The Inner Circle

118

I know they want to throw me out.

They want to grab me by the nape of my neck and heave me into the trash, like they do in old comic strips.

But as the two Secret Service agents walk me down the paved path that borders the South Lawn, I stay two steps ahead of them. Still, I feel how close they are behind me.

“Taxis won’t stop here,” the agent with the round nose says as we reach the black metal pedestrian gate and wait for it to open. “Go down a block. You’ll be better off.”

“Thanks,” I say without looking back at them.

From the security shed on my right, the female uniformed agent never takes her eyes off me. She pushes a button and a magnetic lock pops.

“Have a safe night,” the agent with the round nose adds, patting me on the back and nearly knocking me through the metal gate as it swings open. Even for the Secret Service, he’s far too physical. “Hope you enjoyed your visit to the White House.”

As I rush outside, the gate bites shut, and I fight the cold by stuffing my hands in my pockets. To my surprise, my right pocket’s not empty. There’s a sheet of paper-feels like a business card-waiting for me.

I pull it out. It’s not a business card. It’s blank. Except for the handwritten note that says:

15th and F.

Taxi will be waiting.

I glance over my shoulder at the agent with the round nose. His back is already turned to me as he follows his partner back to the mansion. He doesn’t turn around.

But I know he wrote that note.

I look down, rereading it again: 15th and F Street. Just around the corner.

Confused, but also curious, I start with a walk, which quickly becomes a speedwalk, which-the closer I get to 15th Street-quickly becomes a full-out run.

As I turn the corner, I’m shoved hard by the wind tunnel that runs along the long side of the Treasury building. At this hour, the street is empty. Except for the one car that’s parked illegally, waiting for me.

It doesn’t look like a cab.

In fact, as I count the four bright headlights instead of the usual two, I know who it is-even without noticing the car’s front grille, where the chrome horse is in mid-gallop.

It’s definitely not a cab.

It’s a Mustang.

I take a few steps toward the pale blue car. The passenger window is already rolled down, giving me a clear view of Tot, who has to be freezing as he sits so calmly inside. He ducks down to see me better. Even his bad eye is filled with fatherly concern.

Just the sight of him makes it hard for me to stand. I shake my head, shooting him a silent plea and begging him not to say I told you so.

Of course, he listens. From the start, he’s been the only one.

“It’ll be okay,” he finally offers.

“You sure?” I ask him.

He doesn’t answer. He just leans across the passenger seat and opens the door. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”