The Inner Circle (51 page)

But the only sign that Palmiotti cared about was the glowing one above the red steel door on the far right of the cul-de-sac.
Emergency Exit
.

Sonuvabitch
.

Leaping for the door and grabbing the handle, Palmiotti gave it a sharp tug. It didn’t open. He tried again.

Locked. It was definitely locked. In fact, as he looked closer at the industrial keyhole, there was an old key broken off and stuck inside. It didn’t make sense. Clementine couldn’t’ve got out here. But if she didn’t get out here, then she should still be—

Behind him, Palmiotti heard a small chirp. A squeak.

Spinning back, he rechecked the cavern. A mess of muddy wheelbarrows were piled up on his left. Next to that were two enormous wooden spools of thick cable wire and another mound of discarded metal shelving, all of it rusty from the heat and dampness at this end of the cave. Diagonally across was another red metal door. Stenciled letters on the front read:
Treatment Plant
. But before Palmiotti could even run for the door, there was another squeak…

There. On his right.

He didn’t see it at first: Cut into the plywood wall, like a human-sized doggie door, was a hinged piece of wood that didn’t sway much.

But no question, it was moving. Back and forth.

Like someone had just passed through it.

Rushing to it, but working hard to stay quiet, Palmiotti studied the door. Back and forth… back and forth. It was barely swaying now, letting out a few final squeaks as it settled to a stop. A crush of rocks crackled below his feet. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek, into the tie that wrapped his forearm.

Either Clementine was standing on the other side of this door, waiting to put a bullet in his face, or she was still running, following wherever the tunnel led.

Only one way to find out.

Pressing his open palm against the plywood, Palmiotti gave it a push. Inside, unlike the rest of the cave, there were no lights. Total black. Nothing but silence.

Out of nowhere, the shrill scream of a fire alarm echoed from every direction. Palmiotti jumped at the noise, nearly bashing his head into the top threshold of the doggie door. No doubt, the alarm was pulled by Beecher, who was probably still panicking back where Palmiotti left him.

But a distraction was a distraction. Seizing the moment, Palmiotti shoved the plywood forward, lifted his left leg, and took a full step through the giant swinging door. His foot landed with a squish. His socks… his dress shoes… his entire foot was submerged in water.

Ducking inside, he hopped wildly to his right foot, trying to get to dry ground. Again, he landed with a wet squish as he—

Fttt.

He slapped his neck like he was swatting a mosquito bite. On impact, a wet splash sprayed through the spaces between his fingers. It was too dark for him to see the blood. Like before, he didn’t even feel it. As he stood there in the knee-high water, it was the smell that hit him first: the charred smell of burnt skin. His skin.

She shot me. Again. The nutty bitch shot me again!

But before the words traveled the synaptic pathway from his brain to his mouth, Palmiotti was hit again—tackled actually—his attacker ramming him from the right, purposely grabbing at the hole in his forearm as momentum and the electric jolt of pain knocked him sideways, into the shallow water that fed the water treatment area.

Before Palmiotti could get a single word out, two hands gripped his throat, sharp thumbnails digging into his voicebox.

Tumbling backward, he fell like a cleaved tree. The shallow water parted at the impact, then knitted back together over his face. Under the water, Palmiotti tried to scream as his lungs filled with the inky brown lake water. She clawed her way on top, sitting on his chest.

Palmiotti never got to see her.

But he knew Clementine wasn’t letting go.

110

Anybody there…?
” I call out, holding tight to the gun as I turn yet another corner in yet another poorly lit stretch of cave.
“Clementine…?”

The only answer comes from the fire alarm, whose howl rings hard at the base of my skull.

A minute ago, I thought I heard the muffled thuds of Palmiotti running, but now…

Nothing but alarm.

Racing forward and holding the gun out in front of me, I lick the salty bits of sweat from my lips. At first, I told myself it was nerves. It’s not. The deeper I go, the hotter it gets.

This isn’t just the maintenance area of the cave. By the hum that rumbles just below the fire alarm, this is where all the HVAC and mechanical equipment is.

Picking up speed, I rush past a dusty spray-painted
Car Wash
sign and some still-soapy sponges, yet as I turn the next corner, there’s a sudden dead end.

On my right, there’s a door for an
Emergency Exit
. But straight ahead, built into the construction wall, there’s a swinging panel that…
huh
… is still swinging.

My fingers tighten around the trigger. There’s no question where they are. I can wait here for help. I can play it absolutely safe. But if either of them gets away…

I take my first step toward the wooden wall, and the fire alarm stops, leaving me in a sudden vacuum of silence that’s so severe, the only sound that exists is that phantom hum that follows you home when you leave a loud rock concert.

Straight ahead, the doggie door continues to swing, squeaking off-key.

Below my feet, with every step, bits of rock pop like glass.

In the distance, there’s a chirp I can’t place.

But what hits me like an axe in the stomach—as I approach the swinging panel and use the barrel of the gun to shove it open—is that there’s not a single noise coming from inside.

111

Palmiotti knew what to do.

Even now… with his head underwater… with her hands around his throat… Palmiotti knew what to do if he wanted to breathe again.

Thrashing wildly, he clapped his arms together so his fists collided with Clementine’s ears.

He couldn’t hear her scream. But he did feel her let go. His head broke the surface of the water. Gasping for fresh air, he heard the fire alarm still ringing. Water dripped from his nose, from his ears, from his chin. His neck—where he’d been shot—was burning now. From the amount of blood that soaked his right shoulder, he knew his internal jugular vein was lacerated. It was bad. Much worse than his forearm. But at least he could breathe.

