The Inner Circle (8 page)

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.

“Nico Hadrian,” I blurt.

Her eyes jump back and forth, fighting to process. I wait for her to lean on the end of the metal shelves for support, but her body stays stiff. She’s trying to will herself back to calm. It’s not working. “N-Nico? Y’mean, like the guy who—”

“Him. Mm-hmm. Nico Hadrian.” I nod, hoping to soften the blow. But there’s no other way to say it. “The man who tried to shoot President—”

“But he’s alive, right?”

“Yeah, sure—I mean, I think he’s in a mental hospital…”

“But he’s alive. My dad’s alive.” She reaches for the metal shelf on her left, but never grabs it. “It’s—it’s not what I expected, but I think—I think—I think—this is better than being dead, isn’t it?—it’s better,” she insists, blinking over and over, brushing away the tears. “I was so scared he’d be dead.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, like she can’t even see I’m there. “I didn’t think he’d be this, but—There are worse things in life, right?”

“Clementine, are you—?”

“There are worse things in life. He could’ve been dead; he could’ve been—” She cuts herself off, and slowly—right in front of me—it’s like she’s finally hearing her own words. Her jawbone shifts in her cheek. Her knees buckle. Before, she was unprepared. Now she’s unraveling.

I grab her arm, tugging hard. Time to get her out of here. At the end of one of the stacks—the real end this time—I push a metal door open and the dusty old stacks on the ninth floor dump us into the polished office hallway on the third floor of the main building.

The sirens from the motorcade still scream through the hall. No doubt, the President is inside the Archives by now, probably already in the SCIF with Dallas and Rina. The sirens should be fading soon. But as we head down the final steps to the lobby, as I tuck the coat-covered book tight under my arm and tug Clementine along, the sirens keep wailing. By the time I wave my badge and hear the click that opens the heavy door, there are a half dozen armed Secret Service agents standing in the lobby. The sirens are louder than ever.

A blast of mean December air from outside nearly knocks over the lobby’s Christmas tree as it sends its shredded paper decorations flying. On my right, I spy the source of the sudden wind tunnel: The automatic doors that lead out to Pennsylvania Avenue are wide open.

“
Step aside! Emergency!
” someone yells as a gleaming metal gurney comes blasting through the entrance, pushed by two impassive paramedics in dark blue long-sleeved shirts.

“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest uniformed Secret Service guy. “Something happen with the President?”

He glances at my badge, making sure I’m staff. “You think we’d be standing here if that were the case? We took him out of here six minutes ago. This is one of yours.”

A strand of shredded paper kisses the side of my face, hooking around my ear. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. “How do you mean,
one of ours
?”

“One of
them
,” he clarifies, pointing with his nose at the Security guys who run the main check-in desk. “Apparently, some poor guy had a seizure—or heart attack—they found him on the floor of his office. I think they said his name was…”

“
Orlando!?
” a guard shouts from the check-in desk.

“
Orlando!?
” Clementine blurts behind me.

No. No no. He didn’t just say—

The string of shredded paper slips off my ear, blowing into a small swirl at the center of the marble lobby. Clementine is silent behind me.

There’s no way. I was just… he was just…

“Beecher,” Clementine whispers behind me.

I’m already running, dragging her with me by her hand.

This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

But it is.

10

Move! Move it! Move!
” I yell, running full speed up the bright white basement hallway with the white-and-gray checkerboard floor. The magic key bounces against my chest as I fight my way through the insta-crowd that’s already forming outside Orlando’s office.

I’m not a big person. Or strong. But I have two older sisters. I know how to get what I want:

I lie.

“
We’re with them!
” I shout as I point to the paramedics who’re barely fifty feet ahead, riding their wake as they pull me and Clementine through the crowd.

Not a single Archives employee tries to stop me. Archivists aren’t built for confrontation. They’re built for observation, which explains why small groups of gawkers fill the hall all the way to the front door of the Security Office.

I hear more whispers as I run:
Orlando…? Orlando…! Heard a seizure… Orlando…!

“Don’t assume the worst. He could be okay,” Clementine says.

I refuse to argue as we squeeze into the large office suite. Inside, it’s quiet and looks like any other: a long rectangular layout spotted with cubicles and a few private offices. All the action is on our left, where I hear the squawks and crackles of far too many walkie-talkies. The paramedics have them. Security has them. And so does the small team of firefighters who arrived earlier and are now in a small circle at the center of the office, crouched on their knees like kids studying an anthill.

“They’re still working on him,” Clementine says.

That’s good news. If they’re working on him…

But they’re not working. There’re no frenzied movements. No CPR.

“On three,” they call out, getting ready to lift the stretcher. “One… two…”

There’s a metal howl as the stretcher’s steel legs extend and pins and sockets bite into place. With a tug, the firefighters pull tight on the black Velcro straps that tighten around the white sheet…

Not just a sheet… under the sheet…

Orlando.

One of the firefighters takes a half-step back and we get a short but perfect view of Orlando’s face. His skin is dry like a faded chalkboard. You don’t need a medical degree to know when you’re staring at a dead man.

“Beecher, take a breath,” Clementine whispers behind me. “Don’t pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass out.”

“You are. I can see you are.”

“What do you want me to do? That’s—We—This man’s my friend!”

I crane my neck to look through the crowd, studying Orlando’s profile. His head is tilted to the side—almost toward us—and the bottom right corner of his mouth sags slightly open and down, the way my mom looked when she had the complications with her heart surgery.

“He was just—We just saw him,” Clementine whispers.

I try to focus on Orlando’s eyes, which are closed and peaceful. But that bottom corner of his mouth, sagging open so slightly…

“I’m so sorry,” Clementine offers.

A whiplash of pain stings my heart, my lungs—like every one of my organs is made of crushed glass. The shattered pieces cascade like sand down my chest, landing in my stomach.

Please tell me this wasn’t because we were in that room…
I say to myself.

“You heard them,” Clementine says, reading me perfectly. “He had a heart attack… or a seizure.”

I try to believe that. I really do. There’s no reason to think otherwise. No reason at all. Except for that gnawing ache that’s tunneling through my belly.

“What?” she whispers. “How could it not be a heart attack?”