by Brad Meltzer
Rupert tugged the juice cart back into the hallway, and Dr. Gosling pulled the door closed behind them. As it was about to shut, Rupert saw Nico looking down at his lap. He couldn’t tell if Nico was staring at the book or the juice. But there was no mistaking this: that dark, haunting smile. Nico was definitely happy about something.
“He’s doing well, don’t you think?” Dr. Gosling asked as they both walked back toward the nurses’ station.
As the door shut behind the two men, Nico kept his head down, focusing on the quiet that returned to his room.
“He’s doing well, don’t you think?” Dr. Gosling asked out in the hallway.
To anyone else, it’d be too hard to hear. But Nico’s hearing was more acute than the average person’s. He could hear what others couldn’t. And see too.
“You don’t like it when they ignore me, do you?” the dead First Lady asked, standing in the corner of the room.
“Shhh,” Nico whispered, still focusing on Rupert and Dr. Gosling.
“Nico, do you even know how lucky you got?” the First Lady asked. “With all the money they spent on this building, the doors still aren’t thick enough to mask the sound.”
Nico nodded. That’d be useful. “It’s good to know when someone’s coming.”
“Sure is,” the First Lady said. “And it’s even better to know about the bang before the bang happens.”
Refusing to take a sip of his apple juice, Nico looked down at the leather book that he’d intentionally left in the downstairs restroom. Thumbing through it, he stopped on the playing-card bookmark: the ten of diamonds on here. Behind it was another card. A new card. The ace of clubs.
Message received. The third Knight was on his way.
51
Tot was tired as he followed the checkerboard floor down the long basement hallway. He wanted to go home. He needed the rest. But right now, in the basement of the National Archives, he needed something else even more. If the Knights of the Golden Circle were truly back…
He picked up his pace. He’d have the answer soon enough.
Checking one last time over his shoulder, he stopped at the room with no room numbers on it—the thick glass door with beige horizontal blinds.
He knew the glass was bulletproof. He knew the treasures that were stored inside. And he knew better than to knock. The hidden camera above the doorjamb already announced his arrival.
Underneath the door, the lights were off. Tot didn’t budge.
Sure enough, within seconds, there was a muffled click and the heavy door opened.
“You really are a pain in my ass,” a man in a crisp white lab coat said, running a manicured hand over his perfect, brushed-back blond hair. Daniel “the Diamond” Boeckman. The head of Preservation, and a master of ancient documents. “This better be life-or-death,” the Diamond added.
From his jacket pocket, Tot unfolded a color photocopy of a mottled and worn ace of spades.
“It is,” Tot said as he eased the bulletproof door shut. “Now, how much do you know about playing cards?”
52
Eighteen years ago
Sagamore, Wisconsin
Marshmallow loved sleeping at Beecher’s house.
And not because of the food, which, when you’re twelve years old, is one of the greatest benefits of a sleepover at a friend’s house. Back then, as everyone knew, Marshall’s house was the one with the best food. Cap’n Crunch… Lucky Charms… Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles, plus two different flavors of Pringles and you could drink Yoo-Hoo at dinner, not just as a treat. Forever compensating for having a husband in a wheelchair, Marshall’s mom made sure her son had it all.
When Marshall slept at Beecher’s, he had to slum his way through Honey Nut Cheerios and regular Cheerios.
But as Marshall was all too aware, Beecher’s house had the one thing his house would never have.
A teenage sister.
Two weeks ago, right before bed, Marshmallow was coming out of the bathroom just as Beecher’s sister Lesley stepped into the hallway. She was wearing a sky blue nightgown that came well below her knees. But Marshall could still see her ankles. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. Galactic, he thought to himself.
“If you even say a word to me, I promise your penis will fall off,” Lesley threatened.
Keeping his head down and rushing around her, back to Beecher’s bedroom, the chubby Marshmallow kept quiet.
He was mortified. And already making plans for the next sleepover.
