The Inner Circle (38 page)

Leading us past the nurses’ station, past the TV alcove, past the section of small square tables covered by checkers sets, Nico keeps his chin up as he purposefully strides to what is clearly our destination: the only round table in the entire day room—and the only one with a green laminated card with the words
Don’t Sit
on it.

“I made the card. So people don’t sit here,” Nico says.

“We appreciate that,” I say, noticing that Clementine still hasn’t said a word. It hasn’t gotten any easier for her to be here. But the way Nico is staring more at me instead of her, I realize he still doesn’t know she’s his daughter. No question, that’s better for all of us.

We all sit down. There are three of us at the table—and four seats. But as Nico’s attention turns to the empty one, I have no doubt that, in his head, that empty seat is filled.

“It’ll be quiet back here. That’s why I like the round table,” Nico says. Like every other table in the room, it’s got a Plexiglas top. Makes it easier for the nurses to see what we’re doing. Back by the nurses’ station, the escort who walked us in is sitting at a computer, pretending not to stare at us. Pointing across the room to a set of swinging doors, Nico adds, “My room’s back there.”

There’s a loud
kuh-kunk
. I follow the sound over my shoulder, where a soda machine—
kuh-kunk—
spits out a Diet Dr Pepper that’s retrieved by a male patient with curly black hair.

“I can get us apple and orange juice for free. They make us pay for soda,” Nico explains.

“I think we’re okay,” I say, hoping to move us along.

“You talk to me like the doctors,” Nico says, placing both his hands flat on the see-through table. His feet are pressed perfectly together on the floor. “Like the newer doctors who are worried I might hurt them.”

“Nico, I wasn’t—”

“I know you’re not her assistant. I know you said that just to get in here.” There’s a
kuh-kunk
behind us—another Diet Dr Pepper to another patient. “The Secret Service can arrest you for that, Benedict.”

He’s trying to take control, especially with the hokey move of calling me Benedict Arnold. But unlike last time, I’ve done my homework. Especially about him.

When Nico was first arrested for shooting the President, he was charged with a
federal
crime, which means he had
federal
records—including a psych profile—which means those records eventually came to the Archives, which also means it took nothing but a phone call to get them from our record center out in Suitland, Maryland.

To be honest, most of what I read was typical Psych 101 nonsense, but one thing did stand out: Yes, Nico’s hyper-paranoid, and used to claim God talks to him… and yes, he’s clearly well versed in all sorts of historical conspiracy theories, including delusional concerns about Thomas Jefferson and George Washington and a hidden pentagram in the street layout of Washington, D.C. But as a former decorated soldier in the army, the one thing Nico has always responded to best is a sure voice of authority.

“Nico, I’m here to talk about the Culper Ring,” I announce. “Would you like an update or not?”

His hands stay flat on the table. His eyes flick back and forth, picking me apart. Then Clementine. Then the empty chair next to him. The profile said how methodical he was. But the way he starts biting the inside of his lip, he’s also excited.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” he blurts. “About the invisible ink…”

“You were. Messages were being sent.”

“I knew! I—” He lowers his voice, glancing over at the nurses’ station. The escort who brought us in is on the phone. Nico definitely hears what she’s saying. And he’s been here long enough to know what happens if he gets too excited. “I told you you were being tested,” he insists, fighting to keep his composure. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“We’re all being tested,” Clementine says, just like we practiced. “That’s what life is.”

“And here’s your newest test,” I jump in, already feeling guilty, but knowing that this is our only chance. “
This
is the message that came back.”

From my front pants pocket, I pull out the pencil that was left behind by President Wallace and gently place it on the open table.

75

Nico’s hand snaps out like a snake, snatching the President’s pencil and cradling it in his open palm. His eyes again flick back and forth, soaking in every detail.

Eventually, he looks up. “I don’t understand.”

“The pencil… the indentations…” I say. “We think a message was hidden on that.”

“On the pencil?” he asks.

“In the indentations,” I say, pointing him back.

There’s another
kuh-kunk
behind us. Diet Dr Pepper for another patient.

Clementine jumps and Nico blinks hard as the soda can hits. But Nico never loses sight of the pencil. Holding both ends, he twirls it slowly like the tips of a cartoon mustache. He devours every mark, every groove, every detail.

Eventually he looks up, his brown eyes peeking just above the pencil. “Tell me what it said in the invisible ink.”

“Pardon?” I ask.

“The message. In the dictionary. I want to know what it said first. I want you to tell me.”

“No. Absolutely no,” I say, eyeing Clementine, who’s staring through the see-through table at her own feet. She’s not gonna last long. “That’s not the game, Nico—I’ve got no time.”

“Then I have no time for you,” Nico challenges.

“That’s fine. Then we’ll leave. And you can sit here waiting another two years for your next visitor,” I say, standing up from my seat.

“Sit.”

“No. You’re not driving this,” I shoot back.

“Sit,” Nico repeats, lowering his chin and trying hard to keep his voice down.

“Are you listening? You’re not driving. So tell me what it says on the pencil, or have fun spending the rest of your afternoon with your free orange juice.”

Next to me, Clementine rises from her seat, joining me to leave.

Nico looks over at the table’s empty chair. He nods a few times. Whatever he’s hearing, I pray it’s good advice.

“It doesn’t say anything,” Nico blurts.

“Excuse me?”

“The pencil,” Nico says. “There’s no message.”

“How do you know?”

“I can see. I can—I’m good with patterns. The doctors… they’ve told me… I can see what others can’t. God gave me that gift,” he says, again glancing at the empty chair. “The marks on the pencil… the indentations… there’s nothing recurring. No repetition.”

