by Brad Meltzer
But no question, it was moving. Back and forth.
Like someone had just passed through it.
Rushing to it, but working hard to stay quiet, Palmiotti studied the door. Back and forth… back and forth. It was barely swaying now, letting out a few final squeaks as it settled to a stop. A crush of rocks crackled below his feet. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek, into the tie that wrapped his forearm.
Either Clementine was standing on the other side of this door, waiting to put a bullet in his face, or she was still running, following wherever the tunnel led.
Only one way to find out.
Pressing his open palm against the plywood, Palmiotti gave it a push. Inside, unlike the rest of the cave, there were no lights. Total black. Nothing but silence.
Out of nowhere, the shrill scream of a fire alarm echoed from every direction. Palmiotti jumped at the noise, nearly bashing his head into the top threshold of the doggie door. No doubt, the alarm was pulled by Beecher, who was probably still panicking back where Palmiotti left him.
But a distraction was a distraction. Seizing the moment, Palmiotti shoved the plywood forward, lifted his left leg, and took a full step through the giant swinging door. His foot landed with a squish. His socks… his dress shoes… his entire foot was submerged in water.
Ducking inside, he hopped wildly to his right foot, trying to get to dry ground. Again, he landed with a wet squish as he—
Fttt.
He slapped his neck like he was swatting a mosquito bite. On impact, a wet splash sprayed through the spaces between his fingers. It was too dark for him to see the blood. Like before, he didn’t even feel it. As he stood there in the knee-high water, it was the smell that hit him first: the charred smell of burnt skin. His skin.
She shot me. Again. The nutty bitch shot me again!
But before the words traveled the synaptic pathway from his brain to his mouth, Palmiotti was hit again—tackled actually—his attacker ramming him from the right, purposely grabbing at the hole in his forearm as momentum and the electric jolt of pain knocked him sideways, into the shallow water that fed the water treatment area.
Before Palmiotti could get a single word out, two hands gripped his throat, sharp thumbnails digging into his voicebox.
Tumbling backward, he fell like a cleaved tree. The shallow water parted at the impact, then knitted back together over his face. Under the water, Palmiotti tried to scream as his lungs filled with the inky brown lake water. She clawed her way on top, sitting on his chest.
Palmiotti never got to see her.
But he knew Clementine wasn’t letting go.
110
Anybody there…? ” I call out, holding tight to the gun as I turn yet another corner in yet another poorly lit stretch of cave. “Clementine…?”
The only answer comes from the fire alarm, whose howl rings hard at the base of my skull.
A minute ago, I thought I heard the muffled thuds of Palmiotti running, but now…
Nothing but alarm.
Racing forward and holding the gun out in front of me, I lick the salty bits of sweat from my lips. At first, I told myself it was nerves. It’s not. The deeper I go, the hotter it gets.
This isn’t just the maintenance area of the cave. By the hum that rumbles just below the fire alarm, this is where all the HVAC and mechanical equipment is.
Picking up speed, I rush past a dusty spray-painted Car Wash sign and some still-soapy sponges, yet as I turn the next corner, there’s a sudden dead end.
On my right, there’s a door for an Emergency Exit. But straight ahead, built into the construction wall, there’s a swinging panel that… huh… is still swinging.
My fingers tighten around the trigger. There’s no question where they are. I can wait here for help. I can play it absolutely safe. But if either of them gets away…
I take my first step toward the wooden wall, and the fire alarm stops, leaving me in a sudden vacuum of silence that’s so severe, the only sound that exists is that phantom hum that follows you home when you leave a loud rock concert.
Straight ahead, the doggie door continues to swing, squeaking off-key.
Below my feet, with every step, bits of rock pop like glass.
In the distance, there’s a chirp I can’t place.
But what hits me like an axe in the stomach—as I approach the swinging panel and use the barrel of the gun to shove it open—is that there’s not a single noise coming from inside.
111
Palmiotti knew what to do.
