by Brad Meltzer
At sixteen years old, Beecher had no problem darting up the aisles, past the overstuffed shelves that were packed with old paperbacks. The only thing that slowed him down was when he saw who was waiting for him at the register.
He knew her from behind—from just the sight of her long black hair.
He’d know her anywhere.
Clementine.
Ducking underneath the drawbridge counter and sliding to a stop behind the register, Beecher worked hard to keep it cool. “Clementine… Hey.”
“I didn’t know you worked here,” she offered.
“Yeah. I’m Beecher,” he said, pointing to himself.
“I know your name, Beecher.”
“Yeah… no… that’s great,” he replied, praying better words would come. “So you got stuff for us?” he added, motioning to the blue milk crate that she had lugged inside and that now sat by her feet.
“I heard you guys pay fifty cents for old records and CDs.”
“Fifty cents for records. Fifty cents for paperbacks. And a full dollar if it’s a new hardcover—though he’ll pay a lot if you’ve got the ’69 Bee Gees Odessa album with the original foldout artwork.”
“I don’t have the Bee Gees,” she said. “I just have these…”
From the milk crate, she pulled out half a dozen copies of the CD with her mom’s photo on it: Penny Maxwell’s Greatest Hits.
Beecher knew the rules. He could buy back anything he wanted—as long as the store didn’t already have too many copies.
Two hours ago, Clementine’s mom came in and told Mr. Farris that her family was moving to Detroit for her singing career and could they please buy back a few dozen of her CDs to raise some much-needed cash. Of course, Mr. Farris obliged. Farris always obliged, which was why the store’s front window still had a crack in it and the air conditioning would never be fixed. So as Beecher looked across the counter at Clementine’s exact same offerings…
“We can definitely use a few extra copies,” he finally said.
“Really? You sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ve listened to them. Your mom’s got a real voice. Like early Dinah Washington, but softer and with better range—and of course without the horrendous drug overdose.”
Clementine couldn’t help but grin. “I know you already bought my mom’s copies—and you’re stuck with those.”
“And we have thirty copies of To Kill a Mockingbird. But each new school year, we sell every damn one.”
Cocking her head, Clementine took a long silent look across the counter. It was the kind of look that came with its own internal calculation. “You’re not a jackass like everyone else.”
“Not true,” Beecher said, motioning to the milk crate. “I’m just buttering you up so I can lowball you on that Frankenstein paperback you’ve got there. That’s a British edition. I can get big bucks for it. Now what else you got?”
Lifting the crate, Clementine dumped and filled the counter with at least twenty other paperbacks, a few hardbacks, and a pile of used CDs including Boyz II Men, Wilson Phillips, and Color Me Badd.
“I also got this…” Clementine said, pulling out a frayed blue leather book with a heavily worn spine, torn soiled pages, and a shredded silk ribbon bookmark. “It’s not in good shape, but… it’s for sure old—1970.”
Tilting his head, Beecher read the gold lettering on the spine. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez. “Good book. This your mom’s?”
“My mom hates to read. I think it’s my grandmother’s. Oh, and there’s one other problem… the cover is…” She flipped the leather book over, revealing that it was missing its front cover.
“Y’know the pages still stay together,” Beecher pointed out.
“Huh?”
“The pages… look…” he said, lifting the book by its remaining cover and dangling it in the air so all the pages spread out like a fan. “If the binding’s good, all the pages stay in place.”
“That some sorta used bookstore trick?”
“Actually, it’s from my mom. When my dad… when he passed… Reverend Lurie told her that even when one cover gets torn away from a book, as long as the other cover’s there, it’ll still hold the pages together. For me and my sisters… he said my mom was the other cover. And we were the pages.”
Clementine stood there silently, staring down at the old blue leather book.
“He was trying to make an analogy about life,” Beecher pointed out.
“I get it,” Clementine said, still studying the old volume. She was quiet for nearly a minute, resting her left elbow on the counter. Within a decade, that elbow would be covered with deep white scars from an incident she’d never tell the truth about.
“You think this copy could’ve belonged to my dad?” she finally asked.
Beecher shrugged. “Or it can just be a book.”
Clementine looked up and offered another grin at Beecher. Her widest one yet. “Y’know, my mom and I are moving to Detroit.”
“I heard.”
“Still… we should really stay in touch.”
“Yeah. Great. I’d like that,” Beecher said, feeling the excitement tighten his chest—especially as he saw Clementine reach out and slide the leather copy of Márquez’s masterpiece back into her milk crate. “Let me give you my email address,” he said.
“Email?”
“It’s this thing… it’s new and—Actually, it’s stupid. No one’ll use it.” Grabbing one of the small squares of paper that Mr. Farris would make by cutting up used, discarded sheets, Beecher quickly scribbled his mailing address and phone number. Clementine did the same.
As they exchanged sheets, Beecher did a quick tallying of her buybacks and paid out a grand total of thirty-two dollars (rounding up the last fifty cents).
