by Brad Meltzer
Infirmary
Even before the door kllked open, Marshall smelled it: Silverol, the burn ointment.
“Y’okay?” the guard asked as they stepped inside. “If you’re claustrophobic, prisons can be—”
“I’m not claustrophobic,” Marshall insisted, counting the hidden cameras and fighting to stay focused. Unlike the prison’s gray hallways, the rooms here were pale yellow, designed to provide some needed cheer.
The sign out front was marked Infirmary. But even with guards at a small desk, and bulletproof glass that protected the nurse’s station, it really looked more like a hospital. Medical carts, linen carts, and food carts were scattered throughout the hallway. Indeed, when an inmate becomes ill in the Wisconsin prison system, they’re sent here.
“Bed number?” a black nurse wearing Smurfette-covered scrubs asked through a speaker in the bulletproof glass.
“Bed two,” Marshall said.
The nurse lowered her chin, giving him the kind of look that goes with a funeral. “Samara, he’s in—”
“I know where he is,” the guard replied as Marshall followed behind her. Turning back over her shoulder, she told him, “I lost my uncle last year. Colon cancer.”
Marshall ignored her, in no mood for pity.
As they passed room after room, every patient was locked behind a closed metal door with a tiny square window in it. At the far end of the hallway, two metal doors were propped wide—for the pair of rooms dedicated to hospice.
Marshall’s sweat glands were gone, but he felt his internal heat starting to scorch. He told Beecher most everything. But not this.
“He’s waiting for you,” the guard said, pointing to the open door.
Marshall stepped over the threshold, then glanced back at the guard, waiting for her to leave.
“They make me stay in the hallway,” the guard apologized. “I know. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”
Giving one last look to the security camera in the corner, Marshall stepped inside, where the smell of Silverol wafted over him.
In the bed was a sleeping older man—he was in his fifties, though looked at least seventy—with a big barrel chest and thick arms. No question, he’d been strong in his day. At the foot of his bed, the way his covers were tucked, it was clear that below his knees, his legs were gone. Double amputee. White medical tape covered the hole in his neck where the breathing and feeding tubes used to be. They’d pulled those a few days ago. According to the nurses, he wouldn’t make it to the end of the month.
Stepping closer, Marshall studied the man’s face: the lumpy, sagging texture of his skin, like melted candle wax that streamed down toward his chin. He was covered with burns.
Like father, like son.
“Dad, can you hear me?” Marshall said, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer. In Beecher’s mind, Marshall’s dad had died a long time ago. It wasn’t that much of a lie. “Dad, it’s me.”
Still nothing.
Unlike Marshall’s, his father’s nose was mostly gone, whittled down to a soft muddy nub that looked like a dented thimble with a hole in the tip. Without the feeding tube, he breathed hard through his nose, each labored breath forcing the flap of skin that hung from his nose to wag back and forth like a minuscule leathery flag. His ears were worse, two jagged open holes on the sides of his head. His right hand was missing two fingers. His forearms were shiny and lumpy, like his face, and had no hair whatsoever.
Like Marshall’s, none of his burns were red—they were pale and old, from years ago. But as the guard with the removed tattoo instinctively knew the moment she saw them together—Marshall and his father had been burned at the same time. And the older man definitely got it worse. Much worse.
“How do you like the new place?” Marshall asked, noticing the bright yellow paint on the cinderblock walls and the matching yellow curtains that were supposed to make prison hospice feel less like prison hospice. There was even a TV, along with a few out-of-date movies. Sure, there were bars on the windows, and the sink and toilet were one metal unit, but it was still fifty times better than the rathole in Ohio where he’d been rotting. True to his word, the President had had him transferred here with no problem. Marshall would forever owe Wallace for that.
“I brought you a DVD. Your favorite,” Marshall added, holding up the case with Tim Robbins standing out in the rain. The Shawshank Redemption.
In the bed, his father’s head was turned sideways, his mouth hanging wide open, like he was forever in mid-scream.
“By the way, I met a girl. A good one this time,” Marshall added, trying to sound upbeat as he turned on the TV. Stuffing the disc into the DVD player, he collapsed in the wheelchair next to the bed.
From his pocket, Marshall took out a photo—a childhood one, from twenty years ago. It was an old class picture, part of the big group shot, from when he, Beecher, and Clementine were all in seventh grade. In his hand was just a jagged piece of the photo, which he’d cut out after Clementine died. It was the only shot he had of her—young Clemmi looking more bucktoothed than he remembered, and him looking exactly as pudgy and scared as he remembered. But there they were, standing in class-photo pose: smiles wide, proudly next to each other. It took everything he had to not see the rotted teeth falling from her mouth.
“She’s definitely something special,” Marshall said to his dad, whose heavy breathing caused the flap of skin on his nose to wave back and forth.
“You’d like her for sure,” Marshall added as the DVD swirled and the movie began. On instinct, he went to shut the bright fluorescent lights. Then he remembered: no light switch. Even in hospice, the lights always stay on in prison. “She’s a hustler, Pop, just like you.”
