by Brad Meltzer
“Overdramatic? What happened to the CIA grabbing us and putting the black Ziplocs over our heads?” Orlando challenges.
“That doesn’t mean the President’s declaring war.”
“Really? I thought you knew your history.”
“I do know my history.”
“Then name me one person—Valerie Plame… Monica Lewinsky… I don’t care who they are or how right they were—name me one person ever who went up against a sitting President and walked away the same way they walked in.”
“Mark Felt,” I tell him.
“Mark Felt?”
“Deep Throat. The guy who told the truth about Nixon.”
“I know who he is, Beecher. But the only reason Mark Felt walked away was because no one knew who he was!” Orlando insists, waving the videotape in my face. “Don’t you get it? As long as we have this video, we get to be Deep Throat and I get to do my investigation. We lose this video, and I promise you, if this book is something bad—and c’mon, you know it’s something bad—we’re gonna be racing head-on against a man who is so stupidly powerful, wherever he goes, they fly bags of his own blood with him. Trust me here. You wanted smart. This is us being smart.”
“What about you?” I ask Orlando. “When you buzzed us in… when you called downstairs to that guy Khazei… Your name’s already in the records.”
“One disaster at a time. Besides, if we’re lucky, this tape may even have who snuck in the book in the first place,” he says as he tucks the videotape in the front waistband of his pants. “Now tell me about the Latin: Ex act probe it?”
“Exitus acta probat. It’s the motto on Washington’s personal bookplate,” I explain as he shuts the lockbox. “It’s from his family’s coat of arms—and on the inside cover of all of George Washington’s books.”
“And this is what it looked like?” Orlando asks, already heading for the door. “Three words scribbled on a page?”
“No… the coat of arms is a work of art: There’s a picture of an eagle, two red-and-white stripes, plus three stars. But when Washington designed his coat of arms, he personally added the words Exitus acta probat,” I say as Clementine motions me to follow Orlando and leave the room. We need to get out of here. But just as I move, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Caller ID reads NPRC, but it’s the 314 St. Louis area code that reminds me why we’re standing in this room in the first place.
Next to me, Clementine eyes the phone in my hand. She doesn’t freak, doesn’t tense up. But as her lips close tight, I get a second glimpse of the side of her she can’t hide. The real Clementine. The scared Clementine. Twenty-nine years of not knowing who your father is? Whatever we stepped in with the President, it has to wait.
“Please tell me you’ve got good news,” I say as I pick up.
“I can bring you information. Good and bad are the subjective clothes you decide to dress it in,” archivist Carrie Storch says without a hint of irony, reminding me that around here, the better you are with books, the worse you are with social skills.
“Carrie, did you find our guy or not?”
“Your girlfriend’s father? In that year, in that county of Wisconsin, he was the only Nicholas to enlist on December 10th. Of course I found him.”
“You did? That’s fantastic!”
“Again, I leave the distinctions to you,” she says, adding a short huff that I think counts as a laugh. Carrie never laughs.
“Carrie, what are you not saying?”
“I just bring you the information,” she says. “But wait till you hear who the father is.”
She says the words, pauses, then says them again, knowing I can’t believe it.
The President of the United States should be here any minute. But right now, I wonder if that’s the least of our problems.
“Clementine,” I say, grabbing her hand and heading to the door, “we need to get you out of here.”
8
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
They don’t call them mental patients anymore.
Now they’re called consumers.
Such a turd idea, orderly Rupert Baird thought as he pushed the juice cart down the pale sterile hallway. Almost as bad as when they started calling it KFC instead of Kentucky Fried Chicken. It was the same with the patients. If you’re fried, you’re fried.
Heh.
That was funny, Rupert thought.
But still a damn turd idea.
“Hey there, Jerome,” he called out as he rolled the juice cart into Room 710. “I got apple and orange. What’s your pick?”
Cross-legged on his bed, Jerome just sat there, refusing to look up from the newspaper advertising supplements, the only section of the paper he ever read.
