The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [91]
“Geoff, Judd, Greg, Allan, and . . .” Dreidel pauses on the last one.
“Eddie,” I call out, never taking my eyes off the screen.
“It’ll be done in a sec,” Dreidel promises as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. He turns back toward the TV just in time to see five fingertips peek out like tiny pink worms above the roofline of the limo. My toes dig even deeper, practically burrowing through my shoes. I close my eyes for a second and swear I can smell popcorn and stale beer.
“Here he comes,” Dreidel whispers as Manning slowly leaves the limo, one hand already up in a frozen, celebratory wave. Behind him, with her own hand raised, the First Lady does the same.
“Now watch the President here,” Lisbeth says as each frame clicks by, and he slowly turns toward the camera for the first time.
On-screen, Manning’s grin is so wide, his top gums are showing. Same with the First Lady, who holds his hand. They’re definitely enjoying the crowd.
“Doesn’t exactly look like a man who knows shots are about to be fired, does he?” Lisbeth asks as Manning continues to wave, his black windbreaker bubbling up like a helium balloon.
“I’m telling you, he didn’t know it was coming,” Dreidel agrees. “I mean, I don’t care what they were prepared for, or how much of Boyle’s blood they had in the ambulance, there’s no way Manning, the Service, or anyone else is going to risk a head shot.”
“You’re still assuming they were aiming for Manning,” Lisbeth says as Albright appears on-screen, rising at a turtle’s pace from the limo. “I think Nico hit exactly who he wanted to hit. Just look at his escape from the hospital last night. Both orderlies shot through the heart and the palm of their right hand. Sound like anyone you know?”
On TV, at the center of a bushy mess of gray hair, a tiny bald spot rises above the limo’s roofline like the morning sun. Here comes Boyle.
“Now he’s the one who’s anxious,” Lisbeth says, tapping his face on the monitor.
“He was always miserable, though. Even on day one,” Dreidel replies.
I swallow hard as Boyle’s profile glows on-screen. The olive skin’s the same, but his thin, pointy nose is far sharper than the stubby nose job I saw him with two days ago. His jowls are longer now too. Even plastic surgery can’t stop the aging process.
“See, he’s not even looking around,” Dreidel adds as Boyle follows behind the President. “They’ve both got no idea what’s coming.”
“There you are,” Dreidel says, tapping the far right-hand corner of the screen, where you can barely see me in profile. As I leave the limo, the camera pans left—away from me—as it tries to stay with the President. But since I’m only a few steps behind, there’s a tiny shot of me gawking in the background.
“Man, you were a baby,” Lisbeth says.
The video flickers, and my head turns like a creaky robot toward the camera. It’s the first time we all get a clear look. In my right hand, my middle and ring fingers quickly knead at the heel of my palm. My eyes well up just seeing it. My face . . . God, it’s been so long—but there it is . . . the real me.
On-screen, President Manning’s hand rises to meet the NASCAR CEO and his now-famous wife. The First Lady adjusts her sapphire necklace, her lips spread in an eternal hello. Albright sticks his hands in his pockets. Boyle straightens his tie. And I chase behind them all, frozen midstep with my bag of tricks dangling from my shoulder and a sharp, cocky squint in my eyes.
I know what happens next.
Pop, pop, pop.
On TV, the camera angle jerks upward in a blur, panning past the fans in the stands as the cameraman ducks at the shots. The screen is quickly filled with the blue sky. But to me, it’s already fading to black and white. A boy in a Dolphins T-shirt screams for his mom. Boyle falls to the ground, facedown in his own vomit. And a bee sting rips through my cheek. My head whips back at just the thought of it.
The camera jerks again, sliding back down to earth, past the blur of fans running and shouting and stampeding