by Brad Meltzer
At the foot of the slate stairs, just between two clumps of mountain laurel, two dull golf balls sat together on top of the dirt. Like they were meant to be noticed. For half a second, Scottie just stared at them, tempted to let them be. It was the marines, not the Service, who were supposed to keep Camp David clean. Besides, it’s not like a few stray golf balls could do any harm.
Yet as he turned to leave, one thought rushed to the front of Scottie’s brain, making him miss his dead mom and laugh in the same breath: No way would Clint Eastwood let those golf balls be.
“Koller, you clear?” Command Post asked in his ear.
“Almost,” Scottie replied, kneeling down and angling his outstretched arm between the bushes. Stray branches poked at his face. “Lemme just—”
Like a skill crane with stuffed animals, Scottie squeezed tight, plucking the balls from the dirt. To his surprise, they weren’t the only thing that came up.
Just beneath the loose soil, his fingers gripped what felt like a thick pipe. It was cold, frozen, and from the size of it, far wider than the irrigation pipes that ran through the backyard. It also felt crooked and slightly…hairy. Jumping back but still holding tight, Scottie thought it was a dead animal. Whatever it was, it wasn’t buried deep. Clumps of dirt leaped in the air as it tumbled toward him. It landed hard. Scottie squinted through the shadows. At the very tips of it… Were those…? He leaned in closer.
Fingernails.
“What the f—!”
“Koller, you okay!?” Command Post barked in his ear.
Every Secret Service agent has a day that’s the most important day of their life. For Agent Scottie Koller, that day was today.
“Wave off!” Koller shouted into his hand mic. “Wave Homerun off! He is not cleared for arrival!”
30
Athens, Tennessee
Two weeks ago
Nico was usually smarter than this.
“What’re you waiting for? Make a pick,” the dead First Lady said.
Nico just stood there, scanning the vending machine that he’d been eyeing for two minutes.
“Ooh, they got sunflower seeds. Full of healthy fats and only a dollar. Make a pick,” she added, knowing that the longer he lingered, the more likely he’d be seen. Even in these small highway rest stops, there were always cameras.
Nico still didn’t move, the brim of his Washington Redskins cap tapping like a woodpecker against the vending machine glass.
“You’re still thinking about Colonel Doggett, aren’t y—?”
Nico turned abruptly toward the main doors.
The First Lady knew that look. She also knew that Nico had more acute hearing than the rest of us. He was listening to something outside.
“What’s there? Police?” the dead First Lady asked.
Nico shook his head, walking slowly as he eyed the front door. Whatever it was, it was still out there.
Again, Nico was smarter than this. Smart enough to eat at vending machines since it helped him avoid human contact. Smart enough to choose the smaller rest areas that had just bathrooms, rather than the big ones that had restaurants and tons of tourists. But as he pushed his way out of the faux-log-cabin building, he wasn’t being smart.
“What? You hear the people around back?” the First Lady pleaded.
McMinn County, Tennessee, was a dry county, which explained the half a dozen cars that filled the narrow parking lot. With no place to drink, even on cold nights like this, locals used the picnic tables around back to create their own outdoor bar.
“Nico, if someone recognizes you…”
Picking up speed, Nico cut around to the back of the building. A few local high schoolers were scattered around picnic tables, nursing cheap beers. Weaving among them, Nico headed straight for the last table in back, by the edge of the woods.
“Ephraim, don’t!” a girl with straight blond hair and a far-too-short skirt insisted. “They’re private!”
“But you look so good in ’em,” Ephraim teased back, holding a phone over his head as the girl jumped up, trying to reach it. Behind Ephraim, two other boys—redheaded twins—cheered him on.
Four of them, Nico thought. Of course there were four.
“C’mon, just a quick peek,” the redhead on the left goaded.
“Ephraim, those were for us!” the girl yelled, her face growing red with rage, her beer spilling as she yelled.
“Baby, I just wanna show you off,” Ephraim promised. “Didn’t you say it turns you on? It’ll be even better than—”
“Give her the phone back,” Nico said.
