he understands perfectly. Then his brow contracts. He hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.
“I know you’ve been in contact with him,” he says. “That’s why God steered the bullet your way. The ricochet. That’s why you got broken.”
“That’s not true!” I shout as a brand-new rage swells within me.
“It is true! The Book of Fate is written! Everything for a reason!” he insists in a puff of hot breath that smells like beef jerky. “You sided with the Beast! That bullet in your face—your fate is written—that’s God’s will!”
“Nico, they lied!”
“Did you not speak to him? Did you!? See . . . it’s true!” he shouts, reading my expression and digging the gun into my cheek. “God gave you your chance at redemption, and you spit at it! That’s why He brought me here—to finish His job! To see your blood!” he insists, his finger tightening around the trigger. I try to fight, but he’s too strong. All I see is the outline of Nico above me, the light behind him, his head shielding me from the rain, the rosary around his neck swaying like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. He pulls the hammer back on his gun. “This is meant to hurt, Wesley.” He tugs me toward him.
I clamp my eyes shut at the sudden beam of light, but all I hear is—
“Oh, Lord! Y-You have it,” Nico whispers as his hand starts to tremble. I see his eyes glitter in the dark.
“What’re you—? What?” I ask, confused.
“I couldn’t see in the photo . . . but this close,” he stutters, staring at my face. “It’s so clear,” he insists. “Your scars! The way they intersect . . . jagged in your flesh . . . one cutting through the other. The papers said it was like railroad tracks, but it’s really a perfect—a perfect—a perfect—a perfect . . . cross,” he blurts. “Of course! Mother of God, how could I not—? You weren’t meant to die on that day, Wesley—you were meant to be born on it!” Craning his head back and staring up at the sky, he adds, “You transformed him, didn’t You? By my actions . . . through Your will. That was his role—the crossbearer,” he insists, his head still up as he mumbles a brief prayer.
In the sudden silence, I faintly hear the First Lady’s voice in the distance. Lisbeth shouts something back. They’re too far for me to make it out, but with his heightened hearing, Nico should—
His eyes pop wide as if he’s heard his own name. Slowly, he lowers his chin, following the—
“That’s not true,” he whispers, holding his stomach like someone put a corkscrew in his gut. I can’t hear what Lisbeth’s saying, but as I look up at Nico, it’s not hard to translate. “No . . . The Three never—”
Nico’s knees still pin my arms, but his weight—all the pressure—is gone, and his body starts shuddering with his own personal earthquake. Behind us and miles to the left, a train engine’s faint howl pierces the air.
Nico’s chin