The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [9]
“Beecher,” Clementine calls out. “Are you listening?”
“Wha?”
“Just now. I asked you three times and—” She stops herself, cocking her head so the piercing in her nose tips downward. But her smile—that same warm smile from seventh grade—is still perfectly in place. “You really get lost in this stuff, don’t you?”
“That woman upstairs… I can’t just ignore her.”
Clementine stops, watching me carefully. “You really turned out to be one of the nice ones, didn’t you, Beecher?”
I glance down at the logbook. My eyes spot—
“He was a musician,” I blurt. I point to the thick rotted page, then yank a notepad from my lab coat and copy the information. “That’s why he wasn’t listed in the regular service records. Or even the pension records upstairs. A musician. George Howard was a musician during the Revolution.”
“Y’mean he played ‘Taps’?”
“No…‘Taps’ wasn’t invented until the Civil War. This guy played fife and drum, keeping the rhythm while the soldiers marched. And this entry shows the military pay he got for his service.”
“That’s… I don’t even know if it’s interesting—but how’d you even know to come down here? I mean, these books look like they haven’t been opened in centuries.”
“They haven’t. But when I was here last month searching through some leftover ONI spy documents, I saw that we had these old accounting ledgers from the Treasury Department. And no matter what else the government may screw up, when they write a check and give money out, you better believe they keep pristine records.”
I stand up straight, proud of the archeological find. But before I can celebrate—
“I need some ID,” a calm voice calls out behind us, drawing out each syllable so it sounds like Eye. Dee.
We both turn to find a muscular, squat man coming around the far corner of the row. A light pops on above him as he heads our way. Outfitted in full black body armor and gripping a polished matching black rifle, he studies my ID, then looks at the red Visitor badge clipped to Clementine’s shirt.
“Thanks,” he calls out with a nod.
I almost forgot what day it was. When the President comes, so does the…
“Secret Service,” Clementine whispers. She cocks a thin, excited eyebrow, tossing me the kind of devilish grin that makes me feel exactly how long I haven’t felt this way.
But the truly sad part is just how wonderful the rush of insecurity feels—like rediscovering an old muscle you hadn’t used since childhood. I’ve been emailing back and forth with Clementine for over two months now. But it’s amazing how seeing your very first kiss can make you feel fourteen years old again. And what’s more amazing is that until she showed up, I didn’t even know I missed it.
When most people see an armed Secret Service agent, they pause a moment. Clementine picks up speed, heading to the end of the row and peeking around the corner to see where he’s going. Forever fearless.
“So these guys protect the documents?” she asks as I catch up to her, leading her out of the stacks.
“Nah, they don’t care about documents. They’re just scouting in advance for him.”
This is Washington, D.C. There’s only one him.
The President of the United States.
“Wait… Wallace is here?” Clementine asks. “Can I meet him?”
“Oh for sure,” I say, laughing. “We’re like BFFs and textbuddies and… he totally cares about what one of his dozens of archivists thinks. In fact, I think his Valentine’s card list goes: his wife, his kids, his chief of staff… then me.”
She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile—she just stares at me with deep confidence in her ginger brown eyes. “I think one day, he will care about you,” she says.
I freeze, feeling a blush spread across my face.
Across from me, Clementine pulls up the sleeve of her black sweater, and I notice a splotch of light scars across the outside of her elbow. They’re not red or new—they’re pale and whiter than her skin, which means they’ve been there a long time. But the way they zigzag out in every direction… whatever carved into her skin like that