The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [191]
“Wes, right?” an African-American agent with a bald head asks as he opens the front door and welcomes me inside. On most days, agents aren’t stationed in the house. Today is different. “He’s waiting for you in the library, so if you’ll just follow—”
“I know where it is,” I say, moving forward to cut around him.
He takes a step to the side, blocking my way. “I’m sure you do,” he says, throwing on a fake grin. Like the agents out front, he’s in standard suit and tie, but the microphone on his lapel . . . I almost miss it at first. It’s tinier than a small silver bead. They don’t give that kind of tech to guys on former-President duty. Whoever he is, he’s not from the Orlando field office. He’s from D.C. “If you’ll follow me . . .”
He pivots around, leading me down the center hallway, into the formal living room, and past the gold velvet sofa that yesterday held Madame Tussauds’ set of Leland Manning eyeballs.
“Here you go,” the agent adds, stopping at the double set of French doors on the far left side of the room. “I’ll be right here,” he says, motioning back to the main hallway. It’s not meant as a comfort.
Watching him leave, I bite the dead skin on the inside of my cheek and reach for the American eagle brass doorknob. But just as I palm the eagle, the doorknob turns by itself, and the door opens. I was so busy watching the agent, I didn’t see him. Our eyes lock instantly. This time, though, as I spot the brown with the splash of light blue, my stomach doesn’t plummet. And he doesn’t run.
Standing in the doorway and scratching his fingers against the tiny stubble on his head, Boyle forces an unconvincing smile. From what Rogo told me late last night, I should’ve known he’d be here. Silly me, though, I actually thought I’d be first. Then again, that’s always been my problem when it comes to the President.
Stepping forward and closing the door behind him, Boyle blocks me even worse than the Service. “Listen, Wes, do you . . . uh . . . do you have a sec?”
The President’s expecting me in the library. But for the first time since I’ve been in Leland Manning’s personal orbit, well, for once . . . he can wait. “Sure,” I say.
Boyle nods me a thank-you and scratches from his head down to his cheek. This is hard for him. “You should put a warm compress on it,” he finally says. Reading my confusion, he adds, “For your eye. Everyone thinks cold is better, but the next day, warm helps more.”
I shrug, unconcerned with my appearance.
“By the way, how’s your friend?” Boyle asks.
“My friend?”
“The reporter. I heard she got shot.”
“Lisbeth? Yeah, she got shot,” I say, staring at Boyle’s sharpened features. “The one in her hand was the worst.”
Boyle nods, glancing down at the old stigmata scar at the center of his own palm. He doesn’t linger on it, though.
“Wes, I—I’m sorry I had to keep you in the dark like that. In Malaysia, when I was trying to get to Manning . . . All these years, I thought he might’ve screwed me—that maybe he was The Fourth—so to find the crossword . . . to see it was her—and then when I saw you, I just—I panicked. And when O’Shea and Micah started trailing you . . .”
He waits for me to complete the thought—to yell at him for using me as bait these past few days. To blame him for the lies, for the deception . . . for every ounce of guilt he dumped on my shoulders for eight years. But as I stare across at him . . . as I see the deep circles under his eyes and the pained vertical line etched between his brows . . . Last night, Ron Boyle won. He got everyone—The Roman . . . Micah and O’Shea . . . even the First Lady—everyone he’d hunted for so long. But it’s painful to see him now, anxiously licking his lips. There’s no joy in his features, no victory on his face. Eight years after his ordeal began, all that’s left is an aged man with crummy nose and chin jobs, a haunted vacancy in his eyes, and an unstoppable need to keep checking every nearby door and window, which he does for the