The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  “The doctors here… they say I have a sickness,” Nico says. “That’s what put the evil in my body—the sickness did. And so I prayed—I begged God—I begged God since the first day she came to visit… I worried she had it too.”

  “Nico, get out of here,” I insist, tempted to jump in the car and take off. But I don’t. The barber’s dead—I can’t take him with me. But if I stay and try to explain, there’s only one place I’m going if they find me with Nico and a bloodied corpse.

  “All these years, I knew my fate. I always knew what God chose me for,” Nico adds. “But when Clementine came… when she reached out to me like that… I thought I finally got—I was lucky. Do you know what that means, Benjamin? To be a lucky man?” he asks, his voice cracking.

  “Nico, please get out of here,” I beg, grabbing my phone from the front seat.

  The black car knifes to the left, heading straight for our parking lot.

  The security guard is now running.

  “But there is no luck, is there, God?” he asks, talking to the sky. “I knew that! I knew it all along! But when I met her… when I saw her… how could I not hope? How could I not think that I’d finally been blessed—the truest blessing—that despite the sickness inside myself, that You made her different than me.” He stares up at the sky, his eyes swollen with tears. “I begged You, God! I begged You to make her different than me!”

  “Nico, back to your building! Now!” the security guard shouts in the distance.

  Behind me, the black car speeds up the service road, its engine roaring.

  “You! Away from Nico!” the guard yells at me.

  There’s a loud screech. The black car skids into the parking lot, punting bits of frozen gravel at us. But it’s not until the passenger door bursts open that I finally see who’s driving.

  “Get in! Hurry!” Dallas shouts from behind the steering wheel.

  “Nico, don’t you move!” the guard yells as he reaches the parking lot. That’s still his priority.

  “Nico, I’ll see you next week!” I call out, trying to make it all sound normal as I dart to the black car, which is already pulling away.

  As I hop inside and tug the door shut, Dallas kicks the gas and we’re off. Behind us, the guard grabs Nico by the arm. The guard looks relieved. Problem solved. That’s still the top St. Elizabeths priority. No escapes.

  The road isn’t long. Within ten seconds, we’re rolling past the main gate. Dallas offers a casual wave to the man in the guardhouse. The fact that he waves back tells us the guard in the parking lot still hasn’t found the barber’s body. Word’s not out yet.

  “That guy with the knife… the barber—” I say.

  “I know. I could hear,” Dallas says, holding up his phone as we pull out of the gate and reach the main street. “I think I was able to get most of it on tape.”

  “Then we should—”

  “No,” Dallas says, twisting the wheel as we speed toward the highway. “Right now, there’s only one place we need to go.”

  94

  From the front seat of the white van that was parked down the block, it wasn’t hard to spot Beecher.

  Or Dallas.

  There are two of them now, the driver of the van thought, watching their black car bounce and rumble as it left St. Elizabeths. Two of them to deal with.

  From the look on Beecher’s face, he was terrified, still processing. Dallas wasn’t doing much better.

  It was no different for the driver of the white van.

  It had all gone so bad, so quickly.

  But there was no choice. That’s what Beecher would never understand.

  For a moment, the driver reached for the ignition, but then waited, watching as Dallas’s car coughed up a small choke of smoke and disappeared up the block.

  This wasn’t the time to get spotted. More important, the driver wanted to see if anyone else was following.

  For a full minute, the driver sat there, watching the street and every other parked car on it. No one moved.

  Beyond the front gate, up the main service road that ran inside St. Elizabeths, there was a swirl of orange sirens. On-campus security. No doubt, Nico was already being medicated for whatever mess the barber’s panicking had caused.

  The driver was tempted to go up there, but again, there was no choice.

  There was never any choice.

  Not until the one problem that had caused so many others was dealt with. The problem that she could only blame on herself.

  Beecher.

  By now, the black car was long gone, zipping toward its destination.

  With a deep breath, Clementine pulled out onto the road and did her best to stay calm.

  Beecher’s head start didn’t matter.

  Not when she knew exactly where they were going.

  95

  Four months ago

  St. Elizabeths Hospital

  The man with the black leather zipper case was never late.

  He always came on Thursdays. At 4 p.m. Always right on time.

  But as Clementine glanced down at her watch and saw that it was already a few minutes past four…

  “Heya, Pam,” the older black man with the silver hair and silver mustache called out as he shoved his way through the swinging doors, approached the nurses’ station, and eyed one of the many open rooms. Like an ICU, the rooms of the Gero-Psych Unit didn’t have any doors. “How’s your Thursday?”

  “Same as my Wednesday,” the nurse replied, adding a flirty laugh and crumpling up the foil wrapper of her California Tortilla burrito.

  Over by the sinks, Clementine pretended to fill one of the cats’ water dishes as she watched the same exchange she’d witnessed the week before—and so many weeks before that. By now, she knew his patterns. That’s how she knew when to send her dad upstairs for more cat food. She knew the old black man wouldn’t be late. Like all barbers, he knew the value of keeping an appointment.

  “They ready for me?” the barber asked.

