The Book Of Fate Part 14

Crawling to the window, The Roman gripped the top of the radiator and pulled himself up. Two stories down, he spotted the small bluff of snow that had broken Nico's fall. Thinking about giving chase, he took another look at the height and felt the blood seeping through his own sock. Not a chance Not a chance, he told himself. He could barely stand now.

Craning his neck out the window and following the footprints-out of the bluff, through the slush on the service road-he quickly spotted Nico: his sweatshirt creating a tiny brown spot plowing through the bright white layer of snow. Nico never looked back.

Within seconds, Nico's faded brown spot gained a speck of black as he raised the gun and pointed it downhill. From the angle of the window, The Roman couldn't see what Nico was aiming at. There was a guard at the gate, but that was over fifty yards a- A whispered psst psst and a hiccup of smoke belched from the gun's barrel. Right there, Nico slowed his pace to a calm, almost relaxing walk. The Roman didn't need to see the body to know it was another direct hit. and a hiccup of smoke belched from the gun's barrel. Right there, Nico slowed his pace to a calm, almost relaxing walk. The Roman didn't need to see the body to know it was another direct hit.

Shoving the gun into the pouch of his sweatshirt, Nico looked like a man without a care in the world. Just strolling past the old army building, past the graveyards, past the leafless dogwood, and-as he faded from view-straight out the front gate.

Hobbling toward the door, The Roman grabbed the syringe and the razor blade from the floor.

"You guys okay?" a female voice asked through one of the orderlies' walkie-talkies.

The Roman leaned down and pulled it off the orderly's belt clip. "Just fine," he mumbled into the receiver.

Carrying it with him, he turned around and took a final survey of the room. It wasn't until that moment that he realized Nico had also taken the black-and-white photograph of Wes. Bleeding Wes.

28.

Right this way," I say as I cup the elbow of the older woman with the beehive of blond hair and escort her and her husband toward President Manning and the First Lady, who're posed in front of a floral bouquet the size of a small car. Trapped in this small anteroom in the back of the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, the President looks my way, never losing his grin. It's all the signal I need. He has no idea who they are.

I put it on a platter. "Mr. President, you remember the Talbots-"

"George . . . Leonor . . ." the First Lady jumps in, shaking hands and swapping air kisses. Thirty-four books, five unauthorized biographies, and two TV movies have argued she's the better politician in the family. All the proof is right here. "And how's Lauren?" she asks, pulling off their daughter's name as well. That's when I'm impressed. The Talbots aren't longtime donors. They're NBFs-new best friends, which is what we call the rich groupies who glommed onto the Mannings after after they'd left the White House. Old friends liked the power; new friends like the fame. they'd left the White House. Old friends liked the power; new friends like the fame.

"We just think you're the greatest," Mrs. Talbot gushes, her eyes solely on the First Lady. It's never bothered Manning. Dr. First Lady has always been a part of their political package-and thanks to her science background, the better at a.n.a.lyzing poll numbers, which is why some say she was even more crushed than the President when they handed over their keys to the White House. Still, as someone who was with the President that day as he flew home to Florida, and placed his final call on Air Force One, and lingered on the line just long enough to say his final good-bye to the phone operator, I can't help but disagree. Manning went from having a steward who used to wear a pager just to bring him coffee, to lugging his own suitcases back to his garage. You can't give away all that power without some pain.

"What'm I, chopped herring all of a sudden?" Manning asks.

"What do you mean, all of a sudden all of a sudden?" the First Lady replies as they all c.o.c.ktail-party laugh. It's the kind of joke that'll be repeated for the rest of the social season, turning the Talbots into minor wine and cheese stars, and simultaneously ensuring that Palm Beach society keeps coming to these thousand-dollar-a-plate charity shindigs.

"On three," the photographer calls out as I squeeze the Talbots between the Mannings. "One . . . two . . ."

The flashbulb pops, and I race back to the receiving line to palm the next donor's elbow. Manning's look is exactly the same.

"Mr. President, you remember Liz Westbrook . . ."