The girl stopped jumping. All four turned Nico’s way. They weren’t high school kids. They were older than that. Dumber too, judging by the Bud Light Lime beer they were drinking.
“What’d you say?” Ephraim challenged, taking a step toward Nico.
“Nico, please don’t do this,” the First Lady begged. “If they recognize you—”
“Your girlfriend asked for the phone four times,” Nico said, still locked on Ephraim. “Why aren’t you listening to her?”
Ephraim stood his ground. Behind him, his two redheaded friends got up, all of them sticking their chests out and giving the international sign for we’re more than happy to beat your ass.
Nico glanced at the girl. She had freckles. Just like Clemen—
A can of beer flew through the air, clipping Nico in the forehead. The girl. The girl threw it.
“Who you think you are, bitch!?” she shouted, running fast and shoving Nico hard in the chest. He stumbled backward, caught off guard. “Answer me, you dickless runt!”
Within seconds, the two redheads were holding the girl back, making room for her boyfriend to—
Ephraim’s punch came full speed, hitting Nico in the center of his face. A flash of black, then bright stars, took his vision. It was a fine punch, Nico thought. But he’d spent a decade in an insane asylum. He’d taken far worse than that.
“Nico, you have my permission,” the First Lady said. “Eat them alive.”
Nico stood up straight, nodding a thank-you. The nearby crowd was already running, forming an instant circle around them.
“Lookit who’s decided to fight back!” one of the redheads teased.
For Nico, old instincts kicked in, buzzing him with adrenaline and making him feel as charged and awake as that first night outside the hospital. His ears and teeth tingled. Above the cheers and yelling, he heard a hummingbird in the distance.
Yet as Ephraim stampeded toward him, fist raging like a freight train, Nico took a deep breath and simply…closed his eyes.
Ephraim’s punch was a shovel across Nico’s jaw, sending blood and spit flying as Nico spun, staggering sideways.
“What’re you doing!?” the First Lady yelled. “I know you saw that coming!”
Ephraim wound up again, planting his next punch in Nico’s gut, nearly lifting him off the ground.
“There you go!” the other redhead shouted, circling around and waiting for Nico to fall.
Nico stayed on his feet, swaying slightly, arms flat at his sides. He knew the way out of this. Jab his thumbs in Ephraim’s eyes. Or use the pliers in his pocket to puncture Ephraim’s windpipe. There were plenty of options.
“Throw a punch! Do something!” the First Lady demanded.
But again, Nico stood there, his bottom lip already swollen as an odd smile took his face.
“What’s wrong with you? Stop smiling!” Ephraim shouted. He punched Nico again in the face. And again.
Behind them, Ephraim’s girlfriend grabbed a nearby beer bottle, smashing it across the back of Nico’s head. Nico weathered it. Last time he was tackled, it had taken half the orderlies on staff to bring him down.
“Why aren’t you fighting back!?” the First Lady screamed.
Nico took another punch to the gut. He could’ve taken that too, but he decided to let gravity take hold. As Nico crumbled to the ground, Ephraim’s friends rushed in and the kickline began. Wi
thin seconds, the mini-mob turned Nico’s face, his body, any open area, into a soccer ball. Nico curled into fetal position, his hands clamped over his ears. But what the crowd couldn’t see was that, even through the kicks that drilled his liver and made him nauseous, Nico was smiling wider than ever.
“That’s enough. Let him be,” someone finally announced. Ephraim’s girlfriend spit in Nico’s hair. Someone else poured beer on Nico’s back.
As the group dispersed and the beer ran off him in a thin waterfall, Nico lay there, breathing heavily in the cold, wet dirt.
“You happy now? Get what you want?” the First Lady challenged.
Still grinning, Nico muttered something no one else could hear.
The First Lady rolled her eyes. Nico said it again. The same thing he’d said as Ephraim and his crew were kicking at his face. Nico was still whispering it now. A prayer. Always a prayer.
