The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [53]
The Roman rolled his tongue against his teeth. No doubt, it was true. Laughing all the way to freedom. “What about since?” he asked, choosing each word carefully. Regardless of the risk, he needed to know if Boyle had been here. “Has he haunted you . . . recently?”
Nico stopped, looking up from the violin. “Haunted?”
“In . . . in your dreams.”
“Never in my dreams. His threat was stopped when—”
“What about anywhere else, in visions or—?”
“Visions?”
“Not visions . . . y’know, like—”
“His power is that great?” Nico interrupted.
“No, but we—”
“To be able to do that . . . to call from beyond the ashes . . .”
“There’s no such power,” The Roman insisted, again reaching for Nico’s shoulder.
Scootching back on his rear, Nico pulled away from The Roman’s grasp. His back slammed into the radiator and his violin again dropped to the floor. “For the Beast to rise . . .”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t deny it!” Nico said, his eyes zipping back and forth in full panic. Clenching his fists, he swung his hands wildly, like he couldn’t control his movements. A thick vein popped from his neck. “But for him to be alive . . . the Great Tribulation lasts seven years—my time away—followed by resurrection of the dead . . .”
The Roman stepped back, frozen.
“You believe it too,” Nico said.
“That’s not true.”
“I hear your voice. The quiver! I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Nico—”
“He is! With resurrection . . . the Beast lives!”
“I never—”
“He lives! My God, my Lord, he lives!” Nico yelled, still on his knees as he turned toward the shatterproof window, screaming at the sky.
The Roman had been afraid it’d come to this. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, an old, thick model. With a shove of his thumb, he unlatched the back of the phone and unveiled a lead compartment holding a small syringe and a loose razor blade. His fake ID and Secret Service badge allowed him to bring in the gun that was tucked into his ankle holster, but syringes and razors? Not in a mental hospital.
“Nico, time to calm down,” he said as he slid the syringe between his pointer and middle fingers. The fentanyl would easily knock him out, but it’d take the razor to make it look like a suicide.
“Y-You attack me?” Nico asked as he turned around and saw the needle. His eyes grew dark and his nostrils flared. “He sent you!” Nico shouted, pressed against the radiator and trapped in the corner. “You’re of them!”
“Nico, I’m with you,” The Roman soothed as he stepped closer. There was no pleasure in putting an animal down. “This is just to calm you down,” he added, knowing he had no choice. Leaving a body would certainly bring questions, but it wouldn’t be half as bad as letting Nico scream for the next month that The Three existed and that Boyle was still alive.
Nico’s eyes narrowed, focusing on The Roman’s gun in the ankle holster. As if he’d spotted an old friend.
“Don’t think it, Nico. You can’t—”
The door to the room whipped open, slamming into the wall. “What’s all the hollering abou—? What the hell you think you’re doing?!” a deep voice asked.
The Roman glanced back just in time to see two orderlies burst inside. That was all Nico needed.
Like an uncoiled snake, Nico sprang toward The Roman’s legs. His right hand gripped The Roman’s kneecap, twisting it like a bottle cap. His left hand went straight for the gun in the ankle holster.
“Gaaaah!” The Roman howled, crumbling backward toward the floor. Even before the impact, Nico was tearing the gun from its holster.
“Nico, don’t—” the orderly with the hoop earring threatened.
It was already too late. Like a virtuoso painter reunited with his long-lost brush, Nico grinned as the gun slid into his palm. Still on his knees, he bounced his hand slightly, letting the gun wobble in his grip. “Built-in silencer . . . neither muzzle nor butt heavy,” he said to The Roman, who was still