“Apple or orange?” Rupert asked again.
No response.
“Any good coupons for Best Buy?” Rupert added.
No response. Same as ever.
Rupert knew not to take it personally—this was Ward 5 of the John Howard Pavilion, home to the NGIs. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.
As he pivoted the juice cart into a three-point turn and headed for Room 711 across the hall, he knew that the next patient—no, the next consumer—would be far easier to deal with.
It wasn’t always that way. When Patient 711 first arrived ten years ago, he wasn’t allowed visitors, mail privileges, sharp objects, or shoelaces. And he certainly wasn’t allowed the juice cart. In fact, according to Karyn Palumbo, who’d been here longer than anyone, during his second year on the ward, 711 was caught filing his middle fingernail to a razor point, hoping to carve a bloody cross into the neck of one of the girls from the salon school who used to come and give free haircuts.
Of course, they quickly called the Secret Service.
Whenever 711 was involved, they had to call the Secret Service.
That’s what happens when a man tries to put a bullet into the President of the United States.
But after ten years of therapy and drugs—so much therapy and drugs—711 was a brand-new man. A better man.
A cured man, Rupert and most of the doctors thought.
“Hey there, Nico,” Rupert called out as he entered the sparsely furnished room. There was a single bed, a wooden nightstand, and a painted dresser that held just Nico’s Bible, his red glass rosary, and the newest Washington Redskins giveaway calendar.
“Apple or orange?” Rupert asked.
Nico looked up from the book he was reading, revealing his salt-and-pepper buzzed hair and his chocolate brown eyes, set close together. Ten years ago, in the middle of the President’s visit to a NASCAR race, Nico nearly murdered the most powerful man in the world. The video was played time and again, still showing up every year on the anniversary.
As the screaming began, a swarm of Secret Service agents tore at Nico from behind, ripping the gun from his hands.
These days, though, Nico was smart.
He knew better than to talk of those times.
He knew he should’ve never let the world see him like that.
But the one thing that Nicholas “Nico” Hadrian didn’t know back then, as he was tugged and clawed so viciously to the ground, was that he had a young daughter.
“C’mon, Nico—apple or orange?” Rupert called out.
Nico’s lips parted, offering a warm smile. “Whatever you have more of,” he replied. “You know I’m easy.”
9
Tell me what you’re not telling me,” Clementine demands as I reright the chair and finish my crude cleanup. Darting for the door, I’ve got the old dictionary in one hand and my coffee-stained coat in the other.
“Orlando, I have to—”
“Go. I need to rearm the alarm,” he calls back, fiddling with the electronic keypad. “Just remember: zipped lips, right? Be Mark Felt. Not Lewinsky.”
“That’s fine, but if we look into this and it’s actually bad…”
“… I’ll be the first in line to hand them the stained dress,” he says,
patting the videotape in his waistband.
As he rearms the door, we’re already running. Orlando’s a big boy. He’s fine by himself. Clementine’s another story. She knows that last phone call was about her dad.
“They found him, didn’t they?” she asks as we leave the SCIF behind and race up the hallway. In the distance, I hear the soft cry of police sirens wailing. Wallace’s motorcade is close, and if this old dictionary really was put there for the President—if someone is somehow helping him grab it, or worse, steal it, or if there’s something valuable hidden in it—the last thing we need is to be seen this close to the SCIF with—
“Ding!” the elevator rings as we turn the corner.
I pick up speed. No way anyone’s fast enough to spot us.
“Beecher Benjamin White, you think I’m blind!? Step away from that girl right now…!”
Clementine freezes.
“… unless of course you plan on introducing me to her!” a young man with combed-back brown hair and a scruffy starter beard calls out, already laughing at his own lame joke. At twenty-nine years old, Dallas is a year younger than me and should be my junior. He’s not.
“Dallas Gentry,” he adds as if Clementine should recognize the name.
