The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [112]
“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