The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [86]
The ice on my chin sends a waterslide of cold down my Adam’s apple and into the neck of my shirt. I barely feel it. “You keep saying they. Is that who you saw following me?”
“I couldn’t see who they were. I think they spotted me first.”
“Y’mean the car that almost turned down the block?”
“That wasn’t just a car. It was a taxi. A D.C. taxi. Out that far in Virginia. Real hell of a commute, don’t you think—unless that’s your only choice because someone borrowed your car.”
Omigod. The Mustang. “Is Tot’s car…!?”
“His car is fine. We had it driven here, then sent a text from your phone saying you’d pick him up tomorrow. He didn’t reply. You see what I’m getting at?”
I know exactly what he’s getting at. “You think it was Tot in that taxi.”
“I have no idea who it was, but I do know this: There’s no way the President is pulling this off without help from someone inside our building.”
The napkin filled with ice sends a second waterslide down the inside of my wrist, to my elbow. Orlando said it. Clemmi said it. Even I said it. But to hear those words—the President—not the president of some useless company—the President of the United States. This isn’t just confirmation that the message in that dictionary was meant for Orson Wallace. It’s confirmation that when it comes to my life—I can’t even think about it.
“Tell me what the Culper Ring really is,” I demand.
“The true Culper Ring?”
“The one that did this. The one the President’s in.”
“The President’s in both.”
“Dallas, I’m officially about to leap over that coffee table and stuff my foot through your teeth.”
“I’m not trying to be coy, Beecher. I swear to you, I’m not. But this is two hundred years of history we’re talking about. If you want to understand what the Culper Rings are up to now, you first need to know where they originally came from.”
* * *
53
Clementine knew it wasn’t good for her.
That’s why she waited until the house was quiet.
And why she locked the door to her room.
And then waited some more.
There were enough surprises tonight—most notably the kiss from Beecher. Clementine knew he’d try—eventually he’d try—but that didn’t mean it didn’t catch her off guard. Plus, the old woman had already done enough. She didn’t need to be there for this too.
For comfort, Clementine whistled a quick “psst psst—here, Parky” at her chubby ginger cat, and as he always did, Parker slowly circled his way up the arms of the forest green futon to Clementine’s lap, rubbing his head into her palms.
The cat’s kindness was one of the few things Clementine could count on these days, and it was exactly that thought that brought the sudden swell of tears to her eyes.
It reminded her of when she first moved to Virginia and ventured into the local Home Depot to buy a barbecue grill to celebrate the Fourth of July. Stopping one of the orange-overalled employees—a short man with chapped lips and greedy eyes—she asked, “Do I need to spend the few hundred bucks to buy a good grill, or would one of the fifty-dollar cheap grills do the job just as well?”
Licking his chapped lips, the employee said, “Let me explain it like this: I’m a car guy. I love cars. I love all cars. And I especially love my 1989 Camaro RS, which I recently spent over $3,000 on to put in a sunroof. Now. You ask yourself: Why would someone spend $3,000 to install a sunroof in some old car from 1989? You wanna know why? Because I’m a car guy. That’s who I am. That’s what I care about. So as you look at these grills, you need to ask yourself…” He took a deep breath and leaned in toward her. “Are you a grill gal?”
The man didn’t need to say another word. Smiling to herself, Clementine grabbed a cheap fifty-dollar grill and marched toward the cash register. She wasn