The Inner Circle

75

Nico’s hand snaps out like a snake, snatching the President’s pencil and cradling it in his open palm. His eyes again flick back and forth, soaking in every detail.

Eventually, he looks up. “I don’t understand.”

“The pencil… the indentations…” I say. “We think a message was hidden on that.”

“On the pencil?” he asks.

“In the indentations,” I say, pointing him back.

There’s another kuh-kunk behind us. Diet Dr Pepper for another patient.

Clementine jumps and Nico blinks hard as the soda can hits. But Nico never loses sight of the pencil. Holding both ends, he twirls it slowly like the tips of a cartoon mustache. He devours every mark, every groove, every detail.

Eventually he looks up, his brown eyes peeking just above the pencil. “Tell me what it said in the invisible ink.”

“Pardon?” I ask.

“The message. In the dictionary. I want to know what it said first. I want you to tell me.”

“No. Absolutely no,” I say, eyeing Clementine, who’s staring through the see-through table at her own feet. She’s not gonna last long. “That’s not the game, Nico-I’ve got no time.”

“Then I have no time for you,” Nico challenges.

“That’s fine. Then we’ll leave. And you can sit here waiting another two years for your next visitor,” I say, standing up from my seat.

“Sit.”

“No. You’re not driving this,” I shoot back.

“Sit,” Nico repeats, lowering his chin and trying hard to keep his voice down.

“Are you listening? You’re not driving. So tell me what it says on the pencil, or have fun spending the rest of your afternoon with your free orange juice.”

Next to me, Clementine rises from her seat, joining me to leave.

Nico looks over at the table’s empty chair. He nods a few times. Whatever he’s hearing, I pray it’s good advice.

“It doesn’t say anything,” Nico blurts.

“Excuse me?”

“The pencil,” Nico says. “There’s no message.”

“How do you know?”

“I can see. I can-I’m good with patterns. The doctors… they’ve told me… I can see what others can’t. God gave me that gift,” he says, again glancing at the empty chair. “The marks on the pencil… the indentations… there’s nothing recurring. No repetition.”

“So the Culper Ring… back in the day… they never used old carvings as codes?” I ask.

“These aren’t carvings. These are… they’re nothing. Nothing I can see. Now tell me what you haven’t been saying. Tell me what was written in the invisible ink.”

He says the words matter-of-factly, as if there should be no argument.

Clementine and I both stand there, silent.

“I know you came here for my help,” Nico says. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t stuck. I can help with-”

He stops.

I know it’s a trick. Nico isn’t sly. He’s not subtle. He’s a whack job who acts like a giant child and thinks he’s the reincarnation of George Washington. So I know he’s just trying to get me to say…

“You can help me with what?” I ask, plenty annoyed, but curious enough to play along. I return to my seat.

He looks over toward the nurses’ station, once again scanning the brightly lit room. Taped to a nearby square concrete column is a laser-printed sign that says:

Please keep voices low

And spirits up

“Nico, what can you help us with?” I repeat.

“I know about the Purple Hearts,” Nico says.

“Okay, we’re done-I’ve seen this scam already,” I say as I again stand up.

“Where are you going?” Nico asks.

“This is the exact same thing you did last time-first you offer to help, then you start shoveling your whacky ghost stories.”

To my surprise, Clementine grips my wrist, keeping me in place. “What about the Purple Hearts?” she asks.

“The medals. The military medals. Do you know who created the Purple Heart?”

“George Washington,” I shoot back.

“I appreciate that. I appreciate you knowing your history,” Nico says. “Yes, George Washington created it. It was one of the first medals introduced in the United States. But he didn’t call it the Purple Heart-”

“He called it the Badge of Military Merit,” I interrupt. “It got its name from the fact that the medal itself was a purple cloth in the shape of a heart. What else do you want to know?”

“Do you know how many Purple Hearts George Washington gave out?” Nico challenges.

This time, I’m silent. I’m good, but I’m not Tot.

“Three,” Nico says. “That’s it. Three. Three men-all of them from Connecticut. As part of the honor, Washington wrote their names into a special book he called the Book of Merit. And do you know where this Book of Merit is today?”

“In that warehouse with the Ark of the Covenant?” I ask.

“No one knows where it is,” Nico says, oblivious to my joke as he flashes us a grin of excitement. Clementine looks even worse than she did yesterday. She’s not lasting much longer. “Washington’s book disappeared. Forever. In 1932, they revived the honor of the Purple Heart-it’s been given in our military ever since. But to this day, no one-not anyone-has any idea where Washington’s original Book of Merit-with the original names-actually is.”

“And this matters to us because…?”

“It matters because today, the Purple Heart goes to those who are wounded in battle. But originally, back then, Washington’s badge had nothing to do with injuries. In his own words, Washington said it was for extraordinary fidelity. Do you know what extraordinary fidelity means?”

“It means someone who’s loyal,” I say.

