by Brad Meltzer
It’s the same all around.
No trash in the garbage. No photos on the walls… or the end tables… The chocolate brown leather sofa on my left has no give in any of the cushions. Like it’s never been sat in.
What the hell is this place? Why aren’t there any signs of life?
I try to fight free, but my head nearly caves in. Whatever they drugged me with… the dizziness… it’s still taking its toll.
From the bathroom, there’s a rush of water from the sink. Underneath the door, a shadow passes and…
Click.
I spin back as my weight jerks the chair into a half-spin. The bathroom door opens and my attacker reveals—That smell… Of cherry rum.
Cherry rum pipe smoke.
“Man, I really messed up your chin, didn’t I?” Dallas asks, stepping forward, scratching at his little beard, and reminding me why he was always the most hated archivist in our office. “Sorry, Beech—we just needed to get you out of there. When I saw someone following—”
“What’re you talking about? What the hell’s going on?”
“I can explain.”
“You damn well better explain!”
My brain flips back to yesterday. When they were taking Orlando’s body out, I spotted Dallas with Rina, and they quickly ran for cover. Right now, though, he stands his ground, taking new pride in whatever it is he’s up to.
“Remember when you first started at the Archives, Beecher?”
“Are you about to make a speech right now? Because if I get out of these handcuffs, I’m about to kill you.”
“Listen to me,” Dallas insists. “Remember that first night when you worked late, and visiting hours were over, and all the tourists were gone—and you made your way down to the Rotunda, just to stand in the darkness so you could have your own private viewing of the Declaration of Independence? Every employee in the building has that moment, Beecher. But as you stood there by yourself and you studied those fifty-six handwritten signatures that changed the entire world, remember that wondrous feeling where you dreamed what it would be like to be a part of history like that?” Dallas touches the gash on my chin. From the pain, I jerk my head up. He gets what he wants. I’m now looking him right in the eye. The smell of his pipe seeps off him. “This is your chance to add your signature, Beecher. History’s calling you. All you have to do is help us.”
“Us? Who’s us?”
“The Culper Ring,” Dallas says. “We’re the Culper Ring. And with your help, we can catch the other one.”
“The other what?”
“The ones who did this. The ones who killed Orlando. The other Culper Ring, of course.”
51
It was cold and late—well past two in the morning—as Dr. Palmiotti stared at the drop phone that sat on his nightstand.
But as he lay there, wrapped in his down comforter, he knew he wasn’t even close to sleep.
For a while, he tried his usual tricks: visualizing a walk in the wide green stretch of grass in the arboretum behind his college dorm. He didn’t particularly like the outdoors. But he liked the idea of it. And he liked college. And usually, that was enough to do the trick.
Not tonight.
“Baby, you’re gonna be exhausted tomorrow,” Lydia said, rolling toward him as she faded back into her own slumber. “Stop worrying about him. If he needs you, he’ll call.”
He was still amazed to see her do things like that—to read him so clearly… to feel him being awake. He was lucky to have her. She understood him better in six months than his ex-wife did in nearly twenty years. And for a while, he thought about just that—in particular, about their night at the Four Seasons and the thing with the fishnet stockings she had done for his birthday—hoping it would be the key to his sleep.
But once again, the doctor’s thoughts wandered back to his friend, and the message the President had written, and to this nightmare at the Archives—which of course took Palmiotti right back to his nightstand, to the phone with the gold presidential seal on the receiver.
If he needs you, he’ll call.
It was good advice. But the one thing it failed to take into account was just how complex a President’s needs were. In fact, it was those particular needs that caused the Ring to be created in the first place. Both Rings. And while it was bad enough that someone accidentally found the book, if the rest was true, if there was now a third party involved and the original Culper Ring was closing in… In med school, they used to call it CD. It had the same acronym in politics. Certain Death.
Palmiotti stuck his leg out from the comforter, trying to break his sweat. The drop phone would be ringing any minute.
But for the next hour and a half, nothing happened.
Palmiotti was tempted to call the medical unit. From there, the on-duty nurse could confirm that Wallace was upstairs. But Palmiotti knew he was upstairs. At this hour, where else would the President be?
By 4 a.m., the doctor was still tossing and twisting, eyeing the phone and waiting for it to ring. He knew his friend. He knew what had to be going through his head. He knew everything that was now at stake.
The phone had to ring.
But it never did. Not tonight.
And as Dr. Palmiotti stared up at his ceiling, both legs sticking out of his comforter, one hand holding Lydia, it was that merciless silence that worried him most of all.
52
Why am I in handcuffs?”
“Beecher, did you hear a word I just said?” Dallas asks.
“Why am I in handcuffs!?”
“So you wouldn’t do exactly what you’re doing right now, namely throwing a fit rather than focusing on the big picture,” Dallas shoots back. “Now. For the second time. Did you hear what I said?”
“There are two Culper Rings. I got it. But if you don’t undo these cuffs…”
“Then what? You’ll scream? Go. Scream. See what happens,” he says, motioning at the barely lived-in room.