Once again, Marshall gave his father a chance to answer. Once again, all he got was heavy breathing and the waving flap of skin on his nose.
Settling in, Marshall turned the wheelchair toward the TV, where Morgan Freeman’s magnificent baritone welcomed him to Shawshank. For years, Marshall knew it would end like this. He knew he’d never be able to reverse what happened to his dad. That didn’t stop him from trying. And thanks to Beecher, he knew all there was to know about the Plankholders, the town, and the island where they’d experimented on their fathers. In the coming weeks, when the info went public, he’d even get some money from the government, though it was never about money. Otherwise, Marshall had everything he wanted, including an offer from Beecher to join and help rebuild the Culper Ring.
Marshall hadn’t given him an answer, but he knew. He was done fighting. At least for now.
For the next hour and a half, he sat there in his dad’s wheelchair, stealing glances at Clementine’s old photo and bathing in the full irony of watching a prison break movie in the one cell where the prison door was wide open.
“Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things—and no good thing ever dies,” Andy Dufresne said onscreen.
Marshall loved that line, even though he knew how wrong it was. Good things died all the time.
As the music swelled and the camera rose above Andy and Red’s reunion, Marshall stood from the wheelchair and bent toward the bed.
“Dad, I’ll see you soon,” he lied.
His father was breathing heavier now, the skin flap on his nose still moving. His eyes were closed; he was sound asleep.
Leaning down toward his father’s missing ear, Marshall whispered the two things he knew his dad needed to hear. One of them was true. The other was, “You were a good father.”
With that, as the credits for Shawshank began to roll, Marshall tucked Clementine’s picture into his father’s fist and headed out the open door.
101
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
It took nearly a week for Nico to be transferred back.
First, there was that jail cell in Miami, then on to the hospital with all the news crews outside and the Hispanic orderly who snuck cell phone photos of him that she thought
he didn’t notice.
Nico noticed. He just didn’t say anything. Not to anyone.
It was the same on the plane ride, and with the doctors who were waiting for him, watching with clipboards as they brought Nico back to St. Elizabeths and put him—and the skinny white cat he’d taken from the island—through the delousing shower. They tried to take the cat away, but when they saw Nico’s reaction… The cat stayed. Pet therapy, one of the doctors called it.
Even during Nico’s two days in the Quiet Room, with the glass walls so they could keep him and the cat under extra observation, he barely uttered more than the few syllables he needed to get the attention of the guy who ran the juice cart.
It was the same with the dead First Lady. Neither of them was in a talking mood.
“At least they gave you your old room back,” the dead First Lady pointed out, eyeing their sparse room on the NGI floor. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.
Sitting Indian-style in bed and watching his cat walk in circles in the corner, Nico didn’t respond.
“They even let you keep your Bible. And your rosary. Not to mention your favorite,” she added, eyeing the Washington Redskins calendar above his desk.
Nico wouldn’t look at it.
“C’mon, Nico. Say something. I’m starting to get bored.”
More silence.
The dead First Lady looked at her watch. Ah. It was nearly 4 p.m. The scheduled time.
“I’m sorry they didn’t let you go to her funeral,” the First Lady added.
Nico looked up, then back down again.
“I know how much Clementi—”
“Please don’t talk about her. Please,” Nico pleaded, his voice fracturing.
The dead First Lady had been by his side a long time. She knew not to push, not about this. She took a seat on the bed, next to him. “Nico, last week, when we were back on the island…I saw those files. I read some of them too. The science was pretty amazing,” she said, hoping he’d take the bait.
He didn’t, but he was listening.
“One of their studies focused on a group of firefighters,” she explained. “This social scientist was trying to analyze so-called heroes. He looked at people who rush into burning buildings, or who, when there’s a tsunami, race back into the ocean to save someone else. According to the study, heroes like that can be impulsive and argumentative—they don’t like authority and they’ll break the rules, especially when they think they’re in the right. But if you met that person in real life, you probably wouldn’t like them, though they have the largest potential to do good.”
“Why are you telling these things to me?” Nico asked.
“Just listen. In that same study, when they looked at the genes and physical brains of those brave heroes, you know who had an almost identical genetic map?” She paused, watching his reaction. “Sociopaths.”
Nico sat up and turned.
“That’s right,” the First Lady said with a grin. “Impulsive, argumentative, hates authority, and will put their own life at risk when they think they’re right. The only difference between the two groups is their levels of empathy. Otherwise, you and the brave hero? You’re basically twins.”
Nico sat there a moment, trying to process. “I still don’t understand. Why’re you telling me this?”
“Because you need to hear it. It’s like you told Beecher: Our souls have missions. Missions that we repeat over and over, until we conquer them. It’s time, Nico. Time to realize who you really are. And time for me to take my leave.”
Nico glanced over at the clock on his nightstand. It was exactly four. Always four. The funeral was about to start. He was missing it. “Whattya mean leave?” Nico looked back across the room.
For the first time in years, the First Lady was gone.
“Ma’am…?” he called out.
No answer.
“Ma’am, you there?”
