So the door they were trying to open…
“… the door to Hell.”
Of course! They were trying to free the Creatures… begin the motions! Nico, do you have any idea what you’re on to? Scripture predicts it! It begins when the Two Beasts arrive…
“… they come through hosts! First, a disciple — a man of sin…”
That’s Boyle, right? The man of sin!
“Then the Leader — a man of power…”
Manning!
“Through him the Dark One — the true Beast — will arise, creating the most powerful kingdom of all!”
So the Beast they were trying to free…
“The Antichrist, Edmund. They want the Antichrist! If it weren’t for The Three, he would’ve come! Tell me you see that! Without The Three, Manning’s reelection was imminent! Supreme power in Manning! A man of sin in Boyle! Together, the keys to open the door!”
The original Three dedicated to birthing him — the final Three dedicated to destroying him! Alpha and Omega! Their destiny fulfilled!
“Yes, yes… destiny — their fate — just as in scripture! ‘Dear children… the antichrist is coming. He is now already in the world!’” Nico screamed as spit flew from his mouth and sprayed the inside windshield.
So the reason you shot Boyle instead of Manning…
“In a coliseum of his admirers? Surrounded by his supplicants? Manning’s influence was at its peak! What if that were the catalyst for his awakening? No — like The Three said… better to go with Boyle, who was — was — was— Don’t you see?” he yelled, pounding the steering wheel. “Without Boyle, there’d be only one Beast! One key instead of two! With only one, the door couldn’t open!” He kept looking to Edmund, then back to the road. His breathing was galloping, his whole body shaking. Being silent for so long… to finally let it out… he could barely catch his breath.
“Th-Th-The man of sin — like my father — has always been the sign! Have you not… have you not heard of Boyle’s sin?” Nico shouted, gasping between breaths as a sudden flush of tears blurred the road in front of him. He hunched forward, gripping the wheel as a dry heave clenched his stomach. “What he did to his own—? And then to my—?” He jabbed a finger at his eyes, digging away the tears. They rolled down his face, dangling like raindrops from his jaw. Don’t fight it, he told himself. Be thankful to get it out… Heed the Book… Thank you, Mother… Thank you…
“D-D’ya understand?” he pleaded with Edmund, his voice cracking with the Wisconsin accent he’d buried years ago. “People know nothing, Edmund. Teacher and student. Master and supplicant. Manning and Boyle,” he repeated, sinking forward on the steering wheel. “Like father and son. That’s why I was chosen. Why my mother was taken. To test me… to stop my father… to close the devil’s door. To keep the door shut and the Great Darkness from coming.”
In the passenger seat next to him, Edmund didn’t say a word.
“P-Please, Edmund… please tell me you understand…”
Once again, Edmund was silent. As silent as he’d been for the past five hours when they pulled out of the gas station in South Carolina.
With his seat belt in a diagonal bear hug across his chest, Edmund slumped slightly to the right, his shoulder pressed against the passenger door. His arms dangled at his side, his left wrist bent in his lap.
As the flatbed truck rumbled onto the overpass that ran across St. Marys River, a bump of uneven concrete sent Edmund’s head sagging to the right, his forehead thumping lightly into the glass of the passenger window. With each new seam in the asphalt, the flatbed hiccupped. With each hiccup, Edmund’s head thumped over and over against the glass.
“I knew you would, Edmund,” Nico said excitedly. “Thank you. Thank you for believing…”
Thump… thump… thump. Like a hammer to a stubborn nail, Edmund’s head banged the glass. The baritone drumbeat was ruthlessly unavoidable. Nico didn’t notice. Just like he didn’t notice the slurpy sound of Edmund’s bloody fingers sticking and unsticking from the truck’s vinyl seats. Or the dried waterfall of blood that’d poured down Edmund’s chest from where Nico slit his throat with his car keys.
“I know, but I’m just glad you understand,” Nico said, catching his breath and wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. With one final thump, the truck cleared the St. Marys River overpass and officially crossed the state line of Georgia. On the right, they blew past a faded orange and green highway sign. Welcome to Florida — The Sunshine State.
44
An hour and a half later, I pull up to the curb in front of First of America Bank, which houses Rogo’s offices on the second floor. As my car bucks to a stop, Rogo trudges slowly out the building’s front door, heading for the front passenger door. He’s still pissed I’m meeting with Lisbeth. But not half as pissed as seeing Dreidel sitting in his seat.
“How’s the world of traffic tickets?” Dreidel calls out as he rolls down the window.
“Same as Chicago politics,” Rogo replies, shooting me a look as he opens the door for the backseat. “Completely corrupt.”
It was no better the first time they met, years ago. Both lawyers, both opinionated, both too stubborn to see anything but the other’s flaws.
For the rest of the ride, Rogo sulks in the back as we blow by the past-their-prime mom-and-pop shops that line South Dixie Highway. Every once in a while, he peers out the back to make sure we’re not being followed. I use my side mirror for the same.
“There…” Dreidel points as if I haven’t been here a dozen times. Hitting the brakes, I make a sharp right into the front lot of our destination: the wide, off-white office building that takes up most of the block. Just in front of the building is a small plaza with a statue of a turtle dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, comically playing an electric keyboard. It’s supposed to be funny. None of us laugh.
“Park underneath,” Rogo says, pointing to the two-story concrete parking garage that connects to the building. “The fewer people who see us, the better.” He glares at me in the rearview. It doesn’t take a genius to get the point. It’s bad enough I brought us here. It’s even worse that I brought Dreidel.
Still, Dreidel doesn’t seem to notice Rogo’s tantrum. Staring out the window, he’s far too focused on the huge brown sign that’s partially blocked by the building’s faux-cement pillars: Palm Beach Post.
“You sure this is smart?” Dreidel asks as the sun disappears, and we wind our way up to the second level of the already dark garage.
“You got a better place?” I challenge.
And that’s the point. No matter where we go, it’s a cakewalk for anyone to listen in. But here, in the heart of it… I don’t care how powerful they are — Manning, the FBI, even the Service — none of them can afford to fistfight with the press.
“What’s the backup plan for when she screws us?” Rogo asks as we head through the front door of the building and across the lobby’s salmon and black marble floor. It’s his last-ditch effort to turn us around. Dreidel nods to show he agrees, but he still doesn’t slow down. Like me, he’s got a personal stake. And based on what I saw in his hotel room, he doesn’t want to give Lisbeth another excuse to put his name in bold.
“Cell phones and pagers,” a tan guard with silver hair announces as we approach the metal detector and X-ray. I put my shoulder bag on the belt, along with my phone. But as I step through the X-ray, a loud beep echoes through the tall marble canyon.