The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [45]
Eight years later, Nico still lived in the same room, surrounded by the same small bed, the same nightstand, and the same painted dresser that held his Bible and red glass rosary beads.
But what Nico always kept to himself was that while he did study the dogwood, and it did remind him of early days with his mom, he was far more focused on the well-worn service road that ran just in front of it, up from the main gate, across the property, and around to the parking lot that led to the entrance of the John Howard Pavilion. The tree was surely a sign—Christ’s cross was built from a dogwood—but the road in front of it . . . the road was the path of Nico’s salvation. He knew it in his heart. He knew it in his soul. He knew it the very first day he saw the road, littered with weeds and grass that cracked and clawed through its beaten, asphalt hide. Every year, the ground buckled slightly as the weeds shoved a bit further. Like a monster, Nico thought. A monster within. Just like the monsters who killed his mother.
He didn’t want to pull the trigger. Not at first. Not even when The Three reminded him of his father’s sin. But as he stared down at the proof—at the delivery log from the hospital . . .
“Ask your father,” Number Three said. “He won’t deny it.”
Rocking to himself as he stared out the window of the hospital, Nico could still hear the words. Still smell his dad’s sweet cigar smoke. Still feel the sharp Wisconsin wind cracking his lungs as he hopped up the metal front steps of his dad’s mobile home. He hadn’t seen his father in almost six years. Before the army . . . before the discharge . . . before the shelter. Nico didn’t even know how to find him. But The Three did. The Three helped him. The Three, God bless them, were bringing Nico home. To punish the monster. And set things right.
“Dad, she was supposed to die for my sins!” he’d shouted, tugging the door open and rushing inside. Nico could still hear the words. Still smell the cigar smoke. Still feel the ball of his finger tightening on the trigger as his father begged, pleaded, sobbed—Please, Nico, you’re my— Let me get you help. But the only thing Nico saw was his mother’s photograph—her wedding photo!—perfectly preserved beneath the glass top of the coffee table. So young and beautiful . . . all dressed in white . . . like an angel. His angel. His angel who was taken. Taken by the monsters. By the Beasts.
“Nico, on my life—on all that’s holy—I’m innocent!”
“Nobody’s innocent, Dad.”
The next thing Nico felt was his foot slipping across the peeling linoleum floor, which was soaked with . . . soaked with red. A dark red puddle. All that blood.
“Dad . . . ?” Nico whispered, flicks of blood freckled across his face.
His dad never answered.
“Don’t doubt yourself, Nico,” Number Three told him. “Check his ankle. You’ll find their mark.”
And as Nico moved in—ignoring the bullet hole in his father’s hand (to make him feel Jesus’s pain) and the other bullet hole in his heart—he lifted his father’s leg and pulled down his sock. There it was. Just as Number Three had said. The hidden mark. Hidden from his son. Hidden from his wife. A tiny tattoo.
The compass and a square—the most sacred of all Masonic symbols. Tools of the trade for an architect . . . tools to build their doorway . . . plus a G for the Great Architect of the Universe.
“To show he’s of them,” Number Three explained.
Nico nodded, still reeling from the fact his father had kept it secret for so long. Yet now the monster was slain. But as Number Three pointed out, thanks to the Masons, there were more monsters fighting to get out. More Beasts. Still, by fighting now—by serving God—he could turn his mother’s death into a blessing.
The Three called it fatum. Latin for fate. Nico’s destiny.
Nico looked up as he heard the word. Fate. “Yes .