by Brad Meltzer
I think of everything Palmiotti did. How he shot Dallas. And how, if I save him, President Wallace will pull every string in existence to make sure Palmiotti walks away without a scar, mark, or paper cut.
I think of what Clementine knows about my father.
But when it comes to making the final choice…
… there’s really no choice at all.
Sprinting toward the facedown Palmiotti and tucking my gun into my pants, I grab him by the shoulders and lift him, bending him backward, out from the water. He’s deadweight, his arms sagging forward as his fingertips skate along the top of the water. A waterfall of fluid and vomit drains from his mouth.
I know what to do. I spent two summers lifeguarding at the local pool. But as I drop to my knees and twist Palmiotti onto his back, I can’t help but look over my shoulder.
With her back to me, Clementine climbs to her feet. She tries to steady herself, her right hand still down in the water.
As Palmiotti’s head hits my lap, his face isn’t pale anymore. It’s ashen and gray. His half-open eyes are waxy as he gazes through me. He’s not in there.
I open his mouth. I clear his airway. I look over my shoulder…
My eyes seize on Clementine as she finally pulls her hand from the water…
… and reveals the soaking-wet gun that she’s been gripping the entire time.
Oh, jeez.
Palmiotti was right.
She lifts the gun. All she has to do is turn and fire. It’s an easy shot.
But she never takes it.
Scrambling and limping, Clementine heads deeper into the cave, leaving a wake in the water that fans out behind her. The gun is dangling by her side. I wait for her to look back at me.
She doesn’t.
Not once.
I tilt Palmiotti’s head back. I pinch his nose. He hasn’t taken a breath in a full minute. His gray skin is starting to turn blue.
“Help…!” I call out even though no one’s there.
Palmiotti’s only movement comes from a rare gasp that sends his chest heaving. Huuuh. It’s not a breath. He’s not breathing at all.
He’s dying.
“We need help…! ” I call out.
I look over my shoulder.
Clementine’s gone.
In my lap, Palmiotti doesn’t move. No gasping. No heaving. His eyes stare through me. His skin is bluer than ever. I feel for a pulse, but there’s nothing there.
“Please, someone… I need help…! ”
* * *
113
Clementine is gone.
I know they won’t find her.
Dallas is dead. So is Palmiotti.
I know both are my fault.
And on top of all that, when it comes to my father, I’ve got nothing but questions.
In the back part of the cave, the first ones to reach us are Copper Mountain’s internal volunteer firefighters, which are made up of a group of beefy-looking managers and maintenance guys who check me for cuts and scrapes. I don’t have a scratch on me. No punches thrown, no black eyes to heal, no lame sling to make it look like I learned a lesson as I went through the wringer.
I did everything Clementine and Tot and even Dallas had been pushing me to do. For those few minutes, as I held that gun, and squeezed that trigger, I was no longer the spectator who was avoiding the future and watching the action from the safety of a well-worn history book. For those few minutes, I was absolutely, supremely in the present.
But as the paramedics buzz back and forth and I stand there alone in the cave, staring down at my cell phone, the very worst part of my new reality is simply… I have no idea who to call.
“There. I see ’em…” a female voice announces.
I look up just as a woman paramedic with short brown hair climbs out of a golf cart that’s painted red and white like an ambulance. She starts talking to the other paramedic—the guy who told me that the water treatment area has a waste exit on the far side of the cave. Clementine was prepared for that one too.
But as the woman paramedic gets closer, I realize she’s not here for me. She heads to the corner of the cave, where Dallas’s and Palmiotti’s stiff bodies are covered by red-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloths from the cafeteria.
I could’ve shot Clementine. Maybe I should’ve. But as I stare at Dallas’s and Palmiotti’s covered bodies, the thought that’s doing far more damage is a simple one: After everything that happened, I helped nobody.
The thought continues to carve into my brain as a third paramedic motions my way.
“So you’re the lucky one, huh?” a paramedic with a twinge of Texas in his voice asks, putting a hand on my shoulder and pulling me back. “If you need a lift, you can ride with us,” he adds, pointing me to the white car that sits just behind the golf cart.
I nod him a thanks as he opens the back door of the car and I slide inside. But it’s not until the door slams shut and I see the metal police car–type partition that divides the front seat from the back, that I realize he’s dressed in a suit.
Paramedics don’t wear suits.
The locks thunk. The driver—a man with thin blond hair that’s combed straight back and curls into a duck’s butt at his neck—is also in a suit.
Never facing me, the man with the Texas twang drops into the passenger seat and whispers into his wrist:
“We’re in route Crown. Notify B-4.”
I have no idea what B-4 is. But during all those reading visits, I’ve been around enough Secret Service agents to know what Crown is the code word for.
They’re taking me to the White House.
Good.
That’s exactly where I want to go.
* * *
114
I try to sleep on the ride.
I don’t have a chance.
For the first few hours, my body won’t shut off. I’m too wired and rattled and awake. I keep checking my phone, annoyed I can’t get a signal. But as we pass into Maryland, I realize it’s not my phone.