“That girl was right. You’re a sick bitch,” the First Lady added.
And a lucky one, Nico agreed, feeling like his chest had been punctured. God had brought him so much lately—the blood of Colonel Doggett…and soon of Dr. Moorcraft. But as any good Christian knows, once sin shows its face, there can be no redemption—and certainly no salvation—until there’s penance.
“By the way, genius, they just put a switchblade in your tires,” the First Lady added. “And have you looked at your face? You put the whole mission at risk. You’re not getting anywhere without help.”
Nico continued fighting for each breath, bloody saliva drooling from his mouth. He was barely able to move as his body trembled from the beating. “C-Call her,” he muttered, pointing a dirt-covered finger to the pay phone by the rest stop. “We need to call her.”
The dead First Lady knew who he meant. Not Clementine. He’d never ask more of Clementine.
Her.
The one who would help.
31
Today
Washington, D.C.
Mina, I promise you, I got the pin from a wealthy donor,” I tell her.
“And I promise you, I don’t care how nice you were to my family, if you don’t take out the make-believe part of your make-believe story, I’m gonna pick up the phone, call the eighth floor, and we can have this same conversation in a locked room with half a dozen pissed Secret Service agents who would love nothing more than to work out their anger issues on your face.”
I don’t budge.
She reaches for her phone.
I still don’t budge.
She starts pressing buttons.
“I took it off someone who threatened me,” I concede.
Mina’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t believe it. But at least she’s stopped pushing buttons.
“I swear to you,” I add. “I was in the park…across from the White House. This guy approaches and flashes a badge, says he’s Secret Service.”
“His badge was real?”
“Looked real.”
“But you didn’t catch his name on his ID?”
“He did it fast. Trust me, the whole thing smelled. The only good news was, I knew about the pins and their serial numbers. Remember? We had a pin exhibit at the Archives.”
“So you stole an agent’s pin?”
“Fifty bucks says he’s not an agent,” I explain. “I figured if I could trace the pin, I’d find out more about him, or at least where he got it.”
A soft beep-beep-beep erupts from her phone. It’s been off the hook too long. She rests it back in the cradle, still holding the orange pin in her hand. “What’d this supposed agent look like?”
“Bald. Short.” I look up at Mina. “Way shorter than you,” I add. “Plus he had these eyelashes. Stark white.”
“White?”
“I’m telling you. Very Flowers in the Attic.”
“What’s Flowers in the Attic?”
“Old scary book. Like Children of the Corn, but instead of corn, there’s an attic. The point is, it’s the truth,” I insist. “But when it comes to the pin, what’d it have to do with the day Reagan was shot?”
“Oh, so even though you admit that you were lying, now I’m supposed to help you?” she asks.
“Mina, how long do you know me…?”
“That doesn’t mean I know you well.”
“…but I’m telling you, we’re on the same side. I know what the Service does here. I respect what you do here. But if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I think you might be putting people in danger.”
She lowers her chin. “Define danger, because if you know of an imminent threat—”
“I don’t know anything. That’s why I’m here. If you want, call…call A.J. Ennis,” I say, already regretting the words. Bringing A.J. in creates its own risk. But right now, it’s all I’ve got. “A.J’s one of yours. Works at the White House. He’ll vouch for me.”
Her hand’s still on her phone, but she doesn’t pick it up.
“Mina, if I was the one you had to worry about, do you really think I’d be here asking these questions? Please. Tell me how the pin ties to Reagan.”
She eyes the photographs on the corner of her desk. Her losing at the long jump. Her brother in front of the Declaration. The only thing worse than remembering the past is the fear of reliving it. She doesn’t need any more regrets.
“Y’ever see the footage when Reagan was shot?” she finally asks, her voice sharp as ever. She won’t face me; she keeps staring at her photos. “Reagan had just finished giving a speech at the Washington Hilton, and as he’s leaving the hotel, about to get back in his limo, John Hinckley steps out of the crowd. Six shots are fired, the President goes down, and of course it’s instant chaos. But y’know what also happens in that moment?”
