The Inner Circle (55 page)

“Who’s that?” Minnie asked.

The President of the United States stared and lied again. “Nobody important.”

118

I know they want to throw me out.

They want to grab me by the nape of my neck and heave me into the trash, like they do in old comic strips.

But as the two Secret Service agents walk me down the paved path that borders the South Lawn, I stay two steps ahead of them. Still, I feel how close they are behind me.

“Taxis won’t stop here,” the agent with the round nose says as we reach the black metal pedestrian gate and wait for it to open. “Go down a block. You’ll be better off.”

“Thanks,” I say without looking back at them.

From the security shed on my right, the female uniformed agent never takes her eyes off me. She pushes a button and a magnetic lock pops.

“Have a safe night,” the agent with the round nose adds, patting me on the back and nearly knocking me through the metal gate as it swings open. Even for the Secret Service, he’s far too physical. “Hope you enjoyed your visit to the White House.”

As I rush outside, the gate bites shut, and I fight the cold by stuffing my hands in my pockets. To my surprise, my right pocket’s not empty. There’s a sheet of paper—feels like a business card—waiting for me.

I pull it out. It’s not a business card. It’s blank. Except for the handwritten note that says:

15th and F.

Taxi will be waiting.

I glance over my shoulder at the agent with the round nose. His back is already turned to me as he follows his partner back to the mansion. He doesn’t turn around.

But I know he wrote that note.

I look down, rereading it again: 15th and F Street. Just around the corner.

Confused, but also curious, I start with a walk, which quickly becomes a speedwalk, which—the closer I get to 15th Street—quickly becomes a full-out run.

As I turn the corner, I’m shoved hard by the wind tunnel that runs along the long side of the Treasury building. At this hour, the street is empty. Except for the one car that’s parked illegally, waiting for me.

It doesn’t look like a cab.

In fact, as I count the four bright headlights instead of the usual two, I know who it is—even without noticing the car’s front grille, where the chrome horse is in mid-gallop.

It’s definitely not a cab.

It’s a Mustang.

I take a few steps toward the pale blue car. The passenger window is already rolled down, giving me a clear view of Tot, who has to be freezing as he sits so calmly inside. He ducks down to see me better. Even his bad eye is filled with fatherly concern.

Just the sight of him makes it hard for me to stand. I shake my head, shooting him a silent plea and begging him not to say
I told you so
.

Of course, he listens. From the start, he’s been the only one.

“It’ll be okay,” he finally offers.

“You sure?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer. He just leans across the passenger seat and opens the door. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

*              *              *

119

Fourteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

Beecher… customer at buyback!
” Mr. Farris shouted from the back office of the secondhand bookshop.

At sixteen years old, Beecher had no problem darting up the aisles, past the overstuffed shelves that were packed with old paperbacks. The only thing that slowed him down was when he saw who was waiting for him at the register.

He knew her from behind—from just the sight of her long black hair.

He’d know her anywhere.

Clementine.

Ducking underneath the drawbridge counter and sliding to a stop behind the register, Beecher worked hard to keep it cool. “Clementine… Hey.”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” she offered.

“Yeah. I’m Beecher,” he said, pointing to himself.

“I know your name, Beecher.”

“Yeah… no… that’s great,” he replied, praying better words would come. “So you got stuff for us?” he added, motioning to the blue milk crate that she had lugged inside and that now sat by her feet.

“I heard you guys pay fifty cents for old records and CDs.”

“Fifty cents for records. Fifty cents for paperbacks. And a full dollar if it’s a new hardcover—though he’ll pay a lot if you’ve got the ’69 Bee Gees
Odessa
album with the original foldout artwork.”

“I don’t have the Bee Gees,” she said. “I just have these…”

From the milk crate, she pulled out half a dozen copies of the CD with her mom’s photo on it:
Penny Maxwell’s Greatest Hits.

Beecher knew the rules. He could buy back anything he wanted—as long as the store didn’t already have too many copies.

Two hours ago, Clementine’s mom came in and told Mr. Farris that her family was moving to Detroit for her singing career and could they please buy back a few dozen of her CDs to raise some much-needed cash. Of course, Mr. Farris obliged. Farris always obliged, which was why the store’s front window still had a crack in it and the air conditioning would never be fixed. So as Beecher looked across the counter at Clementine’s exact same offerings…

“We can definitely use a few extra copies,” he finally said.

“Really? You sure?”

“Absolutely. I’ve listened to them. Your mom’s got a real voice. Like early Dinah Washington, but softer and with better range—and of course without the horrendous drug overdose.”

Clementine couldn’t help but grin. “I know you already bought my mom’s copies—and you’re stuck with those.”

“And we have thirty copies of
To Kill a Mockingbird
. But each new school year, we sell every damn one.”

Cocking her head, Clementine took a long silent look across the counter. It was the kind of look that came with its own internal calculation. “You’re not a jackass like everyone else.”

“Not true,” Beecher said, motioning to the milk crate. “I’m just buttering you up so I can lowball you on that
Frankenstein
paperback you’ve got there. That’s a British edition. I can get big bucks for it. Now what else you got?”

Lifting the crate, Clementine dumped and filled the counter with at least twenty other paperbacks, a few hardbacks, and a pile of used CDs including Boyz II Men, Wilson Phillips, and Color Me Badd.

