The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [20]
Doesn’t matter. By now, Orlando should be long gone from the SCIF. Nothing to worry about. But as Clementine steps between me and Rina, Rina isn’t staring at me. Her eyes are on my coat.
“Clear the hallway,” a deep baritone calls out. I turn just as two uniformed Secret Service agents exit from the nearby staircase. On my left, the lights above the elevator tell us it’s back on the ground floor. The sirens are louder than ever. Here comes Moses.
Without a word, one of the agents motions to Dallas and Rina, who head back around the corner. Question answered. Rina and Dallas are the ones staffing Wallace in the SCIF.
I go to push the button for the elevator. The taller Secret Service agent shakes his head and points us to the staircase. Until the President’s in place, that’s the only way down.
“What happened to your coat?” the agent asks, pointing to the brown Rorschach blots.
“Coffee,” I call back, trying to look relaxed as I head for the waiting stairs.
“Beecher, just say it,” Clementine says as soon as we’re out of sight. “Tell me!”
I shake my head, speedwalking us back through the musty stacks. I’m tempted to run, but as the motion sensor lights pop on above us, I’m reminded of the very best reason to stay calm. The sensors are the Archives’ way of saving energy, but all they do is highlight us for the videocameras in the corner of each stack. And unlike the videotape Orlando swiped from the room, these beam right back to the Security Office.
“You sure this is right?” Clementine asks as we reach a section where the lights are already on. Like we’ve been here before.
“Of course it’s right,” I say, squinting at the record group locator numbers at the end of the row on our left. I pause a moment. A moment too long.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?”
“I’m not lost.”
She studies me, strong as ever. “Beecher…”
“I’m not. Yes, I’m turned around a little. But I’m not lost,” I insist.
“Listen, even if you are, it’s okay,” she says with no judgment in her voice. But as she looks away, she starts… chuckling.
“You’re laughing?”
“I-I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head, unable to hide it. The worst part is, she’s got a great laugh—a laugh from deep in her stomach, not one of those fake mouth ones. “It’s just—All this running… and the videotape and the Secret Service… and everyone’s got guns… This is the President, Beecher! What’re we doing?” she asks, her laugh coming faster.
Before I know it, I’m chuckling with her. It starts slowly, with just a hiccup, then quickly starts to gallop. She’s absolutely right. To be lost like this… what the hell are we doing?
My belly lurches, catapulting a gasp of a laugh that only makes her laugh harder. She bends forward, holding her side and shooting me another new look I’ve never seen before. It barely lasts a second—an appreciative grin that reveals a single dimple in her left cheek—
Poomp.
Half bent over, I look down and see that the dictionary that was hidden beneath my lab coat has slipped out, slapping against the stacks’ 1950s linoleum floor.
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