The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [70]
Still, people never understand. It was never just the bird. It was the need. The need to be needed.
With a quick flick of the lock, I open the cage and offer my left pointer finger as a perch. Lolo hops on immediately, riding it up to her usual spot on my right shoulder. I turn my face toward her, and she tries to bite at my cheek, which means she wants to be scratched. I crouch down to my tan-carpeted floor and cross my legs into Indian position as the stress of the day starts to wash away. Lolo nuzzles in close, her feathers tenderly tickling the grooves of my face. For all their vaunted eyesight, birds don’t see scars.
Her talons loosen their grip on my shoulder, and she lowers her crest, slicking it back Elvis-style. Within a minute, she’s already calmed down, and on most nights, that’d be enough to get me to do the same. But not tonight.
In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates. As I check caller ID, I also see that I got two new messages just during the ride in the elevator. Scrolling down, I see all the old numbers. Current call is L.A. Times. Messages are CNN and Fox News. My answering machine at home is no better. Nineteen new messages. Family, friends, and the few reporters smart enough to track my home address. They all want the same thing. A piece of the action . . . piece of the story . . . piece of me.
The front door to the apartment swings open down the hall. “Wes, you still up?” Rogo calls out. His voice grows louder as he turns the corner. “Your light’s on, so if you’re touching yourself, now’s the time to stop!”
Lolo’s talons dig deep into my shoulder. I know exactly how she feels. The last thing I need is another person reminding me about Nico and Manning and Boyle and every other time bomb ticking in my life. How you doing? How you feeling? How you holding up? Enough with the damn—
My bedroom door opens slowly. Rogo’s been around long enough to know if he kicks it in, it’ll send Lolo flapping.
I look up from the carpet, just waiting for the onslaught of questions.
Rogo scratches at his bald head and leans his meatball physique against the door frame. “So . . . uh, I rented Purple Rain,” he says, pulling the movie from the red knapsack he calls his briefcase. “Figured we could . . . I don’t know . . . order some pizza, maybe just hang—and then, of course, spend some time rewinding the part where Apollonia jumps naked into the river.”
I sit there for a moment, digesting the offer.
“Hi, Melissa—whattya doin’?” Lolo squawks.
“Shut up, bird. I ain’t talking to you,” Rogo threatens.
A tiny smile lifts my left cheek. “Apollonia gets naked? You sure?” I ask.
“Wes, when I was sixteen, I wanted my first car to be a purple motorcycle. Now, who’s ready for some bad pizza and Prince doing that pouty thing with his lips? C’mon, Melissa, time to party like it’s 1999!”
He runs back up the hallway before I can even say thank you.
37
Florence, South Carolina
Nico knew they’d have them.
“Maps?” Nico asked, stepping into the gas station minimart and holding up the map of Michigan he took from Edmund’s truck.
“Back left,” a ponytailed attendant with peach-fuzz sideburns said without looking up from the small TV he was watching behind the counter.
Before Nico could even take a step, a loud chime rang from where he crossed into the electric eye of the automated doorbell. Wincing at the sound, he still wasn’t used to being out in public. But the way his heart was jackhammering with excitement, it didn’t slow him down.
Counting three surveillance cameras—one by the attendant, two in the aisles—Nico hit the brakes and eased his pace to a walk as he headed for the spinner rack of maps in the back. It was no different from his old assignments: No need to rush. Don’t look around. Disappear in the mundane.
He read most