The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  In my mind, I was visiting a presidential assassin. For Clementine, it was the very first time she met her father.

  “Y’know, in all the dreams where I get to see my dad again,” I tell her, “the reunion always goes smoothly and perfectly.”

  “Me too,” she says, barely able to get the words out.

  I nod, already feeling like an insensitive tool. I should’ve realized what this visit did to her, but I was too busy being spooked out with this Culper Ring and Benedict Arnold hoo-hah.

  “I’m sorry for surprising you like that,” I tell her.

  She waves me off. That’s the least of her problems.

  “So what’d he say?” I ask as I turn onto the poorly plowed streets of Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. Clementine doesn’t even blink at the gang-tagged storefronts and the two burned-out cars on our right. Craning her neck to look out the back window, she still can’t take her eyes off the hospital. “When you first got there, did he seem—? Was he happy to see you?”

  “Beecher, we can talk about anything you want—even the Benedict Arnold stuff—but please… don’t ask me about him.”

  “I hear you, Clemmi. I do. And I’m not trying to push, but for a moment, think of what just happened. I mean, no matter who he was, I would still saw my left arm off to have even thirty seconds with my father—”

  “Beecher, please. Don’t call him that,” she begs. “Especially around him.”

  I pretend to stare straight ahead, focusing on the road. But the way those last words hang in the air…

  Especially around him.

  Clementine bends her knees, tightening her backward S and fighting to hold it together.

  “You never told him, did you?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “He doesn’t know he’s your father?”

  “I meant to. I was going to tell him,” she finally says, still staring in the rearview. “But then…” She shakes her head. “Didja know he speaks to the dead First Lady? When we were there… that’s who he was mumbling to. I read it in an article. I think he hides it from the nurses. They said he used to talk to his last victim as some desperate way to absolve himself.”

  I sit with that one, not sure how to respond. But there’s still one piece that doesn’t make sense. “If you didn’t tell them you were a relative, how’d you even get in to see him?” I ask.

  “Grad student. I told them I was writing a dissertation on complex psychosis,” she explains.

  “And they just let you in?”

  “It’s not up to the doctors. It’s up to the patient. Don’t forget, it’s been a decade. Nico doesn’t get too many visitors anymore. He okays whoever shows up.”

  “But to be that close and not tell him who you are…”

  “You should be thanking me,” she points out. “If I did, he probably would’ve called me Martha Washington.”

  “That’s funny. I’m actually thinking about laughing at that.”

  “Of course you are. You’re trying to get on my good side. Classic Benedict Arnold move.”

  I shake my head, amazed at just how much the joke burrows under my skin. “Clemmi… you know I’d never betray you.”

  She turns to me. A small appreciative grin lifts her cheeks. “Beecher, why’re you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Besides these past few months of emails, I haven’t spoken to you in fifteen years. You were cute in high school—in that quiet, smart, scared-of-me way—but we didn’t stay much in touch. Plus at your office, you’ve got the head of security ready to pin you for murder. So why’d you come here? Why’re you being so nice?”

  Holding the wheel, I stare straight ahead, pretending to watch the road. “She was my fiancée.”

  “Huh?”

  “Before. You asked before who Iris was, and I said she was my girlfriend. She was my fiancée. The one. We sent out invitations. The table seating was done. On one night with a few cheap margaritas, we even started picking baby names. And yes, there are worse things, but when it all fell apart, it felt like she strangled and killed my entire life. Everything was dead. Anyway, I figure after all the honesty you’ve shown me, you at least earned that back.”

  “So she did dump you for another guy?”

  “Don’t push. We’re not being that honest yet,” I say.

  She stays with the rearview, her head slightly swaying back and forth, like she’s whispering an imagined question to someone.

  “I’m not a DJ,” she finally blurts.

  “What?”

  “For the radio station—I’m not a DJ,” Clementine says. “I sell ads. I’m just an ad sales rep. I-I thought you’d—I sell on-air ads for soft drinks, car dealerships, and in Virginia, we do a ton for places that help people addicted to chewing tobacco.”

  “But you told me—”

  “I always wanted to be a DJ—I did it once for a few years at a community college’s radio station. But for the past ten years, I’m just—I used to be a peacock; now I’m just a feather duster.” Looking over at me, she adds, “I’m sorry for lying to you, Beecher. When we were first emailing, you said you had this perfect job at the National Archives, and when you asked me what I did, I wanted you to—I didn’t want you to think I was a failure.”

  “Clementine, I’d never think—”

  “And the lies just flowed, didn’t they? Instead of an ad rep—shazam!—I was magically a DJ with the life I’d always dreamed for myself. And the worst part was how fast the bullshit came—flush with all the details, and all the old jazz we play, and…” She won’t look at me. “I’m like him, aren’t I? The imagined life… I’m a natural liar, Beecher. I am.”

  “Then I guess I shouldn’t believe that either.”

  It’s a good joke, but it doesn’t help.

  “I thought the worst part would be seeing Nico,” she explains, “but the real worst part, now that I finally have—is how much of my life now sadly makes sense.”

