“That’s not what I said.”
“It is what you said. But if I unleash this, Rogo — if I go public — I can’t take it back. And you know that the moment I open my mouth, these people — people who were powerful and connected enough to convince millions that their illusion was real — are going to aim all their resources and energy at making me look like the crackpot who swears he saw a dead man. So if the water’s gonna be raging, and I’m wrecking every professional relationship in my entire life, I want to be absolutely sure before I blow it all up.”
“No doubt,” Rogo says calmly. “Which is why if you go with the FBI—”
“I what? Save myself? I have nothing to offer the FBI. They already know Boyle’s alive. They only want me so they can get Manning and light the dynamite themselves. At least my way, I’m the one holding the fuse, and we’ll get some information, which is more than we got from your so-called law enforcement buddies.”
“They’re trying their best. They’re just…”
“… traffic cops. I understand. And I appreciate you trying. But between The Roman and The Three, we need some actual answers.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice yourself. Lisbeth’s still gonna burn you in the end.”
Holding tight to the wheel, I pump the gas and speed through a yellow light. The car dips and bounces as we climb up Royal Park Bridge.
“Sixty-nine bucks for the ticket and three points on your license,” Rogo warns as the yellow light turns red just above us. “Though I guess that’s nothing compared to wrecking your life with an overanxious reporter.”
“Rogo, y’know why no one knew who Deep Throat was all those years? Because he controlled the story.”
“And that’s your grand plan? Be Deep Throat?”
“No, the grand plan is to get all the facts, put my hands around Boyle’s throat, and find out why the hell all this actually happened!” I don’t motion to my face, but Rogo knows what I’m talking about. It’s the one thing he won’t argue.
Rogo goes back to reading Lisbeth’s column, which ends with a quick mention of Dreidel stopping by. Old Friends Still Visit, according to the subhead. It’s Lisbeth’s way of reminding us that she could’ve easily gone with the mention of Dreidel’s and my breakfast.
“Dreidel was there last night?” Rogo asks. “I thought he had a fundraiser.”
“He did. Then he came over to see Manning.”
Rogo scratches at his bald head, first on the side, then back behind his ear. I know that scratch. He’s silent as the car reaches the peak of the bridge. Three, two, one…
“You don’t think that’s odd?” he asks.
“What, that Dreidel likes to suck up to Manning?”
“No, that on the day after you spot Boyle, Dreidel happens to be in Palm Beach, and happens to get you in trouble with the press, and just happens to be raising money in Florida for a congressional race that only matters to people in Illinois. That doesn’t smell a little stinky feet to you?”
I shake my head as we leave the metal droning of the bridge and glide onto the perfectly paved Royal Palm Way. On both sides of the street, tucked between the towering, immaculate palm trees, are the private banks and investment firms that juggle some of the biggest accounts in the city. “You know how fundraising works,” I tell Rogo. “Palm Beach was, is, and will always be the capital of Manningland. If Dreidel wants to cash in on his old connections, here’s where he has to come to kiss the rings.”
Rogo scratches again at his head. He’s tempted to argue, but after seeing the shape I was in last night, he knows he can only push so far. Lost in the silence, he taps a knuckle against the passenger window to the tune of “Hail to the Chief.” The only other sound in the car comes from the jingling of the two dangling presidential faces on the lapel pin that’s attached to my navy suit jacket.
“Here’s hoping you’re right,” Rogo offers as he stares down at Yosemite Sam. “Because, no offense, pal — but the last thing you need right now is another enemy.”
40
What’d she write?” Micah asked, gripping the steering wheel and trying to read the newspaper in O’Shea’s lap. Four cars ahead of them, Wes’s Toyota chugged back and forth through traffic.
“Some fluffy mention about the First Lady’s suit,” O’Shea said from the passenger seat, still scanning Lisbeth’s column. “Though she did manage to work in a Dreidel mention.”
“You think Wes told her what’s going on?”
“No idea — though you saw the body language last night. All the hesitations… just barely looking her in the eyes. If he hasn’t said anything, he’s thinking about it.” Pointing ahead to the Toyota, O’Shea added, “Not so close — pull back a hair.”
“But for him to go to the press,” Micah began, hitting the brakes and dropping back a few cars. “He’s safer with us.”
“Not in his eyes. Don’t forget, the kid’s been wrecked by the best, and he’s somehow still standing. Deep down, he knows how the world works. Until he gets a better bargaining chip, in his mind, he’s not safe with anyone.”
“See, that’s why we should just offer him straight clemency. Okay, Wes, next time you hear from Boyle, tell him Manning wants to meet with him and give him a time and place. Then call us and we’ll take care of the rest. I know you’ve got big eyes, O’Shea, but unless we finally put hands on Boyle—”
“I appreciate the concern, Micah — but trust me, we stick with Wes and we’ll get our Boyle.”
“Not if Wes thinks we’re gonna bite back. I’m telling you, forget the vague promises — put a deal on the table.”
“No need,” O’Shea said, knowing that Micah always went for the easy way out. “Wes knows what we want. And after everything Boyle’s so-called death put him through, he wants him more than any of us.”
“Not more than me,” Micah insisted. “After what him and Manning pulled—”
“Get up there! He’s running the red light!”
Micah punched the gas, but it was already too late. With a screech, the car in front of them came to an abrupt halt, forcing them to do the same. In the distance, Wes’s Toyota climbed up the bridge and out of sight.
“I told you to—”
“Relax,” Micah said. “He’s just going to work. Losing him for two minutes isn’t gonna kill anyone.”
41
“… but that’s the problem with hiding a treasure,” Nico said as the early morning sun punched through the damp Georgia clouds. “You don’t pick the right spot, some stranger’s gonna come along and dig it up.”
But to say they hid it in a map…
“Dammit, Edmund, it’s no different than hiding it in a crossword or a—” Cutting himself off, Nico gripped the steering wheel and turned toward his friend in the passenger seat. It was harder than he thought. Trusting people never came easy. But Nico understood the power of the Lord. The power that delivered Edmund to his side. From the rearview mirror, the wooden rosary swayed in a tight circle, like a marble in its last seconds before circling down an open drain. Edmund was sent for a reason. And Nico knew never to ignore the signs. Even if it meant exposing his own weaknesses. “I’m not crazy,” Nico said, his voice soft and tender.
I never thought you were. By the way, you sure you’re okay driving?
“I’m fine. But just know, if you wanna help, you need to understand that this battle didn’t start eight years ago. It started in ’91.”
1991?
“1791,” Nico said, watching Edmund’s reaction. “The year they drew the battle lines… by drawing the city lines,” he explained, jabbing a finger against the map that was spread out across the wide dashboard between them.
City lines to what? Washington, D.C.?
“That’s what they were designing — the layout for our nation’s capital. President George Washington himself picked out a U.S. army major for the job: French-born architect Pierre Charles L’Enfant. And when you look at his early plans… it laid the groundwork for everything here today,” Nico said, pointing Edmund back toward the map.
So when this French guy designed the city—
“No!” Nico insisted. “Unlock yourself from history’s lies. L’Enfant is the one most often credited with the plans, but after being hired by President Washington, a known Freemason, there was one other man who helped sketch the details of the city. That’s the man who marked the entryway. And used the skills of the Masons to build the devil’s door.”
Is it someone I know, or some other French guy?
“Unlock yourself, Edmund. Ever hear of Thomas Jefferson?”