“You’re blocking it, aren’t you?” I call out to the driver. “You’ve got one of those devices—for blocking my cell signal.”
He doesn’t answer. Too bad for him, I’ve seen the CIA files on interrogation. I know the game.
The longer they let the silence sink in and make this car seem like a cage, the more likely I am to calm down.
It usually works.
But after everything that’s happened—to Orlando… to Dallas… and even to Palmiotti—I don’t care how many hours I sit back here, there’s no damn way I’m just calming down…
Until.
The car makes a sharp right, bouncing and bumping its way to the security shed at the southeast gate. Of the White House.
“Emily…” the driver of our car says, miming a tip of the hat to the female uniformed guard.
“Jim…” the guard replies, nodding back.
It’s nearly ten at night. They know we’re coming.
With a click, the black metal gate swings open, and we ride up the slight incline toward the familiar giant white columns and the perfectly lit Truman Balcony. Just the sight of it unties the knots of my rage and, to my surprise, makes the world float in time, like I’m hovering in my own body.
It’s not the President that does it to me. It’s this place.
Last year, I took my sisters here to see the enormous Christmas tree they always have on the South Lawn. Like every other tourist, we took photos from the street, squeezing the camera through the bars of the metal gate and snapping shots of the world’s most famous white mansion.
Regardless of who lives inside, the White House—and the Presidency—still deserve respect.
Even if Wallace doesn’t.
The car jolts to a stop just under the awning of the South Portico.
I know this entrance. This isn’t the public entrance. Or the staff entrance.
The is the entrance that Nixon walked out when he boarded the helicopter for the last time
and popped the double fingers. The entrance where Obama and his daughters played with their dog.
The private entrance.
Wallace’s entrance.
Before I can even reach for the door, two men in suits appear on my right from inside the mansion. As they approach the car, I see their earpieces. More Secret Service.
The car locks thunk. The taller one opens the door.
“He’s ready for you,” he says, motioning for me to walk ahead of them. They both fall in right behind me, making it clear that they’re the ones steering.
We don’t go far.
As we step through an oval room that I recognize as the room where FDR used to give his fireside chats, they motion me to the left, down a long pale-red-carpeted hallway.
There’s another agent on my left, who whispers into his wrist as we pass.
In the White House, every stranger is a threat.
They don’t know the half of it.
“Here you go…” one of them says as we reach the end of the hall, and he points me to the only open door on the hallway.
The sign out front tells me where we are. But even without that, as I step inside—past the unusually small reception area and unusually clean bathroom—there’s an exam table that’s covered by a sterile roll of white paper.
Even in the White House, there’s no mistaking a doctor’s office.
“Please. Have a seat,” he announces, dressed in a sharp pinstriped suit despite the late hour. As he waves me into the private office, his gray eyes look different than the last time I saw him, with the kind of dark puffiness under them that only comes from stress. “I was worried about you, Beecher,” the President of the United States adds, extending a hand. “I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”
115
You look like you have something on your mind, Beecher,” the President offers, sounding almost concerned.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“On your face. I can see it. Say what you’re thinking, son.”
“You don’t wanna hear what I’m thinking,” I shoot back.
“Watch yourself,” one of the Secret Service agents blurts behind me. I didn’t even realize they were still there.
“Victor,” the President says. It’s just one word. He’s not even annoyed as he says it. But in those two syllables, it’s clear what the President wants. Leave us alone. Get out.
“Sir, this isn’t—”
“Victor.” That’s the end. Argument over.
Without another word, the two agents leave the doctor’s office, shutting the door behind them. But it’s Wallace who rounds the desk, crosses behind me, and locks the office door with a hushed clunk.
At first, I thought he brought me here because of what happened to Palmiotti. But I’m now realizing it’s one of the only places in the White House where he can guarantee complete privacy.
With him behind me, I keep my eyes on Palmiotti’s desk, where there’s a small box that looks like a toaster. A little screen lists the following names in green digital letters:
POTUS: Ground Floor Doctor’s Office
FLOTUS: Second Floor Residence
VPOTUS: West Wing
MINNIE: Traveling
Doesn’t take a medical degree to know those’re the current locations of the President, First Lady, Vice President, and Minnie. I’d read that Wallace made the Secret Service take his kids’ names off the search grid. There was no reason for staff to know where they were at any minute. But he clearly left Minnie on. It’s been twenty-six years since the President’s sister tried to kill herself. He’s not taking his eyes off her.
Otherwise, the office is sparse, and the walls—to my surprise—aren’t filled with photos of Palmiotti and the President. Palmiotti had just one, on the desk, in a tasteful silver frame. It’s not from the Oval or Inauguration Day. No, this is a grainy shot from when Palmiotti and Wallace were back in… from the early-eighties hair and the white caps and gowns, it has to be high school graduation.