When it comes to archivists, everyone has their own specialty. Some are good with war records. Others are good with finding the obscure. But what Dallas is good at is getting his name in the newspaper. It peaked a few months back when he opened a dusty 1806 personnel folder from the War Department and found a handwritten, never-before-seen letter by Thomas Jefferson. Sure, it was dumb luck—but it was Dallas’s luck, and the next day it was his name in the Washington Post, and Drudge, and on the lecture circuit at every university that now thinks he’s the Indiana Jones of paper. To celebrate his rise, Dallas went full-on intellectual and started growing a beard (as if we need more intense bearded guys around here). The saddest part is, based on his recent promotion, it’s actually working for him, which makes me wonder if he’s the one staffing President Wallace today. But as I frantically fumble, trying to hide the dictionary under my coffee-soaked lab coat, this isn’t the time to find out.
“Listen, we’re kinda in a rush,” I say, still not facing him.
Clementine shoots me a look that physically burns. At first I don’t get it. She motions around the corner, back to the SCIF. Oh crap. Orlando’s still in there. If Dallas waltzes in on him and then connects him to what’s missing…
“I mean… no, we have plenty of time,” I tell Dallas. “Boy, your beard looks cool.”
Your beard looks cool? My God, when did I turn into Charlie Brown?
“Is that buttered rum?” Clementine jumps in, sniffing the air.
“You’re close. Cherry rum,” Dallas replies, clearly impressed as he turns toward her, staring at the piercing in her nose. It’s not every day he sees someone who looks like her in D.C. “Where’d you learn your pipe smoke?”
“My boss at the radio station. He’s been a pipe smoker for years,” she explains.
“Wait, you starting smoking a pipe?” I ask.
“Just for the irony,” Dallas teases, keeping his grin on Clementine. He honestly isn’t a jerk. He just comes off as one.
“Beecher, what happened to your coat?” a soft female voice interrupts as Dallas reaches out to shake hands with Clementine.
Just behind Dallas, I spot archivist Rina Alban, a young straight-haired brunette with bright green reading glasses perched on her head, and triple knots on her shoes. In the world of mousy librarians, Rina is Mickey. She’s ultra-quiet, ultra-smart, and ultra-introverted, except when you ask about her true love, the Baltimore Orioles. In addition, she looks oddly like the Mona Lisa (her eyes follow you also), and on most days she’s just as talkative. But not today—not the way she’s studying my bunched-up lab coat, like she can see the book that’s underneath.
“Beecher, what is that?” Rina asks again.
“Coffee. I spilled my coffee,” Clementine jumps in, restoring calm.
“Wait, you’re the one he knows from high school, right?” Dallas asks, though I swear to God I never mentioned Clementine to Dallas. That’s the problem with this place. Everyone’s doing research.
“You really shouldn’t have coffee up here,” Rina points out, less quiet than usual. I know why.
Every month, the powers that be rank us archivists in order of how many people we’ve helped. From tourists who walk in, to the handwritten letters asking us to track down a dead relative, every response is counted and credited. Yes, it helps justify our jobs, but it also adds unnecessary competition, especially after this morning, when they told us Rina was, for the fifth month in a row, number two on the list.
“By the way, Beecher, congrats on the top spot again,” Dallas says, trying to be nice.
“Top spot in what?” Clementine asks, peering down the hall and hoping to buy a few more seconds for Orlando.
“Being helpful. Don’t you know that’s what Beecher’s best at?” Dallas asks. “He even answers the questions that get emailed though the National Archives website, which no one likes answering because when you email someone back, well, now you got a pen pal. It’s true, you’re walking with the nicest guy in the entire building—though maybe you can teach him how to help himself,” Dallas adds, thinking he’s again making nice.
Doesn’t matter. By now, Orlando should be long gone from the SCIF. Nothing to worry about. But as Clementine steps between me and Rina, Rina isn’t staring at me. Her eyes are on my coat.
“Clear the hallway,” a deep baritone calls out. I turn just as two uniformed Secret Service agents exit from the nearby staircase. On my left, the lights above the elevator tell us it’s back on the ground floor. The sirens are louder than ever. Here comes Moses.
