The Book Of Fate Part 24

Unconvinced, Micah checked his rearview for the fourth time, then glanced over at O'Shea's elbow resting in the open window. "You should close that up," he said, motioning to the window. "In case he comes . . ."

"Micah, it's seventy-two degrees here. In December. You know how cold it was in France? Let me enjoy the d.a.m.n warmth."

"But Wes could-"

"It's under control."

"Yeah, just like this," Micah said, jabbing a finger at the photo of Nico on the front page of the newspaper that wilted across the armrest between them.

"What, you still think that was The Roman?" O'Shea asked.

"How could it not be? Boyle gets spotted . . . Nico gets out . . . h.e.l.l of a coincidence, don't you think?"

O'Shea nodded, finally looking up from the crossword. "But if he used Wes's name to get in . . ."

"I'm just glad you got it purged from the official report. If that went out, the whole world would've swarmed Wes's front steps, and we'd've lost our best-"

"Tsssttt!" O'Shea hissed, cutting Micah off. Behind them, a familiar voice echoed off the walls of the garage.

"-e should still call the office," Wes said as Dreidel followed him up the concrete incline.

"Why, just to panic them?" Dreidel asked.

Studying their respective side mirrors, O'Shea and Micah watched the scene unfold diagonally behind them. From their spot in the garage, they had a perfect view of the pa.s.senger side of Wes's Toyota. And it didn't take anything more than that to notice Rogo was missing.

"Where's the fat kid?" Micah whispered.

"Hitting on the girl?" O'Shea guessed.

Just as Wes stepped around to the driver's-side door and opened the locks, his car keys slipped from his hand. Spinning to catch them, he twisted toward Micah and O'Shea, who didn't flinch. From their angle in the garage, they were near impossible to spot.

There was a loud clink as the keys. .h.i.t the pavement. For a fraction of a second, O'Shea saw Wes's glance turn toward him. O'Shea still didn't move. No way was Wes that good.

"What's wrong?" Dreidel called out to his friend.

O'Shea stared in his pa.s.senger-side mirror and stood his ground. Next to him, watching his own rearview, Micah did the same. They'd been at this too long to panic.

"You hear something?" Wes asked.

"Don't get paranoid," Dreidel warned.

In the edge of his mirror, O'Shea could see the outline of the back of Wes's head as he turned to his Toyota, picked his keys up off the ground, and slid into the car.

"No, you're right," Wes replied.

Within seconds, the Toyota's engine grumbled to life and its wheels screeched against the concrete.

Following years of training, Micah waited before going for the ignition. At least until they heard the metallic thunk of Wes's Toyota cresting over the speed b.u.mp just outside the garage.

By the time Micah and O'Shea reached the speed b.u.mp, Wes's Toyota was pulling into traffic, making a sharp left back onto South Dixie.

"Any idea where he's headed?"

"I'm guessing his office . . ."

"Guess again," O'Shea said as the Toyota made another sharp left at the first traffic light-in the opposite direction of Manning's office.

Carefully staying at least three cars back, Micah pulled his own quick left just as the Toyota blew past a sign for I-95. "He's driving fast."

"Maybe headed for the highway," O'Shea guessed as the Toyota took off, shrinking in the distance. Calm as ever, Micah stayed tucked behind two minivans and a white Honda, never losing focus on the two heads in the front seat of Wes's car.

Sure enough, a minute later, the Toyota veered left, following signs for I-95 South and hugging to the curve of the on-ramp at Belvedere Road. But as they merged onto the highway, Micah and O'Shea were surprised to see that Wes wasn't picking up speed. He was slowing down.

"He's at fifty-five exactly," Micah said, checking the speedometer. "Think he's trying to flush us out?"

Pointing to the nearest exit sign, O'Shea said, "Maybe he's just headed home."

"Strike one," Micah said as the Toyota merged into the middle lane of the highway. "Okeechobee's the other way."

"What about the airport?"

"Strike two," Micah said as Wes's car chugged past the runways at Southern Boulevard. "Wanna go for a third?"

Falling silent, O'Shea reached outside his window and readjusted his side mirror.

"You got something?"

"Unclear," O'Shea replied, studying the cars behind him. "Just don't let him get too far."

Tucked behind a car carrier filled with SUVs, O'Shea and Micah spent the next twenty minutes trailing Wes's Toyota as it continued south on 95, past Lake Worth, and Lantana, and Boynton Beach, and Delray . . . cruising past each city, but never going more than sixty miles an hour, never weaving through traffic, never leaving the middle lane. Through the unwashed back window, with cars zipping past them on both sides, Wes and Dreidel sat perfectly still, never panicking or checking over their shoulders. It was almost as if they weren't in a rush. Or didn't have a place to- "Pull up," O'Shea blurted.

"What're you-?"

"Let's go-get up there," he insisted, patting the dashboard and pointing through the windshield. "Now."

Micah punched the gas, and O'Shea's head snapped back, his sandy-blond hair b.u.mping for a half second against the headrest. As their car slid out from behind the car carrier, it didn't take Micah long to weave across traffic and pull right behind Wes.

For the first time since he got on the highway, Wes merged into the far left lane, speeding up just enough to keep pace with a convertible Mercedes on their right.

With another punch of the gas, Micah tugged the wheel to the left, plowing the car into the poorly paved emergency lane on the inside shoulder of the road. Pebbles, trash, and shards of shattered gla.s.s spun under the tires, swirling in the car's wake. Careful to keep the driver's side from sc.r.a.ping against the concrete divider, Micah had no trouble catching up to Wes's Toyota, which was still barely doing sixty.

As they pulled neck and neck, Wes's window slowly rolled down.

