The Inner Circle

113

Clementine is gone.

I know they won’t find her.

Dallas is dead. So is Palmiotti.

I know both are my fault.

And on top of all that, when it comes to my father, I’ve got nothing but questions.

In the back part of the cave, the first ones to reach us are Copper Mountain’s internal volunteer firefighters, which are made up of a group of beefy-looking managers and maintenance guys who check me for cuts and scrapes. I don’t have a scratch on me. No punches thrown, no black eyes to heal, no lame sling to make it look like I learned a lesson as I went through the wringer.

I did everything Clementine and Tot and even Dallas had been pushing me to do. For those few minutes, as I held that gun, and squeezed that trigger, I was no longer the spectator who was avoiding the future and watching the action from the safety of a well-worn history book. For those few minutes, I was absolutely, supremely in the present.

But as the paramedics buzz back and forth and I stand there alone in the cave, staring down at my cell phone, the very worst part of my new reality is simply… I have no idea who to call.

“There. I see ’em…” a female voice announces.

I look up just as a woman paramedic with short brown hair climbs out of a golf cart that’s painted red and white like an ambulance. She starts talking to the other paramedic-the guy who told me that the water treatment area has a waste exit on the far side of the cave. Clementine was prepared for that one too.

But as the woman paramedic gets closer, I realize she’s not here for me. She heads to the corner of the cave, where Dallas’s and Palmiotti’s stiff bodies are covered by red-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloths from the cafeteria.

I could’ve shot Clementine. Maybe I should’ve. But as I stare at Dallas’s and Palmiotti’s covered bodies, the thought that’s doing far more damage is a simple one: After everything that happened, I helped nobody.

The thought continues to carve into my brain as a third paramedic motions my way.

“So you’re the lucky one, huh?” a paramedic with a twinge of Texas in his voice asks, putting a hand on my shoulder and pulling me back. “If you need a lift, you can ride with us,” he adds, pointing me to the white car that sits just behind the golf cart.

I nod him a thanks as he opens the back door of the car and I slide inside. But it’s not until the door slams shut and I see the metal police car-type partition that divides the front seat from the back, that I realize he’s dressed in a suit.

Paramedics don’t wear suits.

The locks thunk. The driver-a man with thin blond hair that’s combed straight back and curls into a duck’s butt at his neck-is also in a suit.

Never facing me, the man with the Texas twang drops into the passenger seat and whispers into his wrist:

“We’re in route Crown. Notify B-4.”

I have no idea what B-4 is. But during all those reading visits, I’ve been around enough Secret Service agents to know what Crown is the code word for.

They’re taking me to the White House.

Good.

That’s exactly where I want to go.