“So the Culper Ring… back in the day… they never used old carvings as codes?” I ask.

“These aren’t carvings. These are… they’re nothing. Nothing I can see. Now tell me what you haven’t been saying. Tell me what was written in the invisible ink.”

He says the words matter-of-factly, as if there should be no argument.

Clementine and I both stand there, silent.

“I know you came here for my help,” Nico says. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t stuck. I can help with—”

He stops.

I know it’s a trick. Nico isn’t sly. He’s not subtle. He’s a whack job who acts like a giant child and thinks he’s the reincarnation of George Washington. So I know he’s just trying to get me to say…

“You can help me with
what
?” I ask, plenty annoyed, but curious enough to play along. I return to my seat.

He looks over toward the nurses’ station, once again scanning the brightly lit room. Taped to a nearby square concrete column is a laser-printed sign that says:

Please keep voices low

And spirits up

“Nico, what can you help us with?” I repeat.

“I know about the Purple Hearts,” Nico says.

“Okay, we’re done—I’ve seen this scam already,” I say as I again stand up.

“Where are you going?” Nico asks.

“This is the exact same thing you did last time—first you offer to help, then you start shoveling your whacky ghost stories.”

To my surprise, Clementine grips my wrist, keeping me in place. “What about the Purple Hearts?” she asks.

“The medals. The military medals. Do you know who created the Purple Heart?”

“George Washington,” I shoot back.

“I appreciate that. I appreciate you knowing your history,” Nico says. “Yes, George Washington created it. It was one of the first medals introduced in the United States. But he didn’t call it the Purple Heart—”

“He called it the Badge of Military Merit,” I interrupt. “It got its name from the fact that the medal itself was a purple cloth in the shape of a heart. What else do you want to know?”

“Do you know how many Purple Hearts George Washington gave out?” Nico challenges.

This time, I’m silent. I’m good, but I’m not Tot.

“Three,” Nico says. “That’s it. Three. Three men—all of them from Connecticut. As part of the honor, Washington wrote their names into a special book he called the Book of Merit. And do you know where this Book of Merit is today?”

“In that warehouse with the Ark of the Covenant?” I ask.

“No one knows where it is,” Nico says, oblivious to my joke as he flashes us a grin of excitement. Clementine looks even worse than she did yesterday. She’s not lasting much longer. “Washington’s book disappeared. Forever. In 1932, they revived the honor of the Purple Heart—it’s been given in our military ever since. But to this day, no one—not anyone—has any idea where Washington’s original Book of Merit—with the original names—actually is.”

“And this matters to us because…?”

“It matters because today, the Purple Heart goes to those who are wounded in battle. But originally, back then, Washington’s badge had nothing to do with injuries. In his own words, Washington said it was for
extraordinary fidelity
. Do you know what
extraordinary fidelity
means?”

“It means someone who’s loyal,” I say.

“It means someone who can keep a secret,” Nico counters. “I didn’t know this. I looked it up. I found it after your visit. I have a lot of time here.”

“Just get to the point.”

“I have been. You’re not listening to it. Like your predecessor—”

“Don’t compare me to a predecessor. Don’t call me Benedict Arnold. Don’t start with all that reincarnation hoo-hoo,” I warn him, still standing across from him. “If you want us to listen, stay in reality.”

His eyes flicker back and forth. His chest rises and falls just as fast. But to his credit, Nico bites the inside of his lip and stays on track. “The very first recipient of the Purple Heart was a twenty-six-year-old named Elijah Churchill,” Nico explains. “Elijah served under someone I think you’ve heard of—Benjamin Tallmadge.”

Clementine looks my way.

“Tallmadge was the organizer of the original Culper Ring,” I say.

“Then when you look at the third name on that list—Daniel Bissell from Windsor, Connecticut—guess why his name was put in the Book of Merit? He was one of our best spies, who helped infiltrate Benedict Arnold’s own corps,” Nico says, his eyes flicking faster than ever. “And according to some, that’s the
real
reason the Book of Merit disappeared. It wasn’t stolen. It was hidden—by Washington himself, who collected our best men and used them to build the greatest secret corps that history never knew…”

“The Culper Ring,” Clementine says.

“I’m not asking you to believe it,” Nico says. “But even America’s secret history has its experts. Let me help you with this. You know I can help you. This is the world I know best.”

I’m tempted to argue, but we both know he’s right. When it comes to conspiracies, Nico’s got a PhD.

“Tell me what you found in the invisible ink,” Nico says. “Tell me and I’ll share what I know. If I fail, you can leave and we’re done.”

I look over at Clementine, who replies with an awkward shrug. I can’t help but agree. At this point—especially with the President’s pencil apparently being a bust, and still not knowing why Wallace brought me to that room—what do we have to lose?

From my back pocket, I unfold the photocopy of the dictionary page and slide it across the round table.

Unlike before, Nico doesn’t snatch it. He stays calm, hands again flat on the table. But as he leans forward and reads the words, I see the thick vein starting to swell on his neck.

FEBRUARY 16

26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

There’s a loud
kuh-kunk
behind us. Another Diet Dr Pepper for another patient, this one a young Asian man with a dyed blond stripe running down the middle of his head like a skunk streak.

“Get away from us, Simon—this isn’t your business!” Nico growls without turning around as he covers the photocopy by pressing it against his own chest. The Asian man flips Nico the finger, then heads for the swinging doors that lead back to patients’ rooms.