  I’m all set to argue, but before I can say a word, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I can’t ignore this one.

  “Where are you?” Tot asks the moment I pick up.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask, knowing that tone and wondering if he found the videotape.

  “Y’mean besides the fact that you’re out fawning over some girl you barely know, who you’re just stupidly smitten with?”

  “That’s not what’s happening.”

  “Sure it’s not. You’ve got a beautiful girl in a pristine automobile. It’s not a guess, Beecher. It’s science.”

  “Tot, can you please stop saying things that make me want to hang up on you?” I plead.

  “Actually, no—especially when you hear this: Still no sign of the video, but I was able to track down your man Dustin Gyrich,” he says, referring to the guy who checked out Entick’s Dictionary every time President Wallace visited the Archives. “And, oof… it’s a doozy, Beecher.”

  “What? He’s got some kinda record?”

  “Oh, he’s definitely got a record,” Tot explains. “I started digging backwards through our pull slips, and from what I can tell… well…” Through the phone, I hear Tot roll his tongue inside his cheek. “Dustin Gyrich has been checking out books and pulling records for over a hundred and fifty years.”

  34

  They didn’t believe you, did they?” the dead First Lady asked.

  Up on the third floor, standing near the edge of the screenedin balcony, Nico watched the powder blue Mustang squirm down the narrow paved road that led toward the guardhouse at the front gate.

  “She’s watching me. I can see her,” Nico announced.

  “Does that matter?” the First Lady asked.

  “It means she’ll be back again. I know she’ll be back.”

  “But what you said about the boy… about Beecher… They never believe you.”

  Turning to the First Lady, he asked, “Do you believe me?”

  “Nico, you shot me with a bullet that
sprayed my brain across the front of my car’s dashboard. You took me away from my husband and children and grandchildren. I want to hate you with everything I have left. But this boy Beecher—he knows who he is. We all know who we are, even if we won’t admit it. So when he comes to betray us—”

  “He may not betray us. That’s his test. I have to give him his chance.”

  “A chance is fine. But if he fails, he better suffer the same punishment you gave me.”

  Nico nodded, turning back to the fading Mustang.

  “What about the girl?” the First Lady added. “You know who she is, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Nico replied as the car finally turned the corner. “I may be crazy, but I’m not an idiot.”

  * * *

  35

  Pulling into Tot’s parking spot in the basement of the Archives, I catch my breath and take a peek in the rearview. Morris the security guy thinks I don’t see him as he peers down from the top of the ramp that leads outside. Like this morning, he did the full search, including the mirror sweep underneath the car. But he’s not gonna find anything—including Clementine, who’s no longer sitting next to me.

  It was easy to drop her off half a block away. It’ll be even easier to meet up inside the building. She knows where. Our Rotunda holds original copies of the Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. It also holds the best meeting spot for staffers to sneak their friends off the public tour and into their offices on the working side of the building—without ever having to put their names on the sign-in sheet.

  It’s bad enough I’m under Khazei’s microscope. I’m not bringing Clementine—or her dad—there with me.

  Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m playing sacrificial lamb either. Beyond a good parking spot, there’s one other thing waiting for me in the basement.

  With the dictionary once again tucked into the back of my slacks, I throw the heavy car door open, climb outside, and stroll right under the eye of the security camera in the corner. It follows me all the way to the double doors that take me to the interior checkerboard floors of the building.

  Within the Archives, most people think that basement offices—with no windows and no view—are the worst. But for one office in particular, the lack of sunlight is an absolute necessity.

  There’s no sign out front, no room number on the wall, and if you come at it from an angle, you can tell that the glass door, with its horizontal blinds pulled closed, is bulletproof. It needs to be. Forget the vaults upstairs. Here’s where the real treasures are kept.

  “Daniel, you in there?” I call out, knocking hard on the glass.

  Underneath the door, it’s clear the lights are off. I know his tricks.

  “Daniel, I know you’re there. I have something good for you.”

  Still no response.

  “It’s an old one too…”

  Still nothing.

  And then…

  “How old?” a voice finally calls out.

  “Let’s go, Howard Hughes—open the door!” I shout.

  There’s a muffled click as the door swings wide, revealing Daniel “the Diamond” Boeckman, the handsomest man in the entire Archives, wearing a crisp white lab coat that I swear doesn’t have a single crease, even in the tag. It’s the same with his manicured nails, perfect tie, and immaculate brushed-back blond locks—there’s not a thread, a hair, a molecule that’s out of place. More importantly, he’s one of the best talents we have in Preservation.

  “Tell me your afternoon is free,” I plead.

  “Can’t,” he says. “I’ve got Dallas’s original Thomas Jefferson letter that’s going on display tomorrow.”

  Clementine’s waiting. Time to go atomic.

  I pull the dictionary from the back of my pants and hold it up in front of him. “Washington still beat Jefferson?” I challenge.

