The Book of Fate by Brad Meltzer Page A

President’s B-positive. Naturally, they assumed someone made a mistake and brought the wrong blood. But knowing who you saw at the speech that night—well, guess who else happened to be O-negative?”
    “Boyle?”
    “And that’s how he pulled off his big magic trick.”
    “It wasn’t a magic trick,” I insist.
    “No, you’re right. But it
was
an illusion.” Waving his left hand back and forth in front of me, he adds, “You’re so busy watching the moving hand, you completely ignore the sly hand’s misdirection.” From his right hand, he drops a quarter on the table.
    “Way to be melodramatic,” I point out.
    He shakes his head as if I’m missing the point. “Do you have any idea what you’ve stumbled onto? This thing was more fixed than a Harlem Globetrotters game. You, me, Congress, the whole world . . . we got—” He leans in close, lowering his voice. “We got
fooled
, Wes. They lied. I mean, if that was really Boyle—”
    “It was him! I saw him!”
    “I’m not saying you didn’t. I just . . .” He looks around, his voice getting even quieter. “This isn’t one of those petty news stories they save until the end of the broadcast.”
    He’s right about that. “I don’t understand, though—why would the President’s ambulance be hauling around Boyle’s blood?”
    “I know. That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dreidel asks. “But when you pick it apart, only one explanation makes sense. They only carry around blood . . .”
    “. . . when they think someone’s life is in danger.” I pick up the quarter and tap it against the white tablecloth. “Oh, God. If they were expecting it . . . you think Boyle was wearing a vest?”
    “Had to,” Dreidel says. “He took two shots in the chest . . .”
    “But all that blood—”
    “. . . and one shot that went through the back of his hand and straight into his neck. Read the report, Wes. Nico was an army-trained sniper who specialized in heart shots. Boyle went facedown the moment it happened. That shot to the neck . . . I’ll bet that’s what you saw pooling below him.”
    I close my eyes and hear myself offering to put Boyle in the limo. There’s a jagged piece of metal in my cheek. The bumblebee’s still screaming . . . “But if he was wearing a vest . . .” I look out toward the ocean. The waves are deafening. “. . . th-they knew. They had to’ve known . . .”
    “Wes, will you stop—” Dreidel cuts himself off and lowers his voice. We don’t need anyone staring. “They didn’t know,” he whispers. “They could’ve had an open threat on Boyle’s life. He could’ve been wearing that vest for a month. In fact, according to the report, the President
wasn’t
wearing
his
vest that day. Didja hear that?” He waits until I nod, just to make sure I’m focused. “If they’d known there was a gunman, Manning never would’ve been there, much less been allowed to go without that vest.”
    “Unless he
was
wearing one and that’s just part of their story,” I point out.
    “Listen, I know you’re close to this—”
    “Close to it? It ruined my life! D’you understand that?” I finally explode. “This wasn’t just some crappy afternoon. Little kids point at me and hide behind their moms! I can’t fucking smile anymore! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
    The restaurant goes silent. Every single person is looking at us. The preppy family with two twin girls. The sandy-haired man with the U.S. Open cap. Even our waiter, who quickly approaches, hoping to calm things down.
    “Everything okay, sir?”
    “Yeah . . . sorry . . . we’re fine,” I tell him as he fills our coffee cups that don’t need refilling.
    As the waiter leaves, Dreidel watches me closely, giving me a moment. It’s how he taught me to deal with the President when he loses his cool. Put your head down and let the fire burn itself out.
    “I’m okay,” I tell him.
    “I knew you would be,” he says. “Just remember, I’m here to