They can’t be more than eighteen: young Palmiotti on the left; young Wallace on the right. In between, they’ve both got their arms around the real star of the photo: Wallace’s mother, who has her head tilted just slightly toward her son, and is beaming the kind of toothy smile that only a mom at graduation can possibly beam. But as Mom stretches her own arms around their waists, pulling them in close, one thing’s clear: This isn’t a presidential photo. It’s a family one.
With the door now locked, the President moves slowly behind me, heading back toward the desk. He’s silent and unreadable. I know he’s trying to intimidate me. And I know it’s working.
But as he brushes past me, I spot… in his hand… He’s holding one of those black oval bulbs from the end of a blood pressure kit.
As he slides back into his chair, I don’t care how cool he’s trying to play it. This man still lost his oldest—and perhaps only—real friend today. He lowers his hands behind the desk and I know he’s squeezing that bulb.
“If it makes you feel better, we’ll find her,” he finally offers.
“Pardon?”
“The girl. The one who took the file…”
“Clementine. But whattya mean we’ll find—?” I stop myself, looking carefully at Wallace. Until just this moment, he had no idea that Clementine was the one who had the file.
His gray eyes lock on me, and I realize, in this depth of the ocean, just how sharp the shark’s teeth can be.
“Is that why you brought me here? To see if I was the one who still had the file?”
“Beecher, you keep thinking I’m trying to fight you. But you need to know—all this time—we thought you were the one who was blackmailing us.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know that. And that’s the only reason I brought you here, Beecher: to thank you. I appreciate what you did. The way you came through and worked so hard to protect Dallas and Dr. Palmiotti. And even when you found the rest… you could’ve taken advantage and asked for something for yourself. But you never did.”
I stare at the President, who knits his fingers together and gently lowers them in prayer style on the desk. He’s not holding the blood pressure bulb anymore.
“Can I ask you a question, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Is that the same speech you gave to Dallas?”
“What’re you talking about?” the President asks.
“The polite flattery… the moral back-pat… even the subtle hint you dropped about the advantages you can offer and how much you can do for me, without ever directly saying it. Is that the way you made Dallas feel special when you invited him into the Plumbers, and he thought he was joining the Culper Ring?”
The President shifts his weight, his eyes still locked on me. “Be very careful of what you’re accusing me of.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. But it is a fair calculation, isn’t it? Why risk a head-on collision when you can bring me inside? I mean, now that I think about it—is that the real reason you brought me here? To keep me quiet by inviting me to be the newest member of your Plumbers?”
The President’s hands stay frozen in prayer style on the desk. If his voice was any colder, I’d be able to see it in the air. “No. That isn’t why I brought you here. At all.”
He takes another breath, all set to hide his emotions just like he does on every other day of his life. But I see his tongue as it rolls inside his mouth. As good as Wallace is, his friend is still dead. You don’t just bury that away.
“I brought you to say thank you,” he insists for the second time. “Without you, we wouldn’t know who killed that security guard.”
“His name’s Orlando,” I interrupt.
Wallace nods with a nearly invisible grin, letting me know he’s well aware of Orlando’s name. He’s anxious to be back in control—and I just gave it back to him. “Though you’ll be happy to hear, Beecher—from what I understand, the D.C. police already have Clementine’s picture up on
their website. They were able to link her chemotherapy prescription to the drugs they found in Orlando’s bloodwork.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what’s online. And when you think about it, that young archivist—Beecher whatshisname—who tracked her down, and looped in the President’s doctor, and even followed her all the way out to those caves—that guy’s a hero,” he adds, his eyes growing darker as they tighten on me. “Of course, some say Beecher had a hand in it—that he violated every security protocol and was the one who let Clementine inside that SCIF—and that together they planned all this, and were after the President, and they even went to visit her father, who—can you believe it?—is Nico Hadrian, who may be trying to kill again.”
He pauses a moment, looking over at the office’s only window. It has a perfect view of the South Lawn—except for the iron bars that cover it. I get the point. All he has to do is say the words and that’s my permanent view. His voice is back to the exact strength he started with. “But I don’t want to believe that about him. Beecher’s a good guy. I don’t want to see him lose everything like that.”
It’s an overdramatic speech—especially with the glance at the iron bars—and exactly the one I thought he’d give. “I still know about the two Culper Rings,” I say. “I know about your Plumbers. And for you especially… I know your personal stake in this.”
He knows I mean Minnie.
“Beecher, I think we all have a personal stake in this. Right, son?” he asks, putting all the emphasis on the word son.
I know he means my father.
It’s an empty threat. If he wanted to trade, he would’ve already offered it. But he’s done debating.
“Go tell the world, Beecher. And you find me one person who wouldn’t protect their sister in the exact same way if they saw her in trouble. If you think my poll numbers are good now, just wait until you turn me into a hero.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Not maybe,” he says as if he’s already seen the future. He leans into the desk, his fingers still crossed in prayer. This man takes on entire countries. And wins. “The press’ll dig for a little while into what the doctor was up to, but they’ll move on to the next well—especially when they don’t strike oil. The President’s doctor is very different than the President.”