In the White House, we called it the push/pull. push/pull. I I pull pull Mrs. Westbrook toward the President, which Mrs. Westbrook toward the President, which pushes pushes the Talbots out of the way, forcing them to stop gawking and say their good-byes. True to form, it works perfectly-until someone pushes back. the Talbots out of the way, forcing them to stop gawking and say their good-byes. True to form, it works perfectly-until someone pushes back.

"You're trying the push/pull with me? I invented invented it!" a familiar voice calls out as the flashbulb pops. By the time I spin back toward the line, Dreidel's already halfway to the President with a huge smile on his face. it!" a familiar voice calls out as the flashbulb pops. By the time I spin back toward the line, Dreidel's already halfway to the President with a huge smile on his face.

Manning lights up like he's seeing his childhood pet. I know better than to get in the way of that. "My boy!" Manning says, embracing Dreidel. I still get a handshake. Dreidel gets a hug.

"We wanted it to be a surprise," I offer, shooting a look at Dreidel.

Behind him, the honcho line is no longer moving. Over the President's shoulder, the First Lady glares my way. I also know better than to get in the way of that.

"Sir . . . we should really . . ."

"I hope you're staying for the event," Manning interrupts as he backs up toward his wife.

"Of course, sir," Dreidel says.

"Mr. President, you remember the Lindzons," I say, pulling the next set of donors into place. Manning fake-smiles and shoots me a look. I promised him it was only fifty clicks tonight. He's clearly been counting. This is souvenir photo number 58. As I head back to the line, Dreidel's right there with me.

"How many clicks you over?" Dreidel asks.

"Eight," I whisper. "What happened to your fundraiser?"

"It was c.o.c.ktails. We finished early, so I figured I'd come say h.e.l.lo. What happened with the gossip columnist?"

"All taken care of."

A flashbulb pops, and I grab the elbow of the next honcho, an overweight woman in a red pants suit. Falling back into old form, Dreidel puts a hand on the shoulder of her husband and motions him forward.

"Mr. President, you remember Stan Joseph," I announce as we drop him off for click number 59. Whispering to Dreidel, I add, "I also snagged Boyle's London address and his last request from the library."

Dreidel picks up speed as another flashbulb explodes. He's half a step ahead. He thinks I don't notice. "So what was on the final sheet?" he asks softly.

As I turn back to the honchos, there's only one person left in line. One click to go. But when I see who it is, my throat constricts.

"What?" Dreidel asks, reading my expression.

I stop right in front of our final honcho, a young redhead in a modest black suit. Dreidel goes to put a hand on her elbow to escort her forward. She brushes him off and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Just the people I'm looking for," she says proudly. "Lisbeth Dodson-Palm Beach Post. You must be Dreidel." You must be Dreidel."

29.

Mclean, Virginia Limping up the icy driveway and holding his fist against his chest, The Roman eyed the front windows of the cla.s.sic stucco Colonial with the For Sale For Sale sign in the front yard. Although the lights were off, it didn't slow him down. After hiding his wound-by slipping his b.l.o.o.d.y foot into one of Nico's old shoes-he flashed his badge to push his way out of the hospital and quickly made the call. He knew Benjamin was home. sign in the front yard. Although the lights were off, it didn't slow him down. After hiding his wound-by slipping his b.l.o.o.d.y foot into one of Nico's old shoes-he flashed his badge to push his way out of the hospital and quickly made the call. He knew Benjamin was home.

Sure enough, as he reached the side of the house, he grabbed the cold metal handrail and hobbled down a short cement staircase. At the bottom, he reached a door with a faint glow of light peeking out from under it. A small sign above the doorbell said Appointments Only. Appointments Only. The Roman didn't have an appointment. He had something far more valuable. The Roman didn't have an appointment. He had something far more valuable.

"Les?" he called out, barely able to stand. Leaning against the doorjamb, he couldn't feel his left hand, which was still in the same blood-soaked glove that helped him hide it at the hospital. His foot had gone dead almost an hour ago.

"Coming," a m.u.f.fled voice said from inside. As the pins and springs of the lock turned, the door opened, revealing a bushy-haired man with bifocals balanced on a plump nose. "Okay, what'd you do this ti-? Oh, jeez, is that blood?"

"I-I need-" Before he could finish, The Roman collapsed, falling forward through the doorway. As always, Dr. Les Benjamin caught him. That's what brothers-in-law were for.