“It means someone who can keep a secret,” Nico counters. “I didn’t know this. I looked it up. I found it after your visit. I have a lot of time here.”

“Just get to the point.”

“I have been. You’re not listening to it. Like your predecessor-”

“Don’t compare me to a predecessor. Don’t call me Benedict Arnold. Don’t start with all that reincarnation hoo-hoo,” I warn him, still standing across from him. “If you want us to listen, stay in reality.”

His eyes flicker back and forth. His chest rises and falls just as fast. But to his credit, Nico bites the inside of his lip and stays on track. “The very first recipient of the Purple Heart was a twenty-six-year-old named Elijah Churchill,” Nico explains. “Elijah served under someone I think you’ve heard of-Benjamin Tallmadge.”

Clementine looks my way.

“Tallmadge was the organizer of the original Culper Ring,” I say.

“Then when you look at the third name on that list-Daniel Bissell from Windsor, Connecticut-guess why his name was put in the Book of Merit? He was one of our best spies, who helped infiltrate Benedict Arnold’s own corps,” Nico says, his eyes flicking faster than ever. “And according to some, that’s the real reason the Book of Merit disappeared. It wasn’t stolen. It was hidden-by Washington himself, who collected our best men and used them to build the greatest secret corps that history never knew…”

“The Culper Ring,” Clementine says.

“I’m not asking you to believe it,” Nico says. “But even America’s secret history has its experts. Let me help you with this. You know I can help you. This is the world I know best.”

I’m tempted to argue, but we both know he’s right. When it comes to conspiracies, Nico’s got a PhD.

“Tell me what you found in the invisible ink,” Nico says. “Tell me and I’ll share what I know. If I fail, you can leave and we’re done.”

I look over at Clementine, who replies with an awkward shrug. I can’t help but agree. At this point-especially with the President’s pencil apparently being a bust, and still not knowing why Wallace brought me to that room-what do we have to lose?

From my back pocket, I unfold the photocopy of the dictionary page and slide it across the round table.

Unlike before, Nico doesn’t snatch it. He stays calm, hands again flat on the table. But as he leans forward and reads the words, I see the thick vein starting to swell on his neck.

FEBRUARY 16

26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET

WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427

There’s a loud kuh-kunk behind us. Another Diet Dr Pepper for another patient, this one a young Asian man with a dyed blond stripe running down the middle of his head like a skunk streak.

“Get away from us, Simon-this isn’t your business!” Nico growls without turning around as he covers the photocopy by pressing it against his own chest. The Asian man flips Nico the finger, then heads for the swinging doors that lead back to patients’ rooms.

Barely noticing, Nico focuses back on the photocopy. His lips move as he reads.

His lips move as he reads it again.

Over and over, he rereads the document. The vein on his neck swells larger than ever.

He finally looks up-not excited, not energized… not anything.

“I know where you need to go,” he says.

76

The barber had gloves in his pocket. But he didn’t put them on.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t cold. Out here-especially out here in the snow-covered graveyard-the weather was freezing. He was most definitely cold.

But for now, he wanted to feel it.

In fact, as he walked up the twisting concrete path of Oak Hill Cemetery, he knew that was his real problem. For too long now, especially the past few years, he hadn’t felt the cold, or fear-or most anything at all. Instead, he’d been lulled. And worst of all, he hadn’t been lulled by anyone. He’d been lulled by himself.

It was the same reason he came here today.

He knew he shouldn’t. Palmiotti would tear him apart if he found out he’d trekked all the way out here in the snow. But as he spotted the headstone that was carved in the shape of a baby swaddled in a blanket, the barber couldn’t help but think what else he’d lulled himself into.

He’d only lived in Washington a few years now. But he’d been here long enough to know where the real strings were pulled. Right now, Palmiotti was the one with the office in the White House. And the private parking spot in the White House. And the best friend who sat in the Oval Office. All the barber had was high rent on his barber chair and a set of presidential cuff links. So if this really was the moment where the tornado was about to uproot the house, Laurent knew who’d be the first one that house was landing on.

Damn right he needed to come out here and start feeling this stuff for himself.

But as he took his first step off the concrete path and into the snow, he heard the faint rumbling of voices behind him.

Hobbling and hiding behind a section of trees that surrounded the edges of the wide-open graveyard, Laurent didn’t have any trouble staying out of sight. Out here, no one was looking for anything except the dead-which is why it made such a perfect drop point.

In the distance, two voices were fighting, arguing, and far too busy to see what was really going on in the cemetery.

Still, it wasn’t until they reached the top of the path that Laurent peered out from behind the apple blossom tree and spied who was making all the noise.

That’s him, the barber thought as the bitter cold settled between the thin bones of his fingers.

“Stop!” the girl called to the guy with the sandy blond hair.

The guy wasn’t listening. But there he was. The one who could take away everything they had worked for.

Beecher.