“Beecher, maybe this isn’t smart,” Marshmallow whispered, two weeks later, now regretting that decision. “We don’t even know if they’re coming up here.”
“They’re coming. They have to,” Beecher insisted as the two of them knelt in the dark, peeking out from inside Beecher’s sister’s closet. “Don’t be such a coward.”
They heard the rumbling, like thunder, of half a dozen teenage girls racing up the stairs, and then saw the crowd of them burst into the pale pink bedroom, scattering and gossiping as they stole seats on the bed, at the desk, across the carpet with the daisy edges.
Marshall saw her immediately. At the back of the crowd, walking hesitantly. The last girl to enter the room. The girl who had just moved back to town. Clementine.
Now it all made sense.
“You knew she’d be here, didn’t you?” Marshall whispered.
Beecher didn’t answer, his eyes stuck on Clementine.
“Beecher, can I break the news to you now? She doesn’t like you.”
“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Beecher whispered.
“Doesn’t matter. You oogle.”
“I’m in puberty. I’m allowed to oogle. Besides, you oogle my sister.”
Marshmallow pushed his glasses up on his nose, still focused on Clementine. “How’d she get invited anyway? She’s not friends with your sister,” he whispered, leaning his nose toward the crack of the door.
“My mom felt bad for her—new girl, new school—she told my sister that Clementine had to be invited.”
“And she came? If Andy Levey invited me to his house, I wouldn’t—”
“Shhhh,” Beecher hissed as one of the girls—a short and bossy one named Rita—called out…
“Okay, who’s playing?”
Within seconds, a small circle formed at the center of the room. Girls scooched in, then out, to make more room. In the best childhood games, no one had to discuss the rules.
Beecher’s sister reached under her bed and pulled out an empty glass Diet Coke bottle.
“Please, God in heaven, I’ll go to church every day if these girls start making out with each other,” Marshmallow whispered.
Beecher flicked Marshmallow’s ear. He took the hint. Be quiet.
With a sharp twist, Beecher’s sister gave the bottle its first spin. A few girls smiled. A few looked terrified. But every girl in the circle shifted with a nearly imperceptible flinch as the bottle twirled past them. Everyone but Clementine, who—as Beecher noticed—was still standing awkwardly, her hands behind her back, by the door.
“And the winnah is…!” Beecher’s sister announced.
The girls began laughing, clapping, squealing as the bottle stopped and pointed at the short, bossy girl who just a minute ago had called the game to order. Her wavy brown hair was tied in a messy braid that was slowly coming undone. Rita.
“Sorry, sweetie,” Beecher’s sister sang as Rita got on her knees and crawled into the center of the circle.
From the closet, Beecher saw the forced smile on Rita’s face, and the terror in her eyes.
“Who wants to start?” Lesley asked as Rita sat Indian-style in the center of the circle. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Your house smells like pickles,” one of the girls, a blonde with braces, called out as everyone laughed.
“Your mom drives that dumpy old Mercury Capri,” a girl in a unicorn sweatshirt added as Rita pretended to laugh with the group.
“You look better from far away,
” another called out.
The group giggled at that one, but it caused a pause in the action.
Watching from the closet, Beecher assumed that they were now feeling bad—that they had taken the game What’s Wrong With You too far. Until…
“You st-st-stutter when you read out loud,” a girl with a gold cross around her neck blurted.
“I know you stuffed your bra for Reina Pizzuti’s birthday at the bowling alley!”
“You stuffed it for my birthday too!” another girl yelled.
“Stovetop stuffing!” the girl with the gold cross added.
“Stovetop stuffing!” Lesley repeated.
“St-st-stovetop!” the blonde with braces added, getting the biggest laughs of all.
At the center of the circle, Rita tried to hold her smile in place, but it wobbled. A swell of tears built just behind her eyes.
From the closet, Marshall looked back at Beecher. “Girls are like… evil bitches.”