30.

Mr. President, you remember Ms. Dodson . . . columnist for the Palm Beach Post Palm Beach Post," Wes said mid-handoff.

"Lisbeth," she insisted, extending a handshake and hoping to keep things light. She glanced back to Wes, who was already pale white.

"Lisbeth, I would've gotten your name," Manning promised. "Even if I don't know the donors, only a fool doesn't remember the press."

"I appreciate that, sir," Lisbeth said, believing his every word, even as she told herself not to. Could I be more pathetic? Could I be more pathetic? she asked herself, fighting off a strange desire to curtsy. Sacred Rule #7: Presidents lie best. "Nice to see you again, sir." she asked herself, fighting off a strange desire to curtsy. Sacred Rule #7: Presidents lie best. "Nice to see you again, sir."

"Is that Lisbeth?" the First Lady asked, knowing the answer as she moved in for her own cheek-to-cheek hug. "Oh, you know I adore your column," she gushed. "Except that piece when you listed how much Lee was tipping local waitresses. That one almost had me take you off our invite list."

"You actually did take me off," Lisbeth pointed out.

"Only for two weeks. Life's too short to hold a grudge."

Appreciating the honesty, Lisbeth couldn't help but smile. "You're a smart woman, Dr. Manning."

"Dear, we're the ones who're supposed to be currying favor with you-though I will say you can do better than silly little squibs about what people are tipping, which, let's just admit, is below you." Slapping her husband on the arm, she added, "Lee, give the girl a nice quote about cystic fibrosis research so she can do her job."

"Actually," Lisbeth began, "I'm just here . . ."

"We should get you onstage, sir," Wes interrupted.

". . . to see your right-hand men," Lisbeth added, pointing at Dreidel and Wes. "I'm doing a piece on loyalty. Thought maybe I could grab their quotes and turn them into superstars."

"Good-you should should," the President said, putting an arm around Dreidel. "This one's running for Senate. And if I still had the keys . . . he's Vice President caliber." The President paused, waiting for Lisbeth to write it down.

Pulling a notepad from her overstuffed black purse, Lisbeth took the cue and pretended to scribble. Over her shoulder, she could feel Wes seething.

"Don't worry," Lisbeth said to Manning. "I'll take it easy on them."

"Mr. President," a throaty female voice called out as they all turned to the middle-aged woman in the designer suit and matching designer hairdo. As honorary chairperson for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Myrna Opal tapped her diamond Chopard watch, determined to keep the program running on time. "I think we're ready, sir."

The instant the President took his first step toward the stage door, Wes fell in line right beside him. "Wes, I'm fine."

"I know, but it's . . ."

". . . less than ten feet to the door. I'll make it. And Dreidel-I hope you're at my table later."

He says the words while looking at Wes. In the White House, they used to follow etiquette and make sure the President was always sitting next to whomever he needed to be near. For four years, he didn't pick his tablemates. These days, he no longer bothered with political favors. It was the only perk of losing the White House. The President could finally sit next to the people he liked.

"Just make sure you get these nice cystic fibrosis folks in tomorrow's column," the First Lady added, motioning to Lisbeth.

"Yes, ma'am," Lisbeth blurted, never taking her eyes off Wes. He'd been around the world's best politicians for almost a decade, but he still was a novice when it came to hiding his own emotions. Nose flaring . . . fists tight . . . whatever he was burying, it was eating him alive.

"This way, sir," one of two Secret Service agents said, motioning the President and First Lady toward the stage door. Like mice behind the piper, the cystic fibrosis chairperson, and PR person, and fund-raising person, and photographer, and remaining honchos all fell in line behind them, an instant entourage that sucked every straggler from the room.

As the door slammed behind them, the quiet was overwhelming. To Lisbeth's surprise, Wes wasn't the only one to stay put. Dreidel was right next to him, a warm grin on his face.

"Come . . . sit," he offered, pointing to three empty seats at the cloth-covered round table that was used as a sign-in desk. Lisbeth obliged but wasn't fooled. Fear always brought out kindness. And if the hotshot state-senator-to-be was anxious, her B+ story just became an A-.

"So how'd the birthday party planning go?" she asked, pulling a seat up to the table.

