The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [90]
“It’s not pity. He’s a sweet kid . . .”
“. . . who should’ve left this job years ago, but didn’t because he’s terrified of stepping out of the thoughtful but crippling security blanket you’ve all tucked him into. Think about it, Bev. If you really care that much about him, this is the moment he needs you. So, is there anyone else out there we might’ve overlooked? Old White House contacts? Current in-house contacts? Anyone you can think of that he might turn to if he’s in trouble?”
Rolling backward on the wheels of her desk chair, Bev was silent at the onslaught of questions. For a moment, her eyes stayed with The Roman’s pale blues. But the more he pushed, the more she glanced around. At her keyboard. At her leather blotter. Even at the blurry 5 x 9 perched under her computer monitor, from her office birthday party a few years back. In the photo, the entire staff was in mid-laugh as the President blew out the candles on Bev’s birthday cake. It was the kind of photo that never existed in the White House, but decorated nearly every office here: slightly off-center, slightly funny, and slightly out of focus. Not a professional photo taken by a White House photographer. A family photo—taken by one of their own.
“Sorry,” Bev said, pulling her hand away and glancing down at The Roman’s gauze pad. “There’s no one else I can think of.”
53
“—ies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” the announcer bellows through the P.A. system as the tape begins to roll, and the shiny black Cadillac One lumbers out onto the racetrack.
From the wide angle—showing half the motorcade in profile—I’m guessing it’s from a camera up in the stadium’s press box.
“There’s the ambulance with Boyle’s blood,” Dreidel points out, running around the conference table so he can get closer to the TV. He stops right next to Lisbeth, who’s just to the left of the screen. On my far right, Rogo’s back at the head of the oval table. But instead of moving toward the screen, he circles back. Toward me.
He doesn’t have to say a word. He juts his chin slightly to the left and lowers his eyebrows. You okay?
Tightening my jaw, I nod confidently. Rogo’s been my friend since before I could drive. He knows the truth.
“Lisbeth,” he calls out. “Maybe we should . . .”
“Leave it—I’m fine,” I insist.
As the limo leaves the final turn and heads toward the finish line, the camera pulls out to reveal the entire motorcade, which is now headed straight at us. I used to call it a funeral procession. I had no idea.
On-screen, the camera slowly pulls in on Cadillac One. I swear, I can smell the leather seats of the car, the oily whiff of Manning’s daily shoeshine, and the sweet tinge of gasoline from pit road.
“Okay, here we go,” Lisbeth says.
The video jump-cuts to a brand-new camera angle from the infield of the track—we’re now at eye level. On the passenger side, the Secret Service detail leader gets out of the limo and races to open the back door. Two other agents swoop into place, blocking any clear shot from the crowd. My feet ball up as my toes try to dig through the soles of my shoes. I know what’s coming. But just as the door opens, the picture freezes and pauses.
“Slow motion?” Dreidel asks.
“It’s the only way to get a good look at who’s in the background,” Lisbeth explains, gripping the edge of the top left corner of the TV. Dreidel crosses over and does the same on the right corner. Both lean in. They don’t want to miss a thing.
On the other side of the conference table, I twist in my seat. In slow motion, two more Secret Service agents slowly creep into the background near the open door that faces the crowd.
“And these are all