Even now… with his head underwater… with her hands around his throat… Palmiotti knew what to do if he wanted to breathe again.
Thrashing wildly, he clapped his arms together so his fists collided with Clementine’s ears.
He couldn’t hear her scream. But he did feel her let go. His head broke the surface of the water. Gasping for fresh air, he heard the fire alarm still ringing. Water dripped from his nose, from his ears, from his chin. His neck—where he’d been shot—was burning now. From the amount of blood that soaked his right shoulder, he knew his internal jugular vein was lacerated. It was bad. Much worse than his forearm. But at least he could breathe.
Still coughing uncontrollably, he rolled sideways in the shallow water. He couldn’t see much, but there were small cracks of light in the plywood wall. His eyes adjusted fast.
Clementine rushed at him, raising her gun to—
Krkkk.
Palmiotti kicked hard—it was nothing but instinct—as his heel rammed Clementine’s unbent knee.
The crack was audible. Clementine’s leg nearly hyperextended as muscles and tendons were pulled like piano wire. Tumbling forward, she nosedived into the water.
She fought hard to get up, quickly climbing to her good knee. She knew what was coming.
She wasn’t nearly fast enough.
The first kick slammed into her stomach, lifting her off the ground and taking all the wind out of her.
“D’you even realize how stupid you are!?” Palmiotti growled, spit flying with every syllable. “Even before the hospital file—just on the threat of you knowing what we did to Eightball—we were willing to give you everything! You had us! You’d actually won!”
Clementine’s head was still down. Palmiotti gripped the back of her hair, twisting her head until she faced him and…
Pmmmp.
He rammed his knee in her face, sending her tumbling backward, splashing into the water. As fast as she could, she crabwalked back, trying to get away. She had no chance.
“Instead, when you heard about the file, you had to come here and be greedy…!” Palmiotti added, standing over her and grabbing her by the shirt. With a sharp tug, he lifted her up until the water reached her waist, then he punched her square in the face.
This time, though, it was Palmiotti who wasn’t letting go. He felt the throbbing at the wound in his neck. He could feel himself getting light-headed. He didn’t care. Cocking his arm back, he hit her again. And…
There was a loud click behind him.
“That’s enough,” a familiar voice announced.
Palmiotti turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Go away. This isn’t your problem anymore.”
“You are so incredibly wrong about that,” Beecher warned, aiming his gun straight at Palmiotti. “Let go of her now, and put your hands in the air.”
112
You’re done—you’re both done,” I warn Palmiotti.
“She still has her gun!” he insists, pointing back at Clementine.
I look down to check for myself. The brown water is almost to my knees, though it looks like it gets deeper as it snakes down the length of the cavern and winds into the darkness like the River Styx. This isn’t some small puddle. It’s a man-made lake.
In the darkness, it’s near impossible to see anything but a glassy reflection off the surface. But there’s no missing Clementine. Or the way, as she wipes her mouth and backs away from us on her knees, she keeps her other hand
conspicuously below the water.
“He hit me, Beecher,” she pleads, still slowly moving backward. “I swallowed my tooth—he knocked it down my—”
I point my gun at her and pull the trigger.
The barrel booms with a thunderclap that reverberates through the cavern. From the back of the cave, a speedy red bird—the chirping I heard before—zips out, flies in a few wild circles, and disappears again.
“Gah!” Clementine screams as the bullet slices her thigh, sending bits of skin and flesh flicking across the water. Palmiotti’s already injured. Whatever else happens, I’m not letting either of them—and especially her—get away.
At first she looks mad, but as she falls back on her ass and tucks her knee toward her chin, her eyebrows quickly unknot and her eyes go round and weepy. “H-How could you…? You shot me…” she moans.
“What you said about my father—is it true?” I ask.
“Beecher… the documents they’re hiding—there’s even more in that file. And if we have that, it’s not just our word against theirs—”
“IS IT TRUE!?” I explode.
