The Book of Fate Read online

  “C’mon, boss,” I whispered from my hospital room.

  The Cowardly Lion pictures were already published. We all knew it was the death of his presidency, but at that moment, it was just about the death of his friend.

  Hold it together, I begged in my own silent prayer.

  Manning pursed his lips. His velvet-gray eyes narrowed. I knew he’d memorized the opening line. He memorized every opening line.

  You can do it . . . I added.

  And that’s when President Manning looked down. And read the first line of his speech.

  There was no gasp from the audience. Not a single story was written about it. But I knew. And so did the staff, who I could see huddling imperceptibly closer whenever the cameras cut away to the crowd.

  That same day, to add another knife in our necks, the man who killed Boyle—Nicholas “Nico” Hadrian—announced that although he had taken multiple shots at the President, he never intended to hit him, and that it was just a warning for what he called “the secret Masonic cult intent on seizing control of the White House in the name of Lucifer and his hordes in Hell.” Needless to say, one insanity plea later, Nico was institutionalized at St. Elizabeths Hospital in Washington, D.C., where he remains to this day.

  In the end, Boyle’s death was the worst crisis we’d ever faced . . . a moment where something was finally bigger than the White House. The communal tragedy pulled everyone closer. And I watched it alone in a hospital room, through the one eye I could see out of.

  “He’s quite funny,” says the Malaysian deputy prime minister, a man in his fifties with a slight acne problem. He sounds almost surprised as he joins me and Mitchel, one of our Secret Service agents, backstage. He eyes Mitchel, then cuts in front of me, turning back to study the profile of the President at the podium. After all this time as an aide, I don’t take it personally.

  “You’ve worked with him long?” the deputy prime minister asks, still blocking my view.

  “Almost nine years,” I whisper. It sounds like a long time to be just an assistant, but people don’t understand. After what happened . . . after what I did . . . and what I caused . . . I don’t care what my counselors said. If it weren’t for me, Boyle would’ve never been in the limo that day. And if he hadn’t been there . . . I clamp my eyes shut and refocus by visualizing the oval lake at my old summer camp. Just like my therapist taught me. It helps for a second, but as I learned in the hospital, it doesn’t change the truth.

  Eight years ago, when Boyle was yelling in my face, I knew the President would never be able to meet with him during a four-minute limo ride. But instead of taking the verbal lashing and simply rescheduling him, I avoided the whole headache and threw him the one bone I knew he’d go running for. I was so damn smug about it too. Dangling the President in front of him just to make my job easier. That decision took Boyle’s life. And destroyed my own.

  The only good news, as always, came from Manning. When most aides leave the job, they have half a dozen job offers. I had none. Until Manning was kind enough to invite me back on board. Like I said, people don’t understand. Even out of the White House, this is still a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  “By the way, Wes,” Mitchel interrupts, “you ever find out if they got the honey for the President’s tea? You know he needs it for his throat.”

  “Already on it,” I reply, wiping my forehead with the palm of my hand. Between the heat from the lights and my fever, I’m ready to pass out. Doesn’t matter. The President needs me. “It should be waiting in the car when we’re done.” Double-checking, I pull my satellite phone from my pocket and dial the number for our Secret Service driver outside. “Stevie, it’s Wes,” I say as he picks up. “That honey get there yet?”

  There’s a short pause on the other line. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Is it there or not?” I say, deadly serious.

  “Yes, Wes—the all-important honey has arrived. I’m guarding it right now—I hear there’s a gang of bumblebees in the neighborhood.” He pauses, hoping I’ll join him in the joke.

  I stay silent.

  “Anything else, Wes?” he asks dryly.

  “No . . . that’s all for now.”

  I can practically hear his eyes rolling as I hang up the phone. I’m not an imbecile. I know what they say about me. But they’re not the ones who still see the puddle of blood under Boyle every time I hear an ambulance pass. Manning lost the presidency and his best friend. I lost something far more personal. It’s no different than a trapeze artist who takes a bad fall during a triple backflip. Even when the bones are healed and everything’s back in place . . . even when they put you back in the big top . . . you can swing as hard as you want, but it takes time before you’ll ever fly as high again.

