by Brad Meltzer
“What?”
“Before. After we left the cemetery. You went back to the office; I was going back to see Nico. You said they called. You said you spoke to Mr. Harmon yourself,” I add, referring to the guy from Presidential Records who I called from the cemetery. “You said that while they didn’t find anything in Wallace’s old college records—”
“Which I said they wouldn’t.”
“—I was still right about one thing: Our Archives staff collects every document from every place Wallace ever visited, including elementary school, junior high, and… even the records from the hospital he was born at.”
“But do you understand what happened, Beecher? That hospital—sure, it’s great that they have the President’s birth records. But when Mr. Harmon started digging, he also found another file with Wallace’s name on it: for a broken finger that Wallace had treated in the emergency room twenty-six years ago. That means that emergency room—”
“—is the same emergency room they took Eightball to that night. I know. The barber told me they were there. I know what happened.”
“I’m sure you do. But every word that barber said to you—from Minnie being the one to swing that bat, to Wallace covering it up to protect his sister, to transferring Eightball and keeping him hidden all these years, to however Clementine found out about it and started blackmailing them—y’know what that amounts to? Nothing. Not a single thing, Beecher. Every word that barber said is hearsay from a dead man. If you go and shout it in public, you’ll get about as far as any other Kennedy conspiracy nut who swears that Jack Ruby whispered all his secrets from his jail cell. But. If we get these hospital records, you have the one thing—the only thing—that works when you’re going up against a sitting President. Proof. That file is proof, Beecher. Proof that Wallace was there that night. That file in Pennsylvania will save your life.”
I know Dallas is right. And I know when it comes to the massive piles of incoming records, our office won’t fax them or scan them until they’re officially processed, which starts with the vital documents and takes years to work its way down to something as small as a childhood broken finger. Yet…“You’re not answering my question,” I say, still locked on our reflection in the windshield. “You said Mr. Harmon called. That you spoke to him yourself. But when we were at the cemetery, I didn’t give Mr. Harmon your number. I gave him mine.”
Dallas turns, cocky as ever.
“And that’s what you’re all sulky about? That I picked up your phone? You were already at St. Elizabeths—I was back in the office and heard it ringing—so yeah, of course I picked it up. Considering what happened, you’re lucky I did.”
I nod. It’s a perfect explanation. But it doesn’t lift my mood.
“How’re you not thrilled?” Dallas asks. “This is gonna be the nail for the coffin.”
“I’ve already seen the coffins! Two men are dead! Orlando… and now this barber—He came to me! The barber came to me and died in front of me! All because of—Because she—” I stay with the reflection, trying hard not to see myself.
Outside, the sun argues with the snow that lines both sides of I-270. A brown-and-white highway sign tells me we’re nearing Hagerstown and the Pennsylvania border. But I’m still staring at my own reflection.
“You didn’t cause those deaths, Beecher. And just so you actually hear it: She wasn’t exploiting your weakness. She was counting on your strength.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“What Clementine did—the only reason she was able to pull it off—was because you’re someone who helps people. And that’s a good thing.”
“It doesn’t feel so good right now,” I say as I again replay every single moment over the past two days. The only thing that’s worse is how easily she pulled it off. For Clementine to have everything that the barber confessed to Eightball… for her to somehow figure out all the Plumber details… and when we first were in the SCIF… I don’t think she found that old dictionary. I think she was actually sneaking it in, but then when the coffee got spilled, she had to improvise…
“Listen, I know she and Nico stabbed you plenty deep—”
“No. Don’t blame Nico for this. You didn’t see him—the way he reacted… Nico’s not in this. And I know it’s hard to believe because he’s such a nutface, but when you listen to him—there was one thing Nico was always right about.” Up above, the sun blinds me. But not for long. “Nico said we’re all here for a reason. He’s not wrong. So when this is done—when Clementine’s captured, and Orlando’s family has their answers, and we tell the world the real story about the President—”
“You don’t have to say it, Beecher. They’re watching,” Dallas says, leaning hard on the word they, which is how he always refers to the Culper Ring. “They’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
I nod, pretending that’s what I’m really after.
“So I assume they’re the ones who gave you this car?” I ask.
“And the gray one too,” Dallas says.
“Yeah, I was thinking about that. So I shouldn’t be worried that the barber’s body is still sitting in it?”
“If Jesus himself came down and searched that car, he’d still never be able to trace it.”
“I drove it on the grounds. They’re not going to link it to me?”
“They said not to worry about that either.”
“So that’s it? The Culper Ring just waves their hands and magically takes care of it all?”
“It’s not magic, Beecher. It’s loyalty. Loyalty and efficiency. They’ll get there well before the cops, and then… well… think of what you’re seeing with Wallace and Palmiotti. Especially in this town, never underestimate the power of loyalty.”
“I’m not. That’s why, when everything settles…” I take a breath and think again about that guy from Hiroshima. “I want to be introduced.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“To them. To the Culper Ring. When this is all done, I want in.”
