The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [190]
“Nico, that’s not true.”
“I heard it. You’re Four.”
“No . . . why would I—?”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he insisted, his fingers moving across four beads of the rosary.
“Please, Nico, just listen . . .”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four.” His fingers continued to calmly count, bead by bead. He was over halfway through. Just sixteen beads to go. “One, Two, Three, you’re Four. One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“Why aren’t you listening!?” the First Lady sobbed. “If you—I can—I can get you help . . .”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“. . . I can . . . I’ll even . . .” Her voice picked up speed. “I can tell you how your mother died.”
Nico stopped. His head cocked sideways, but his expression was calm as ever. “You lie.”
His finger slithered around the trigger, and he squeezed it. Easily.
There was a sharp hiss, and a pfffft that sounded like a cantaloupe exploding. The inside front windshield was sprayed with blood.
The First Lady slumped sideways, and what was left of her head hit the steering wheel.
Barely noticing, Nico pointed the gun at his own temple. “Your fate is mine, Dr. Manning. I’m coming to get you in Hell.”
Without closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.
Click.
He pulled again.
Click.
Empty . . . it’s empty, he realized, staring down at the gun. A slight, nervous laugh hiccupped from his throat. He looked up at the roof of the car, then back down at the gun, which quickly became blurred by a swell of tears.
Of course. It was a test. To test his faith. God’s sign.
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he whispered, his thumb climbing up the last wooden beads and resting on the engraving of Mary. Flushed with a smile even he couldn’t contain, Nico looked back up at the roof, brought the rosary up to his lips, and kissed it. “Thank You . . . thank You, my Lord.”
The test, at long last, was complete. The Book could finally be closed.
114
Ten minutes after seven the following morning, under an overcast sky, I’m sitting alone in the backseat of a black Chevy Suburban that’s filled with enough new-car smell to tell me this isn’t from our usual fleet. Usually, that’s cause for excitement. Not after last night.
In the front seats, both agents sit uncomfortably silent the entire ride. Sure, they toss me some small talk—Your head okay? How’re you feeling?—but I’ve been around the Service long enough to know when they’re under orders to keep their mouths shut.
As we make the left onto Las Brisas, I spot the news vans and the reporters doing stand-ups. They gently push forward against the yellow tape as they see us coming, but the half dozen agents out front easily keep them at bay. On my left, as the car pulls up to the manicured shrubs out front, and the tall white wooden gate swings open, an Asian female reporter narrates—. . . once again: former First Lady Lenore Manning . . .—but gracefully steps back to give us room.
For the reporters and press, all they know is she’s dead and that Nico killed her. If they knew her hand in it . . . or what she did . . . an army of agents wouldn’t be able to hold them back. The Service, pretending to be clueless, said that since Nico was still out there, they thought it’d be safer to chauffeur me inside. It’s a pretty good lie. And when the agents knocked on my door this morning, I almost believed it.
As the gate slowly closes behind us, I know better than to turn around and give them a shot of my face for the morning news—especially with the cuts on my nose and the dark purple swelling in my eye. Instead, I study the Chicago-brick driveway that leads up to the familiar pale blue house. Flanking both sides of the Suburban, six agents I’ve never seen before watch the gate shut, making sure no one sneaks in. Then, as I open my door and step outside, they all watch me. To their credit, they turn away quickly, like they don’t know what’s going on. But when it