  “. . . though I still make ’em call me Mr. President,” Manning jokes from onstage.

  A swell of laughter gushes up from the audience, which is comprised of seven hundred of the top employees of the Tengkolok Insurance Corporation, the forty-third largest company in Malaysia. The good news is, they’re paying $400,000 and private jet travel for the fifty-seven-minute speech . . . plus a short Q&A, of course. As a Newsweek reporter once told me, the post-presidency is like a prime-time hit in syndication: less visible, but far more profitable.

  “They like him,” the deputy prime minister tells me.

  “He’s had some practice in front of crowds,” I reply.

  He keeps his eyes locked on the President’s silhouetted profile, refusing to acknowledge the joke. From this angle, the way Manning jabs a determined finger out toward the audience, he looks like he’s back in fighting shape. The spotlight gives him an angelic glow . . . thinning out his extra fifteen pounds and softening every feature, from his sharp chin to his leathered skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was back in the White House, watching him through the tiny peephole in the side door of the Oval. Just like he watched over me in my hospital room.

  I was there almost six months. For the first few, someone from the White House called every day. But when we lost the election, the staff disappeared, as did the phone calls. By then, Manning had every reason to do the same and forget about me. He knew what I’d done. He knew why Boyle was in the limo. Instead, he invited me back. As he taught me that day, loyalty mattered. It still does. Even after the White House. Even in Malaysia. Even at an insurance conference.

  A yawn leaps upward in my throat. I grit my teeth and fight, trying to swallow it whole.

  “Is boring for you?” the deputy prime minister asks, clearly annoyed.

  “N-No . . . not at all,” I apologize, knowing the first rule of diplomacy. “It’s just . . . the time zone . . . we just flew in, so still adjusting . . .” Before I can finish, he turns my way.

  “You should—”

  Seeing my face, he cuts himself off. Not for long. Just enough to stare.

  Instinctively, I try to smile. Some things you can’t unlearn. The left half of my lip goes up, the right half stays flat, dead on my face.

  Boyle went down that day at the racetrack. But he wasn’t the only one hit.

  “—should take melatonin,” the deputy prime minister stammers, still staring at the faded slash marks on my cheek. The scars crisscross like interconnecting railroad tracks. When it first happened, they were dark purple. Now they’re a shade redder than my pale chalky skin. You still can’t miss them. “Melatonin,” he repeats, now locking on my eyes. He feels stupid for gawking. But he can’t help himself. He peeks again, then takes a second to glance down at my mouth, which sags slightly on my right side. Most people think I had a mini-stroke. Then they see the scars. “Very best for jet lag,” he adds, again locking eyes.

  The bullet that tore through my cheek was a Devastator—specially designed to fracture on impact and tumble into the skin instead of going straight through it. And that’s exactly what happened when it ricocheted off the armored hood of the limo, shattering into pieces and plowing into my face. If it had been a direct
hit, it might’ve been cleaner, the doctors agreed, but instead, it was like a dozen tiny missiles burrowing into my cheek. To maximize the pain, Nico even stole a trick from Mideast suicide bombers, who dip their bullets and bombs in rat poison, since it acts as a blood thinner and keeps you bleeding as long as possible. It worked. By the time the Service got to me, I was so bloody, they covered me, thinking I was dead.

  The wound played punching bag with my facial nerve, which I quickly found out has three branches: the first gives nerve function to your forehead . . . the second controls your cheeks . . . and the third, where I got hit, takes care of your mouth and lower lip. That’s why my mouth sags . . . and why my lips purse slightly off-center when I talk . . . and why my smile is as flat as the smile of a dental patient on Novocain. On top of that, I can’t sip through straws, whistle, kiss (not that I have any takers), or bite my top lip, which requires more manipulation than I ever thought. All that, I can live with.

  It’s the staring that tears me apart.

  “Melatonin, huh?” I ask, turning my head so he loses his view. It doesn’t help. A face is what we hold in our memories. It’s our identity. It shows us who we are. Worst of all, two-thirds of face-to-face communication comes from facial expressions. Lose those—which I have—and in the researchers’ words, it’s socially devastating. “I tried it years ago . . . maybe I’ll give it another shot.”