“Beecher, I know you’ve got a lot of adrenaline flowing…”
“This isn’t adrenaline. And don’t think it’s some silly revenge fantasy either. I know what Clementine did to me. I know I let her do it. But when I was in that car at St. Elizabeths—when I thought the barber was about to take that knife and slit my throat—I kept waiting for my life to flash in front of my eyes… or for some hypersensitivity, or slow motion, or whatever the other clichés are, to kick in. But instead, all I could think was that it felt… right. Does that make sense?”
“It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“I don’t mean right that I was about to be murdered. I mean right that, when I was in that spot… when I was in that danger… I felt like I was shaken awake. After Iris… after everything she made me feel… I made a decision and went to sleep. Do you know what that’s like—trying to go to sleep, and lose yourself in the hopes of burying the worst fears in your life? It was the one thing Clementine didn’t lie about: I wasn’t in love with the past. I was terrified of my own future—and then when Clementine came along, I thought she was my second chance. But she’s not. This is. I want my second chance. It’s like my life finally makes sense.”
“That’s still the adrenaline speaking.”
“It’s not adrenaline. It’s what we’re here for, Dallas. It’s what I thought I was here for, but instead… Do you know how many years I’ve spent staring into old books and thinking I was touching history? But that’s not where history is.” I look at the rearview and lean to the side until I again see myself. All this time, I thought Clementine was the one reviving me. But when your world feels dead, there’s only one person who can bring you back to life.
“I can do this, Dallas.”
“I’m sure you can. You can do lots of things. But this isn’t what you’re meant for.”
“You’re not listening to me,” I say, giving him a good long stare. “Look at my life. I’m tired of doing what I’m meant f
or.”
From the driver’s seat, Dallas peers my way, using his top teeth to chew the few beard hairs below his bottom lip.
“I can do it,” I insist. “I’m ready.”
He doesn’t say a word.
And then, as we race for the caves… and for the proof… and for the records that will end this mess, he finally does.
“Y’know what, Beecher? I think you’re right.”
* * *
99
Carla Lee knew it was going to be a bad day. She knew it when her two-year-old son woke up at 5:40 in the morning all excited to play. She knew it when the little yellow tub of margarine for her morning English muffin was completely empty, even though her husband had put it back in the fridge. And she knew it when she was racing back from her 3 p.m. meetings and saw the dead animal on Franklin Road.
She’d seen dead animals before on the highway. In these parts of western Pennsylvania, there were always deer and foxes and loads of unlucky possums. Carla had even stopped for a few (she was a dog owner—she couldn’t just ride past if it was a dog). But here, on Franklin Road, which was hilly and rarely traveled, if you did see a dead animal, it never looked like this.
Carla couldn’t see the fur anymore—couldn’t even tell what kind of creature it was. The animal was—Carla squinted as she veered around the tight curve in her banged-up maroon Camry. There was no other way to say it. The animal was run-through. Run-through over and over again. People probably couldn’t even see it if they were coming fast around the turn. But Carla was a mother. With three kids. And a sweet Maltese that peed on the floor every time someone came in the door. It’d been years since she went fast around the turns.
For that reason, she had a perfect view of the poor creature that was a mess of twisted red and black organs covered in flies.
For Carla, the mother and Maltese owner, that was the worst part of her bad day—being stuck with that image in her head.
She couldn’t shake the image as she turned onto Brachton Road.
She couldn’t shake it as she pulled into the enormous employee parking lot that sat across the road from the underground storage facility known as Copper Mountain.
And as she left her car, stepped into the cold wind that was whipping off the nearby Pennsylvania hills, and rushed for the arriving white school bus that served as the employee shuttle, she still saw that mess of red and black.
It was that image, still floating in her mind, that took all of her attention as she and her fellow employees packed together to get on board the arriving bus.
It was because she was thinking of that image that Carla didn’t even notice, in the usual crush to get on the bus, the young black-haired woman standing so close behind her.
“Please—go ahead—you were first,” Clementine said, flashing a warm smile and motioning politely.
“Thanks,” Carla replied, climbing aboard without even noticing how much Clementine’s hair and overall coloring matched her own.
Within minutes, the white school bus rolled through security and pulled up to the main entrance at the mouth of the cave. After all these years, Carla was used to working underground. But as they entered the cave, and a long slow shadow crept across the roof of the bus and swallowed the remaining daylight, Carla felt that familiar wiggle in her belly. Spotting the armed guards that always greeted them as they stepped off the shuttle, she then reached into her purse, fished for her ID, and—
“Craparoo,” she whispered to herself. “I need to go back,” Carla called out to the bus driver.
“Everything okay?” Clementine asked.
“Yeah. I think I just left my ID in my car.”
“I do that all the time,” Clementine said, heading for the front of the bus, where she took out the ID she’d lifted from Carla’s purse, flashed it at the guard, and followed the other employees along the concrete path into Copper Mountain.
Carla Lee was definitely having a bad day.
But Clementine, so far, was having a great one.
Especially if they’d found the file she was looking for.
