The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [36]
“And you think Boyle knows Semtex-H? I mean . . . he’s an accountant.”
“Which means he knows how to pay people and manipulate and keep his fingerprints off everything no matter what he touches.”
“But he . . .”
“. . . makes his living preying on people. That’s what he does, Wes. It’s what he did in the White House . . . and with our agents . . . and especially with the Service.”
Reading the confusion on my face, he adds, “C’mon, you must’ve figured this one out. The twelve minutes in the ambulance . . . the extra blood . . . Why do you think Manning and the Service helped him? Out of the kindness of their hearts? He’s a termite, Wes—digging into the vulnerable, then exploiting their weaknesses. D’you understand what I’m saying? He thrives on weaknesses. All weaknesses.”
The way he studies me . . . the way his glowing blue eyes lock onto mine . . . “Wait, are you saying I—?”
“We checked your file, Wes,” O’Shea adds, pulling a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “Seven months with a Dr. Collins White, who it says here is a critical incident specialist. Sounds pretty technical.”
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“And the analysis: panic disorder and post-traumatic stress comorbidity . . .”
“That was eight years ago!” I tell them.
“. . . triggering compulsive behavior involving light switches, locking and unlocking doors . . .”
“That’s not even—”
“. . . and a full-fledged obsession with the need for repetitive praying,” O’Shea continues, unconcerned. “That true? What, was that your way of dealing with the shooting? Saying the same prayers over and over?” He flips over to the second page. “Not even religious, are you? That’s a real Nico reaction.”
To my own surprise, my eyes well up and my throat tightens. It’s been a long time since anyone—
“I know it was hard for you, Wes,” O’Shea adds. “Even harder than the way you stapled your fingers with Boyle. But if he has something over you, we can help you out of it.”
Help me out of it? “You think I’d—?”
“Whatever he offered you, you’ll only get burned.”
“He didn’t offer me anything,” I insist.
“Is that why you were fighting?”
“Fighting? What’re you—?”
“The broken coffee table? The shattered glass from where you hit it? We saw the report,” Micah interrupts, his singsong voice long gone.
“I didn’t know he was back there!”
“Really?” Micah asks, his voice picking up speed. “In the middle of a speech in a foreign country, you leave the President’s side—where you were supposed to be . . .”
“I swear—”
“. . . and disappear backstage to the one room where Boyle happens to be hiding—”
“I didn’t know!” I yell.
“We have agents who were there!” Micah explodes. “They found the fake name Boyle used in the hotel! When they interviewed the desk clerks on duty that night, one of them picked out your photo, saying you were the one looking for him! Now do you wanna start over, or do you wanna bury yourself even deeper? Just tell us why Manning sent you instead of the Service to meet him.”
It’s the second time they’ve confirmed Manning and the Service being involved—and the first time I realize I’m not the one they’re after. Big hunters want big game. And why take a cub when you can bag the Lion?
“We know Manning’s been good to you—”
“You don’t know anything about him.”
“Actually, we do,” O’Shea says. “Just like we know Boyle. Believe me, Wes, when they were in power, you didn’t see half of what they—”
“I was with them every day!”
“You were with them for the last eight months, when all they cared about was reelection. You think that’s reality? Just because you know what they like on their turkey sandwiches doesn’t mean you know what they’re capable of.”
If I were Rogo, I’d rush forward and bury my fist in his jaw. Instead, I dig my foot in the sand. Anything to help me