  “I think you like it,” the deputy prime minister says. “Help you feel good.” He turns back to the lit silhouette of the President, but I already hear the shift in his voice. It’s subtle but unmistakable. You don’t need a translator to understand pity.

  “I should . . . I’m gonna go check on that honey and tea,” I say, stepping back from the deputy prime minister. He doesn’t bother turning around.

  Making my way through the backstage darkness of the Performing Arts Center, I sidestep between a papier-mâché palm tree and an enormous jagged rock made of plastic and foam—both pieces from the Lion King set which sits further behind the curtain.

  “. . . and countries look to the United States in ways that we still cannot underestimate . . .” Manning says as he finally segues into the more serious part of his speech.

  “. . . even now, when we’re hated in so many corners of the world,” I whisper to myself.

  “. . . even now, when we’re hated in so many corners of the world . . .” the President goes on.

  The line tells me he’s got forty-one minutes to go in the fifty-seven-minute speech, including the moment thirty seconds from now when he’ll clear his throat and take a three-beat pause to show he’s extra-serious. Plenty of time for a quick break.

  There’s another Secret Service agent near the door at the back of the stage. Jay. He’s got a pug nose, squatty build, and the most feminine hands I’ve ever seen.

  Nodding hello, he reads the sheen of sweat on my face. “You okay there?” Like everyone, he gives my scars a quick glance.

  “Just tired. These Asia flights take it outta me.”

  “We’ve all been up, Wes.”

  Typical Service. No sympathy. “Listen, Jay, I’m gonna go check on the President’s honey, okay?”

  Behind me, onstage, the President clears his throat. One . . . two . . . three . . .

  The moment he starts speaking, I shove open the metal soundproof door and head down a long, fluorescent-lit, cement-block hallway that runs back past the dressing rooms. Jay’s job is to fight every perceived and unperceived threat. With forty minutes left to go, the only thing I need to fight is my own exhaustion. Lucky me, I’m in the perfect place for a rumble.

  On my right in the empty hallway, there’s a room marked Dressing Room 6. I saw it when we came in. There’s gotta be a couch, or at least a chair in there.

  I grip the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. Same with dressing room 5 right across from it. Crapola. With so few agents, they must’ve locked them for security.

  Zigzagging up the hallway, I bounce to dressing rooms 4 . . . 3 . . . 2. Locked, locked, and locked. The only thing left is the big number 1. The bad news is the sign taped to the door:

  EMERGENCY USE ONLY

  Emergency Use Only is our code for the President’s private holding room. Most people think it’s a place to relax. We use it to keep him away from the handshaking and photographing crowds, including the hosts, who’re always worst of all. Please, just one more picture, Mr. President. Plus the room’s got a phone, fax, fruit, snacks, half a dozen bouquets of flowers (which we never ask for but they still send), seltzer water, Bailao tea, and . . . as they showed us during the walk-through . . . a connecting anteroom with a sofa and two ultra-cushy pillows.

  I look at the other dressing rooms, then back to the closed metal door that leads to the stage. Jay’s on the other side. Even if I ask, there’s no way he’ll unlock the other dressing rooms. I turn back to the Emergency sign on dressing room 1. My head’s burning; my body’s drenched. No one’ll ever notice (thank you, soundproofing). Plus I’ve got over a half hour until the President’s speech is— No. No, no, no. Forget it. This’s the President’s private space. I don’t care if he won’t notice. Or hear. It’s just . . . going into his room like that . . . It’s not right.

  But as I turn to leave, I catch a flutter of light under the door. It goes dark, then white. Like a passing shadow. The problem is, the room’s supposed to be empty. So who the hell would—?

  Going straight for the doorknob, I give it a sharp twist. If this is that autograph nut from the parking lot . . . With a click, the door pops open.