"Careful driving in that lane-it's illegal illegal!" Rogo shouted from the driver's seat, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel as the two cars whipped down the highway. The only other occupant was Dreidel, who refused to make eye contact.

"Son of a-"

Ramming the brakes at a sign marked Emergency Vehicles Only Emergency Vehicles Only, Micah cranked the steering wheel toward the open patch of gra.s.s on his left, skidding into a U-turn and heading back the way they came.

At this rate, Wes already had at least an hour head start.

55.

Flat on my back underneath a silver Audi, I press my chin to my chest and stare out between the back tires and sagging m.u.f.fler into the silence of the Palm Beach Post Palm Beach Post's parking garage. It's been nearly fifteen minutes since Rogo and Dreidel pulled out in my Toyota. And nearly fourteen minutes since O'Shea and Micah's blue Chevy slinked down the incline of the garage and trailed Rogo out to the street.

Based on the mic in my lapel pin, we knew we were dealing with pros. Dreidel said it was the FBI. We needed to see if he was right.

When Dreidel and I first came down to my car, I pulled out my keys and popped the locks. But it wasn't until I gripped the door handle that I spotted his shadow underneath. Below the car, Rogo stuck his head out like a mechanic and pumped his eyebrows.

"You owe me a new suit," he'd whispered from a puddle of grease.

All he needed was ten minutes of lead time to crawl on his stomach underneath the cars.

"You're lucky I fit," he'd said.

Looking up at the grease- and dirt-caked axle directly above me, he was right about that. Just like he was right that if we pulled it off fast enough, no one would notice.

I had to step back to give him some room, but from there, Rogo was a pro. I pulled open the car door just as he rolled out from underneath. Dropping my keys covered most of the sound. Even I started to get excited. Climbing to his knees, Rogo held up his fingers to count. One . . . two . . . One . . . two . . .

In one quick motion, I ducked down to pick up my keys just as Rogo popped up in my place and slid into my car.

"No, you're right," I'd called out from the ground to complete the illusion. With a quick roll, I went under the car next to mine, which is where I've been ever since. Houdini would've been proud.

Staring out between the back tires, I turn on my side, and my elbow slides through the grease. By now, Rogo should have O'Shea and Micah halfway to Boca Raton. Still, I'm not sure what's worse. The fact that they were watching, or the fact we got rid of them. With Nico still out there . . . At least with the FBI around, I was safe.

As I'm about to roll out, there's a faint creak on my left. Hushed . . . like corduroy rubbing together. Craning my neck and peering out from under the car, I search the pocked concrete floor of the garage. The sound's long gone. But something else takes its place.

I know it from years of people's stares. It's even worse in public places-at a movie or in the supermarket-when they're trying to pretend they don't care. There's no scientific term to explain it. But I feel it every day. At this point, I've probably honed it. That haunting tug at the back of your skull . . . the nearly telepathic scream that demands you turn around. That indescribable feeling when you know you're being watched.

A single set of footsteps echoes through the garage, followed by the mild roar of another engine.

Right on time.

Tires churn and brakes squeal as the car flies in reverse up the ramp, backing halfway into my Toyota's now-empty parking spot. Rolling out from my hiding place, I'm face-to-face with a full row of Grateful Dead b.u.mper stickers, which lurch to a stop barely an inch from my forehead.

"Hey, magic man-David Copperfield called . . . wants to know if you can still sub for him next Thursday?" Lisbeth says, leaning out the driver's-side window.

Most people would laugh, which is the only reason I force a grin. She doesn't buy it for a second. Fake smiles are a gossip columnist's bread and b.u.t.ter. Climbing to my feet, I brush the dirt from my clothes.

"If it makes you feel better, Wes, all the hiding and rolling under cars? That was the scary part."

She waits for some plucky response like I'm some lantern-jawed action-movie hero. "That's not even true," I tell her.

Shaking her head, she studies me carefully. "Is it actually against the law to try and cheer you up?"

Again, she waits for a smile. Again, I don't give it.

"Just get in the car, Wes. The only way we're pulling this off is if we move fast."

She's right about that. Hopping in the pa.s.senger seat, I slam the door as Lisbeth tosses me a silver cell phone with a little ladybug sticker on it.

"I traded with a friend who writes for the gardening section," she explains. "Now we're untraceable."

Refusing to celebrate, I flip open the phone and punch in the number.

"It's a beautiful day in President Manning's office. How can I help you?" the receptionist answers.

"Jana, it's Wes. Can you put me through to Oren?"

"Hiya, Wes. Of course-transferring you to Oren right now." There's a soft click, two chirps, and then . . .

"This is Oren," my officemate answers.

"How we looking?"

"They're getting it set up right now," he replies. He's even faster than I thought. "All you have to do is go pick it up."

I nod to Lisbeth. She rams the gas. And away we go.

56.

Got everything you need?" the secretary asked The Roman as he left Bev's office and trudged across the presidential seal carpet in the main reception area.

"Apparently so," The Roman replied, hiding his bandaged hand from view. "Though I-"

The receptionist's phone rang on her desk. "Oop-excuse me," she said, putting on her headset. "It's a beautiful day in President Manning's office. How can I help you?"

The Roman headed for the door.

The receptionist waved good-bye, never taking her attention away from the caller on her headset. "Hiya, Wes. Of course-transferring you to Oren right now . . ."

The Roman stopped midstep, the toe of his left foot digging into the head of the eagle on the presidential seal. A thin grin returned to his face as he pivoted around.

Tapping a few b.u.t.tons on her phone, the receptionist sent the call on its way and looked up at her guest. "I'm sorry . . . you were saying?"

"Just that I need some directions," The Roman replied, pointing left, then right. "Which way is Oren's office again?"