The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [79]
“D-D’ya understand?” he pleaded with Edmund, his voice cracking with the Wisconsin accent he’d buried years ago. “People know nothing, Edmund. Teacher and student. Master and supplicant. Manning and Boyle,” he repeated, sinking forward on the steering wheel. “Like father and son. That’s why I was chosen. Why my mother was taken. To test me . . . to stop my father . . . to close the devil’s door. To keep the door shut and the Great Darkness from coming.”
In the passenger seat next to him, Edmund didn’t say a word.
“P-Please, Edmund . . . please tell me you understand . . .”
Once again, Edmund was silent. As silent as he’d been for the past five hours when they pulled out of the gas station in South Carolina.
With his seat belt in a diagonal bear hug across his chest, Edmund slumped slightly to the right, his shoulder pressed against the passenger door. His arms dangled at his side, his left wrist bent in his lap.
As the flatbed truck rumbled onto the overpass that ran across St. Marys River, a bump of uneven concrete sent Edmund’s head sagging to the right, his forehead thumping lightly into the glass of the passenger window. With each new seam in the asphalt, the flatbed hiccupped. With each hiccup, Edmund’s head thumped over and over against the glass.
“I knew you would, Edmund,” Nico said excitedly. “Thank you. Thank you for believing . . .”
Thump . . . thump . . . thump. Like a hammer to a stubborn nail, Edmund’s head banged the glass. The baritone drumbeat was ruthlessly unavoidable. Nico didn’t notice. Just like he didn’t notice the slurpy sound of Edmund’s bloody fingers sticking and unsticking from the truck’s vinyl seats. Or the dried waterfall of blood that’d poured down Edmund’s chest from where Nico slit his throat with his car keys.
“I know, but I’m just glad you understand,” Nico said, catching his breath and wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. With one final thump, the truck cleared the St. Marys River overpass and officially crossed the state line of Georgia. On the right, they blew past a faded orange and green highway sign. Welcome to Florida—The Sunshine State.
44
An hour and a half later, I pull up to the curb in front of First of America Bank, which houses Rogo’s offices on the second floor. As my car bucks to a stop, Rogo trudges slowly out the building’s front door, heading for the front passenger door. He’s still pissed I’m meeting with Lisbeth. But not half as pissed as seeing Dreidel sitting in his seat.
“How’s the world of traffic tickets?” Dreidel calls out as he rolls down the window.
“Same as Chicago politics,” Rogo replies, shooting me a look as he opens the door for the backseat. “Completely corrupt.”
It was no better the first time they met, years ago. Both lawyers, both opinionated, both too stubborn to see anything but the other’s flaws.
For the rest of the ride, Rogo sulks in the back as we blow by the past-their-prime mom-and-pop shops that line South Dixie Highway. Every once in a while, he peers out the back to make sure we’re not being followed. I use my side mirror for the same.
“There . . .” Dreidel points as if I haven’t been here a dozen times. Hitting the brakes, I make a sharp right into the front lot of our destination: the wide, off-white office building that takes up most of the block. Just in front of the building is a small plaza with a statue of a turtle dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, comically playing an electric keyboard. It’s supposed to be funny. None of us laugh.
“Park underneath,