“Whatcha looking for anyway?” Edmund asked with a quick lick of his mustache.
Don’t tell him Washington, Nico insisted.
“Washington,” Nico said, shuffling the maps into a clean pile.
“Which — state or D.C.?”
Tell him state. If he hears otherwise… if he sees the proof of the Masons’ sin… and their nest… The last hour approaches. The Beast is already loosed — communicating, corrupting Wes.
“State,” Nico said as he reached around the console, tucking the maps back into the mesh netting. “Washington State.”
“Yeah, now you’re outta my range. I’m all Northeast corridor and east of Mississippi.” Covering his mustache with his palm and hooking his nose in the groove between his thumb and pointer finger, Edmund slid his hand down, unsuccessfully trying to contain a long-overdue yawn. “Sorry,” he apologized, violently shaking his head to stay awake.
Nico glanced at the football-shaped digital clock glued to the dashboard. It was almost two in the morning.
“Listen, if you still need one of them maps,” Edmund said, “right as we pass I-20 in Florence, there’s one of those Circle ’n Stations with the big magazine sections — they got maps, travel guides, I swear I might’ve even seen an atlas or two. If you want, we can make it our next stop.”
Nico asked the voices what they thought. They couldn’t be more excited.
“Edmund, you’re a fine Christian,” Nico said, staring out at a passing telephone pole. “Your rewards will be bountiful in the end.”
36
As I pull into the parking lot at the back of my apartment building, I feel my phone vibrate and look down at caller ID. Crap. New York Times.
Surprised it took them this long, I push the Send button and brace myself. “Wes here.”
“Hey, Wes — Caleb Cohen. From the Times,” he announces with the forced familiarity of every reporter. Caleb used to cover Manning during White House days, meaning he called every day. But these days, we’re in the former-President rotation, which is barely a notch above second cousin once removed. Until right now.
“You have a statement on the escape yet?” Caleb asks.
“You know we never comment on Nico,” I tell him, following years of protocol. Last thing we need is to let some runaway quote rile up the mad dog.
“No, I don’t mean from Manning,” Caleb interrupts. “I mean from you. You’re the one with the scars. Aren’t you worried he’s out there, ready to hit you with something harder than a ricochet?”
He says it to get a rise, hoping I’ll blurt a quick response. That worked once, with Newsweek, right after the accident. I’m not twenty-three anymore.
“Nice talking to you, Caleb. And if you want to talk again, don’t print a no comment from us either. Just say we couldn’t be reached.”
I slam the phone shut, but as Caleb disappears, I’m swallowed by the haunting silence of the open-air parking lot, which is tucked just behind my apartment building. It’s almost midnight on a Thursday. At least fifty cars surround me, but no one’s in sight. Squeezing between two matching Hondas, I push the Door Lock button on my key ring just to hear the noise. It fades far too fast, leaving me alone with the reality of Caleb’s question: If Nico’s out there, what’s preventing him from coming back to finish the job?
Glancing around the empty parking lot, I don’t have an answer. But as I study the tall, slender shadows between the twelve-foot shrubs that surround the lot, I suddenly can’t shake that awkward, stomach-piercing anxiety that I’m no longer alone. Ignoring the skeleton arms of overgrown branches, I scan the darkness between the tall shrubs, holding my breath to listen even closer. My only reward is the droning buzz of crickets who fight for dominance against the hum of the lot’s overhead lampposts. Catching my breath, I take a few steps.
That’s when I hear the tiny metal jingling. Like coins rattling in a pocket. Or someone hitting a chain-link fence. I turn around slightly, scanning between the branches and spotting the fence that surrounds the parking lot and runs behind the hedges.
Time to get inside. Spinning back toward the building, I speed-walk toward the yellow-striped awning that juts out over the back entrance. On my far left, the crickets fall silent. There’s a rustling by the group of hedges that blocks the view to the pool area. Just the wind, I tell myself as I pick up my pace and move even faster toward the awning, which seems almost submerged in darkness.
Behind me, the rustling from the hedges gets louder. Please, God, just let me—
My phone vibrates in my hand as caller ID shows me a 334 prefix. Washington Post. Last year, Manning, like LBJ before him, had a secret actuarial done to see how long he’d live. The way things are going, I can’t help but wonder the same about myself. And while I’m tempted to pick it up just to have some sort of audio witness, the last thing I need right now is another reminder that Nico’s out there, waiting.
Shifting from speed walk to jog, I fumble through my shoulder bag and search for my house keys. I glance over my shoulder as the leaves continue to shake. Forget it. I go to full-fledged sprint. Under the awning, my feet slide against the blacktop. I ram the key into the lock and twist to the right. The metal door clicks open, and I slip inside, colliding with the shopping cart that people use to move their groceries. My knee slams into the corner of the cart, and I shove it out of the way, hobbling up the narrow beige hallway and into one of the lobby’s waiting elevators.
Crashing against the brown Formica walls of the elevator, I jab the button for the fifth floor and smash the Door Close button like a punching bag. The elevator door’s still open. In the hallway, a broken fluorescent light sizzles at half-power, adding a yellow, mucusy pallor to the floor and walls. I close my eyes for some quick calm, but as I open them, the world goes black-and-white, my own personal newsreel. In the distance, a woman screams in C minor as Boyle’s ambulance doors bite shut. No, that’s not… I blink again and I’m back. There’s no one screaming. As the door eventually rumbles shut, I touch my ear as my hand shakes uncontrollably. C’mon, Wes… hold it together…
Pressing my back into the corner to keep myself upright, I grit my teeth to slow my breathing. The elevator rises with a lurch, and I focus on the indicator lights. Second floor… third floor…
By the time I step out on the fifth floor, beads of sweat ski down across my rib cage. Leaving nothing to chance, I check the left side of the hallway before darting out and heading right.
I run for apartment 527, ram my key in the lock, and twist the knob as fast as I can. Inside, I flick on every light I can find… the entryway… the living room… the lamp on the end table… I even double back to do the hall closet. No… better to leave it off. I flick it on, then off. On, then off. On, then off. Stop… Stepping backward and crashing into the wall, I shut my eyes, lower my head, and whisper to myself. “Thank you, God, for keeping my family safe…” Stop… “For keeping me safe, and the President safe…” Find a focal point, I tell myself, hearing the counselor’s voice in my head. “… for me and…” Find a focal point.
Pounding myself in the ear, I stumble around, almost tripping over the ottoman from my parents’ old leather sectional sofa in the living room. Find her. Sprinting up the hallway that leads to the back half of the apartment, I run past the flea market picnic bench we put in our dining room, past Rogo’s room with the stack of unread newspapers outside the door, past the hallway’s life-size cutout of President Manning with a hand-drawn word balloon on his head that says I don’t remember how to drive, but I lovey that downwithtickets.com! and eventually make a sharp right into my bedroom.