“Yes… yes, of course,” the First Lady insisted. “The Roman hurt both of us, Nico. He threatened me — made me come with him or he’d—”
“God hurt me also,” Nico interrupted. His left hand gripped the rosary, his thumb slowly climbing from wooden bead to wooden bead, counting its way to the engraving of Mary. “God took my mother from me.”
“Nico, you…” Her voice cracked. “God… please, Nico… we’ve all lost—”
“But it was The Three who took my father,” he added as he lifted the gun and pressed it to the back of the First Lady’s head. “That was my error. Not fate. Not the Masons. The Three took him. When I joined them… what I did in their name… don’t you see? Misreading the Book. That’s why God had to send me the angel.”
Shivering uncontrollably, the First Lady raised her hands in the air and struggled to glance over her shoulder. If she could turn around… get him to look at her face… to see her as a human being… “Please don’t… please don’t do this!” she begged, facing Nico and fighting back tears. It’d been nearly a decade since she’d felt the onslaught of a deep cry. Not since the day they left the White House, when they returned home to Florida, held a small press conference on their lawn and realized, after everyone was gone, that there was no one but themselves to clean up the reporters’ discarded coffee cups that were scattered across their front yard. “I can’t die like this,” she sobbed.
Unmoved, Nico held his gun in place, pointing it at her head. “But it wasn’t just The Three, was it? I heard the reporter, Dr. Manning. I know. The Four. That’s what she said, right? One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“Nico, that’s not true.”
“I heard it. You’re Four.”
“No… why would I—?”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he insisted, his fingers moving across four beads of the rosary.
“Please, Nico, just listen…”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four.” His fingers continued to calmly count, bead by bead. He was over halfway through. Just sixteen beads to go. “One, Two, Three, you’re Four. One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“Why aren’t you listening!?” the First Lady sobbed. “If you — I can — I can get you help…”
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four.”
“… I can… I’ll even…” Her voice picked up speed. “I can tell you how your mother died.”
Nico stopped. His head cocked sideways, but his expression was calm as ever. “You lie.”
His finger slithered around the trigger, and he squeezed it. Easily.
There was a sharp hiss, and a pfffft that sounded like a cantaloupe exploding. The inside front windshield was sprayed with blood.
The First Lady slumped sideways, and what was left of her head hit the steering wheel.
Barely noticing, Nico pointed the gun at his own temple. “Your fate is mine, Dr. Manning. I’m coming to get you in Hell.”
Without closing his eyes, he pulled the trigger.
Click.
He pulled again.
Click.
Empty… it’s empty, he realized, staring down at the gun. A slight, nervous laugh hiccupped from his throat. He looked up at the roof of the car, then back down at the gun, which quickly became blurred by a swell of tears.
Of course. It was a test. To test his faith. God’s sign.
“One, Two, Three, you’re Four,” he whispered, his thumb climbing up the last wooden beads and resting on the engraving of Mary. Flushed with a smile even he couldn’t contain, Nico looked back up at the roof, brought the rosary up to his lips, and kissed it. “Thank You… thank You, my Lord.”
The test, at long last, was complete. The Book could finally be closed.
114
Ten minutes after seven the following morning, under an overcast sky, I’m sitting alone in the backseat of a black Chevy Suburban that’s filled with enough new-car smell to tell me this isn’t from our usual fleet. Usually, that’s cause for excitement. Not after last night.
In the front seats, both agents sit uncomfortably silent the entire ride. Sure, they toss me some small talk—Your head okay? How’re you feeling? — but I’ve been around the Service long enough to know when they’re under orders to keep their mouths shut.
As we make the left onto Las Brisas, I spot the news vans and the reporters doing stand-ups. They gently push forward against the yellow tape as they see us coming, but the half dozen agents out front easily keep them at bay. On my left, as the car pulls up to the manicured shrubs out front, and the tall white wooden gate swings open, an Asian female reporter narrates—… once again: former First Lady Lenore Manning… — but gracefully steps back to give us room.
For the reporters and press, all they know is she’s dead and that Nico killed her. If they knew her hand in it… or what she did… an army of agents wouldn’t be able to hold them back. The Service, pretending to be clueless, said that since Nico was still out there, they thought it’d be safer to chauffeur me inside. It’s a pretty good lie. And when the agents knocked on my door this morning, I almost believed it.
As the gate slowly closes behind us, I know better than to turn around and give them a shot of my face for the morning news — especially with the cuts on my nose and the dark purple swelling in my eye. Instead, I study the Chicago-brick driveway that leads up to the familiar pale blue house. Flanking both sides of the Suburban, six agents I’ve never seen before watch the gate shut, making sure no one sneaks in. Then, as I open my door and step outside, they all watch me. To their credit, they turn away quickly, like they don’t know what’s going on. But when it comes to spotting lingering glances, I’m a black belt. As I head for the front door, every one of them takes another look.
“Wes, right?” an African-American agent with a bald head asks as he opens the front door and welcomes me inside. On most days, agents aren’t stationed in the house. Today is different. “He’s waiting for you in the library, so if you’ll just follow—”
“I know where it is,” I say, moving forward to cut around him.
He takes a step to the side, blocking my way. “I’m sure you do,” he says, throwing on a fake grin. Like the agents out front, he’s in standard suit and tie, but the microphone on his lapel… I almost miss it at first. It’s tinier than a small silver bead. They don’t give that kind of tech to guys on former-President duty. Whoever he is, he’s not from the Orlando field office. He’s from D.C. “If you’ll follow me…”
He pivots around, leading me down the center hallway, into the formal living room, and past the gold velvet sofa that yesterday held Madame Tussauds’ set of Leland Manning eyeballs.
“Here you go,” the agent adds, stopping at the double set of French doors on the far left side of the room. “I’ll be right here,” he says, motioning back to the main hallway. It’s not meant as a comfort.
Watching him leave, I bite the dead skin on the inside of my cheek and reach for the American eagle brass doorknob. But just as I palm the eagle, the doorknob turns by itself, and the door opens. I was so busy watching the agent, I didn’t see him. Our eyes lock instantly. This time, though, as I spot the brown with the splash of light blue, my stomach doesn’t plummet. And he doesn’t run.
Standing in the doorway and scratching his fingers against the tiny stubble on his head, Boyle forces an unconvincing smile. From what Rogo told me late last night, I should’ve known he’d be here. Silly me, though, I actually thought I’d be first. Then again, that’s always been my problem when it comes to the President.
Stepping forward and closing the door behind him, Boyle blocks me even worse than the Service. “Listen, Wes, do you… uh… do you have a sec?”