The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [76]
“Exactly. A victim,” she repeats, finding her footing. “That’s all I meant. Just that you . . . you’re not a victim, Wes. Not now, not ever,” she insists as if that makes it so. Like any career politician, she doesn’t let the apology linger. “Meanwhile, Dreidel, let me show you the volunteer room in back—it’s got a computer, a phone—you’ll be set for the week. Wes, just so you know, I talked to the Service this morning, and they said they’re not expecting any incidents, so unless we hear otherwise, schedule stays pretty much the same.”
“Pretty much?”
“They’re keeping him home most of the day—y’know, just to be safe,” she says, hoping to soothe. The problem is, the last time Manning altered his schedule was when they thought he had rectal cancer a few years back. Life-or-death. “So forget the PSA taping,” she quickly adds, heading for the door. “Though he’ll still need you for the Madame Tussaud thing at the house tonight.”
Before I can say a word, my phone rings on my desk.
“If it’s press . . .” Claudia says.
I shoot her a look.
“Sorry,” she offers. “I just, if you saw how many calls I got last night . . .”
“Believe me, I’ve been saying no all morning,” I tell her as she waves and leaves. I let the phone ring, waiting for Dreidel to trail behind her. He stays put.
“Claudia, I’ll be there in a sec,” he calls out, standing next to me at my desk.
I stare at him in disbelief. “What the hell’re you doing here?” I whisper.
He looks back with the same disbelief. “You kidding? I’m helping you.”
The phone rings again, and I glance down at caller ID, which is angled so Dreidel can’t read it from his side of the desk. Presidential Library.
“Could be the archivist,” Dreidel says, leaning forward for a quick glance. “Maybe she got Boyle’s papers ready.”
The phone rings again.
“What, now you don’t want the papers?” he adds.
I roll my eyes but can’t ignore the logic. Grabbing the receiver, I answer, “Wes here.”
Dreidel makes a beeline for the door, peeking out into the hallway to make sure we’re alone.
“Heya there, Wes,” a soft voice says through the phone. “Gerald Lang . . . from the curator’s office? Wondering if you had a moment to talk about that presidential aide exhibit?”
As Dreidel cranes his neck into the hall, a sudden, fake smile lights up his face. Someone’s there.
“Heeey!” he announces, motioning them into my office.
“Dreidel, don’t!” I hiss, covering the phone. I don’t need the circus to—
“Dreidel?” Lang asks on the line, clearly overhearing. “I was just trying to reach him. He was Manning’s aide in the White House, no?”
In front of me, Bev and Oren embrace Dreidel in a Mary Tyler Moore group hug. Bev squeezes him so tightly, her fake boobs practically crush the personalized Manning letter she’s holding. The prodigal son’s returned. But as I watch them celebrate, a hollow pain crawls through my stomach. Not out of jealousy. Or envy. I don’t need them to ask me about Nico or how I’m holding up. I don’t need more pity. But I do need to know why Dreidel, still in mid-hug, keeps glancing over his shoulder, studying me on the phone. His eyes are tired, the dark moons below them betraying his lack of sleep last night. Whatever kept him up, kept him up late.
“Wes, you there?” Lang asks on the other line.
“Yeah, no—I’m here,” I reply, crossing around to the seat side of the desk. “Let me just . . . can I think about it for a bit? With all this Nico mess, we’re just running a little crazy.”
Hanging up the phone, I look back at my friend. My friend who got me my job. And taught me everything I know. And visited me when . . . when only my parents and Rogo visited. I don’t care what Rogo says. If Dreidel’s here, it’s for a good reason.
With a back pat for Oren and a cheek kiss for Bev, Dreidel sends them on their way and bounces back into my office. Curling one leg under my tush, I take a seat behind my desk and study the smile on his face. No doubt about it. He’s here to help.
“So no on the archivist, huh?” he asks. “What about Lisbeth? What time