The Inner Circle

50

I’m awake.

I was unconscious, now I’m awake.

It takes nothing to snap between the two. No time.

My eyes open, and I’m staring at bright yellow flowers. Sunflowers. My sister loves sunflowers.

I blink quickly, struggling to adjust to the light.

It’s light. Is… is it daytime?

No, the curtains are closed. The light’s in here.

There’s the hum of central heating.

My brain’s swirling. Is Clemmi…? Yeah… I remember… Clemmi’s pregnant.

Nuhhh.

Clemmi’s pregnant and my chin hurts. It hurts bad.

My shoulders are sore. A hard tug tells me why. My arms are still handcuffed behind my back.

But as I look down, what catches my eye is the chair I’m sitting in. It’s got armrests. Upholstered fancy armrests. With nailheads.

I look back at the sunflowers. They sit in a fine Asian vase on a beautiful hand-carved coffee table.

In the Archives, I’ve read the top-secret reports of where the CIA brought all the terror suspects after 9/11. It wasn’t a well-appointed room like this.

But even without the handcuffs, drugging, and kidnapping, I’m starting to think this is worse.

I glance around, trying to figure out how long I’ve been out. It looks dark through the closed curtains, but it could just as easily be early morning. I search the room for a clock. Nothing. In fact, the more I look around-at the little wastebasket, at the built-in library, where every leather-bound book is the exact same size-the whole room is so perfect, it makes me wonder if I’m in some kinda hotel, or… maybe this is someone’s private SCIF…

On my left, I spot a framed black-and-white photograph of the White House covered with scaffolding and surrounded by dump trucks. It’s from 1949, back when they were doing the construction that added the Truman Balcony.

Please tell me I’m not in the White House…

There’s a flush of a toilet behind me.

I twist in my seat, frantically following the sound. Someone’s in the bathroom. But what grabs my attention is the sliding mirrored door of the closet that sits next to it.

The closet’s empty. No clothes… no shoes… not even a set of hangers.

It’s the same all around.

No trash in the garbage. No photos on the walls… or the end tables… The chocolate brown leather sofa on my left has no give in any of the cushions. Like it’s never been sat in.

What the hell is this place? Why aren’t there any signs of life?

I try to fight free, but my head nearly caves in. Whatever they drugged me with… the dizziness… it’s still taking its toll.

From the bathroom, there’s a rush of water from the sink. Underneath the door, a shadow passes and…

Click.

I spin back as my weight jerks the chair into a half-spin. The bathroom door opens and my attacker reveals-That smell… Of cherry rum.

Cherry rum pipe smoke.

“Man, I really messed up your chin, didn’t I?” Dallas asks, stepping forward, scratching at his little beard, and reminding me why he was always the most hated archivist in our office. “Sorry, Beech-we just needed to get you out of there. When I saw someone following-”

“What’re you talking about? What the hell’s going on?”

“I can explain.”

“You damn well better explain!”

My brain flips back to yesterday. When they were taking Orlando’s body out, I spotted Dallas with Rina, and they quickly ran for cover. Right now, though, he stands his ground, taking new pride in whatever it is he’s up to.

“Remember when you first started at the Archives, Beecher?”

“Are you about to make a speech right now? Because if I get out of these handcuffs, I’m about to kill you.”

“Listen to me,” Dallas insists. “Remember that first night when you worked late, and visiting hours were over, and all the tourists were gone-and you made your way down to the Rotunda, just to stand in the darkness so you could have your own private viewing of the Declaration of Independence? Every employee in the building has that moment, Beecher. But as you stood there by yourself and you studied those fifty-six handwritten signatures that changed the entire world, remember that wondrous feeling where you dreamed what it would be like to be a part of history like that?” Dallas touches the gash on my chin. From the pain, I jerk my head up. He gets what he wants. I’m now looking him right in the eye. The smell of his pipe seeps off him. “This is your chance to add your signature, Beecher. History’s calling you. All you have to do is help us.”

“Us? Who’s us?”

“The Culper Ring,” Dallas says. “We’re the Culper Ring. And with your help, we can catch the other one.”

“The other what?”

“The ones who did this. The ones who killed Orlando. The other Culper Ring, of course.”