I take another glance around, still stuck in my seat. I’m not sure I believe there’s really such a thing as a two-hundred-year-old secret spy unit. And even if I did, I’m not sure why they’d ever pick Dallas. But there’s only one way to get answers. “Where are we anyway? What is this place?”
“I’m trying to tell you, Beecher. Now I know you don’t like me. I know you’ve never liked me. But you need to understand two things: First, I want to get you out of here—the longer we keep you out of sight, the more suspicious it looks. Second, I’m on your side here. Okay? We’re all on your side.”
I’m about to unleash, but as my shoulders go numb, I stay locked on the priorities. “Undo the cuffs.”
“And then you’ll listen?”
“I can’t feel my pinkies, Dallas. Undo the cuffs.”
Squatting behind me, he pulls something from his pocket and there’re two loud snaps. As the blood flushes back to my wrists, he tosses the set of clear plasticuffs into the no-longer-empty trash can.
“Here… take this,” he says, reaching for the bookcase and handing me a square cocktail napkin. I didn’t even notice it before—an entire shelf in the bookcase is filled with a high-end selection of rum, vodka, scotch, and the rest. Whatever this room is used for, it clearly requires a good drink.
He pulls a few cubes from a silver ice bucket and drops them in my napkin. “For your chin,” he explains, looking surprised when I don’t say thanks.
“At Clementine’s… to be there,” I say as I put the ice to my chin. “How long were you following?”
“I wasn’t following. I was trying to talk to you—to get you alone. I mean, yesterday in Orlando’s office… this morning when Tot chased me away. Have you really not noticed how often I’ve been showing up?”
“So you gas and cuff me? That’s your solution? Send an email next time! Or wait… just call! It’s a lot less headache!”
Shaking his head, Dallas takes a seat on the leather sofa. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? Face-to-face
—that’s the only reason it’s lasted. The problem is, every time I get near you, you’re running off with your little group, and no offense, but… your high school first kiss? That’s who you’re trusting your life to?”
“I’m not trusting my life to her.”
“You are, Beecher. You don’t think you are, but you are. What you found in that SCIF—that was a miracle that happened—a true gift from God that you stumbled upon.” I watch him carefully as he says the words. He’s the only person besides Tot and Clemmi to even guess how this all started, which brings a strange reassurance that makes me think he’s telling the truth. “But I promise you this,” Dallas continues, “if you don’t start being careful—when they confirm you have it—they’ll put you in the ground even faster than Orlando. That’s not just hyperbole, Beecher. That’s math.”
The ice on my chin sends a waterslide of cold down my Adam’s apple and into the neck of my shirt. I barely feel it. “You keep saying they. Is that who you saw following me?”
“I couldn’t see who they were. I think they spotted me first.”
“Y’mean the car that almost turned down the block?”
“That wasn’t just a car. It was a taxi. A D.C. taxi. Out that far in Virginia. Real hell of a commute, don’t you think—unless that’s your only choice because someone borrowed your car.”
Omigod. The Mustang. “Is Tot’s car…!?”
“His car is fine. We had it driven here, then sent a text from your phone saying you’d pick him up tomorrow. He didn’t reply. You see what I’m getting at?”
I know exactly what he’s getting at. “You think it was Tot in that taxi.”
“I have no idea who it was, but I do know this: There’s no way the President is pulling this off without help from someone inside our building.”
The napkin filled with ice sends a second waterslide down the inside of my wrist, to my elbow. Orlando said it. Clemmi said it. Even I said it. But to hear those words—the President—not the president of some useless company—the President of the United States. This isn’t just confirmation that the message in that dictionary was meant for Orson Wallace. It’s confirmation that when it comes to my life—I can’t even think about it.
“Tell me what the Culper Ring really is,” I demand.
“The true Culper Ring?”
“The one that did this. The one the President’s in.”
“The President’s in both.”
“Dallas, I’m officially about to leap over that coffee table and stuff my foot through your teeth.”
“I’m not trying to be coy, Beecher. I swear to you, I’m not. But this is two hundred years of history we’re talking about. If you want to understand what the Culper Rings are up to now, you first need to know where they originally came from.”
* * *
53
Clementine knew it wasn’t good for her.
That’s why she waited until the house was quiet.
And why she locked the door to her room.
And then waited some more.
There were enough surprises tonight—most notably the kiss from Beecher. Clementine knew he’d try—eventually he’d try—but that didn’t mean it didn’t catch her off guard. Plus, the old woman had already done enough. She didn’t need to be there for this too.
For comfort, Clementine whistled a quick “psst psst—here, Parky” at her chubby ginger cat, and as he always did, Parker slowly circled his way up the arms of the forest green futon to Clementine’s lap, rubbing his head into her palms.
The cat’s kindness was one of the few things Clementine could count on these days, and it was exactly that thought that brought the sudden swell of tears to her eyes.
It reminded her of when she first moved to Virginia and ventured into the local Home Depot to buy a barbecue grill to celebrate the Fourth of July. Stopping one of the orange-overalled employees—a short man with chapped lips and greedy eyes—she asked, “Do I need to spend the few hundred bucks to buy a good grill, or would one of the fifty-dollar cheap grills do the job just as well?”
