The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [192]
Suffering is bad. Suffering alone is far worse.
My jaw clenches as I try to find the words. “Listen, Ron . . .”
“Wes, don’t pity me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he insists. “I’m standing right in front of you, and you’re still mourning me like I’m gone. I can see it in your face.”
He’s talking about the swell of tears in my eyes. But he’s reading it wrong. I shake my head and try to tell him why, but the words feel like they’re stapled in my throat.
He says something else to make me feel better, but I don’t hear it. All I hear are the words that’re trapped within me. The words I’ve practiced in my sleep at night—every night—and in my mirror every morning, knowing full well they’d never get to leave my lips. Until this moment.
I swallow hard and again hear the crowd at the speedway that day. Everyone happy, everyone waving, until pop, pop, pop, there it is, the scream in C minor as the ambulance doors close. I swallow hard again and slowly, finally, the screams begin to fade as the first few syllables leave my lips.
“Ron,” I begin, already panting hard. “I—I . . .”
“Wes, you don’t have to—”
I shake my head and cut him off. He’s wrong. I do. And after nearly a decade, as the tears stream down my face, I finally get my chance. “Ron, I . . . I’m sorry for putting you in the limo that day,” I tell him. “I know it’s stupid—I just—I need you to know I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry, Ron,” I plead as my voice cracks and the tears drip from my chin. “I’m so sorry I put you in there.”
Across from me, Boyle doesn’t respond. His shoulders rise, and for a moment, he looks like the old Boyle who screamed in my face that burning July day. As I wipe my cheeks, he continues staring at me, keeping it all to himself. I can’t read him. Especially when he doesn’t want to be read. But even the best facades crack in time.
He rubs his nose and tries to hide it, but I still spot the quivering of his chin and the heartbroken arch of his eyebrows.
“Wes,” he eventually offers, “no matter what car you put me in, that bullet was always going to hit my chest.”
I look up, still fighting to catch my breath. Over the years, my mom, Rogo, my shrinks, Manning, even the lead investigator from the Service, told me the exact same thing. But Ron Boyle was the one I needed to hear it from.
Within seconds, a tentative smile spreads across my face. I spot my own reflection in the glass panels of the French doors. The smile itself is crooked, broken, and only lifts one of my cheeks. But for the first time in a long time, that’s plenty.
That is, until I spot the flash of movement and the familiar posture on the other side of the glass. With a twist, the brass eagle doorknob once again turns, and the door opens inward, behind Boyle’s back. Boyle turns, and I look up. Towering above us, President Manning sticks his head out and nods at me with an awkward hello. His mane of gray hair is matted just enough that I can tell it’s unwashed; the whites of his eyes are crackling with red. His wife died last night. He hasn’t slept ten minutes.
“I should go,” Boyle offers. From what I heard last night, he’s blaming his death and reappearance on Nico and The Three. Not The Four. For that alone, Manning’ll make him a hero. I’m not sure I blame him. But as Manning knows, I deal with things differently than Boyle.
Before I can say a word, Boyle walks past me, offers a quick shoulder pat, and casually leaves the room, like he’s going to lunch. The problem is, I’m the one about to be eaten.
On most days, Manning would simply head back into the library and expect me to follow. Today, he opens the door wider and motions me inside. “There you are, Wes,” the President says. “I was starting to worry you weren’t coming.”
115
I appreciate your getting here so early, Wes.”
“Believe me, I wanted to come last night.”
Nodding soberly and ushering me to the seat in front of his desk, Manning turns his back to me and scans the framed photos and leather-bound books that line the built-in maple shelves that surround us on all sides. There are