Confused, he hopped off his bed, which sent the white cat darting under the desk. Nico looked under the bed. Nothing but lint. His mouth went dry; his heart felt like it was being folded in half. He turned toward his desk, then his unbreakable window. No. Can’t be. He frantically yanked open his armoire. Empty.
“MA’AM!” Nico shouted. “MA’AM, WHERE ARE YOU!?”
By now, the silence was a high-pitched dog whistle, piercing his brain.
No, this isn’t— This can’t be happening.
Lunging for the door, Nico went to rip it open as—
There was a muted noise behind him. That sound of the air moving when someone’s standing near you.
Spinning backward, Nico froze as he saw her. He sucked in hard, letting out an audible gasp. Dear God. Blinking over and over, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The First Lady was gone. Instead, he was staring at…at…
“Hiya, Dad,” Clementine said, flashing a wide smile with shining, perfect teeth.
Tears rose in Nico’s eyes, blurring everything in front of him. He couldn’t stop them. “How did you—? How can—?”
“You earned this one,” Clementine said, her short black hair back again. She looked so beautiful she practically glowed.
“Prrrd,” the skinny cat trilled, poking his head out to look.
“Thank you, God, thank y—”
The door burst open. “Nico, you okay?” the nurse with the yogurt breath challenged. “I heard screaming.”
“No, we’re— Everything’s fine. It’s great,” he insisted, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. Some tears come from sadness. Others come from truth.
“She can’t see me, can she?” Clementine asked, standing right where the First Lady used to, at the center of the room.
Nico shook his head, glancing back at the clock. 4 p.m. Always four. Just like God promised.
“I was thinking about my daughter’s funeral,” he told the nurse. “It just— The funeral’s starting right now.”
The nurse with the yogurt breath stared at him. She had nothing to say. “Indoor voices, okay? I’m sorry about your daughter. I read the write-up online—the way she gave her life to catch that guy. She sounded like one awesome badass bitch.”
The door slammed shut and the nurse locked it from the outside. Nico had lost his grounds privileges. Mail, phone, and visitor privileges too. Didn’t matter. He kept studying his daughter. Her eyes flickered with something he thought he’d never see again.
“She’s right, y’know,” Clementine said. “I am an awesome badass bitch.”
“Of course you are,” Nico replied, smiling so wide his gums went dry. “You’re my daughter.”
102
The White House
I don’t care who else is going.”
“Dad, it’s just a sleepover,” the twelve-year-old girl challenged, the ringlets in her brown hair bouncing with tween rage.
“It’s not a sleepover,” the President told his daughter. “Not when there are boys invited.”
“So if it was all girls, it’d be okay?”
Wallace pinched the bridge of his nose. He had come up here—to the Solarium on the top floor of the White House—for the same reasons George W. Bush used to come up here: He could get away from staff, and he could sit on this couch, watch sports, and relax. The plan wasn’t working. “Nessie, you’ll make a great lawyer one day. That day is not now.”
His daughter crossed her arms in that same way her mother did. DEFCON 1 was coming. “I know why you’re worried. You think I don’t know about sex.”
“Do not say those words again. Not in this argument.”
“Jacob’s mom—”
“And if you mention Jacob’s mom, or Jacob, or even one of Jacob’s pets, I’ll have their whole family deported. I can do that. Three hundred million Americans gave me that power.”
“You wish they did. No one votes anymore.”
The President started to yell and laugh all at once, getting ready to say something that, no matter how much he fought against it, would make him sound as ridiculous as his own f
ather.
A knock on the door saved him. “Sir…I’m sorry to interrupt this late…”
Across the room, a Secret Service agent with thick black hair stuck his head inside. Christian Deutsch. Christian was new, though well aware of the punishment that came from interrupting the President with his kids.
“He’s here? Send him in,” Wallace said, thankful for the distraction. Christian opened the door wider, ushering A.J. into the room. “Nessie, I need a few minutes. In private.”
Nessie didn’t move. “If I do, will you think some more about the sleepover?”
“I’ll absolutely 100 percent pretend to,” the President of the United States promised.
“I’ll take it,” Nessie said, racing for the door. “Hey, A.J.,” she added, knowing her dad hated when she knew the agents’ names.
As his daughter left the room, the President nodded at A.J., who tugged the door shut and locked Christian out. Even in the Residence, there were always people listening.
“Sir, I know it’s late, but—”
“Don’t apologize. I invited you,” the President said, pointing him to the wicker chair next to the sofa.
In this room, the most casual in the White House, the Clintons, the Bushes, and the Obamas had all watched TV. Wallace was no different.
“Michigan still winning?” A.J. asked of the Michigan-Iowa basketball game, but never taking his eyes off the President.
“They were—right before my daughter came in and asked me if she can sully the family name at Jacob’s house. Am I crazy—at this age should there be co-ed sleepovers?”
“I take it Jacob’s parents don’t have a daughter?”
“Exactly. Exactly!” the President said, starting to laugh.
A.J. forced a grin. This was the first time he had seen Wallace since the night Francy tested him at the crypt. Laughing was a good sign. “So…you said you wanted to see me, sir?”