Without a word, one of the agents motions to Dallas and Rina, who head back around the corner. Question answered. Rina and Dallas are the ones staffing Wallace in the SCIF.
I go to push the button for the elevator. The taller Secret Service agent shakes his head and points us to the staircase. Until the President’s in place, that’s the only way down.
“What happened to your coat?” the agent asks, pointing to the brown Rorschach blots.
“Coffee,” I call back, trying to look relaxed as I head for the waiting stairs.
“Beecher, just say it,” Clementine says as soon as we’re out of sight. “Tell me!”
I shake my head, speedwalking us back through the musty stacks. I’m tempted to run, but as the motion sensor lights pop on above us, I’m reminded of the very best reason to stay calm. The sensors are the Archives’ way of saving energy, but all they do is highlight us for the videocameras in the corner of each stack. And unlike the videotape Orlando swiped from the room, these beam right back to the Security Office.
“You sure this is right?” Clementine asks as we reach a section where the lights are already on. Like we’ve been here before.
“Of course it’s right,” I say, squinting at the record group locator numbers at the end of the row on our left. I pause a moment. A moment too long.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?”
“I’m not lost.”
She studies me, strong as ever. “Beecher…”
“I’m not. Yes, I’m turned around a little. But I’m not lost,” I insist.
“Listen, even if you are, it’s okay,” she says with no judgment in her voice. But as she looks away, she starts… chuckling.
“You’re laughing?”
“I-I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head, unable to hide it. The worst part is, she’s got a great laugh—a laugh from deep in her stomach, not one of those fake mouth ones. “It’s just—All this running… and the videotape and the Secret Service… and everyone’s got guns… This is the President, Beecher! What’re we doing?” she asks, her laugh coming faster.
Before I know it, I’m chuckling with her. It starts slowly, with just a hiccup, then quickly starts to gallop. She’s absolutel
y right. To be lost like this… what the hell are we doing?
My belly lurches, catapulting a gasp of a laugh that only makes her laugh harder. She bends forward, holding her side and shooting me another new look I’ve never seen before. It barely lasts a second—an appreciative grin that reveals a single dimple in her left cheek—
Poomp.
Half bent over, I look down and see that the dictionary that was hidden beneath my lab coat has slipped out, slapping against the stacks’ 1950s linoleum floor.
Clementine stares down at the old book. Her laughter’s gone.
Mine too. Reality’s back. And so is her fear.
“Clemmi, listen to me—whatever we found in that room—whatever they’re doing with this book—” She looks my way, her eyes wide. I take a deep breath. “I can fix this.”
She nods, swaying just slightly. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I think I do.” I scan the empty stacks and again study the record group numbers, determined to get us back on track. “Yeah. I do.”
She studies me carefully, silence settling around us. Behind me, one of the motion sensor lights blinks off from inaction. I wait for the look she gave me before—the appreciative nod with the single dimple. It doesn’t come. Instead, she stands up straight, turning her head, like she’s studying me from a brand-new angle. She’s no longer swaying. No longer moving. She’s staring straight at me. I have no idea what she’s seeing.
But I’ll take it.
“My father’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks.
“What? No…”
“Beecher, you know who my dad is, don’t you?”
“Let’s just—”
“If you know…” Her eyes well with tears and, like that half-second when she thought I wasn’t looking before, the girl who’s always prepared… she’s not prepared for this. “… how could you not tell me?”
She’s right. Completely right. But to just blurt it here…
“Beecher…”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just my name. But in those two stupid syllables, I hear everything in between. For twenty-nine years, Clementine Kaye has lived with empty spaces. And from what I know, she’s lived with them better than me. In seventh grade, I remember being paralyzed when Mrs. Krupitsky had the class make Father’s Day cards, thinking that’s the day we always go to his grave. Next to me, young Clementine was already happily writing away, turning it into a Mother’s Day card without even a second thought. But today, in those two syllables of my name, those empty spaces are back again, and I hear them loud and clear.