The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [51]
Turning toward the one window in his room, Nico watched calmly, patiently, as the single bed, wooden nightstand, and painted dresser were replaced by the ancient iron rack of white rose candles, and the wide shatterproof window turned back into the beautiful stained glass window of the church Sant’Agata dei Goti, the church dedicated to Saint Agatha, who never—even when the torturers severed her breast—ever renounced her faith.
“You don’t look nervous anymore,” the First Lady said.
“I think I’m excited. Yes. I’m very excited,” Nico whispered to himself.
“C’mon, Nico—you have a visitor,” the orderly called out as the church again faded and the hospital returned.
“No. I have more than just a visitor,” Nico insisted as he headed for the day room. God always provided. “I have Clementine.”
27
When I was in tenth grade, there was a kid in our class—Weird Warren—who used to be able to bend down his ear, and keep it down, so he’d look like an elf. Most of my classmates did their usual teasing, knighting him with the nickname. But Clementine—she said it so nicely I’ll never forget it—she asked him if he could grant her three wishes.
Pounding the faded red button with the heel of his palm, the St. Elizabeths guard raises the gate arm, allowing me to drive past the guardhouse. I told him I was here to pick up records for the Archives. With my government ID, it was enough to send me toward the main security check-in and onto the property, a 350-acre piece of land that’s encased by a ring of tall black metal gates.
As I head up the hospital’s poorly plowed road and scan the parking lot that sits across from the main five-story brick building, Clementine’s cab is long gone. She’s inside, probably already with Nico. I have no idea what her three wishes would be today. But if I had the chance to get even two minutes with my dead dad, I know what at least one of my wishes would be.
As I kick open the car door in the parking lot, a blast of winter air stings my face, but before I get out I reach down and pull out the copy of Entick’s Dictionary that’s tucked underneath the driver’s seat. Tot’s idea. Based on this morning, Khazei isn’t just asking questions anymore—he’s circling for a kill. I still can’t tell if what he really wants is the book or me, but either way, the last thing we need is to have this lying around the building. Still, that doesn’t mean I can just leave it in the car.
For a moment, I think about hiding it in my briefcase, but if I do that, I risk security here rummaging through it. No. If this book is as important as we think it is—if Orlando really died for it—I need to keep it close.
Stepping outside and heading across to the building, I tuck the book under the back of my jacket and carefully slide it into the back of my slacks. It fits—with most of the pages gone, it’s just the covers. I take a fast glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. But as I look up, standing on one of the second-floor balconies is a pale bald man with no eyebrows.
I strain a smile, even as I pick up my pace.
He glares down. But his expression never changes. I don’t think he even sees I’m here.
For a moment, I think about just waiting out here for her. But I don’t slow down.
As I finally reach the front, the doorknob gives with barely a twist. The cold has definitely eased up, but a pitiless chill climbs my spine. According to Clemmi, this is the mental hospital that holds not just Nico, but also John Hinckley, the man who shot Ronald Reagan. Why the hell’s the front door unlocked?
I push the door inward, revealing a 1950s waiting room decorated in a pale drab green. Straight ahead, a thin guard who looks like David Bowie circa 1983 sits at an X-ray and metal detector also stolen from the same era.
“C’mon in—only about half our patients bite,” a woman’s voice calls out. She laughs a silly puffy laugh that’s supposed to put me at ease. On my left, standing inside a thick glass booth, is a second guard—a female guard with a bad Dutch-boy haircut and great dimples.