The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [194]
“Actually, Mr. President, I was thinking it’s time for me to move on.”
Our eyes lock, but he doesn’t blink. I think he’s most shocked by the fact it’s not a question.
Eventually, he offers a small, gentle laugh. “Good for you, Wes,” he says, pointing. “Y’know, I been waiting a long time for you to say that.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“And if you need help finding a job or a recommendation or something like that . . . don’t forget, it still says President on my stationery, and let’s hope there’re still a few people out there who’re impressed by that.”
“I’m sure there are, sir,” I say with my own laugh. “Thank you, Mr. President.” The way he nods at me—like a proud dad—it’s a truly sweet moment. A warm moment. And the perfect moment for me to leave. But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I find out.
“So what do you plan on doing next?” he asks.
I don’t answer. Shifting in my seat, I tell myself to forget it.
“Wes, do you have any plans f—?”
“Did you know?” I blurt.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”
I stare right at him, pretending they’re not the most awkward three words to ever leave my lips. Steeling myself, I again ask, “Did you know about the First Lady? About your wife?”
Across from me, his fingers lace together, resting on the desk. I know his temper. The fuse is lit. But as he sits there and watches me, the explosion never comes. His lips part, and the lacing of his fingers comes undone. He’s not mad. He’s wounded. “After all our—you really think that?” he asks.
I sink in my seat, feeling about three centimeters tall. But that doesn’t mean I’m not getting my answer. “I saw the crosswords—your ratings—even from the earliest days, you were obviously worried. So does that—? Did you know she was The Fourth?”
At this point, he has every right to wring my throat; to argue that she was tricked and innocent. But he just sits there, pummeled by the question. “Wes, don’t cast her as Lady Macbeth. She was many things—but never a mastermind.”
“I saw her last night. Even in the best light—even if she didn’t know who The Roman was when he first approached her—once Boyle got shot, all these years, and she never said anything? Doesn’t sound like someone being manipulated.”
“And I’m not saying she was. My point is simply that what you found in those puzzles . . . even what you saw firsthand yourself . . .” He cups a hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “I’m not a moron, Wes. Lenore is my wife. I’m well aware of her weaknesses. And when it came to staying in the grand white castle—c’mon, son, you saw it too. You were there with us—when you fly that high, when you’re looking down on all the clouds, the only thing that scared her was losing altitude and plummeting back to earth.”
“That didn’t give her the right t—”
“I’m not defending her,” Manning says, practically pleading for me to understand what’s clearly kept him up all night. He can’t share this with the Service or anyone else on staff. Without his wife, he’s got no one to tell but me. “You know how desperate she was. Everyone wanted that second term. Everyone. Including you, Wes.”
“But what you said . . . with the clouds, and knowing her weaknesses . . . if you knew all that—”
“I didn’t know anything!” he shouts as his ears flush red. “I knew she was scared. I knew she was paranoid. I knew that in the early days she used to toss details to reporters, like the early internal arguing, or the fact she wasn’t consulted for redecorating the Oval—because she was convinced that if she could make them like her, they wouldn’t kick us out and take it all away. So yes—that part I knew.” He puts his head down and massages the front of his forehead. “But,” he adds, “I never ever thought she’d let herself get dragged into something like this.”
I nod like I understand. But I don’t. “After you left office and it all calmed down, why’d . . . ?” I search for softer words, but there’s no other way to say it. “Why’d you stay with her?”
“She’s my wife, Wes. She’s been by my side since we were hand-painting campaign posters