The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [65]
“I didn’t go to Washington!”
“And you didn’t see a dead man in Malaysia. And you didn’t get sent backstage by the President, who wanted you to pick up the message from Boyle, right? Or was that just something we invented to make ourselves feel better—y’know, kinda like your old door-locking and light-switch-on-and-off obsessions? Or better yet, the repetitive praying that—”
“Just because I saw a counselor—”
“Counselor? It was a shrink.”
“He was a critical incident specialist . . .”
“I looked it up, Wes. He was a clinical psychologist who had you medicated for the better part of a year. Alprazolam for the anxiety disorders, coupled with some heavy-duty olanzapine for all the compulsions. That’s an antipsychotic. Plus his notes, which said that in a strange way, he thought you actually relished your scars—that you saw the pain as atonement for putting Boyle in that limo. Doesn’t say much about the shape you were in.”
“The guy blew my friggin’ face off!”
“Which is why you’ve got the best motive and the worst alibis—especially in Malaysia. Do me a favor—for the next few days, unless you’re traveling with the President, stay put for a bit. At least until we figure out what’s going on.”
“What, so now I’m under house arrest? You can’t do that.”
“Wes, I’ve got a homicidal paranoid schizophrenic on the loose, who, two hours from now, will feel a brand-new tingling on the right side of his brain as the drugs that help manage his psychosis slowly wear off. He already shot two orderlies and a security guard—all three in their hearts and, like Boyle, with stigmata through their hands—and that’s when he was on medication. So not only can I do whatever the hell I want, I’m telling you right now, if you try to take another little jaunt out of town, and I find out you have any involvement with this case—trying to contact Boyle, or Nico, or even the guy who was selling popcorn in the stands at the speedway that day—I will slap you with obstruction of justice charges and rip you apart faster than that nutbag ever did.”
“That is, unless you want to tell us what message Boyle was bringing the President in Malaysia,” Micah offers, the mop-handle metronome smacking into his left palm. “C’mon, Wes—they were clearly trying to meet that night—and trying to maintain all the dirt they thought they’d covered up. You’re with him every day now. All we want to know is when they’re meeting again.”
Like before—like any FBI agents trying to make a name for themselves—all they really want is Manning, who no doubt had a major hand in helping Boyle hide and lie to the entire country. I rat on him, and they’ll happily let me out of the mousetrap. The problem is, I don’t even know what I’m ratting about. And even when I try scraping deeper . . . Back at the beach, they mentioned Boyle’s ability to work people’s weaknesses. Fine, so what were Manning’s weaknesses? Something from their past? Or maybe that’s where The Roman and The Three came in. Whatever the reason, I’m not finding it out unless I buy some time.
“Let me just . . . let me think about it for a bit, okay?” I ask.
O’Shea nods, knowing he’s made his point.
I turn to leave the closet but stop short at the door. “What about Nico? Any idea where he’s heading?” I add, feeling my fingers start to shake. I shove them into my pants pockets before anyone notices.
O’Shea studies me carefully. This is the easiest moment for him to be a prick. He readjusts his U.S. Open baseball cap. “D.C. Police found his clothes in a Laundromat about a mile away from St. Elizabeths. According to his doctors, Nico hasn’t talked about Manning in years, but the Service is still adding double duty just to be safe.”
I nod but still don’t take my hands out of my pockets. “Thanks.”
Micah’s about to give me some good cop, but O’Shea puts a hand on his chest, cutting him off. “You’re not alone, Wes,” O’Shea adds. “Not unless you want to be.”
It’s a perfect offer presented in the kindest way. But that doesn’t make it any less of a tactic. Tattling to the FBI . .