The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [21]
But I’ll take it.
“My father’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks.
“What? No…”
“Beecher, you know who my dad is, don’t you?”
“Let’s just—”
“If you know…” Her eyes well with tears and, like that half-second when she thought I wasn’t looking before, the girl who’s always prepared… she’s not prepared for this. “… how could you not tell me?”
She’s right. Completely right. But to just blurt it here…
“Beecher…”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just my name. But in those two stupid syllables, I hear everything in between. For twenty-nine years, Clementine Kaye has lived with empty spaces. And from what I know, she’s lived with them better than me. In seventh grade, I remember being paralyzed when Mrs. Krupitsky had the class make Father’s Day cards, thinking that’s the day we always go to his grave. Next to me, young Clementine was already happily writing away, turning it into a Mother’s Day card without even a second thought. But today, in those two syllables of my name, those empty spaces are back again, and I hear them loud and clear.
“Nico Hadrian,” I blurt.
Her eyes jump back and forth, fighting to process. I wait for her to lean on the end of the metal shelves for support, but her body stays stiff. She’s trying to will herself back to calm. It’s not working. “N-Nico? Y’mean, like the guy who—”
“Him. Mm-hmm. Nico Hadrian.” I nod, hoping to soften the blow. But there’s no other way to say it. “The man who tried to shoot President—”
“But he’s alive, right?”
“Yeah, sure—I mean, I think he’s in a mental hospital…”
“But he’s alive. My dad’s alive.” She reaches for the metal shelf on her left, but never grabs it. “It’s—it’s not what I expected, but I think—I think—I think—this is better than being dead, isn’t it?—it’s better,” she insists, blinking over and over, brushing away the tears. “I was so scared he’d be dead.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, like she can’t even see I’m there. “I didn’t think he’d be this, but—There are worse things in life, right?”
“Clementine, are you—?”
“There are worse things in life. He could’ve been dead; he could’ve been—” She cuts herself off, and slowly—right in front of me—it’s like she’s finally hearing her own words. Her jawbone shifts in her cheek. Her knees buckle. Before, she was unprepared. Now she’s unraveling.
I grab her arm, tugging hard. Time to get her out of here. At the end of one of the stacks—the real end this time—I push a metal door open and the dusty old stacks on the ninth floor dump us into the polished office hallway on the third floor of the main building.
The sirens from the motorcade still scream through the hall. No doubt, the President is inside the Archives by now, probably already in the SCIF with Dallas and Rina. The sirens should be fading soon. But as we head down the final steps to the lobby, as I tuck the coat-covered book tight under my arm and tug Clementine along, the sirens keep wailing. By the time I wave my badge and hear the click that opens the heavy door, there are a half dozen armed Secret Service agents standing in the lobby. The sirens are louder than ever.
A blast of mean December air from outside nearly knocks over the lobby’s Christmas tree as it sends its shredded paper decorations flying. On my right, I spy the source of the sudden wind tunnel: The automatic doors that lead out to Pennsylvania Avenue are wide open.
“Step aside! Emergency!” someone yells as a gleaming metal gurney comes blasting through the entrance, pushed by two impassive paramedics in dark blue long-sleeved shirts.
“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest uniformed Secret Service guy. “Something happen with the President?”
He glances at my badge, making sure I’m staff. “You think we’d be standing here if that were the case? We took him out of here six minutes ago. This is one of yours.”
A strand of shredded