The Lightning Rod: A Zig & Nola Novel (Zig & Nola #2)
Brad Meltzer
Dedication
For my grandfather Ben Rubin,
my Poppy,
whose unrelenting kindness
helped me realize who I want to be
Epigraph
In each of us there is another, whom we do not know.
—Carl Jung
Prologue
Elmswood, Pennsylvania
These were the last fourteen minutes of his life.
“Wojo, you’re up,” a valet with watery eyes announced as a midnight-blue BMW turned the corner and crept up the driveway.
Anthony Wojowicz was older—thirty-two, which made him practically geriatric in the valet scene. But with parents who worked in the mine—truly in the mine; his stepdad worked days, his mom used to work the hoot-owl shift overnight—Wojo wasn’t afraid of hard work.
Ever since he was little, Wojo had considered himself a lucky guy. When he was a kid, a pickup truck hit his friend as they stepped off the curb, missing Wojo by inches. It was the same when his older cousin stole Wojo’s Halloween candy one year, then got sick from a pot brownie that was accidentally distributed. As Wojo got older, his overstyled messy black hair starting to recede, everything didn’t go his way—his ex-wife was proof of that. But he was lucky to have his new girlfriend (he’d met her in an elevator, of all places), lucky that they found that mole on his back early, and especially lucky that when he got fired from LensCrafters, he found this job, parking cars at Barron’s Steakhouse.
During his time at LensCrafters, Wojo’s child support was deducted directly from his paycheck. Here, as a valet, he got tips in cash, which not only gave him some breathing room, but also gave him a way to save up for that birthday party at the indoor skydiving place in Philly that Gabriella, his ten-year-old daughter, was begging for. His ex said no to the party. But with what Wojo was going to clear this weekend? He’d have enough to say yes.
With a quick rub of his crooked nose, Wojo jogged toward the BMW, forcing a smile at the driver. Years ago, his stepdad had told him that anyone who drives a BMW has a small penis. Wojo always liked his stepdad. And the fact that the car here was a 2013 128i coupe? C’mon. There were Camrys more expensive than that.
Small fry, Wojo decided. Not nearly big enough for what he had planned.
“Good evening,” Wojo announced as the door to the BMW swung open. “Welcome to Barron’s Steakhou—”
“Don’t readjust my seat,” a commanding baritone insisted. The fortysomething driver was big—built like a bulldozer—and the car seemed to tip as he got out. Stubborn lips. Military posture. The buzzed blond hair made Wojo think of Captain America. But it wasn’t until the man stood up straight that Wojo spotted his seven-thousand-dollar Panerai watch.
Before Wojo could say a word, the driver slapped his keys against Wojo’s chest.
Fwap.
That was the moment—as the keys smacked him in the chest, as Captain America brushed past him without any eye contact—that Wojo made a fatal decision.
“After this, I’m on break, yes?” Wojo called out to his watery-eyed boss.
Watery Eyes nodded. That would give Wojo twenty minutes.
Sliding into the BMW, Wojo readjusted the front seat and put the car into drive. The interior was pristine, but Wojo’s eyes were on the rearview as he waited for Captain America to disappear into the restaurant.
With a tap of the gas, the car inched forward, toward the valet lot. But as soon as Wojo arrived in the lot, he headed for the lot’s back exit, made a quick left, and hit the gas, out onto Route 1.
On the steering wheel, he pressed the small button that showed the cartoon headshot of a little man with three tiny parentheses coming out of his mouth. There was a loud beep. Voice command.
“Go home!” Wojo announced.
The center screen lit up and an address appeared. 2678 Ocean Avenue. Wojo grinned. Like anyone else in middle age, Captain America was too old to realize nothing good comes from putting your home address into your car’s GPS.
“Start Guidance,” Wojo said, hitting the button again.
“Plotting a route to . . . home,” the female computer voice replied.
Nine minutes away. Not bad at all. Lucky, lucky.
Wojo thought again of the seven-thousand-dollar watch. Good sign. So was the address on Ocean Avenue.
Even now, as he turned off Route 1 and passed the golf course that marked the edge of Elmswood’s oldest suburb, Wojo told himself he was a good person. He didn’t think of himself as a thief. But he was. His rationalization was his daughter, of course, and that he was always a gentleman about it. When it came to picking marks, he only chose the snobs, the ones so caught up in their own self-importance, they couldn’t muster a simple hello or, God forbid, a thank you.
Manners. Decency. What the hell was wrong with the world these days?
More important, Wojo was smart about it. He wouldn’t run in and rob people blind. If he did, it wouldn’t take long for the police to figure out that all the victims had eaten dinner at the same restaurant.
He had rules and he stuck to them. Trips like this were only once a month (twice during that month when his sister was going through her divorce). And instead of grabbing everything in sight, he only took one item: A ring. A bracelet. On his best night, a sapphire necklace.