100
It’s under us,” Dallas says.
“Whattya mean?” I ask.
“The place. The caves,” Dallas explains as the narrow two-lane road sends us rising and falling and rising again over yet another set of low twisting hills, which are getting harder to see as the 4 p.m. sky grows dark. “That’s why the road’s like this. I think the caves are right under us.”
I nod, staring down at my phone, which casts a pale blue glow in the car and is still getting enough signal for me to search the websites of all the D.C. TV stations to see if anyone’s covering the story.
I search for Nico’s name… for my name… even for the word homicide or murder. Nothing. No mention of St. Elizabeths, no mention of a dead barber, and most important, no mention of me being wanted as a fugitive.
“Now do you understand why no one’s heard of us in two hundred years?” Dallas asks, once again trying to put me at ease. It almost works—until I gaze out at the snow-covered trees and we blow past the red, white, and blue road sign with the picture of George Washington.
Welcome to the Washington Trail—1753
It’s silly and a meaningless coincidence, but I can’t help but imagine Nico’s joy if he knew that we were driving the same path that George Washington marched on back in 1753.
“Beecher, stop thinking what you’re thinking,” Dallas warns.
“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“I saw the sign. It’s not an omen.”
“I never said it was an omen.”
Dallas hears my tone. He believes me. “Though it is kinda haunted house,” he admits.
“It’s definitely haunted house,” I say with a nod.
With a few quick turns, Dallas weaves us deeper into the hills, where at every curve in the road the nearest tree has a red reflector sunk into its trunk. Out here, the roads don’t have lights, which we need even more as the winter sky grows black.
“You sure this is right?” I ask.
Before he can answer, my phone vibrates in my hand. Caller ID tells me who it is.
“Tot?” Dallas asks.
I nod. It’s the fourth time he’s called in the last few hours. I haven’t picked up once. The last thing I need is for him to fish and potentially figure out where we are.
As we round the final curve, the hills level out and a brand-new glow blinds us in the distance, forcing us to squint. Straight ahead, giant metal floodlights dot the long field that stretches out in front of us. A familiar churn in my stomach tells me what my eyes can’t see.
“This is it, isn’t it?”
Dallas doesn’t answer. He’s staring at a white bus that slowly rumbles through the brightly lit parking lot on our left.
The only other sign of life is a fluorescent red triangle that looks like a corporate logo and is set into a haystack-sized man-made hill and serves as the sole welcome mat. You don’t come this way unless you know what you’re looking for.
Just past the red triangle, at the only intersection for miles, a narrow paved road slopes down to the left, toward a high-tech check-in building, then keeps going until it dead-ends at the base of the nearby stone cliffside that surrounds the little canyon that we’re now driving in.
But as we make the left toward the check-in building, it’s clear that the road doesn’t dead-end. It keeps going, into a black archway that looks like a train tunnel, inside the cliff and down underground.
“Stay in your car! I’m coming to you,” a guard calls out in a flat western Pennsylvania accent, appearing from nowhere and pointing us away from the check-in building and toward a small freestanding guardhouse that looks more like a construction shed.
I look again to my right. There are two more sheds and a bunch of workers wearing hard hats. The check-in building is still under construction.
“Here… right here,” the guard says, motioning us into place outside the security
shed—and into view of its two different security cameras. “Welcome to Copper Mountain,” he adds as Dallas rolls down his window. “I assume you got an appointment?”
101
Racing in the golf cart, our hair blows in a swirl as Dallas and I whip down one of the cave’s long cavities.
“… just so glad to have you both here,” gushes Gina Paul, our driver, a short, overfriendly woman with a pointy-beak nose, smoker’s breath, and straight blonde hair that’s pulled back so tight, it acts as a facelift.
“I’m sorry it’s such short notice,” I tell her.
“Short notice… it’s fine. Short notice is fine,” she says as I realize she’s just like my aunt who repeats everything you say. Her nametag says she’s an account manager, but I don’t need that to know she’s in sales. “So, so great to finally meet you, Beecher,” she adds even though she doesn’t mean it.
She doesn’t care who I am.
But she does care where I work.
Fifty years ago, this cave was one of Pennsylvania’s largest limestone mines. But when the limestone ran dry, Copper Mountain, Inc., bought its 1,100 acres of tunnels and turned it into one of the most secure off-site storage areas on the eastern seaboard.
And one of the most profitable.
That’s a fact not lost on Gina, who, by how fast this golf cart is now moving, realizes just how much money the National Archives spends here every year.
We’re not the only ones.
The narrow thin cavern is about as wide as a truck, and on our right a painted red steel door is set deep into the rock, like a hanging red tooth on a jack-o’-lantern. Above the door, a military flag hangs down from the ceiling. I know the logo. U.S. Army. As the golf cart picks up speed, there’s another door fifty yards down from that—and another flag hanging from the ceiling. Marines.
It’s the same the entire stretch of the cavern: red steel door after red steel door after red steel door. Air Force. Navy. Department of Defense.