"The what?" Dreidel asked.

"For Manning's birthday," Wes insisted. "Our meeting this morning . . ."

"Oh, it was great," Dreidel insisted, repatting the part in his hair and readjusting his wire-rim gla.s.ses. "I thought you meant my fundraiser."

"Figure out where you're gonna have it?" she added.

"Still deciding," Wes and Dreidel said simultaneously.

Lisbeth nodded. These guys were White House trained. They weren't falling for minor-league tricks. Better to go in soft. "C'mon, didn't you hear what the First Lady said?" she asked. "Adores the column. I'm not here to drink your blood." I'm not here to drink your blood."

"Then why'd you bring your cup?" Dreidel asked, pointing with his chin at her notepad.

"That's what's scaring you? What if I put it back in its holster?" she said, reaching under her seat and tucking the pad and pen back in her purse. Still bent over, she looked up, struggling to keep eye contact. "That better?" she asked.

"I was joking," Dreidel said, clearly playing nice. Without a doubt, it was his secret they were smuggling.

"Listen, fellas," Lisbeth begged. "Before you get all- d.a.m.n, sorry about this . . ." Reaching into the jacket pocket of her black suit, Lisbeth took out her cell phone and hit the Receive Receive b.u.t.ton. "Hey, Vincent . . . Yeah, I just . . . Oh, you're kidding. Hold on, gimme a sec," she said into the phone. Turning to Wes and Dreidel, she added, "Sorry, I gotta take this . . . it'll just be a minute." Before either of them could react, Lisbeth was out of her seat, speed-walking toward the main door. "Just watch my purse!" she called back to Dreidel and Wes, shoving her shoulder into the door and crossing into the ornate chandeliered lobby of the Kravis Center. With a tight grip on her phone, she pressed it to her ear. But the only things she heard were the voices of the two young men she'd just left inside. b.u.t.ton. "Hey, Vincent . . . Yeah, I just . . . Oh, you're kidding. Hold on, gimme a sec," she said into the phone. Turning to Wes and Dreidel, she added, "Sorry, I gotta take this . . . it'll just be a minute." Before either of them could react, Lisbeth was out of her seat, speed-walking toward the main door. "Just watch my purse!" she called back to Dreidel and Wes, shoving her shoulder into the door and crossing into the ornate chandeliered lobby of the Kravis Center. With a tight grip on her phone, she pressed it to her ear. But the only things she heard were the voices of the two young men she'd just left inside.

"You told her we were party planning party planning?" Dreidel hissed.

"What'd you want me to say?" Wes shot back. "That I was trying to save what was left of your marriage?"

Sacred Rule #8: If you really want to know what people think about you, leave the room and listen to what they say. Lisbeth learned this one the hard way on the Palm Beach party circuit, when a local socialite paid a parking valet $1,500 to eavesdrop on Lisbeth's conversation with a confidential source. A week later, Lisbeth saved the $1,500 and simply signed up for two separate cell phones. Today, cell phone A was in her purse, back with Wes and Dreidel. Cell phone B was pressed to her ear. When she put her notepad away, all it took was the press of a b.u.t.ton for A to speed-dial B. One faked important call later, Sacred Rule #8 proved why it would forever be in the top ten.

"But if she finds out about Boyle . . ." Wes said on the other line.

"Easy, poppa-she's not finding out about Boyle," Dreidel shot back. "Though speaking of which, tell me what you found . . ."

Alone in the lobby, Lisbeth stopped short, almost falling out of her scuffed high heels. Boyle? Boyle? She looked around, but no one was there. They were all inside, lost in the hum of She looked around, but no one was there. They were all inside, lost in the hum of An Evening with President Leland F. Manning. An Evening with President Leland F. Manning. Lisbeth could hear his voice rumbling off the main stage. A rush of excitement flushed her freckled cheeks. Finally . . . after all these years . . . an honest-to-G.o.d A+. Lisbeth could hear his voice rumbling off the main stage. A rush of excitement flushed her freckled cheeks. Finally . . . after all these years . . . an honest-to-G.o.d A+.

31.

Ahhh!" The Roman roared as Benjamin used sterilized scissors to cut the dead gray skin from the edges of the wound in his palm. "That hurts hurts!"