The cave is silent, except for the red bird cheeping in the distance. “Th-That’s what my mother told me. I swear to you—on her dead body. But if I don’t get out of here—”
“No. Do not do that,” I warn her. “Do not manipulate me. Do not try to get away. I’ve seen that show already—I know how it ends.”
“Make her raise her hands!” Palmiotti shouts, stumbling back a few steps and leaning against the cave wall. I didn’t notice it until now—all that red on his shoulder… the way he’s holding his neck. He’s been shot again.
“Don’t let Palmiotti twist you,” Clementine warns, ignoring her own pain and fighting to stay calm. I can see the wet file folder sticking up from behind her back, where she tucked it in her pants. “Even with everything I did—you know I’d never hurt you. And before… I-I saved you.”
“You need to shoot her!” Palmiotti insists. “She’s got her gun under the water!”
“Clementine, raise your hands,” I insist.
She shifts her weight, raising both hands, then lowering them back in the water, which, from the way she’s sitting, comes just above her waist.
“She kept the gun in her lap!” Palmiotti adds. “She still has it!” “I don’t have anything!” she shouts.
I don’t believe either of them. And even if her gun is still in her lap, I don’t know if a gun can work once it’s underwater. But the one thing I do know is I need to see for myself.
“Clementine, get up! Stand up,” I tell her.
“I can’t.”
“Whattya mean you can’t?”
“You shot me, Beecher. In the leg. I can’t stand,” she explains, pointing to her leg that’s bent.
“The bullshit is just never-ending!” Palmiotti says. “If you don’t shoot her, she’s going to—!”
“Dr. Palmiotti, stop talking!” I yell.
“Then use your brain for once instead of thinking with your scrotum!” Palmiotti begs, reaching my way. “If you want, give me the gun and I’ll—”
“Do not come near this gun,” I say, aiming the barrel at his chest. “I know who you are, Doctor. I know you tricked Dallas into thinking he was fighting for the good of the Culper Ring. And since I know you’re the top plumber in the Plumbers, I know where your loyalty lies.”
Palmiotti doesn’t move.
Across from us, Clementine doesn’t either.
“Beecher, listen to me,” Palmiotti says. “Whatever you think our mission is, we can fight about this later. But if you don’t shoot her—if you don’t protect us—she’s gonna kill both of us.”
“I know you don’t believe that,” Clementine jumps in, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and Palmiotti. “Of course he wants you to shoot me, Beecher. Think of why he put that bullet in Dallas’s chest! He’s cleaning up one by one… and once I’m gone, you’re the only witness that’s left. And then… and then…” She slows herself down as the pain takes hold. “Guess how quickly you’ll be dead after that?”
“So now we’re the bad guys?” Palmiotti asks, forcing a laugh. “For what? For trying to protect the leader of the free world from a blackmailer and her crazy father?”
“No—for helping your boss bury a baseball bat in the side of someone’s head! I saw Eightball’s medical chart. Puncture wounds in the face! Shattered eye socket; broken cheekbones! And brain damage from an in-driven fragment of his skull! Lemme guess: You held Eightball down while Wallace wound up with a hammer. Did it feel good when you heard that boy’s eye socket shatter? What about all these years when you helped the President of the United States keep him in storage like a piece of old furniture—and then used all the real Culper Ring’s methods to hide it!? How’d that one feel?” Turning to me, she adds, “Pay attention, Beecher. Palmiotti wants you to think I’m the bad guy. But remember, he didn’t need you and Dallas to get the file. Once you found it, he could’ve had Dallas take you home, and he could’ve grabbed it himself. So what’s the benefit to Palmiotti of having all of us in an underground cave in the middle of nowhere…?”
“Jesus, Beecher—even if you think she’s telling the truth—make her stand up!” Palmiotti pleads.
“… because even if they smoke that hospital file, the last thing Palmiotti and the President need is you running around, bearing witness to the world,” Clementine says, as serious as I’ve ever seen her. “That’s the only reason you’re here, Beecher—that’s the big ending. Whether you shoot me now or not, you’re gonna die here. I’m gonna die here. Both of us… with what’s in our blood… don’t you see… we’re history.”