“Make sure you look me up if you ever get to Michigan,” Clementine called out as she headed for the door.
“You do the same when you come back here and visit,” he called back.
And with twin genuine smiles on their faces, Beecher and Clementine waved goodbye, knowing full well they’d never see each other again.
120
One week from now
Chatham, Ontario
Would you like to order, ma’am—or are you waiting for one more?” the waiter asked, leaning in to avoid embarrassment.
“I’m by myself,” the woman in the stylish chocolate brown overcoat replied as she again scanned the entrance to the outdoor café, which was overdecorated to look like an old Tudor-style shop from an English village square. Just outside the metal railing, as it’d been for the past twenty minutes, the only people around were the lunchtime pedestrians passing along King Street. Next to her table, the heating lamp was on full blast. It was January. In Canada. Far too cold for anyone to be sitting outside.
But for the woman in the chocolate brown overcoat, that was the point.
She could’ve come somewhere private.
A nearby hotel.
St. Andrew’s Church.
Instead, she came to the café.
Outside. In public. Where everyone could see her.
“How’re the fish cakes?” she asked, making prolonged eye contact with the waiter just to see if he’d recognize her.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
Her hair was long now. And blonde. But to anyone who knew her, there was no mistaking that grin.
Just like her father’s.
“Unless you have something even better than that,” Clementine Kaye said, pulling a breadstick from the basket and turning her head just enough so the pedestrians could see her.
“I think you’ll like the fish cakes,” the waiter replied, scribbling down the order.
As another wave of locals strolled past the café, Clementine threw a quick smile to a five-year-old girl who was walking with her mom.
Even in a week, it had gotten easier. Sure, her leg still hurt from the shooting, and her wanted-for-questioning photo was
still posted across the Internet, but it was still the Internet. The world was already moving on.
Which meant she could get back to what really mattered.
Lifting her menu off the table and handing it back to the waiter, Clementine looked down at the thick manila envelope. As the waiter left, she pulled out a water-stained file folder with a familiar name typed in the upper corner. Wallace, Orson.
This was it: the unprocessed file that Beecher had tracked to the cave’s underground storage area—the original records from the night twenty-six years ago when they brought Eightball into the hospital, and the future President of the United States was treated for his broken finger. As best as Clementine could figure, this was the only proof that the future President was there that night.
But it paled next to the one priceless detail that Clementine never anticipated finding. Indeed, even with what she now knew about the Plumbers, none of it compared to the two-hundred-year-old spy network that’d been operating since the birth of the United States:
The Culper Ring.
Clementine knew all about the Culper Ring.
Including at least one person who was in it.
Above her, the heat lamp sizzled with a fresh burst of warmth. Clementine barely noticed as she looked out at the Chatham police car that pulled up along King Street.
At the traffic light, the car slowed down. The officer in the passenger seat didn’t look at her. Didn’t even see her.
But as the light blinked green and the car took off, Clementine reminded herself that there were hazards in rushing blindly.
Sure, she could go public now. She could put Tot and the Culper Ring on the front page of every newspaper and website, and then sit back and watch the world take President Wallace and Tot and toss them all in the shredder.
But that wouldn’t get Clementine what she was really after.
For so long now, she had told herself this was about her father. And it was. It always was.
But it was also about her.
And so, after nearly three decades of wondering, years of searching, six months of planning, and the next few months of healing, Clementine Kaye sat back in her seat and—in a small town in Canada, under a baking heat lamp—started thinking exactly how she’d finally get the answers she wanted.
Beecher had taught her the benefits of patience.
The Culper Ring had taught her the benefits of secrecy.
But from here on in, it was no different than when she grabbed that jump rope and leapt onto Vincent Paglinni’s back in the schoolyard all those years ago.
Even the hardest fights in life become easy when you have the element of surprise.
121
Washington, D.C.
There’s a double tap of a car horn, honking from outside.
Every morning for the past week, I’ve ignored it. Just like I ignored the calls and the texts and the knocks on the door. Instead, I stared at my computer, searching through the lack of press and trying to lose myself in a few cutthroat eBay battles over photo postcards of a 1902 pub in Dublin as well as a rare collection of World War I battleships.
It doesn’t help like it used to.
Grabbing my dad’s soft leather briefcase and threading my arms into my winter coat, I head through the living room and pull open the front door.
Of course, he’s still waiting. He knew I’d eventually wear down.
To his credit, as I tug open the door of the powder blue Mustang and crawl inside, he doesn’t ask me how I am. Tot already knows.
He’s seen the President’s rising poll numbers. In fact, as the car takes off up the block, Tot doesn’t try to cheer me up, or put on the radio, or try to distract me. It’s not until we get all the way to Rock Creek Park that he says the only thing he needs to…
“I was worried about you, Beecher.”
When I don’t reply, he adds, “I heard they finally released Dallas’s and Palmiotti’s bodies.”
I nod from the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.
“And the barber’s,” he says, turning the steering wheel with just his wrists. The car rumbles its usual rumble as we veer onto Constitution Avenue. “Though there’s still no sign of Clementine.”
