The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [165]
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