“I also got this…” Clementine said, pulling out a frayed blue leather book with a heavily worn spine, torn soiled pages, and a shredded silk ribbon bookmark. “It’s not in good shape, but… it’s for sure old—1970.”

Tilting his head, Beecher read the gold lettering on the spine.
One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Gabriel García Márquez. “Good book. This your mom’s?”

“My mom hates to read. I think it’s my grandmother’s. Oh, and there’s one other problem… the cover is…” She flipped the leather book over, revealing that it was missing its front cover.

“Y’know the pages still stay together,” Beecher pointed out.

“Huh?”

“The pages…
look
…” he said, lifting the book by its remaining cover and dangling it in the air so all the pages spread out like a fan. “If the binding’s good, all the pages stay in place.”

“That some sorta used bookstore trick?”

“Actually, it’s from my mom. When my dad… when he passed… Reverend Lurie told her that even when one cover gets torn away from a book, as long as the other cover’s there, it’ll still hold the pages together. For me and my sisters… he said my mom was the other cover. And we were the pages.”

Clementine stood there silently, staring down at the old blue leather book.

“He was trying to make an analogy about life,” Beecher pointed out.

“I get it,” Clementine said, still studying the old volume. She was quiet for nearly a minute, resting her left elbow on the counter. Within a decade, that elbow would be covered with deep white scars from an incident she’d never tell the truth about.

“You think this copy could’ve belonged to my dad?” she finally asked.

Beecher shrugged. “Or it can just be a book.”

Clementine looked up and offered another grin at Beecher. Her widest one yet. “Y’know, my mom and I are moving to Detroit.”

“I heard.”

“Still… we should really stay in touch.”

“Yeah. Great. I’d like that,” Beecher said, feeling the excitement tighten his chest—especially as he saw Clementine reach out and slide the leather copy of Márquez’s masterpiece back into her milk crate. “Let me give you my email address,” he said.

“Email?”

“It’s this thing… it’s new and—Actually, it’s stupid. No one’ll use it.” Grabbing one of the small squares of paper that Mr. Farris would make by cutting up used, discarded sheets, Beecher quickly scribbled his mailing address and phone number. Clementine did the same.

As they exchanged sheets, Beecher did a quick tallying of her buybacks and paid out a grand total of thirty-two dollars (rounding up the last fifty cents).

“Make sure you look me up if you ever get to Michigan,” Clementine called out as she headed for the door.

“You do the same when you come back here and visit,” he called back.

And with twin genuine smiles on their faces, Beecher and Clementine waved goodbye, knowing full well they’d never see each other again.

120

One week from now

Chatham, Ontario

Would you like to order, ma’am—or are you waiting for one more?” the waiter asked, leaning in to avoid embarrassment.

“I’m by myself,” the woman in the stylish chocolate brown overcoat replied as she again scanned the entrance to the outdoor café, which was overdecorated to look like an old Tudor-style shop from an English village square. Just outside the metal railing, as it’d been for the past twenty minutes, the only people around were the lunchtime pedestrians passing along King Street. Next to her table, the heating lamp was on full blast. It was January. In Canada. Far too cold for anyone to be sitting outside.

But for the woman in the chocolate brown overcoat, that was the point.

She could’ve come somewhere private.

A nearby hotel.

St. Andrew’s Church.

Instead, she came to the café.

Outside. In public. Where everyone could see her.

“How’re the fish cakes?” she asked, making prolonged eye contact with the waiter just to see if he’d recognize her.

He didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

Her hair was long now. And blonde. But to anyone who knew her, there was no mistaking that grin.

Just like her father’s.

“Unless you have something even better than that,” Clementine Kaye said, pulling a breadstick from the basket and turning her head just enough so the pedestrians could see her.

“I think you’ll like the fish cakes,” the waiter replied, scribbling down the order.

As another wave of locals strolled past the café, Clementine threw a quick smile to a five-year-old girl who was walking with her mom.

Even in a week, it had gotten easier. Sure, her leg still hurt from the shooting, and her wanted-for-questioning photo was still posted across the Internet, but it was still the Internet. The world was already moving on.

Which meant she could get back to what really mattered.

Lifting her menu off the table and handing it back to the waiter, Clementine looked down at the thick manila envelope. As the waiter left, she pulled out a water-stained file folder with a familiar name typed in the upper corner.
Wallace, Orson
.

This was it: the unprocessed file that Beecher had tracked to the cave’s underground storage area—the original records from the night twenty-six years ago when they brought Eightball into the hospital, and the future President of the United States was treated for his broken finger. As best as Clementine could figure, this was the only proof that the future President was there that night.

But it paled next to the one priceless detail that Clementine never anticipated finding. Indeed, even with what she now knew about the Plumbers, none of it compared to the two-hundred-year-old spy network that’d been operating since the birth of the United States:

The Culper Ring.

Clementine knew all about the Culper Ring.

Including at least one person who was in it.

Above her, the heat lamp sizzled with a fresh burst of warmth. Clementine barely noticed as she looked out at the Chatham police car that pulled up along King Street.

At the traffic light, the car slowed down. The officer in the passenger seat didn’t look at her. Didn’t even see her.

But as the light blinked green and the car took off, Clementine reminded herself that there were hazards in rushing blindly.

Sure, she could go public now. She could put Tot and the Culper Ring on the front page of every newspaper and website, and then sit back and watch the world take President Wallace and Tot and toss them all in the shredder.