  “Not like they got much choice,” the nurse added along with another flirty laugh.

  Dumping and refilling the same water bowl and strategically using the room’s pillars to stay out of sight, Clementine watched as the barber unzipped the leather case that held his sharpened scissors. It had been nearly two months since she first saw him enter the unit, saying he was there to give haircuts to patients. No reason to look twice at that—until Clementine noticed that although he rotated through a few of the rooms, he always finished with the exact same patient:

  The guy with the tattoo of the eight-ball.

  Clementine tried not to think about it. She didn’t want to be a suspicious person, or assume the worst about people. But as she learned when her mom was lying there in hospice and finally told Clemmi her father’s real name, there are certain traits that God puts in each of us. There’s no escaping them.

  It’s who we are.

  Indeed, when Clementine first peered across the unit and into the room, she couldn’t help but notice how the barber, with his back to her, was standing next to Eightball’s bed, clutching the bed’s guardrail as if he needed it to stand. He wasn’t cutting Eightball’s hair. His hands didn’t move… his shoulders were slumped. He was crying. And more than anything else, that’s what drew Clementine to take that first step toward them.

  She told herself she wasn’t trying to pry—she was just hoping to console him—but as she neared the room, she heard those two words that made her stop midstep. The two words that forced her to cock her head and look twice at the barber, and that had her coming back week after week to fill in the rest of the story. Two simple words: Orson Wallace.

  From that moment, Clementine knew she’d never mention it to Nico. She still hadn’t told him she was his daughter—and there were plenty of reasons for hiding that. So she certainly wasn’t going to tell him this. Indeed, over the next few months, as she eventually put together the full picture, Clementine knew that what she’d been witnessing was far more t
han just a simple visit from a barber. What she’d been given was a chance. A real chance to answer the original questions she’d come searching for—to find out the things even her father didn’t know.

  With the changes in her body and everything she was going through—was it really such a sin to want to know the truth?

  “Laurent here,” the barber said today, flipping open his cell phone and pacing back and forth in Eightball’s small room. “Yeah. I can do it tonight or first thing tomorrow. Just tell me when.”

  Dumping and refilling the cat’s water bowl for the fifth or sixth time, Clementine listened carefully to every detail she could hear. She knew she was getting close. She knew about Wallace and his group of Plumbers, who were running errands for him. Of course, there was only so much one could get from eavesdropping. She had no idea what Minnie did with the baseball bat—or about how Palmiotti held Eightball down while Wallace worked on his face with his car keys. But she did know the Plumbers were helping him hide Eightball. No way could Wallace afford to let that get out. And best of all, after all this time, she knew where the barber was talking about.

  “Same place?” the barber asked. “At the Archives?”

  Ducking back toward the sink, Clementine had heard him mention the Archives before.

  “I found a salmon flavor,” Nico interrupted, reentering the room with a big bag of Meow Mix cat food under his arm. “They like salmon flavor.”

  Across the unit, the barber shut his phone, knowing better than to make eye contact with Nico. Clementine stayed by the sink, so as to not look out of place.

  “Anything we’re forgetting?” Nico called out to Clementine.

  “I don’t think so,” she replied, shutting off the water and stealing one last glance at Eightball’s room. She was definitely getting close. And as she thought about it, if she needed to, she even had a way to get into the Archives. That guy whose name she saw on the high school page. On Facebook.

  Beecher.

  For a moment, she felt that familiar pang of guilt. It didn’t last long. If she’d learned anything during this time with her father… There was no avoiding it. Or escaping it.

  This was who she was—or at least who she had to be… if she wanted to find the truth.

  “I think we’re set,” Clementine said, balancing the full bowl of water as she followed her dad back outside. “I’ve got everything we need.”

  96

  Don’t say those words to me,” Tot warned, gripping the receiver at his desk.

  “Will you just listen?” Khazei asked through the phone.

  “Do you know where Beecher is or not?”

  “Don’t blame this on me. You said Dallas’s car was tagged last night—that all I had to do was track them on GPS.”

  “That is all you had to do. In fact, isn’t that why you went racing to St. Elizabeths? To find them?” Tot asked. “So are they there or not?”

  “The car’s here, sure. But you should see what else is here—sirens swirling… there’s no going in or out—total lockdown. As I pulled up, they had half their security force gathered around Dallas’s car that Beecher drove here. So yes, that gray car is still in the same GPS spot as it was a half hour ago. But I’m telling you, Tot—there’s no Beecher… no Clementine… no one’s here.”

  Glancing out the plate glass window of his office, Tot stared down at Pennsylvania Avenue, then tightened his focus so that all he saw was his own gray beard in his reflection. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Do not panic on this.”

  “You’re not listening. Something’s wrong, and Beecher’s gone,” Tot insisted. “And the only way we’re salvaging this is if we somehow find him.”

  “That’s fine. You’re the one who knows him so well. Tell me what’s next?”

  Tot thought about it for a moment. He thought about it again. And for the first time in a long time, he had no idea.

  * * *

  97

  She hasn’t said yes yet?” the President challenged.

  “It’s not that simple,” the young aide replied as they rode up in the White House elevator.

