The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [79]
All I hear are Orlando’s words from that first moment we found the book in the SCIF. Name me one person ever who went up against a sitting President and walked away the same way they walked in. “I know we can’t win this. No one can win this. No one wins against a President.”
“That’s not true. As long as you have that book—and as long as he doesn’t know you have that book—you have him, Beecher. You can use that to—”
I start breathing hard. My thumb-circles get faster.
“You okay?” she asks.
I stay silent.
“Beecher, what’s wrong?”
Staring straight ahead, I motion outside. “Bridges. I don’t like bridges.”
She glances to her right as we’re halfway up the incline. But it’s not until the road peaks and we pass the glowing white columns along the back of the Jefferson Memorial that she spots the wide blackness of the Potomac River fanning out ahead of us. The 14th Street Bridge’s wide road doesn’t look like a bridge. But based on the shade of green that now matches my face with hers, she knows it feels like one.
“You’re kidding, right?” she laughs.
I don’t laugh back. “My father died on a bridge.”
“And my father tried to kill the President. Top that.”
“Please stop talking now. I’m trying not to throw up by visualizing that I’m back in colonial times writing letters with a dipped-ink pen.”
“That’s fine, but have you even seen what you’re missing? This view,” she adds, pointing out her window, “you can see the entire back of the Jefferson Memorial.”
“I’ve seen the view. We have the finest shots in the world in our photographic records. We have the early files from when the commission was first discussing it. We even have the original blueprints that—”
“Stop the car.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard. Stop the car. Trust me.”
“Clemmi, I’m not—”
She grips the handle and kicks the car door open. Blasts of cold air create a vacuum that sucks our hair, and a stray napkin on the floor, to the right. The tires of the car choom-choom-choom across the plates in the bridge’s roadbed.
I slam the brakes and an opera of horns finds quick harmony behind us. As I jerk the wheel and pull us along the shoulder of the bridge, the open door of the Mustang nearly scrapes against the concrete barrier.
“Are you mental!?” I shout as we buck to a stop. “This isn’t some eighth grade—!”
“Don’t do that.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t go to eighth grade… don’t talk about something old… don’t bring up old memories that have nothing to do with who we are now. This is all that matters! Today,” she says as the horns keep honking behind us.
“The cops are gonna be here in two seconds,” I say, keeping my head down and staring at my crotch to avoid looking over the bridge. “You can’t stop at national monuments.”
“Sure you can. We just did. Now look up and tell me what you see.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Just try. I know you can.”
“Clemmi…”
“Try, Beecher. Just try.”
In the distance, I hear the sirens.
“Please,” she adds as if she’s pleading for my soul.
In no mood to face another set of law enforcement officers, and still hearing Orlando calling me Professor Indiana Jones, I raise my head and quickly glance to the right. It lasts a second. Maybe two. The wind’s made a wreck of Clementine’s hair, but over her shoulder I have a clear view of the bright white dome of the Jefferson Memorial. I pause, surprised to feel my heart quicken.
“How’s it look?” she asks.
“Truthfully? Kinda horrible,” I say, eyeing the curves of the marble stonework. “It’s just the back. You can’t see the good part with the statue.”
“But it’s real,” she says, looking over at the memorial. “And at least you saw it for yourself. Not in a book. Not in some old record. You saw it here—now—in the freezing cold, from the side of a bridge, in a way that no tourists ever experience it.”
My fists still clutch the steering wheel. I keep my head down, again refusing to look outside. But I am listening.
“That was the part I liked,” I say.
“You sound surprised.”
“I kinda am,” I admit as my heart begins to gallop. “I’d never seen it from this angle.”
Turning away from the Jefferson Memorial, Clementine