The Inner Circle (37 page)

Staring outside, the archivist watched as the two familiar figures bolted out of the building, racing across the street.

There they were.

Dallas. And Beecher.

Dallas and Beecher.

Definitely together.

The archivist’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Just like he knew it would. No way would they let something like this slip by.

“Yeah, I see it,” the archivist answered.

As they talked it through, an old silver Toyota—Dallas’s Toyota—eventually stopped in front of the Archives. That’s where Dallas and Beecher ran: to get Dallas’s car. And from what it looked like, Beecher was the one driving. The car stopped and Dallas got out. From this height, four stories up, the archivist couldn’t hear the screech. But he saw how fast Beecher drove off.

Like he was on a mission.

The archivist wasn’t thrilled.

Now there was definitely no choice.

“I know… I see it too,” Tot said into the phone, pressing his forehead against the cold plate glass window and watching as Beecher turned the corner and disappeared down 9th Street. “No, I don’t know for sure, but I can guess. Yeah. No, of course we tagged the car. But it’s time to tell the others,” Tot added. “We’ve officially got ourselves a problem.”

72

Who you here to see?” the female guard with the bad Dutch-boy hair asks through the bulletproof glass window.

“We’re on the list,” I say, handing over my ID and stepping aside so she sees who I’m with.

From behind me, Clementine steps forward and slides her driver’s license, along with her own temporary ID badge (the one that says she’s a graduate student), into the open metal drawer just below the glass. With a tug, the St. Elizabeths guard snaps the drawer shut, dragging the contents to her side of the glass, but never taking her eyes off me. No question, she remembers me from yesterday.

“He’s my assistant,” Clementine explains.

“I don’t care who he is. He still needs to be checked in,” the guard pushes.

“I did. I called,” Clementine pushes right back, tapping her thumb ring against the counter. Unlike last night with her grandmother, her voice is back to pure strength. “Check your computer.”

The guard hits a few keys, and as her face falls, it’s clear I was right to bring in Clementine. But as I take back my ID and the new sticker, and the guard motions us through the X-ray, it’s also clear that Clementine’s not exactly ready for the victory dance. “End of the hall,” the guard says. “Escort’ll meet you upstairs.”

With a baritone
tunk
, the thick steel door on our left pops open, and we head inside to the heart of the building. Barely two steps in, we come to another steel door. This one’s closed. It’s the same system they have in prisons—a sally port—the next door won’t open until the previous one is shut. That way, the patients can’t escape.

Behind us, the first door clamps shut. I’m barely half a step behind Clementine. All I see is the back of her head, and a black beauty mark on the curve of her neck. But you don’t have to be fluent in body language to see the way she’s not moving. This is harder than yesterday. She knows what she’s about to face.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.

She doesn’t look back.

“Clemmi, I’m serious,” I add. “If you want, just wait here.”

“How come you haven’t asked me about last night?” she blurts.

“Wait. Are we fighting now? Is this about the kiss?”

“Forget the kiss. Last night. What you saw with Nan… why haven’t you asked me about it?”

“I
did
ask you. You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, now I do. Especially as I’m starting to hyperventilate in this tiny metal box.”

Another metal
tunk
makes us both jump—the next door unlocks—and there’s another long lime green hallway with an elevator at the far end. Clementine doesn’t move, though it looks like she’s trying to. In the past few days, I’ve seen her be both strong and weak, fearless and terrified, and also kind and protective. There are so many Clementines in that body. But when it comes to her family—especially her father—the girl who used to be prepared for anything reminds me that the number one thing she’s not prepared for are her own insecurities.

“Y’know I don’t judge you based on how you’re treated by your grandmother,” I tell her.

“I know you don’t. But it’s not just about how she treats me. It’s about how I
let her
treat me. You saw it yesterday—I’m not… when she…” She presses her lips together. “I’m not my best with her.”

I stand there, pretending I didn’t see exactly that last night. “Sometimes you’re so strong, I forget you can be hurt.”

She shakes her head. “We can all be hurt.”

I nod, thinking about the fact that Iris’s bicycle is still sitting in my garage from where she accidentally left it. Iris loves that bicycle. But she still won’t come pick it up.

As I study the single beauty mark on the back of Clementine’s neck, it reminds me that there’s nothing more intimate in life than simply being understood. And understanding someone else.

“How long’ve you been taking care of your grandma?” I finally ask.

“Four years. Ever since my mom died. And yes, I know it’s good to take care of the elderly, but… living with a nasty old woman… having no job… which, also yes, I should’ve told you… and then finding out that Nico is my…
y’know
… I’m not saying I needed my life to be a symphony—I just never thought it’d turn out to be a country song.”

“Yeah, well… it’s better than realizing that your life is elevator music.”

“Some people like elevator music,” she counters.

I look over at her. She stands her ground, fearlessly locking eyes and reminding me exactly why her reappearance has slapped me out of the safe hibernation that’s become my life. Even when she’s afraid, this girl isn’t afraid of anything. Or at least she’s not afraid of me.

As she studies me, I want to kiss her again. I want to kiss her like last night—and I know this is my chance, a true second chance in every sense. A golden moment where the earth stops spinning, and the clouds roll away, and I get the opportunity to say the perfect words and prove that I can actually change my life.

“So… buh… your grandmother…” I stutter. “Her cancer’s really bad, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s bad,” Clementine says, heading up the hallway. “Though mark my words, Nan’s got eighteen lives. She’ll bury us all and tap-dance on our graves.”

