Gov. Roche… M. Heatson, I read to myself.
On the next line, it makes even less sense. Host — Mary Angel.
Roche is the former governor of New York, but Heatson or Mary Angel… nothing rings a bell.
As the rest of the fax shimmies from the machine, there’s nothing but more comics. Peanuts, Garfield, and Blondie.
This was the final piece of Boyle’s puzzle? I look back at the handwritten note. Gov. Roche… M. Heatson… Mary Angel. Doesn’t even make sense. Three names with no information? I study it again, reading each letter. This is the last page Boyle found before coming out of hiding. Eight years dead, and this is what lured him back into his life? Gov. Roche… M. Heatson… Host — Mary Angel. Still means nothing.
“Wes, he’s here,” Claudia calls out, disappearing up the hallway.
“Coming,” I say as the final lines of Beetle Bailey scroll out from the machine. As I spin around to take off, the cover sheet drops to the floor. Pausing to pick it up, I glance at the line that says Number of Pages. To my surprise, it says 3.
The fax machine again hiccups, and a final sheet of paper crawls toward me. The librarian called it a one-pager. And it is one page… with two sides. Front and back.
I hunch down to the fax and try to read the document as each line of fresh ink is printed on the page. Like the comics page, it has the light gray tone of photocopied newsprint filled with more of the President’s handwriting. But as I read it to myself, the picture in the darkroom feels overexposed, foggier than ever.
“Wes…” the President calls from the front door.
“On my way,” I say, picking up my travel bag, ripping the sheet from the fax, and darting into the hallway. I give it one last glance before shoving it into my jacket pocket. It doesn’t make sense. What the hell could Boyle possibly be doing with this?
27
He’s the one I shot, isn’t he?” Nico whispered, staring down at the recent photo of Wes. “The innocent.”
“In every war, there are innocents,” The Roman said. “But what I need to know is—”
“He’s older…”
“It’s been years, Nico. Of course, he’s older.”
Nico pulled the picture close to him. “I broke him, didn’t I? He’s broken now.”
“Excuse me?”
“In his eyes,” Nico replied, focusing even tighter on the photo. “I’ve seen that look… in battle… kids in battle have that look.”
“I’m sure they do,” The Roman said, snatching the picture and fighting to keep Nico on track. “But I need you to tell me if—”
“We relieve them from duty when they have that look,” Nico said, almost proudly. “They lose sight of the cause.”
“Exactly. They lose sight of the cause. Let’s focus on that.” Tapping Wes’s picture, The Roman added, “Remember what he said about you? At the hearing a few years back?”
Nico stayed silent.
“What’d he call you again? A savage?”
“A monster,” Nico growled.
The Roman shook his head, well aware of Wes’s description. But like any interrogation, the key was hiding the big questions. “And that’s the last you heard from him?” The Roman asked.
“He blames me. Refuses to see what I saved us from.”
The Roman watched Nico carefully, now convinced that Wes hadn’t been in touch. Of course, that was only part of the reason for his visit. “Speaking of which, do you think about Boyle?”
Nico looked up, his eyes angry for barely a second, then calm. The hatred disappeared almost instantly. Thanks to the doctors, he’d finally learned to bury it. “Never,” Nico said.
“Not at all?”
“Never,” Nico repeated, his voice slow and measured. He’d spent eight years perfecting his answer.
“It’s okay, Nico. You’re safe now, so—”
“I don’t think of him. I don’t,” he insisted, still on his knees and staring straight at the fiery red of the rosaries. “What happened to… him… he…” Swallowing hard, Nico reached for the beads, then stopped himself. “He put me in here. He…”
“You can say his name, Nico.”
Nico shook his head, still eyeing the beads. “Names are fictions. He… Masks for the devil.” Without warning, Nico’s arm shot forward, snatching the rosary beads from the center of the bed. He pulled them to his chest, his thumb furiously climbing from bead to bead, counting to the rosary’s small engraving of Mary.
“Nico, take it easy—”
“Only God is true.”
“I understand, but—”
“God is true!” he exploded, climbing the beads quicker than ever. Turning away, Nico rocked back and forth… slowly, then faster. Gripping each bead, one by one. His shoulders sagged with each sway, and his body hunched lower and lower, practically curling into a ball at the side of the bed. He kept trying to speak, then abruptly cut himself off. The Roman had seen it before. The battle internal. Without warning, Nico looked back over his shoulder. The Roman didn’t need 20/6 vision to spot the tears in his eyes.
“Are you here to redeem me?” Nico sobbed.
The Roman froze, assuming it was all about Boyle… and it was, but—
“Of course,” The Roman said as he moved to the other side of the bed. Putting a hand on Nico’s shoulder, he picked up the violin from the floor. He’d read enough of Nico’s file to know it was still his best transitional item. “That’s why I’m here,” he promised as Nico embraced the neck of the violin.
“For redemption?” Nico asked for the second time.
“For salvation.”
Nico eked out a smile, and the crimson beads sank to the floor. From the way Nico studied the violin with his half-closed eyes, The Roman knew he had a few minutes of calm. Better make it quick.
“In the name of The Three, I’m here for your cleansing… and to be sure that when it comes to Boyl— When it comes to the Beast, that his influence is no longer felt by your spirit.”
“Who increases our faith… Who strengthens our hope… Who perfects our love,” Nico began to pray.
“Then let us begin,” The Roman said. “What is your last memory of him?”
“At the Revolt,” Nico began. “His hand up in victory… preening for the masses with his white teeth glowing. Then the anger in his eyes when I pulled that trigger — he didn’t know he’d been hit. He was angry… enraged as he gritted his teeth. That was his first reaction, even in death. Hatred and rage. Until he looked down and spotted his own blood.”
“And you saw him fall?”
“Two shots in the heart, one in the hand as they tore me down. Sliced his neck too. I heard him screaming as they clawed at me. Screaming for his life. Begging… even amid the roar… for himself. Me… someone help me… And then the screams stopped. And he laughed. I hear things. I could hear it. Through his own blood. Boyle was laughing.”
The Roman rolled his tongue against his teeth. No doubt, it was true. Laughing all the way to freedom. “What about since?” he asked, choosing each word carefully. Regardless of the risk, he needed to know if Boyle had been here. “Has he haunted you… recently?”
Nico stopped, looking up from the violin. “Haunted?”
“In… in your dreams.”
“Never in my dreams. His threat was stopped when—”
“What about anywhere else, in visions or—?”
“Visions?”
“Not visions… y’know, like—”
“His power is that great?” Nico interrupted.
“No, but we—”