“Here he comes,” Dreidel whispers as Manning slowly leaves the limo, one hand already up in a frozen, celebratory wave. Behind him, with her own hand raised, the First Lady does the same.
“Now watch the President here,” Lisbeth says as each frame clicks by, and he slowly turns toward the camera for the first time.
On-screen, Manning’s grin is so wide, his top gums are showing. Same with the First Lady, who holds his hand. They’re definitely enjoying the crowd.
“Doesn’t exactly look like a man who knows shots are about to be fired, does he?” Lisbeth asks as Manning continues to wave, his black windbreaker bubbling up like a helium balloon.
“I’m telling you, he didn’t know it was coming,” Dreidel agrees. “I mean, I don’t care what they were prepared for, or how much of Boyle’s blood they had in the ambulance, there’s no way Manning, the Service, or anyone else is going to risk a head shot.”
“You’re still assuming they were aiming for Manning,” Lisbeth says as Albright appears on-screen, rising at a turtle’s pace from the limo. “I think Nico hit exactly who he wanted to hit. Just look at his escape from the hospital last night. Both orderlies shot through the heart and the palm of their right hand. Sound like anyone you know?”
On TV, at the center of a bushy mess of gray hair, a tiny bald spot rises above the limo’s roofline like the morning sun. Here comes Boyle.
“Now he’s the one who’s anxious,” Lisbeth says, tapping his face on the monitor.
“He was always miserable, though. Even on day one,” Dreidel replies.
I swallow hard as Boyle’s profile glows on-screen. The olive skin’s the same, but his thin, pointy nose is far sharper than the stubby nose job I saw him with two days ago. His jowls are longer now too. Even plastic surgery can’t stop the aging process.
“See, he’s not even looking around,” Dreidel adds as Boyle follows behind the President. “They’ve both got no idea what’s coming.”
“There you are,” Dreidel says, tapping the far right-hand corner of the screen, where you can barely see me in profile. As I leave the limo, the camera pans left — away from me — as it tries to stay with the President. But since I’m only a few steps behind, there’s a tiny shot of me gawking in the background.
“Man, you were a baby,” Lisbeth says.
The video flickers, and my head turns like a creaky robot toward the camera. It’s the first time we all get a clear look. In my right hand, my middle and ring fingers quickly knead at the heel of my palm. My eyes well up just seeing it. My face… God, it’s been so long — but there it is… the real me.
On-screen, President Manning’s hand rises to meet the NASCAR CEO and his now-famous wife. The First Lady adjusts her sapphire necklace, her lips spread in an eternal hello. Albright sticks his hands in his pockets. Boyle straightens his tie. And I chase behind them all, frozen midstep with my bag of tricks dangling from my shoulder and a sharp, cocky squint in my eyes.
I know what happens next.
Pop, pop, pop.
On TV, the camera angle jerks upward in a blur, panning past the fans in the stands as the cameraman ducks at the shots. The screen is quickly filled with the blue sky. But to me, it’s already fading to black and white. A boy in a Dolphins T-shirt screams for his mom. Boyle falls to the ground, facedown in his own vomit. And a bee sting rips through my cheek. My head whips back at just the thought of it.
The camera jerks again, sliding back down to earth, past the blur of fans running and shouting and stampeding from the stands. On the left side of the screen, Cadillac One rumbles and takes off. The President and First Lady are already inside. Already safe.
As the car leaves, the camera whizzes back and forth, searching the aftermath and sifting through the ballet of slow-motion chaos: Secret Service agents with their mouths frozen open in mid-yell… bystanders darting in every direction… and on the top right of the screen, just as the limo pulls away, a pale, skinny kid crashing to the ground, twisting in pain like a worm along the concrete, his hand gripping his face.
The tears tumble down my cheeks. My fingers press so tight into the heel of my palm, I feel my own pulse. I tell myself to look away… to get up and turn on the lights… but I can’t move.
On-screen, two suit-and-tie agents carry Boyle off the battlefield and to the ambulance. Since their backs are to us, it’s impossible to make them out. But in the swirl of dust behind the limo, I’m still lying on my back, pressing my face so hard, I look like I’m pinning the back of my head to the asphalt. And while it’s all in full color on TV, I still see it in black and white. A flashbulb goes supernova. My fingertips scratch against the sharpened metal in my face. Boyle’s ambulance doors slam shut.
“Wes, you with us?” Rogo whispers.
Why won’t they stop slamming shut—?
“Wes…” Rogo continues to whisper. He says it again, and I realize it’s not a whisper. His voice is loud. Like he’s yelling.
Something clenches my right shoulder, shaking.
“Wes!” Rogo shouts as I blink back to reality and find his meaty paw holding my shirt.
“No, no… yeah… I’m fine,” I insist, pulling my shoulder free of his grip. It’s not until I look around the conference room that I realize the videotape is no longer running. In the corner, Lisbeth flicks on the lights, looking back to see what’s going on.
“He’s fine,” Rogo insists, trying to block her view. “He’s just… just give him a second, okay?”
Heading back from the light switch, Lisbeth still continues to stare, but if she sees what’s going on, she’s kind enough to keep it to herself.
“So that basically accomplished a big fat nothing, huh?” Dreidel asks, still clearly annoyed we’re even here. “I mean, except for giving Wes a few brand-new nightmares to deal with.”
“That’s not true,” Lisbeth says, heading back to the opposite side of the table. Instead of sitting next to Dreidel, she decides to stand. “We got to see the agents that carried Boyle off.”
“Which means nothing since we can’t see their faces — not to mention the fact that since the Service clearly helped, I personally don’t think it’s safe asking any of their agents for help.”
“We would’ve gotten more if the camera weren’t swirling like my mom taking home movies,” Lisbeth points out.
“Yeah, that cameraman was a real jerk-off for ducking down and trying to protect his life like that,” Dreidel shoots back.
“Dreidel,” I interrupt.
“Don’t Dreidel me, Wes.”
“How ’bout if I Dreidel you?” Rogo threatens.
“How ’bout you sit back down and let the boy fight his own fight for once?” Dreidel pushes back. “Wes, no offense, but this was stupid. Except for getting inside juice for when Drudge-ette here writes her best-selling tell-all, there’s not a single good reason to come here. She could’ve just sent us the info we needed.”
“I was trying to help,” Lisbeth insists.
“This was helping? We’ve got a thousand unanswered questions, half a dozen absurd theories, and you wanna spend the day watching the one video that Congress, the public, and every conspiracy junkie in the world has combed through and still didn’t find anything suspicious? It didn’t even give us a good shot of Nico to see if there’s anything else we might’ve been missing.”
I shake my head. “That’s not—”