“The Secret Service do their job,” I say.
“That’s exactly right. Bullet number one hits James Brady in the head. Bullet number two hits a local police officer, Thomas Delahanty, in the neck just as he’s spinning to protect Reagan. Then, as the President is completely exposed and the third and fourth shots ring out, Agent Timothy McCarthy spreads his body over Reagan, making himself the target as he takes a bullet in the belly, while Special Agent in Charge Jerry Parr quickly shoves Reagan into the limo, preventing what could’ve been a head shot. From there, it’s the definition of pandemonium. More shots ring out. The crowd starts attacking Hinckley, pulling the hair from his head. And we’re already blaming ourselves for screening everyone inside the hotel, but not screening anyone outside, including Hinckley, who made his way to the front of the rope line. But do you know why we can all live with it in the end?”
“Because the President didn’t die.”
“That’s exactly right again,” she says, finally turning away from her desk to drill me with her look. Most archivists are terrified of confrontation. Mina isn’t terrified of anything.
“If Reagan had died,” she says, “the investigations would still be going on. But since he lived, everyone was invited to the White House, where all the agents got a hearty handshake and a shiny new set of presidential-seal cuff links.”
“So what’s all that have to do with the orange pin?” I ask.
“On the morning Reagan was shot, our Protective Division issued forty-two special-admission lapel pins to our agents who were working the Hilton event. At the end of that same day, as Reagan was being operated on and the stock markets were closing to prevent a financial meltdown, forty-one lapel pins came back.”
“You’re saying the final pin was stolen?”
“Maybe it was stolen. Maybe it just fell off during the struggle with Hinckley. Don’t forget, once the shooting started, agents were running through the crowd, getting knocked in every direction.”
“So this pin…”
“Was assigned to an agent named Tanner Pope, who did presidential detail for nearly a decade. His dad was Secret Service too, long history. Anyway, when the Reagan shots were fired, the crowd turned on Hinckley so fast, some agents had to start throwing punches to protect him and take
him into custody. Agent Pope was one of them.”
I see the look on Mina’s face. “But you don’t think that’s how Pope lost his pin, do you?”
“Here’s the thing: Agent Pope was in the crowd; the crowd went crazy; the pin went missing. But. When you look at the actual evidence, there’s a photo—just one photo—of Agent Pope earlier that day. It was taken inside the Hilton ballroom, before President Reagan even arrived. Pope’s in the far background. And maybe it’s the blurry picture…maybe it’s the old, grainy film from the eighties…or maybe it’s just a Secret Service fairy tale. But in that photo—taken three hours before Hinckley fired his shots—it looks like Agent Tanner Pope’s pin was already missing from his lapel.”
The room goes quiet as the heat in her office cycles off.
“I’m not sure I follow,” I tell her. “You’re saying John Hinckley used Agent Pope’s pin to cut through the crowd and get to the front of Reagan’s rope line?”
“That’s one theory, though I’m not even sure it matters. In the end, Hinckley didn’t need a pin at all. Thanks to our own security screw-up, it was open season on the rope line. But for the past three decades, Agent Pope’s pin has been missing. Until you show up with it. Today.”
“Can I ask a more basic question? Why’s that so suspicious to you?”
She’s watching me more carefully than I’ve ever seen her. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what!?”
She crinkles her nose like the Dr. Seuss mosquito on her wall. “Beecher, I’ve been in the top job for barely a month. So why do I know so much about Tanner Pope?” Before I can answer, she adds, “I recently got a call from his family. They were looking for his credentials as a keepsake.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I’m trying to tell you,” she says impatiently. “The owner of that pin—Tanner Pope… He was found dead three weeks ago.”
The chill in my chest spreads outward, gripping my shoulders. As I close my eyes, I still see the photo that the President showed me this morning, of the arm they found in the Rose Garden. It was thin and gangly, which made me think someone young. But maybe it could’ve been this old man, Tanner Pope.