“What was that!?” someone shouted.
“From over there!” another yelled.
The crowd went quiet.
Beecher froze, hiding his eyes by staring down at the closet’s wood floor, which was a mess of shoes. He held his breath. Marshmallow did the same. No one was pointing at them. Maybe they didn’t—
The door to the closet flew open as the burst of bright lights attacked their retinas. “You little rat fink!” Beecher’s sister screamed. “You’re dead for this!”
Beecher scrambled backward, deeper into the closet. But with nowhere to go, he was tripping, tumbling, stumbling over the mess of shoes.
“Grab him!” a girl yelled.
Before he knew what was happening, the group of girls were grunting and pulling…
But not at Beecher.
“Get the fat one!” someone shouted.
“Nonono… please…!” Marshmallow pleaded as they dragged him from the closet. The girls were bigger—and two years older. Marshall didn’t have a chance. He tried grabbing Beecher’s shirt, then the cuffs of his jeans, but at the back of the closet, Beecher was tucked down, curled into his own self-preserving ball.
With a final tug, Marshall was out—literally pulled onto the worn yellow carpet with the daisy edges. The girls didn’t have to say a word. The circle formed instantly around him.
“You fat little shit!” Beecher’s sister shouted. “I should tell Pastor Riis what you did!”
“Y’know the pastor’s screwing your mom!” the girl with the gold cross added.
“That’s not true!” Marshall said.
“I heard he’s screwing her because your dad’s penis is even more broken than his legs,” the blonde with braces added.
“That’s why you’re an only child!” another girl said.
“I bet your penis is broken too!” Rita chimed in as the group let out their collective giggles and laugh.
“Broken penis!”
“Little penis!”
“No penis!”
The laughter grew louder as Marshall lay there, curled on the carpet, covering his head like he was in one of those 1950s Cold War instructional videos trying to protect himself from an atomic bomb.
In the back corner of the closet, as Beecher jammed himself against a row of once neatly hanging sweatshirts, he felt the empty clothes hug him, like cotton ghosts.
“They call you Marshmallow because you’ve got those boy boobs too, don’t you, fatty?” one of the girls called out.
“His dad has man-boobs too. Bigger than his mom’s!”
“Maybe the pastor’s screwing your dad too!”
The circle tightened around Marshall, like a gang when they start kicking their victim.
“Don’t cry, fatty!” Rita threatened as Marshall’s body started to shake.
Of course, Beecher wanted to stop them. Wanted to race out and help his friend and scream to stop them all. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, he thought. They were older. And bigger. How could he take on a roomful of—?
“That’s enough,” a girl’s voice interrupted. Calmly. Confidently.
The room turned.
Still embraced by the ghost-sweatshirts, Beecher peered out from the closet. He knew who it was.
Clementine.
“What’d you just say?” Beecher’s sister challenged.
“Listen, if it was my little brother, I’d kill him too,” Clementine said. “So go kill your brother. But don’t think you’re all-powerful just because you can pick on the fat kid who can’t fight back.”
The room went silent.
“Listen, bitch—you weren’t even really invited to this party,” the short bossy girl named Rita jumped in.
“You think I wanna be here? I’d rather gouge my eyes out than look at some Napoleon-teenbitch who’s so insecure she can’t remember how much the same thing hurt two minutes ago.” Turning to Marshall, Clementine added, “C’mon, get up.”
Jamming his fingers underneath his glasses to wipe his eyes, Marshmallow slowly rose to his feet. He didn’t say anything. He simply followed Clementine to the door.
Beecher watched it all from the closet. Clementine was incredible. Even more incredible than he had thought before.
But as she disappeared and Marshall trailed behind her, Beecher was still waiting for Marshall to turn back to him. He waited for Marshall to take one last glance over his shoulder.
Beecher kept waiting for his friend to look.
Marshall never did. He didn’t need to.
Beecher knew what had happened—he knew he was the cause of this.
