The Inner Circle

121

Washington, D.C.

There’s a double tap of a car horn, honking from outside.

Every morning for the past week, I’ve ignored it. Just like I ignored the calls and the texts and the knocks on the door. Instead, I stared at my computer, searching through the lack of press and trying to lose myself in a few cutthroat eBay battles over photo postcards of a 1902 pub in Dublin as well as a rare collection of World War I battleships.

It doesn’t help like it used to.

Grabbing my dad’s soft leather briefcase and threading my arms into my winter coat, I head through the living room and pull open the front door.

Of course, he’s still waiting. He knew I’d eventually wear down.

To his credit, as I tug open the door of the powder blue Mustang and crawl inside, he doesn’t ask me how I am. Tot already knows.

He’s seen the President’s rising poll numbers. In fact, as the car takes off up the block, Tot doesn’t try to cheer me up, or put on the radio, or try to distract me. It’s not until we get all the way to Rock Creek Park that he says the only thing he needs to…

“I was worried about you, Beecher.”

When I don’t reply, he adds, “I heard they finally released Dallas’s and Palmiotti’s bodies.”

I nod from the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.

“And the barber’s,” he says, turning the steering wheel with just his wrists. The car rumbles its usual rumble as we veer onto Constitution Avenue. “Though there’s still no sign of Clementine.”

I nod again.

“Which I guess means you still have no proof,” Tot says.

“I’m well aware.”

“And with no proof, you got nothin’.”

“Tot, who taught you how to give a welcome-back talk? The Great Santini?”

“If it makes you feel better, while you’ve been playing hermit and answering all the FBI and Secret Service questions, I spoke to Orlando’s wife. I know it doesn’t help much… or bring him back… but-” His voice goes quiet. “They did get some closure from knowing who did this to him.”

I try to tell myself that’s true. But it’s not.

“The only thing I don’t understand is: On that night you came back from the caves, why’d he bring you to the White House, Beecher? I know you said it was to ask you to join the Plumbers, but think about it: What was the real point of that meeting with the President that night?”

“You mean besides reminding me what’ll happen to my life if I open my mouth? I gave this great macho-y speech, but the truth is, he knew how it’d play out. He was just rubbing it in.”

“Not a chance,” Tot says, asking it again. “Why’d he bring you to the White House?”

“You do realize we lost, right? So if this is you being rhetorical-”

“Ask yourself, Beecher. Why’d he bring you to the White House?”

“I have no idea! To scare me?”

“Damn right to scare you! That’s why he wanted to invite you in-that’s all it was about: to scare you,” Tot confirms, his beard swaying as he cocks his head. “And y’know the only reason why someone tries to scare you? Because he’s worried about you. He’s the one scared of you!”

“Then he’s a bigger moron than we thought. Because for the past week, I’ve been racking my brain, trying to think of other places we can find proof, or a witness, or anything else about what happened that night. And believe me, I’ll keep trying. I’ll dig as long as it takes. But when it comes to being the Ghost of Christmas Past, it’s not as easy as you think.”

“That’s not the ghost he’s worried about.”

“Come again?”

“Think of what you just said. When that first ghost comes to visit Ebenezer Scrooge… the Ghost of Christmas Past is the one that fails. The Ghost of Christmas Present-he fails too. But the ghost that actually gets the job done-the one that does the most damage-that’s the Ghost from what’s Yet to Come.”

“Are you trying to make a really nice metaphor about history or the future? Because if you are-”

“Life isn’t metaphor, Beecher. History isn’t metaphor. It’s just life.”

I stare out the front of the car, looking down Constitution Avenue. The Washington Monument is all the way down, but from the angle we’re at, thanks to the trees and the lightposts on our right, it’s a completely obscured view. A horrible view. Just like that night at the Jefferson Memorial.

It’s not metaphor. It’s just a fact.

“Beecher, you’ve spent all this time fighting alone. You don’t have to. If you want, we can help you find Clementine.”

“It’s not just her, Tot. What she said… about my father… She said he didn’t die, and that maybe I have cancer. But if he’s alive…”

“What she said was complete manure designed to manipulate and take advantage of an emotionally vulnerable moment. But we can find the truth. If he’s alive, we’ll find him. Same with the cancer. We can help you find all of it. And if we do it together-and we do it right-I promise you, you’ll have the chance to make sure that every loathsome bastard-including the one in that big White House-pays for every ounce of pain they caused,” Tot says, his voice finding speed. “You thought finding that old dictionary was when history chose you. That wasn’t the moment. This is. The only question is-and it’s a simple question: They think they won the war with you. Are you ready to declare war back?”

“I thought your Culper Ring worked for the President?”

“We work for the Presidency. And that Presidency has now been corrupted. So. Are you ready to declare war back?”

He called it a simple question. It’s not simple. But it is easy. I look right at him. “Tot, are you asking me to join the Culper Ring?”

I wait for him to turn away and stare out the front window. He looks me right in the eye. “It’s not for everyone.”

“You’re serious? This is real?”

“Some days you get peanuts; some days you get shells. This is a peanut day.”

“And that Secret Service guy who walked me out of the White House and slipped me that note that you were waiting for me… He’s a peanut too?”

“Some people are with us. Some people owe us a favor. We’re a small group. Smaller than you think. And we’ve survived for only one reason: We pick our own replacements. I’m seventy-two years old, and… what you went through these past weeks… They know you’re ready. Though if it makes any difference, I thought you’ve been ready for years.”

With a twist of a knob, the radio hiccups to life and the car is filled with the sounds of Kenny Rogers singing “The Gambler.”

“ ‘The Gambler’?” I ask. “That’s what you had cued up? You were trying to make this a little moment, weren’t you?”

“Beecher, it’s a moment even without the music.”

I let the country twang of Kenny Rogers flow over me as a small grin lifts my cheeks. He may be right.

With a hard punch of the gas, the engine clears its throat and we cruise past the White House on our left.

“I won’t let you down, Tot.”

“I know, Beecher,” he says without looking at me. “I’m just glad you finally know too.”

Straight ahead, the morning sun is so bright I can’t see a thing in front of me. It feels fantastic.

“So where we going?” I ask as we reach 9th Street and Tot blows through the turn. He keeps heading straight on Constitution. On most mornings, he makes a left.

“Where do you think I’m going?” Tot asks as the car picks up speed and we leave the White House behind. “Now that we finally got you in the Culper Ring, well… don’t you want to meet the others?”