Behind her, the bird isn’t chirping. There’s only silence.
“That’s not true,” I say, still pointing my gun at her.
“You lie. And worst of all, you lie to yourself,” she tells me. “Think of everything you’ve seen: You saw him shoot Dallas. You’ve already seen what they’ll do to protect what they have in that White House. You pull that trigger on me, and I guarantee you you’ll be dead in ten minutes—and you wanna know why? Because that’s your role, Beecher. You get to play Lee Harvey Oswald… or John Hinckley… or even Nico. That’s your big part in the opera. Think of any presidential attack in history—you can’t have one without a patsy.”
“Beecher, make her stand the hell up!” Palmiotti begs, his voice cracking. His face should be a red rage. Instead, it’s bone white. The way he’s gripping his neck and using his free hand to steady himself against the wall, he’s losing blood fast.
I look back at Clementine sitting in the water. Both of her legs are straight out, like she’s coming down a waterslide. The water’s above her waist. I still can’t see if she has her gun.
“You know I’m right,” she says as she starts to breathe heavily. The pain in her leg is definitely getting worse. But as she sits there, she starts using her good leg to slowly push herself backward in the water. “This is your chance, Beecher. If we leave together… with this file… Forget making them pay—we can finally get the truth.”
“Beecher, whatever you’re thinking right now,” Palmiotti pleads, “she has the file tucked in her pants and her gun in one of her hands. Do not assume—for one second—that the moment you lower your gun, she’s not going to raise hers and kill the both of us.”
“Help me up, Beecher. Help me up and we can get out of here,” Clementine says, reaching out with her left hand. Her right is still underwater as she stops maneuvering back.
“S-She’s the one who killed Orlando!” Palmiotti says, coughing wildly.
“Clementine, what you told me before… about being sick,” I say. “Are you really dying?”
She doesn’t say a word. But she also doesn’t look away. “I can’t be lying about everything.”
“She can… she admitted it, Beecher… She killed your friend!”
From the back of the cave, the trapped red bird again swoops through the dar
kness, and just as quickly disappears with a high-pitched chirp.
I look over at Palmiotti, who’s got no fight left in him, then back to Clementine, who’s still holding one hand out to me—and hiding her other beneath the water.
The answer is easy.
There’s only one real threat left.
I aim my gun at Clementine and cock the hammer. “Clementine, pick your hands up and stand up now, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you again,” I tell her.
Two minutes ago, Clementine said we were history. She knows nothing about history. History is simply what’s behind us.
“Thank you!” Palmiotti calls out, still coughing behind me. “Now we can—”
Palmiotti doesn’t finish the thought.
As Clementine is about to get up, there’s a loud splash behind me.
I turn to my right just as Palmiotti hits the water. He lands face-first, arms at his side, like he’s frozen solid. For half a second, I stand there, waiting for him to get up. But the way he lies there, facedown…
His body jerks. Then jerks again, wildly. Within seconds, his upper body is twitching, making him buck like a fish on land. I have no idea what that gunshot to the neck did. But I know a seizure when I see one.
“Palmiotti…! ” I call out even though he can’t hear me.
I’m about to run at him, when I remember…
Clementine.
“He’s gonna die,” she says matter-of-factly, fighting to climb to her good leg. Her one hand is still hidden below the water. “You may hate him, but he needs your help.”
“If you run, I’ll shoot you again,” I warn her.
“No. You won’t. Not after that,” she says, pointing me back to Palmiotti, whose convulsions are starting to slow down. He doesn’t have long.
If the situation were reversed, Palmiotti would leave me. Gladly. Clementine might too. But to turn your back and just leave someone to die…
Right there, I see the choice. I can grab Clementine. Or I can race to help Palmiotti.
Life. Or death. There’s no time for both.
