The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [59]
33
“… and now you know why they call it an insane asylum,” I say, giving an angry yank to the steering wheel and tugging Tot’s old Mustang into a sharp right out of the parking lot.
“Can we please just go?” Clementine begs.
“Benedict Arnold? He hears my middle name is Benjamin and suddenly I’m Benedict Arnold? He could’ve picked Benjamin Franklin or Benjamin Harrison. I’d even have accepted Benjamin Kubelsky.”
“Who’s Benjamin Kubelsky?”
“Jack Benny,” I tell her as I pump the gas and our wheels kick spitballs of slush behind us. “But for your dad to look me in the face and say that I somehow have the soul of one of history’s worst traitors—not to mention him trying to eat us…”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Wha?”
“My dad,” she pleads. “Please don’t call him my dad.”
I turn at the words. As we follow the main road back toward the front gate at St. Elizabeths, Clementine stares into her side mirror, watching the hospital fade behind us. The way her arms are crossed and her legs are curled on the seat so her body forms a backward S—to anyone else, she looks pissed. But I’ve seen this look before. It’s the same one she had back in the Archives, when she didn’t think I was looking. Over the past twenty-four hours, the real Clementine keeps showing her face, reminding me that pain isn’t something she works through. It’s something she hides.
In my mind, I was visiting a presidential assassin. For Clementine, it was the very first time she met her father.
“Y’know, in all the dreams where I get to see my dad again,” I tell her, “the reunion always goes smoothly and perfectly.”
“Me too,” she says, barely able to get the words out.
I nod, already feeling like an insensitive tool. I should’ve realized what this visit did to her, but I was too busy being spooked out with this Culper Ring and Benedict Arnold hoo-hah.
“I’m sorry for surprising you like that,” I tell her.
She waves me off. That’s the least of her problems.
“So what’d he say?” I ask as I turn onto the poorly plowed streets of Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. Clementine doesn’t even blink at the gang-tagged storefronts and the two burned-out cars on our right. Craning her neck to look out the back window, she still can’t take her eyes off the hospital. “When you first got there, did he seem—? Was he happy to see you?”
“Beecher, we can talk about anything you want—even the Benedict Arnold stuff—but please… don’t ask me about him.”
“I hear you, Clemmi. I do. And I’m not trying to push, but for a moment, think of what just happened. I mean, no matter who he was, I would still saw my left arm off to have even thirty seconds with my father—”
“Beecher, please. Don’t call him that,” she begs. “Especially around him.”
I pretend to stare straight ahead, focusing on the road. But the way those last words hang in the air…
Especially around him.
Clementine bends her knees, tightening her backward S and fighting to hold it together.
“You never told him, did you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer.
“He doesn’t know he’s your father?”
“I meant to. I was going to tell him,” she finally says, still staring in the rearview. “But then…” She shakes her head. “Didja know he speaks to the dead First Lady? When we were there… that’s who he was mumbling to. I read it in an article. I think he hides it from the nurses. They said he used to talk to his last victim as some desperate way to absolve himself.”
I sit with that one, not sure how to respond. But there’s still one piece that doesn’t make sense. “If you didn’t tell them you were a relative, how’d you even get in to see him?” I ask.
“Grad student. I told them I was writing a dissertation on complex psychosis,” she explains.
“And they just let you in?”
“It’s not up to the doctors. It’s up to the patient. Don’t forget, it’s been a decade. Nico doesn’t get too many visitors anymore. He okays whoever shows up.”
“But to be that close and not tell him who you are…”
“You should