  He studies the gutted dictionary. Ten years ago, a man in Rhode Island found an original music sheet of “The Star-Spangled Banner” folded up—and seemingly stuck—in an old family journal. Boeckman said it was a fake just by looking at the swirl in the handwriting. But that didn’t stop him from calibrating the acidity of the paper, freeing the document from the journal, and even reassembling the individual ink flakes on the page, which proved the same. When it comes to document preservation, no one’s tougher than the Diamond.

  “The binding’s gorgeous. Hand-threaded,” he says, holding it in his open palm, like he’s eyeing the Gutenberg Bible. “But that doesn’t mean it belonged to GW.”

  “That’s not what I’m after,” I tell him. “You ever hear of Washington using invisible ink?”

  He’s about to hand the book back. He stops. “You think there’s something in here?”

  “You’re the one with all the CSI chemicals. You find the answer, I’ll owe you a monster one.”

  “All you archivists owe me monster ones. Without me, you’d be going to Antiques Roadshow to find out if half your stuff was real.”

  He’s right. Fortunately, there’s one thing the Diamond prefers even more than credit.

  “How’re things going with Rina?” I ask with a grin.

  He doesn’t grin back. There’s not a person in the building who doesn’t know about his crush on my #2 officemate.

  “Beecher, you don’t have half the testicles to make good on whatever inducement you’re thinking of.”

  “That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I can’t put in the good word for you.”

  With his free hand, he touches his perfect Windsor tie. And smiles. “You used to be one of the nice ones, Beecher. Now you’re just like all the rest.”

  “Just look at the book. And the invisible ink,” I tell him, tugging open the bulletproof door and leaving him the dictionary. “Rina sits right by me.” I lower my voice. “Oh, what’s that, Rina? Oh, yes, isn’t that Daniel Boeckman handsome?”

  “Tell her I’m sensitive,” the Diamond calls back as I dart into the hallway. “She was upset yesterday—y’know, with the Orlando thing. Sensitive will serve me far better.”

  The bulletproof door slams with a boom, but what echoes are his words. The Orlando thing.

  A man died. My friend. I still see him lying there—his skin now chalkboard gray, the bottom corner of his mouth sagging open. It was yesterday! The Orlando thing. Like we’re talking about someone who didn’t refill the coffeepot.

  The thought hits even harder as I follow the basement’s white-and-gray checkerboard floor toward the elevators, just down from Orlando’s office. But it’s not until I turn the corner that the door to the Security Office opens and I spot…

  My stomach lurches, like it’s being squeezed in a slipknot.

  Anyone but them.

  36

  I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry this happened. I’m just… I’m so sorry, I say to myself, practicing the words in my head. But as the tired African-American woman with the outdated clear plastic glasses and the faded red overcoat leaves the Security Office and heads toward me in the hallway, I can’t muster a single syllable.

  She doesn’t notice I’m there. She’s too focused on the person behind her—her son—who looks about my age as he carries a cardboard box, hugging it to his chest. He’s got a deep dimple in his chin.

  Just like his father.

  I know them from the pictures on his desk: Orlando’s wife and his oldest son. From the cardboard box, they came to clear out his desk.

  As they trudge toward me at the elevators, it’s like they’re walking underwater while carrying a bag of bricks. But it’s not the box that’s weighing them down.

  For a moment, the three of us just stand there in the silence of the hallway. Even now, his son offers up a we’re-waiting-for-the-same-elevator smile.

  I should say something.

  I need to say something.

  My brain slingshots to the very best advice someone gave me when they heard my dad was dead: Our fathers never leave us. Ever.

  I could
even say something about how nice Orlando was to everyone.

  I can give them that one final memory.

  But as the elevator rumbles, its doors slide open, and Orlando’s wife and son step inside…

  I just stand there in the hallway. Paralyzed.

  They both stare at the floor, in no mood for eye contact.

  The doors bite shut, consuming them whole.

  And I’m still standing there, once again reminded that the only feeling more painful than loss is the feeling of guilt.

  I reach for the elevator call button, but as my finger ignites the up arrow, I can’t help but notice the sudden burst of voices coming from the open door of the Security Office. Following the sound, I lean back and take a fast peek into the wide room of cubicles, where small clusters of coworkers are talking—just whispering, gossiping.

  It makes sense. With Orlando’s wife and son gone, there’s no need for whatever self-imposed silence the office had been carrying while his family went through his desk.

  “You see them?” the receptionist asks me. “Just heartbreaking, right?”

  She says something else, but I’m too busy looking at Orlando’s cubicle on the left side of the office. All the photos… the holiday cards… the clutter of life… even his Wisconsin Badgers pencil cup… it’s all gone. I search for his computer, but that’s gone too (which probably means there’s no chance the videotape is here either). I still need to check. With me and Clementine on it, that video holds our fate. But except for a few stray pens and a single pink photocopy that’s push-pinned to the wall (the instructions for how to use voicemail), the only remaining proof that someone worked here is the big telephone, with the long cord and two blinking lights, that floats like an island at the center of the otherwise empty desk.