The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [155]
“Beecher, whatever you’re thinking right now,” Palmiotti pleads, “she has the file tucked in her pants and her gun in one of her hands. Do not assume—for one second—that the moment you lower your gun, she’s not going to raise hers and kill the both of us.”
“Help me up, Beecher. Help me up and we can get out of here,” Clementine says, reaching out with her left hand. Her right is still underwater as she stops maneuvering back.
“S-She’s the one who killed Orlando!” Palmiotti says, coughing wildly.
“Clementine, what you told me before… about being sick,” I say. “Are you really dying?”
She doesn’t say a word. But she also doesn’t look away. “I can’t be lying about everything.”
“She can… she admitted it, Beecher… She killed your friend!”
From the back of the cave, the trapped red bird again swoops through the darkness, and just as quickly disappears with a high-pitched chirp.
I look over at Palmiotti, who’s got no fight left in him, then back to Clementine, who’s still holding one hand out to me—and hiding her other beneath the water.
The answer is easy.
There’s only one real threat left.
I aim my gun at Clementine and cock the hammer. “Clementine, pick your hands up and stand up now, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you again,” I tell her.
Two minutes ago, Clementine said we were history. She knows nothing about history. History is simply what’s behind us.
“Thank you!” Palmiotti calls out, still coughing behind me. “Now we can—”
Palmiotti doesn’t finish the thought.
As Clementine is about to get up, there’s a loud splash behind me.
I turn to my right just as Palmiotti hits the water. He lands face-first, arms at his side, like he’s frozen solid. For half a second, I stand there, waiting for him to get up. But the way he lies there, facedown…
His body jerks. Then jerks again, wildly. Within seconds, his upper body is twitching, making him buck like a fish on land. I have no idea what that gunshot to the neck did. But I know a seizure when I see one.
“Palmiotti…! ” I call out even though he can’t hear me.
I’m about to run at him, when I remember…
Clementine.
“He’s gonna die,” she says matter-of-factly, fighting to climb to her good leg. Her one hand is still hidden below the water. “You may hate him, but he needs your help.”
“If you run, I’ll shoot you again,” I warn her.
“No. You won’t. Not after that,” she says, pointing me back to Palmiotti, whose convulsions are starting to slow down. He doesn’t have long.
If the situation were reversed, Palmiotti would leave me. Gladly. Clementine might too. But to turn your back and just leave someone to die…
Right there, I see the choice. I can grab Clementine. Or I can race to help Palmiotti.
Life. Or death. There’s no time for both.
I think of everything Palmiotti did. How he shot Dallas. And how, if I save him, President Wallace will pull every string in existence to make sure Palmiotti walks away without a scar, mark, or paper cut.
I think of what Clementine knows about my father.
But when it comes to making the final choice…
… there’s really no choice at all.
Sprinting toward the facedown Palmiotti and tucking my gun into my pants, I grab him by the shoulders and lift him, bending him backward, out from the water. He’s deadweight, his arms sagging forward as his fingertips skate along the top of the water. A waterfall of fluid and vomit drains from his mouth.
I know what to do. I spent two summers lifeguarding at the local pool. But as I drop to my knees and twist Palmiotti onto his back, I can’t help but look over my shoulder.
With her back to me, Clementine climbs to her feet. She tries to steady herself, her right hand still down in the water.
As Palmiotti’s head hits my lap, his face isn’t pale anymore. It’s ashen and gray. His half-open eyes are waxy as he gazes through me. He’s not in there.
I open his mouth. I clear his airway. I look over my shoulder…
My eyes seize on Clementine as she finally pulls her hand from the water…
… and reveals the soaking-wet gun that she’s been gripping the entire time.