  As it swings wide, I’m hit with the smell of freshly cut flowers. Then I hear the cackling clang of metal against glass. Chasing the sound, I turn toward the small glass-top coffee table on the left side of the room. An older bald man in a suit but no tie rubs his shin from where he banged it. He’s in mid-hop, but he doesn’t stop moving. He’s rushing right at me.

  “Sorry . . . wrong room,” he says with a slight hint of an accent I can’t quite place. Not British, but somehow European. His head is down, and from the tilt of his shoulder, he’s hoping to squeeze past me in the doorway. I step in front of him, cutting him off.

  “Can I help y—?”

  He slams into me at full speed, ramming my shoulder with his own. He’s gotta be fifty years old. Stronger than he looks. Stumbling slightly back, I grab the doorjamb and try to stay in front of him. “You nuts?” I ask.

  “Sorry . . . this was . . . I-I’m in the wrong place,” he insists, keeping his head down and stepping back for another pass. The way he stutters and keeps shuffling in place, I start thinking he’s got more problems than just being in the wrong room.

  “This is a private room,” I tell him. “Where’d you—?”

  “The bathroom,” he insists. “Looking for the bathroom.”

  It’s a quick excuse, but not a good one. He was in here way too long. “Listen, I need to call the Secret Ser—”

  Springing forward, he barrels at me without a word. I lean forward to brace myself. That’s exactly what he’s counting on.

  I expect him to ram into me. Instead, he turns his foot sideways, pounds his heel down on the tips of my left toes, and grabs me by my wrist. I’m already falling forward. He tugs my wrist even harder, ducking down and letting momentum take care of the rest. Like a freshly spun top, I whip backward into the room, completely off balance. Behind me . . . the table . . .

  The backs of my calves hit the metal edge, and gravity sends me plunging back toward the wide glass top. I paddle my arms forward to stop the fall. It doesn’t help.

  As my back hits the glass, I grit my teeth and brace for the worst. The glass crackles like the first few kernels of popcorn . . . then shatters like a thunderstorm of raining glass. The coffee table’s smaller than a bathtub, and as I tumble in backward, my head hits the outer metal edge. A jolt of pain runs down my spine, but my eyes are still on the door. I crane my neck up for a better look. The stranger’s already gone . . . and then . . . as I sta
re at the empty doorway . . . he sticks his head back in. Almost as if he’s checking on me.

  That’s when our eyes lock. Contact.

  Oh, God. My stomach sinks down to my kneecaps. Th-That’s . . .

  His face is different . . . his nose rounded . . . his cheeks more chiseled. I grew up in Miami. I know plastic surgery when I see it. But there’s no mistaking those eyes—brown with a splash of light blue . . . He . . . he died eight years ago . . .

  That was Boyle.

  3

  Wait!”

  He takes off in an eyeblink, darting to the left down the hallway—away from the doorway where Jay is. Boyl—whoever he is, he’s smart.

  I grab the edges of the coffee table and try to boost myself out. My hip and knees grind against the shards of glass as I twist into place. Stumbling to my feet, I rush forward, completely hunched over. I’m so off balance, I practically fall through the doorway, back into the hall, which is completely empty.

  He barely had a five-second head start. It’s more than enough.

  Up ahead, the far end of the hallway bends around to the left. In the distance, a metal door slams shut. Damn. I run as fast as I can, gritting my teeth just to keep myself from hyperventilating. But I already know what’s coming. Turning the corner, the hallway dead-ends at two more soundproof metal doors. The one on the right leads to an emergency set of stairs. The one straight ahead leads outside. If we were in the White House, we’d have two Secret Service guys standing guard. As a Former, we’ve barely got enough to cover the entrances that lead to the stage.

  I shove open the door on my right. As it crashes into the wall, a low thud echoes up the concrete stairwell. I hold my breath and listen for footsteps . . . movement . . . anything. All I get is silence.

  Spinning back, I slam into the metal bar of the remaining door, which whips open and flings me out into the sweet, steamy Malaysian air. The only light in the alley comes from the headlights of a black Chevy Suburban, a metal Cheshire cat with a glowing white stare. Behind the Suburban is a gaudy, white twelfth-grade-prom stretch limousine. Our ride back to the hotel.