And the sad truth was, it wouldn’t be the worst pain that Beecher would cause for Marshall Lusk.
53
Today
Get out of my house!” I shout.
“Benjy, listen to me…” Clementine pleads, using the old nickname my mom used to call me.
“Get out!”
“Beecher, before you—”
“Get the hell out of my house!” I insist, rushing forward and swinging my briefcase at her.
She hops from the chair but doesn’t take a single step away from me.
Her smell—a mix of caramel and a pinch of peach from her lip gloss—washes over me, reminding me of our kiss two months ago. She’s wearing the same tight black sweater from that first day we reconnected. It’s not nearly enough to make me forget what happened after that.
“Beecher, just listen.”
“Listen!? You’re a liar. You’re a manipulator. And the last time we were together, you—oh yeah—you murdered someone!” I yell the words so loud, they burn my throat. “I’m calling the cops. They’re going to arrest you,” I tell her coldly as I reach for my phone.
“No. You won’t,” she challenges. “That doesn’t help either of us.”
I dial 911 and hit—
Her hand whips out, slapping the phone from my grip. It rockets against the armrest of the sofa and ricochets off the floor, skittering under the coffee table.
“Are you insane!?” I ask. Then I remember who her father is. Of course she’s insane.
I dart for the phone. She grabs my wrist.
I try to pull away. She’s holding so tight, her nails dig into the underside of my wrist.
“Get… off!” I shout, fighting to pull free and giving her a hard shove that slams her in the shoulder, catching her off balance and sending her stumbling backward.
Her feet hook on the carpet and she falls like a cut tree. The back of her head hits the edge of one of the lower shelves on a nearby bookcase, and her head snaps forward. A few picture frames sky-dive from the higher shelves, crashing next to her.
Heading for the coffee table, I reach for my phone.
“Beecher, can you please calm down a second?”
Thankfully, my cell’s not broken.
“I’m serious, Beecher! You need to listen!”
Again, I dial 911.
“You really think I came here without a good reason?” Clementine pleads. Her voice is desperate now
.
I hit send and wait as it rings.
“I didn’t come here empty-handed!” she says, struggling to sit up. She reaches behind her back like she’s pulling something from her waistband.
If she has a gun—
“You need to pay attention,” Clementine says, pulling out a…
… folded-up sheet of paper.
No gun. In my ear, 911 rings for the second time.
“Beecher, you need to see this. It’s written by your father.”
“Everything you say is a lie, Clementine.”
“Not this time, Beecher. It’s a letter he wrote.”
“And that’s how you planned to hook me in? That’s as low as you could go? By using a letter that my dead father supposedly wrote to me?”
“He didn’t write it to you. He wrote it to your mother.”
On the third ring, I hear a click as the operator picks up. “Emergency Assistance. What is your location?”
“What’re you talking about?” I ask. “It’s a love letter?”
“No,” Clementine says. “It’s his suicide note.”
54
Most people made small talk with Julie Lyons. She knew why. It’s not that they liked her. They knew where she sat, and what she was in charge of.
Back during the President’s term as governor in Ohio, Julie—a fifty-four-year-old, square-faced woman who, around her neck, wore gold charms with her kids’ names on them—did all of Wallace’s scheduling. Today, her job was exactly the same, making her the only person who sat in the small room that connected to the Oval Office—and more important, the official gatekeeper for anyone who wanted to see the President.
“Hey, Julie—how’s it going?” most staffers asked.
“You do something new with your hair?” the real suck-ups would add.
“How’s your daughter doing at Dartmouth?” the smart ones said.
But as A.J. stepped into the cramped office and approached Julie’s desk, the last thing on his mind was small talk.
“Ma’am, we need to speak with him,” A.J. announced, using the word “we” even though he was alone. So Secret Service.
“Sorry. He’s on the phone,” Julie said, pointing A.J. to the wingback chairs across from her desk.
