“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 help.”
I take a deep breath and bury it all away. “So assuming there was a threat on Boyle’s life at the time, why not just take him to the hospital?”
“That’s the nail I keep stepping on. They caught Nico… Boyle was injured, but obviously alive… why pretend you’re dead and walk away from your life and your entire family? Maybe that’s what they were talking about during those twelve minutes in the ambulance. Maybe that’s when Boyle made his decision to hide.”
I shake my head. “In twelve minutes? You can’t just shuck your whole life in twelve minutes — especially when you’re bleeding out of your neck. They had to’ve made plans before that.”
“They?” Dreidel asks.
“C’mon, this isn’t like hiding from your little brother in a pillow fort. To pull something this big off, you need the Service, plus the ambulance driver, plus the doctor who took care of his neck.” I pause for a moment to make the point clear. “Plus someone to authorize it.”
Dreidel lowers his chin, looking at me from just above the rounded rim of his glasses. He knows what I’m getting at. “You really think he’d—? You think he’d do that?”
It’s the question I’ve been fighting with since the moment I saw Boyle’s fake name back at that hotel. You don’t use that name to hide. You use it so someone can find you. “I just… I don’t see how the President wouldn’t know. Back then, Manning couldn’t pee in a bush unless someone checked it first. If Boyle was wearing a vest — which he clearly had to’ve been — there had to be a credible threat. And if there was a credible threat… and extra blood in the ambulance… and contingencies in place to make sure Boyle was safe… Manning had to’ve signed off on that.”
“Unless Albright signed off for him,” Dreidel counters, referring to our old chief of staff and the one other person in the limo with us that day at the speedway.
It’s a fair point, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to an answer. Albright died of testicular cancer three years ago. “Now you’re blaming it all on a corpse?”
“Doesn’t make it any less credible,” Dreidel challenges. “Albright used to sign off on security details all the time.”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Manning and Boyle had known each other since college. If Boyle was planning on disappearing, that’s a hell of a prank to pull on a friend, much less the President of the United States.”
“You joking? Boyle walked away from his family, his wife… even his own daughter. Look at the full picture, Wes: Nico the nutjob takes a potshot at the President. Instead, he hits Boyle square in the chest. But instead of going to the hospital to get patched up, Boyle takes that exact moment to fake his own death and disappear off the face of the earth. You do something like that, you’ve obviously got a damn good reason.”
“Like father, like son?” I ask.
“Yeah, I thought about that. Problem is, Boyle’s dad was just a petty scumbag. This is… this is big-league. With a capital big.”
“Maybe Boyle hired Nico. Maybe the shooting was a giant smoke screen to give Boyle a way to get out.”
“Way too Mission: Impossible sequels,” Dreidel says. “If Nico misses, you’re risking a head shot. More important, if the Service was helping, they’re not putting the President, and his staff, and 200,000 spectators in danger while entrusting it all to some whacked looney tune. You’ve seen Nico in the interviews — he’s Stephen King-movie crazy. If Boyle wanted to do this to himself, he’d fake a heart attack at home and be done with it.”
“So you think when Nico fired those shots, Boyle and the Service just used the instant chaos to sneak him out of there?” I ask, trying hard to keep it to a whisper.
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is, for Boyle to put on a bulletproof vest, he must’ve been expecting something. I mean, you don’t bring an umbrella unless you think it’s gonna rain, right?”
I nod, unable to argue. Still, it doesn’t get us any closer to the why. Why was Nico taking shots at Boyle? Why was Manning’s motorcade traveling around with Boyle’s blood? And why would Boyle walk away from his life, his wife, and his teenage daughter? I mean, what could possibly tempt — or terrify — a man so much that he’d throw his entire life away?