Licking his chapped lips, the employee said, “Let me explain it like this: I’m a car guy. I love cars. I love all cars. And I especially love my 1989 Camaro RS, which I recently spent over $3,000 on to put in a sunroof. Now. You ask yourself: Why would someone spend $3,000 to install a sunroof in some old car from 1989? You wanna know why? Because I’m a car guy. That’s who I am. That’s what I care about. So as you look at these grills, you need to ask yourself…” He took a deep breath and leaned in toward her. “Are you a grill gal?”
The man didn’t need to say another word. Smiling to herself, Clementine grabbed a cheap fifty-dollar grill and marched toward the cash register. She wasn’t a grill gal. Or a car gal, a clothes gal, or even a shoe gal.
She knew who she was. She was a cat gal.
No, it wasn’t in that crazy-cat-lady way. And yes, there were plenty of people who love their cats and buy them cute plastic toys and high-end scratching posts. Pets can be the very best family members. But there were still only a few who annually throw their cat a real birthday party… or make appointments solely with feline-only vets, who only see cats as patients… or make sure that their cat’s food and water bowls sit atop a wrought-iron base that keeps the bowls at cat-eye level so that their pet doesn’t have to bend to drink.
Some people buy sunroofs. Some buy expensive grills. And some spend their money on a treasured pet. Clementine could even laugh at the insanity of it, but she was proud of being a cat gal—it was always her thing. Until she arrived at St. Elizabeths and saw her father so delicately and beautifully tending to all the cats there.
Just the sight of it made her feel like someone had hollowed out her body and stolen all her organs for themselves. Like her personal parts were no longer her own. It was the same feeling she had when she found out Nico was living so close to where she moved in Virginia. Or when he said that everything in life was already decided. Or when she read that he was almost her age when he had his first psychotic episode.
Of course she told herself none of that meant anything. Life was full of woo-woo coincidences.
But it was still her dad… her dad who lived near her… and looked so much like her… and somehow loved the exact same thing she loved so damn much. With everything else that she’d lost in life—the DJ jobs… the advertising jobs… even her mom—maybe in this moment, Clementine was due for a gain. Plus, it was still her dad. How could she not have some emotional connection?
And that was the one thing that Beecher—who lost his own father—understood better than anyone. Sure, seeing Nico was the hardest thing Clementine had ever done, but like any orphan, she wasn’t tracking down her father to learn more about him. She was tracking him down to learn more about herself.
With the push of a button, Clementine’s laptop hummed to life, and she sat back on the futon with Parker in her lap and the laptop by her side.
“I know, I know,” she whispered to Parker.
It definitely wouldn’t be good for her. And the worst part was, she knew the pain was only getting worse.
Of course, if she wanted, she could stop it. It’d be so easy to stop. All she had to do was shut the laptop. Slap it shut, go to sleep, and replay those moments of Beecher’s reaffirming kiss.
Indeed, as her fingers flicked across the keyboard and she hit the enter key, all she had to do was close her eyes.
But the saddest truth of all? She didn’t want to.
Onscreen, the video on YouTube slowly loaded and began to play. Clementine leaned toward the computer, wrapping her arms around Parker’s body. She pulled the cat close—especially when the man with the big politician’s grin stepped out onto the NASCAR track, his black windbreaker puffing up like a balloon.
On the far right of the screen, a man in a yellow jumpsuit entered the frame and raised his gun.
And as she had so many times before, Clementine felt her stomach fall as she watched her father try to mur
der the President.
54
I know about the Culper Ring,” I tell Dallas. “They were George Washington’s civilian spy group. They hid messages… they stayed secret… and from what I can tell, they stuck around long enough to have a hand in Gettysburg, World War I, and even somehow Hiroshima.”
“How’d you know that last part?” Dallas challenges.
“You think you’re the only history nut in the building? We all have access to the same records. Once we found the name Dustin Gyrich—”
“Gyrich. Okay. Okay, you’re further than we thought,” he says, almost to himself. “But you’re wrong about one thing, Beecher: From Gettysburg to Hiroshima to anything else, the Culper Ring has never had a hand in these events. You’re missing the mission completely.”
“But we’re right about the rest, aren’t we? The Culper Ring that George Washington started, it still exists.”
Leaning forward on the leather sofa, Dallas uses his top two teeth to comb the few beard hairs below his bottom lip. He does the same thing when our boss scolds him for falling behind on the quota we have for answering researchers’ letters and emails. It’s also my first clue that while he’s happy to answer some of my questions, he’s not answering all of them.
“Beecher, do you know what the President of the United States needs more than anything else? And I don’t just mean Orson Wallace. Any President, any era. Obama, the Bushes, Thomas Jefferson. What’s the one thing they need more than anything else?”
“You mean, besides smart advice?”
“No. Smart advice is easy. You’re the President. Every genius in the world is banging down your door. Try again.”
“This is already a stupid game.”
“Just try again.”
“Privacy?”
“That’s top three. You’re Reagan. You’re Obama. You have more power than anyone. What’s even more vital than privacy?”
“Trust.”
“Getting warmer.”
“Someone who cares about you.”
