The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [64]
With a lurch and a few more belches from the transmission, the oversize flatbed grumbled back onto I-95.
“So you got family down in Florida?” the driver asked, shifting into gear.
“Naw . . .” Nico said, his eyes still on the wooden cross as it swayed like a child’s swing. “Just going to see an old friend.”
34
What’re you talking about?” I ask anxiously.
“Your name, Wes. It was on the—”
“When’d he break out?”
“That’s the point. We think he had—”
“A-Are you looking for him? Is he gone, or— Are you sure he’s gone?” A needle of bile stabs my stomach, making me want to bend over in pain. It took me seven months of therapy before I could hear Nico’s name and not feel puddles of sweat fill my palms and soak my feet. It was another year and a half before I could sleep through the night without him jarring me awake as he lurked in the periphery of my dreams. Nico Hadrian didn’t take my life. But he took the life I was living. And now . . . with this . . . with him out . . . he could easily take the rest. “Doesn’t he have guards?” I ask. “How could they . . . how could this happen?”
O’Shea lets the questions bounce off his chest, never losing sight of his own investigation. “Your name, Wes. It was on the hospital sign-in sheet,” he insists. “According to their records, you were there.”
“Where? Washington? You saw me here on the beach this morning!”
“I saw you leave the Four Seasons at almost nine-thirty. According to the receptionist in your office, you didn’t return to work until after three. That’s a long time to be gone.”
“I was with my fr—my lawyer all morning. He’ll tell you. Call him right now: Andrew Rogozinski.”
Micah laughs softly. “And I assume the fact he’s also your high school pal and current roommate means he’d never lie to protect you? You were gone for almost six hours, Wes. That’s more than enough time to—”
“To what? To jump on my private jet, fly two and a half hours to Washington, go free Nico—who, oh yeah, once tried to kill me—and then fly back to work, hoping no one noticed I was gone? Yeah, that sounds like a genius plan. Go see the one guy I still have nightmares about, be dumb enough to use my real name on the sign-in sheet, and let him loose so he can hunt me down.”
“Who says he’s hunting you?” O’Shea challenges.
“What’re you talking about?”
“Enough with the idiot act, Wes. You know Nico’s just a bullet. Even back then, someone else pulled the trigger.”
“Someone else? What does that—?”
“You speak to Boyle today?” O’Shea interrupts.
I try to bite my top lip, momentarily forgetting the nerve damage that makes it impossible.
“We’re not here to hurt you, Wes. Just be honest with us: Are you chasing him or helping him?” Micah adds. He grabs a nearby mop, tossing its handle from one hand to the other, then back again, like the tick-tock of a metronome.
“You know I didn’t free Nico,” I tell them.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“And I haven’t spoken to Boyle,” I shoot back.
“You’re sure about that?” O’Shea asks.
“I just told you—”
“Did you speak to him or not? I’m asking you as an officer in an ongoing investigation.”
Micah’s mop ticks back and forth. They’re acting like they know the answer, but if they did, I’d be in handcuffs right now instead of trapped in a supply closet. I look them dead in the eyes. “No.”
O’Shea shakes his head. “At noon today, an unidentified male came into St. Elizabeths requesting a private visit with Nico by identifying himself as a member of the Secret Service, complete with a badge and picture ID, both of which you have access to. Now, I’m willing to accept that only a moron would use his own name, and I’m also willing to keep your name from the press—for no other reason than out of respect for your boss—but in a situation you claim to know nothing about, it’s sorta fascinating that yours is the only name that keeps popping up outta the daisy patch.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, when you’re in Malaysia, Boyle’s there . . . when your name’s on a sign-in sheet in Washington, Nico escapes.