The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [29]
Dreidel lowers his chin, looking at me from just above the rounded rim of his glasses. He knows what I’m getting at. “You really think he’d—? You think he’d do that?”
It’s the question I’ve been fighting with since the moment I saw Boyle’s fake name back at that hotel. You don’t use that name to hide. You use it so someone can find you. “I just . . . I don’t see how the President wouldn’t know. Back then, Manning couldn’t pee in a bush unless someone checked it first. If Boyle was wearing a vest—which he clearly had to’ve been—there had to be a credible threat. And if there was a credible threat . . . and extra blood in the ambulance . . . and contingencies in place to make sure Boyle was safe . . . Manning had to’ve signed off on that.”
“Unless Albright signed off for him,” Dreidel counters, referring to our old chief of staff and the one other person in the limo with us that day at the speedway.
It’s a fair point, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to an answer. Albright died of testicular cancer three years ago. “Now you’re blaming it all on a corpse?”
“Doesn’t make it any less credible,” Dreidel challenges. “Albright used to sign off on security details all the time.”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Manning and Boyle had known each other since college. If Boyle was planning on disappearing, that’s a hell of a prank to pull on a friend, much less the President of the United States.”
“You joking? Boyle walked away from his family, his wife . . . even his own daughter. Look at the full picture, Wes: Nico the nutjob takes a potshot at the President. Instead, he hits Boyle square in the chest. But instead of going to the hospital to get patched up, Boyle takes that exact moment to fake his own death and disappear off the face of the earth. You do something like that, you’ve obviously got a damn good reason.”
“Like father, like son?” I ask.
“Yeah, I thought about that. Problem is, Boyle’s dad was just a petty scumbag. This is . . . this is big-league. With a capital big.”
“Maybe Boyle hired Nico. Maybe the shooting was a giant smoke screen to give Boyle a way to get out.”
“Way too Mission: Impossible sequels,” Dreidel says. “If Nico misses, you’re risking a head shot. More important, if the Service was helping, they’re not putting the President, and his staff, and 200,000 spectators in danger while entrusting it all to some whacked looney tune. You’ve seen Nico in the interviews—he’s Stephen King-movie crazy. If Boyle wanted to do this to himself, he’d fake a heart attack at home and be done with it.”
“So you think when Nico fired those shots, Boyle and the Service just used the instant chaos to sneak him out of there?” I ask, trying hard to keep it to a whisper.
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is, for Boyle to put on a bulletproof vest, he must’ve been expecting something. I mean, you don’t bring an umbrella unless you think it’s gonna rain, right?”
I nod, unable to argue. Still, it doesn’t get us any closer to the why. Why was Nico taking shots at Boyle? Why was Manning’s motorcade traveling around with Boyle’s blood? And why would Boyle walk away from his life, his wife, and his teenage daughter? I mean, what could possibly tempt—or terrify—a man so much that he’d throw his entire life away?
“Maybe you should just ask,” Dreidel blurts.
“Who, Manning? Oh, right—I’ll just run up and say, ‘By the way, sir, I just saw your dead buddy—yeah, the one whose assassination wrecked your entire presidency. Oh, and since he’s alive, while I’ve been slaving for your ass every single day since I got out of the hospital, why’d you lie to me for over eight years about the single worst moment of my life?’ Yeah, that’d be genius.”
“What about the Service?”
“Same difference. Boyle could’ve never disappeared all those years ago if he didn’t have their help. The last thing I need is to shout from the roof that I’m the one to blow it all open. Until I know what’s going on, better to keep things quiet.”
Dreidel