Still coughing uncontrollably, he rolled sideways in the shallow water. He couldn’t see much, but there were small cracks of light in the plywood wall. His eyes adjusted fast.

Clementine rushed at him, raising her gun to—

Krkkk
.

Palmiotti kicked hard—it was nothing but instinct—as his heel rammed Clementine’s unbent knee.

The crack was audible. Clementine’s leg nearly hyperextended as muscles and tendons were pulled like piano wire. Tumbling forward, she nosedived into the water.

She fought hard to get up, quickly climbing to her good knee. She knew what was coming.

She wasn’t nearly fast enough.

The first kick slammed into her stomach, lifting her off the ground and taking all the wind out of her.

“D’you even realize how stupid you are!?” Palmiotti growled, spit flying with every syllable. “Even before the hospital file—just on the threat of you knowing what we did to Eightball—we were willing to give you everything!
You had us!
You’d actually
won
!”

Clementine’s head was still down. Palmiotti gripped the back of her hair, twisting her head until she faced him and…

Pmmmp
.

He rammed his knee in her face, sending her tumbling backward, splashing into the water. As fast as she could, she crabwalked back, trying to get away. She had no chance.

“Instead, when you heard about the file, you had to come here and be greedy…!” Palmiotti added, standing over her and grabbing her by the shirt. With a sharp tug, he lifted her up until the water reached her waist, then he punched her square in the face.

This time, though, it was Palmiotti who wasn’t letting go. He felt the throbbing at the wound in his neck. He could feel himself getting light-headed. He didn’t care. Cocking his arm back, he hit her again. And…

There was a loud
click
behind him.

“That’s enough,” a familiar voice announced.

Palmiotti turned, glancing over his shoulder. “Go away. This isn’t your problem anymore.”

“You are so incredibly wrong about that,” Beecher warned, aiming his gun straight at Palmiotti. “Let go of her now, and put your hands in the air.”

112

You’re done—you’re both done,” I warn Palmiotti.

“She still has her gun!” he insists, pointing back at Clementine.

I look down to check for myself. The brown water is almost to my knees, though it looks like it gets deeper as it snakes down the length of the cavern and winds into the darkness like the River Styx. This isn’t some small puddle. It’s a man-made lake.

In the darkness, it’s near impossible to see anything but a glassy reflection off the surface. But there’s no missing Clementine. Or the way, as she wipes her mouth and backs away from us on her knees, she keeps her other hand conspicuously below the water.

“He hit me, Beecher,” she pleads, still slowly moving backward. “I swallowed my tooth—he knocked it down my—”

I point my gun at her and pull the trigger.

The barrel booms with a thunderclap that reverberates through the cavern. From the back of the cave, a speedy red bird—the chirping I heard before—zips out, flies in a few wild circles, and disappears again.

“Gah!” Clementine screams as the bullet slices her thigh, sending bits of skin and flesh flicking across the water. Palmiotti’s already injured. Whatever else happens, I’m not letting either of them—and especially her—get away.

At first she looks mad, but as she falls back on her ass and tucks her knee toward her chin, her eyebrows quickly unknot and her eyes go round and weepy. “H-How could you…? You shot me…” she moans.

“What you said about my father—is it true?” I ask.

“Beecher… the documents they’re hiding—there’s even more in that file. And if we have that, it’s not just our word against theirs—”

“
IS IT TRUE!?
” I explode.

The cave is silent, except for the red bird cheeping in the distance. “Th-That’s what my mother told me. I swear to you—on her dead body. But if I don’t get out of here—”

“No. Do
not
do that,” I warn her. “Do
not
manipulate me. Do not try to get away. I’ve seen that show already—I know how it ends.”

“Make her raise her hands!” Palmiotti shouts, stumbling back a few steps and leaning against the cave wall. I didn’t notice it until now—all that red on his shoulder… the way he’s holding his neck. He’s been shot again.

“Don’t let Palmiotti twist you,” Clementine warns, ignoring her own pain and fighting to stay calm. I can see the wet file folder sticking up from behind her back, where she tucked it in her pants. “Even with everything I did—you know I’d never hurt you. And before… I-I saved you.”

“You need to shoot her!” Palmiotti insists. “She’s got her gun under the water!”

“Clementine, raise your hands,” I insist.

She shifts her weight, raising both hands, then lowering them back in the water, which, from the way she’s sitting, comes just above her waist.

“She kept the gun
in her lap
!” Palmiotti adds. “She still has it!” “I don’t have anything!” she shouts.

I don’t believe either of them. And even if her gun is still in her lap, I don’t know if a gun can work once it’s underwater. But the one thing I do know is I need to see for myself.

“Clementine,
get up
! Stand up,” I tell her.

“I can’t.”

“Whattya mean
you can’t
?”

“You shot me, Beecher. In the
leg
. I can’t
stand
,” she explains, pointing to her leg that’s bent.

“The bullshit is just never-ending!” Palmiotti says. “If you don’t shoot her, she’s going to—!”

“Dr. Palmiotti,
stop talking
!” I yell.

“Then use your brain for once instead of thinking with your scrotum!” Palmiotti begs, reaching my way. “If you want, give me the gun and I’ll—”

“Do
not
come near this gun,” I say, aiming the barrel at his chest. “I know who you are, Doctor. I know you tricked Dallas into thinking he was fighting for the good of the Culper Ring. And since I know you’re the top plumber in the Plumbers, I know where your loyalty lies.”

Palmiotti doesn’t move.