by Brad Meltzer
“Clemmi, I’m serious,” I add. “If you want, just wait here.”
“How come you haven’t asked me about last night?” she blurts.
“Wait. Are we fighting now? Is this about the kiss?”
“Forget the kiss. Last night. What you saw with Nan… why haven’t you asked me about it?”
“I did ask you. You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, now I do. Especially as I’m starting to hyperventilate in this tiny metal box.”
Another metal tunk makes us both jump—the next door unlocks—and there’s another long lime green hallway with an elevator at the far end. Clementine doesn’t move, though it looks like she’s trying to. In the past few days, I’ve seen her be both strong and weak, fearless and terrified, and also kind and protective. There are so many Clementines in that body. But when it comes to her family—especially her father—the girl who used to be prepared for anything reminds me that the number one thing she’s not prepared for are her own insecurities.
“Y’know I don’t judge you based on how you’re treated by your grandmother,” I tell her.
“I know you don’t. But it’s not just about how she treats me. It’s about how I let her treat me. You saw it yesterday—I’m not… when she…” She presses her lips together. “I’m not my best with her.”
I stand there, pretending I didn’t see exactly that last night. “Sometimes you’re so strong, I forget you can be hurt.”
She shakes her head. “We can all be hurt.”
I nod, thinking about the fact that Iris’s bicycle is still sitting in my garage from where she accidentally left it. Iris loves that bicycle. But she still won’t come pick it up.
As I study the single beauty mark on the back of Clementine’s neck, it reminds me that there’s nothing more intimate in life than simply being understood. And understanding someone else.
“How long’ve you been taking care of your grandma?” I finally ask.
“Four years. Ever since my mom died. And yes, I know it’s good to take care of the elderly, but… living with a nasty old woman… having no job… which, also yes, I should’ve told you… and then finding out that Nico is my… y’know… I’m not saying I needed my life to be a symphony—I just never thought it’d turn out to be a country song.”
“Yeah, well… it’s better than realizing that your life is elevator music.”
“Some people like elevator music,” she counters.
I look over at her. She stands her ground, fearlessly locking eyes and reminding me exactly why her reappearance has slapped me out of the safe hibernation that’s become my life. Even when she’s afraid, this girl isn’t afraid of anything. Or at least she’s not afraid of me.
As she studies me, I want to kiss her again. I want to kiss her like last night—and I know this is my chance, a true second chance in every sense. A golden moment where the earth stops spinning, and the clouds roll away, and I get the opportunity to say the perfect words and prove that I can actually change my life.
“So… buh… your grandmother…” I stutter. “Her cancer’s really bad, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s bad,” Clementine says, heading up the hallway. “Though mark my words, Nan’s got eighteen lives. She’ll bury us all and tap-dance on our graves.”
I curse myself and contemplate cutting out my tongue. How’s the cancer? That’s the best I could come up with? Why didn’t I just blurt out that I know she’s pregnant and then make it a perfectly horrible social moment?
“Beecher, can I ask you a question?” Clementine adds as she jabs at the elevator call button. “Why’d you really come here?”
“What?”
“Here. Why here?” she says, pointing up. Three flights up to be precise. To her father. “You saw how crazy he is. Why come and see him?”
“I told you before—of all the people we’ve spoken to, he’s still the one who first cracked the invisible ink. Without him, we’d still be thumbing through the dictionary.”
“That’s not true. He didn’t crack anything. Your guy at the Archives… in Preservation…”
“The Diamond.”
“Exactly. The Diamond,” she says. “The Diamond’s the one who cracked it.”
“Only after Nico pointed out it was there. And yes, Nico’s loopy, but he’s also the only one who’s handed us something that’s panned out right.”
“So now Tot’s not right? C’mon, Beecher. You’ve got a dozen other people in the Archives who specialize in Revolutionary War stuff. You’ve got the Diamond and all his expertise about how the Founding Fathers used to secretly hide stuff. But instead of going to the trained professionals, you go to the paranoid schizo and the girl you first kissed in high school? Tell me what you’re really after. Your office could’ve gotten you in here. Why’d you bring me with you?”
As I follow her into the elevator and press the button for the third floor, I look at her, feeling absolutely confused. “Why wouldn’t I bring you? You were in that room when we found that dictionary. Your face is on that videotape just as much as mine is. And I’m telling you right now, Khazei knows who you are, Clementine. Do you really think all I care about is trying to protect myself? This is our problem. And if you think I haven’t thought that from moment one, you really don’t know me at all. Plus… can’t you tell I like you?”
As the elevator doors roll shut, Clementine takes a half-step back, still silent. Between her missing dad, her dead mom, and the evil grandmother, she’s spent a lifetime alone. She doesn’t know what to do with together.
But I think she likes it.
“By the way,” I add, standing next to her so we’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “Some of us like country music.”
Clementine surprises me by blushing. As the elevator rises, she grips the railing behind her. “You were supposed to say that two minutes ago, genius—back when I said I liked elevator music.”