  “It is that simple, son—you ask a girl out, she says yes or she says no,” Wallace teased, tossing a wink at the usher who ran the elevator. “You want me to issue an executive order for you? I’ll handwrite it on the good stationery: Go out with my aide Patrick, or face formal charges. Signed—Me.”

  The young aide forced a laugh, pretending he hadn’t heard the joke fifty times before. He didn’t mind, though. Like any job, everyone’s happy when the boss is in a good mood.

  The elevator door unclenched on the second floor of the White House Residence, and as the President made a sharp right up the hallway, the aide knew that mood was about to get even better.

  “You tell him who he’s eating with?” the usher in the elevator whispered to the aide.

  “Why you think he’s walking so fast?”

  At the far end of the hallway, the President spotted the small antique Georgian serving table that every day would hold a silver tray filled with small place-cards, each one in the shape of a thin, pointed collar-stay that was made of fine thick paper. On each one would be a calligraphed name, and the way the place-cards were organized in two neat columns—that same order would be the seating assignment for the day’s presidential lunch.

  Today, however, there were no place-cards.

  No seating chart.

  No calligraphed names.

  “Okay, who’s ready for mac and cheese?” Wallace called out playfully, clapping his hands together as he made a final sharp right and entered the narrow Family Dining Room, with its pale yellow walls and long mahogany table.

  On most days, there’d be two dozen people gathered here.

  Today, the table was set for two. Him and Andrew.

  “No mac and cheese,” announced a disappointed eight-year-old boy with a mess of brown hair and glowing gray eyes. Just like his father’s. “They said we can’t.”

  “Who says we can’t?” the President challenged.

  Just outside the dining room—and knowing better than to come inside—the nanny who was in charge of Wallace’s son shook her head. Wallace knew that look. Andrew had mac and cheese last night. And probably the night before that.

  “He’ll live,” Wallace said. “Two mac and cheeses.”

  As young Andrew’s gray eyes lit up, Wallace couldn’t even pretend to contain his own smile.

  “Chocolate milk too?” the boy asked.

  “Don’t push it,” Wallace teased.

  It was tough being President. But it was even tougher being a father in the White House. So at least once a week—or at the very least every other week—there was an uninterrupted meal with no staff, no scheduling, no briefings, no press, no VIPs, and no Members of Congress who will vote your way if you invite them to have lunch with you at the White House.

  Some days, the Family Dining Room had to be for just that. Family.

  With a playful shoo of his hand, the President got rid of the nanny and the other staffers, closed the door to the dining room, and flicked off the lights.

  “Dad, I got two new ones—and found the one where they’re plumbers.” Andrew beamed, flipping open his laptop and angling it so they could both see. With the push of a button, a black-and-white episode of The Three Stooges started playing onscreen.

  As President, Wallace knew he could use the White House movie theater downstairs. But as a father, just as he’d done long before he won the election, there was nothing better than being hunched over some mac and cheese, watching the classics with his son.

  Kuuk-kuuk-kuuk.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Wallace turned, all set to unleash on his staff—until the door opened and he saw who was knocking.

  “It’ll take only a second,” Dr. Palmiotti said.

  The President shot him a look that would need ice later. Sliding inside, Palmiotti didn’t care.

  “Sorry, Andrew—I’ll b
e fast,” the doctor added, trying to sound upbeat. “It’s about your haircut,” he told the President.

  As Palmiotti leaned to whisper in his ear, Wallace knew lunch was over.

  “I’m on this. I’m taking care of it. And I’m sorry,” Palmiotti whispered. “He’s gone. They found him dead. Slit wrists.”

  Nodding as if he were hearing a baseball score, the President stared across the table at his eight-year-old son.

  “Y’have to go now, don’t you?” the boy asked his father as Palmiotti left the room.

  “You kidding?” the President asked, reaching for the laptop and hitting the play button himself. “What kinda dad misses mac and cheese with his boy?”

  As the theme music began and Moe, Larry, and Curly jumped around onscreen, Wallace sat there in the semidark room, listening to his son laugh hysterically, while trying hard not to think about the dead friend he’d known since he was nearly the same age as his boy.

  98

  You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Dallas says.

  “I’m coming,” I tell him. “It’s just—The caves?” I ask from the passenger seat. “They’re far.”

  “They’re in Pennsylvania,” Dallas says, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “We just cut through Maryland and the facility’s right there.”

  I know where he’s talking about. In our downtown building, we house nearly one billion documents. There’re another 3.2 billion out in College Park, Maryland. And there’s overflow storage in places like Suitland, Maryland, whose building is the size of more than twenty football fields and houses over 6.4 billion documents. But since the most important issue—and biggest cost—surrounding document storage is room temperature, the Archives saves millions of dollars each year by using the natural cold of underground caves all across the country, from Lee’s Summit, Missouri, to Lenexa, Kansas, to, in the case of documents coming in from Ohio, the caves in Boyers, Pennsylvania.

  “Can I ask you one last question?” I say, my eyes catching my own reflection in the windshield. “When you were back at the office… why’d you pick up my phone?”