The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [7]
Confused, I put my hand back to my cheek. It slid across my skin, which was slick and wet and raw with pain.
“Go, go, go!” someone screamed.
Tires spun. The car lurched. And the limo sped out from under me. Like a soda can forgotten on the roof, I tumbled backward, crashing on my ass. A crunch of rocks bit into my rear. But all I could really feel was the tick-tock tick-tock pumping in my cheek.
I looked down at my palm, seeing that my chest and right shoulder were soaked. Not by water. Thicker . . . and darker . . . dark red. Oh, God, is that my—?
Another flashbulb went off. It wasn’t just the red of my blood I was seeing. Now there was blue . . . on my tie . . . and yellow . . . yellow stripes on the road. Another flashbulb exploded as knives of color stabbed my eyes. Silver and brown and bright green race cars. Red, white, and blue flags abandoned in the grandstands. A screaming blond boy in the third row with an aqua and orange Miami Dolphins T-shirt. And red . . . the dark, thick red all over my hand, my arm, my chest.
I again touched my cheek. My fingertips scraped against something sharp. Like metal—or . . . is that bone? My stomach nose-dived, swirling with nausea. I touched my face again with a slight push. That thing wouldn’t budge . . . What’s wrong with my fa—?
Two more flashbulbs blinded me with white, and the world flew at me in fast-forward. Time caught up in a fingersnap, blurring at lightspeed.
“I’m not feeling a pulse!” a deep voice yelled in the distance. Directly ahead, two suit-and-tie Secret Service agents lifted Boyle onto a stretcher and into the ambulance from the motorcade. His right hand dangled downward, bleeding from his palm. I replayed the moments before the limo ride. He would’ve never been in there if I hadn’t—
“He’s cuffed! Get the hell off!” A few feet to the left, more agents screamed at the dogpile, peeling layers away to get at the gunman. I was on the ground with the rest of the grease stains, struggling to stand up, wondering why everything was so blurry.
Help . . . ! I called out, though nothing left my lips.
The grandstands tilted like a kaleidoscope. I fell backward, crashing into the pavement, lying there, my palm still pressed against the slippery metal in my cheek.
“Is anyone—?”
Sirens sounded, but they weren’t getting louder. Softer. They quickly began to fade. Boyle’s ambulance . . . Leaving . . . They’re leaving me . . .
“Please . . . why isn’t . . . ?”
One woman screamed in a perfect C minor. Her howl pierced through the crowd as I stared up at the clear Florida sky. Fireworks . . . we were supposed to have fireworks. Albright’s gonna be pissed . . .
The sirens withered to a faint whistle. I tried to lift my head, but it didn’t move. A final flashbulb hit, and the world went completely white.
“Wh-Why isn’t anyone helping me?”
That day, because of me, Ron Boyle died.
Eight years later, he came back to life.
2
Eight years later
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Some scars never heal.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the ex-President of the United States, Leland Manning,” our host, the deputy prime minister of Malaysia announces. I cringe as I hear the words. Never call him ex. It’s former. Former President.
The deputy prime minister repeats it again in Mandarin, Cantonese, and Malay. The only words I understand each time are: Leland Manning . . . Leland Manning . . . Leland Manning. From the way Manning tugs on his earlobe and pretends to glance backstage, it’s clear that the only words he hears are ex-President.
“Here you go, sir,” I say, handing him a letter-sized leather box that holds the pages of his speech. I’ve got a 101 fever and just stepped off an eleven-hour flight to Kuala Lumpur during which I didn’t sleep a minute. Thanks to the time difference, it feels like three in the morning. It doesn’t slow Manning down. Presidents are built to run all night. Their aides, however, aren’t. “Good luck,” I add as I pull the burgundy curtain