“I know. I was panicking. Just give me credit for eventually getting there, okay?” Within seconds, as the elevator slows to a stop, I reach down and gently pry her fingers from the railing, taking her hand in my own.
It’s a soaking, clammy mess. It’s caked in cold sweat.
And it fits perfectly in mine.
For an instant, we stand there, both leaning on the back railing, both entombed in that frozen moment after the elevator bobs to a stop, but before the doors…
With a shudder, the doors part company. A short black woman dressed in a yellow blouse is bouncing a thick ring of keys in her open palm and clearly waiting to take us the rest of the way. Clementine prepared me for this: To help the patients feel more at ease, the staff doesn’t wear uniforms. The silver nametag on her shirt says FPT, which is the mental hospital equivalent of an orderly. Behind the woman is another metal door, just like the ones downstairs.
“You’re the ones seeing Nico Hadrian?” she asks, giving a quick glance to our IDs.
“That’s us,” I say as the woman twists a key in the lock and pushes the door open, revealing dull fluorescent lights, a scuffed, unpolished hall, and the man who’s waiting for us, bouncing excitedly on his heels and standing just past the threshold with an awkward grin and a light in his chocolate brown eyes.
“I told everyone you’d be back,” Nico says in the kind of monotone voice that comes from solid medication. “They never believe me.”
73
That your pop or your granpop?” the muscular white kid with the laced-up army boots asked as the barber mowed the clippers up the back of the guy’s head.
“My dad,” Laurent replied, not even looking up at the crisp black-and-white photo of the soldier in full army uniform that was tucked next to the shiny blue bottle of Barbasol. In the photo—posed to look like an official army portrait in front of an American flag—his father was turned to the camera, a mischievous grin lighting his face.
“Those bars on his chest?” the client asked, trying to look up even though his chin was pressed down to his neck.
The amazing part was, despite the photo, the barber rarely thought of his father as a soldier. As a strict Seventh-day Adventist, his dad was a pacifist, so committed to his faith that he refused to have anything to do with military service. But three days after Pearl Harbor, when the country was reeling and his prayers weren’t bringing the answers he needed, his father walked into the recruitment office and enlisted.
He told his sergeants he wouldn’t carry a weapon or dig ditches on Sabbath. They made him a cook, and of course let him cut hair too. Years later, after he returned home, Laurent’s father remained just as committed to his faith. But the lesson was there—the one lesson he forever tried to drill into his children: Sometimes there’s a greater good.
“He was actually a kitchen man,” the barber said to his client, pointing the clippers back at the photo. “The medal’s a joke from his first sergeant for being the first one to catch a lobster when they were stationed in San Juan.”
The client laughed… and quickly rolled up his sleeve to reveal a crisp tattoo of a cartoony Marine Corps bulldog that was flexing his biceps like a bodybuilder and showing off his own tattoo, which read Always Faithful across his bulging dog arm.
The barber felt a lump in his throat, surprised by the swell of emotion that overtook him as he read the tattoo. No question about it, there was a real power that came with being faithful.
But.
He looked up and stole a quick glance at the photo of his father. At the miniature lobster that was pinned to his chest. And at the mischievous grin on his dad’s young face.
There was also something to be said about the greater good.
74
Leading us past the nurses’ station, past the TV alcove, past the section of small square tables covered by checkers sets, Nico keeps his chin up as he purposefully strides to what is clearly our destination: the only round table in the entire day room—and the only one with a green laminated card with the words Don’t Sit on it.
“I made the card. So people don’t sit here,” Nico says.
“We appreciate that,” I say, noticing that Clementine still hasn’t said a word. It hasn’t gotten any easier for her to be here. But the way Nico is staring more at me instead of her, I realize he still doesn’t know she’s his daughter. No question, that’s better for all of us.
We all sit down. There are three of us at the table—and four seats. But as Nico’s attention turns to the empty one, I have no doubt that, in his head, that empty seat is filled.
“It’ll be quiet back here. That’s why I like the round table,” Nico says. Like every other table in the room, it’s got a Plexiglas top. Makes it easier for the nurses to see what we’re doing. Back by the nurses’ station, the escort who walked us in is sitting at a computer, pretending not to stare at us. Pointing across the room to a set of swinging doors, Nico adds, “My room’s back there.”
There’s a loud kuh-kunk. I follow the sound over my shoulder, where a soda machine—kuh-kunk—spits out a Diet Dr Pepper that’s retrieved by a male patient with curly black hair.
“I can get us apple and orange juice for free. They make us pay for soda,” Nico explains.
“I think we’re okay,” I say, hoping to move us along.
“You talk to me like the doctors,” Nico says, placing both his hands flat on the see-through table. His feet are pressed perfectly together on the floor. “Like the newer doctors who are worried I might hurt them.”
“Nico, I wasn’t—”
“I know you’re not her assistant. I know you said that just to get in here.” There’s a kuh-kunk behind us—another Diet Dr Pepper to another patient. “The Secret Service can arrest you for that, Benedict.”