I curse myself and contemplate cutting out my tongue.
How’s the cancer?
That’s the best I could come up with? Why didn’t I just blurt out that I know she’s pregnant and then make it a perfectly horrible social moment?

“Beecher, can I ask you a question?” Clementine adds as she jabs at the elevator call button. “Why’d you really come here?”

“What?”

“Here. Why here?” she says, pointing up. Three flights up to be precise. To her father. “You saw how crazy he is. Why come and see him?”

“I told you before—of all the people we’ve spoken to, he’s still the one who first cracked the invisible ink. Without him, we’d still be thumbing through the dictionary.”

“That’s not true. He didn’t crack anything. Your guy at the Archives… in Preservation…”

“The Diamond.”

“Exactly. The Diamond,” she says. “The Diamond’s the one who cracked it.”

“Only after Nico pointed out it was there. And yes, Nico’s loopy, but he’s also the only one who’s handed us something that’s panned out right.”

“So now Tot’s not right? C’mon, Beecher. You’ve got a dozen other people in the Archives who specialize in Revolutionary War stuff. You’ve got the Diamond and all his expertise about how the Founding Fathers used to secretly hide stuff. But instead of going to the trained professionals, you go to the paranoid schizo and the girl you first kissed in high school? Tell me what you’re really after. Your office could’ve gotten you in here. Why’d you bring me with you?”

As I follow her into the elevator and press the button for the third floor, I look at her, feeling absolutely confused. “Why
wouldn’t
I bring you? You were in that room when we found that dictionary. Your face is on that videotape just as much as mine is. And I’m telling you right now, Khazei knows who you are, Clementine. Do you really think all I care about is trying to protect myself? This is
our
problem. And if you think I haven’t thought that from moment one, you really don’t know me at all. Plus… can’t you tell I like you?”

As the elevator doors roll shut, Clementine takes a half-step back, still silent. Between her missing dad, her dead mom, and the evil grandmother, she’s spent a lifetime alone. She doesn’t know what to do with
together
.

But I think she likes it.

“By the way,” I add, standing next to her so we’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “Some of us like country music.”

Clementine surprises me by blushing. As the elevator rises, she grips the railing behind her. “You were supposed to say that two minutes ago, genius—back when I said I liked elevator music.”

“I know. I was panicking. Just give me credit for eventually getting there, okay?” Within seconds, as the elevator slows to a stop, I reach down and gently pry her fingers from the railing, taking her hand in my own.

It’s a soaking, clammy mess. It’s caked in cold sweat.

And it fits perfectly in mine.

For an instant, we stand there, both leaning on the back railing, both entombed in that frozen moment after the elevator bobs to a stop, but before the doors…

With a shudder, the doors part company. A short black woman dressed in a yellow blouse is bouncing a thick ring of keys in her open palm and clearly waiting to take us the rest of the way. Clementine prepared me for this: To help the patients feel more at ease, the staff doesn’t wear uniforms. The silver nametag on her shirt says FPT, which is the mental hospital equivalent of an orderly. Behind the woman is another metal door, just like the ones downstairs.

“You’re the ones seeing Nico Hadrian?” she asks, giving a quick glance to our IDs.

“That’s us,” I say as the woman twists a key in the lock and pushes the door open, revealing dull fluorescent lights, a scuffed, unpolished hall, and the man who’s waiting for us, bouncing excitedly on his heels and standing just past the threshold with an awkward grin and a light in his chocolate brown eyes.

“I told everyone you’d be back,” Nico says in the kind of monotone voice that comes from solid medication. “They never believe me.”

73

That your pop or your granpop?” the muscular white kid with the laced-up army boots asked as the barber mowed the clippers up the back of the guy’s head.

“My dad,” Laurent replied, not even looking up at the crisp black-and-white photo of the soldier in full army uniform that was tucked next to the shiny blue bottle of Barbasol. In the photo—posed to look like an official army portrait in front of an American flag—his father was turned to the camera, a mischievous grin lighting his face.

“Those bars on his chest?” the client asked, trying to look up even though his chin was pressed down to his neck.

Laurent had heard the question plenty of times before—from people who wanted to know what medal his dad was wearing on his uniform.

The amazing part was, despite the photo, the barber rarely thought of his father as a soldier. As a strict Seventh-day Adventist, his dad was a pacifist, so committed to his faith that he refused to have anything to do with military service. But three days after Pearl Harbor, when the country was reeling and his prayers weren’t bringing the answers he needed, his father walked into the recruitment office and enlisted.

He told his sergeants he wouldn’t carry a weapon or dig ditches on Sabbath. They made him a cook, and of course let him cut hair too. Years later, after he returned home, Laurent’s father remained just as committed to his faith. But the lesson was there—the one lesson he forever tried to drill into his children: Sometimes there’s a greater good.

“He was actually a kitchen man,” the barber said to his client, pointing the clippers back at the photo. “The medal’s a joke from his first sergeant for being the first one to catch a lobster when they were stationed in San Juan.”

The client laughed… and quickly rolled up his sleeve to reveal a crisp tattoo of a cartoony Marine Corps bulldog that was flexing his biceps like a bodybuilder and showing off his own tattoo, which read
Always Faithful
across his bulging dog arm.

The barber felt a lump in his throat, surprised by the swell of emotion that overtook him as he read the tattoo. No question about it, there was a real power that came with being faithful.

But.

He looked up and stole a quick glance at the photo of his father. At the miniature lobster that was pinned to his chest. And at the mischievous grin on his dad’s young face.

There was also something to be said about the greater good.

74