I nod again.
“Which I guess means you still have no proof,” Tot says.
“I’m well aware.”
“And with no proof, you got nothin’.”
“Tot, who taught you how to give a welcome-back talk? The Great Santini?”
“If it makes you feel better, while you’ve been playing hermit and answering all the FBI and Secret Service questions, I spoke to Orlando’s wife. I know it doesn’t help much… or bring him back… but—” His voice goes quiet. “They did get some closure from knowing who did this to him.”
I try to tell myself that’s true. But it’s not.
“The only thing I don’t understand is: On that night you came back from the caves, why’d he bring you to the White House, Beecher? I know you said it was to ask you to join the Plumbers, but think about it: What was the real point of that meeting with the President that night?”
“You mean besides reminding me what’ll happen to my life if I open my mouth? I gave this great macho-y speech, but the truth is, he knew how it’d play out. He was just rubbing it in.”
“Not a chance,” Tot says, asking it again. “Why’d he bring you to the White House?”
“You do realize we lost, right? So if this is you being rhetorical—”
“Ask yourself, Beecher. Why’d he bring you to the White House?”
“I have no idea! To scare me?”
“Damn right to scare you! That’s why he wanted to invite you in—that’s all it was about: to scare you,” Tot confirms, his beard swaying as he cocks his head. “And y’know the only reason why someone tries to scare you? Because he’s worried about you. He’s the one scared of you!”
“Then he’s a bigger moron than we thought. Because for the past week, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to think of other places we can find proof, or a witness, or anything else about what happened that night. And believe me, I’ll keep trying. I’ll dig as long as it takes. But when it comes to being the Ghost of Christmas Past, it’s not as easy as you think.”
“That’s not the ghost he’s worried about.”
“Come again?”
“Think of what you just said. When that first ghost comes to visit Ebenezer Scrooge… the Ghost of Christmas Past is the one that fails. The Ghost of Christmas Present—he fails too. But the ghost that actually gets the job done—the one that does the most damage—that’s the Ghost from what’s Yet to Come.”
“Are you trying to make a really nice metaphor about history or the future? Because if you are—”
“Life isn’t metaphor, Beecher. History isn’t metaphor. It’s just life.”
I stare out the front of the car, looking down Constitution Avenue. The Washington Monument is all the way down, but from the angle we’re at, thanks to the trees and the lightposts on our right, it’s a completely obscured view. A horrible view. Just like that night at the Jefferson Memorial.
It’s not metaphor. It’s just a fact.
“Beecher, you’ve spent all this time fighting alone. You don’t have to. If you want, we can help you find Clementine.”
“It’s not just her, Tot. What she said… about my father… She said he didn’t die, and that maybe I have cancer. But if he’s alive…”
“What she said was complete manure designed to manipulate and take advantage of an emotionally vulnerable moment. But we can find the truth. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. Same with the cancer. We can help you find all of it. And if we do it together—and we do it right—I promise you, you’ll have the chance to make sure that every loathsome bastard—including the one in that big White House—pays for every ounce of pain they caused,” Tot says, his voice finding speed. “You thought finding that old dictionary was when history chose you. That wasn’t the moment. This is. The on
ly question is—and it’s a simple question: They think they won the war with you. Are you ready to declare war back?”
“I thought your Culper Ring worked for the President?”
“We work for the Presidency. And that Presidency has now been corrupted. So. Are you ready to declare war back?”
He called it a simple question. It’s not simple. But it is easy. I look right at him. “Tot, are you asking me to join the Culper Ring?”
I wait for him to turn away and stare out the front window. He looks me right in the eye. “It’s not for everyone.”
“You’re serious? This is real?”
“Some days you get peanuts; some days you get shells. This is a peanut day.”
“And that Secret Service guy who walked me out of the White House and slipped me that note that you were waiting for me… He’s a peanut too?”
“Some people are with us. Some people owe us a favor. We’re a small group. Smaller than you think. And we’ve survived for only one reason: We pick our own replacements. I’m seventy-two years old, and… what you went through these past weeks… They know you’re ready. Though if it makes any difference, I thought you’ve been ready for years.”
With a twist of a knob, the radio hiccups to life and the car is filled with the sounds of Kenny Rogers singing “The Gambler.”
“ ‘The Gambler’?” I ask. “That’s what you had cued up? You were trying to make this a little moment, weren’t you?”
“Beecher, it’s a moment even without the music.”
I let the country twang of Kenny Rogers flow over me as a small grin lifts my cheeks. He may be right.
With a hard punch of the gas, the engine clears its throat and we cruise past the White House on our left.
“I won’t let you down, Tot.”
“I know, Beecher,” he says without looking at me. “I’m just glad you finally know too.”
Straight ahead, the morning sun is so bright I can’t see a thing in front of me. It feels fantastic.
“So where we going?” I ask as we reach 9th Street and Tot blows through the turn. He keeps heading straight on Constitution. On most mornings, he makes a left.