He’s trying to take control, especially with the hokey move of calling me Benedict Arnold. But unlike last time, I’ve done my homework. Especially about him.
When Nico was first arrested for shooting the President, he was charged with a federal crime, which means he had federal records—including a psych profile—which means those records eventually came to the Archives, which also means it took nothing but a phone call to get them from our record center out in Suitland, Maryland.
To be honest, most of what I read was typical Psych 101 nonsense, but one thing did stand out: Yes, Nico’s hyper-paranoid, and used to claim God talks to him… and yes, he’s clearly well versed in all sorts of historical conspiracy theories, including delusional concerns about Thomas Jefferson and George Washington and a hidden pentagram in the street layout of Washington, D.C. But as a former decorated soldier in the army, the one thing Nico has always responded to best is a sure voice of authority.
“Nico, I’m here to talk about the Culper Ring,” I announce. “Would you like an update or not?”
His hands stay flat on the table. His eyes flick back and forth, picking me apart. Then Clementine. Then the empty chair next to him. The profile said how methodical he was. But the way he starts biting the inside of his lip, he’s also excited.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” he blurts. “About the invisible ink…”
“You were. Messages were being sent.”
“I knew! I—” He lowers his voice, glancing over at the nurses’ station. The escort who brought us in is on the phone. Nico definitely hears what she’s saying. And he’s been here long enough to know what happens if he gets too excited. “I told you you were being tested,” he insists, fighting to keep his composure. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“We’re all being tested,” Clementine says, just like we practiced. “That’s what life is.”
“And here’s your newest test,” I jump in, already feeling guilty, but knowing that this is our only chance. “This is the message that came back.”
From my front pants pocket, I pull out the pencil that was left behind by President Wallace and gently place it on the open table.
75
Nico’s hand snaps out like a snake, snatching the President’s pencil and cradling it in his open palm. His eyes again flick back and forth, soaking in every detail.
Eventually, he looks up. “I don’t understand.”
“The pencil… the indentations…” I say. “We think a message was hidden on that.”
“On the pencil?” he asks.
“In the indentations,” I say, pointing him back.
There’s another kuh-kunk behind us. Diet Dr Pepper for another patient.
Clementine jumps and Nico blinks hard as the soda can hits. But Nico never loses sight of the pencil. Holding both ends, he twirls it slowly like the tips of a cartoon mustache. He devours every mark, every groove, every detail.
Eventually he looks up, his brown eyes peeking just above the pencil. “Tell me what it said in the invisible ink.”
“Pardon?” I ask.
“The message. In the dictionary. I want to know what it said first. I want you to tell me.”
“No. Absolutely no,” I say, eyeing Clementine, who’s staring through the see-through table at her own feet. She’s not gonna last long. “That’s not the game, Nico—I’ve got no time.”
“Then I have no time for you,” Nico challenges.
“That’s fine. Then we’ll leave. And you can sit here waiting another two years for your next visitor,” I say, standing up from my seat.
“Sit.”
“No. You’re not driving this,” I shoot back.
“Sit,” Nico repeats, lowering his chin and trying hard to keep his voice down.
“Are you listening? You’re not driving. So tell me what it says on the pencil, or have fun spending the rest of your afternoon with your free orange juice.”
Next to me, Clementine rises from her seat, joining me to leave.
Nico looks over at the table’s empty chair. He nods a few times. Whatever he’s hearing, I pray it’s good advice.
“It doesn’t say anyt
hing,” Nico blurts.
“Excuse me?”
“The pencil,” Nico says. “There’s no message.”
“How do you know?”
“I can see. I can—I’m good with patterns. The doctors… they’ve told me… I can see what others can’t. God gave me that gift,” he says, again glancing at the empty chair. “The marks on the pencil… the indentations… there’s nothing recurring. No repetition.”
“So the Culper Ring… back in the day… they never used old carvings as codes?” I ask.
“These aren’t carvings. These are… they’re nothing. Nothing I can see. Now tell me what you haven’t been saying. Tell me what was written in the invisible ink.”
He says the words matter-of-factly, as if there should be no argument.
Clementine and I both stand there, silent.
“I know you came here for my help,” Nico says. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t stuck. I can help with—”
He stops.
I know it’s a trick. Nico isn’t sly. He’s not subtle. He’s a whack job who acts like a giant child and thinks he’s the reincarnation of George Washington. So I know he’s just trying to get me to say…
“You can help me with what?” I ask, plenty annoyed, but curious enough to play along. I return to my seat.
He looks over toward the nurses’ station, once again scanning the brightly lit room. Taped to a nearby square concrete column is a laser-printed sign that says:
Please keep voices low
And spirits up
“Nico, what can you help us with?” I repeat.
“I know about the Purple Hearts,” Nico says.
“Okay, we’re done—I’ve seen this scam already,” I say as I again stand up.
“Where are you going?” Nico asks.
“This is the exact same thing you did last time—first you offer to help, then you start shoveling your whacky ghost stories.”
To my surprise, Clementine grips my wrist, keeping me in place. “What about the Purple Hearts?” she asks.
