The Inner Circle

29

"You’re anxious,” Nico says to Clementine as he leads her past me and heads for the door that’ll take them outside. Clementine nearly falls over when she sees me, but to her credit, she doesn’t stop. Just shoots me a look to say, What’re you doing here?

I turn back to the glass guard booth, pretending to sign in.

If I remember my history-and I always remember my history-when Nico took his shots at the President, he said it was because of some supposed ancient plan that the Founding Fathers and the Freemasons had hatched to take over the world.

Exactly.

He’s crazy enough. He doesn’t need to be more crazy by me confronting or riling him.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Nico continues, reading Clementine’s discomfort.

He shoves open the front door and steps out into the cold. As the door slams behind them, it’s like a thunderclap in the silent room.

“Th-That was-You let him walk out the door!”

“… and he’ll walk right back in after his visitor leaves,” says the guard behind the glass. “Our goal is curing them, not punishing them. Nico earned his ground privileges just like anyone else.”

“But he’s-”

“He’s been incident-free for years now-moved out of maximum security and into medium. Besides, this isn’t a prison-it’s a hospital. A hospital that’s there to help him, not punish him. You gotta let a man walk outside,” she explains. “And even so, we got guards-and a fence that’s too high to hop. We see him. Every day, he does custodial work in the RMB Building, then feeds the cats there. By the way, Beecher, they still got that copy of the Magna Carta at the Archives? That stuff is cool.”

“Yeah… of course,” I say as I try to walk as casually as possible to the door.

The guard says something else, but I’m already outside, searching left and right, scanning the main road that runs across the property. In the distance, there’s a guard walking the perimeter of the black metal gates that surround the hospital’s snow-covered grounds. Ahead and down to the right, the concrete walkway looks like a squiggle from a black magic marker that slices through the snow. The plowed path is lined with trees and holds so many benches, it’s clearly for strolling patients.

Nico’s at least four steps in front of her, his left arm flat at his side, his right clutching a brown paper supermarket bag. He walks like Clementine used to: fearlessly forward as he follows the thin pedestrian path. Behind him, whatever confidence Clementine had-the woman who plowed just as fearlessly into the President’s SCIF-that Clementine is once again gone. From the stutter in her steps… the way she hesitates, not sure whether she really wants to keep up… I don’t care how far people come in life-or how much you prepare for this moment. You see your father, and you’re instantly a child again.

As they step out onto the pathway, I stick by the entryway of the building, making sure there’s at least half a football field between us. But as I take my first step out and my foot crunches against some thick chunks of snow salt, I swear on my life, Nico flinches.

He never turns. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder to investigate. But I remember the news footage-how he has hearing and eyesight more acute than the rest of us. That’s why the military first recruited him for sniper school.

I stop midstep.

Nico keeps going, marching his purposeful march, clutching the brown bag, and glancing just slightly to make sure the clearly uncomfortable Clementine is still behind him.

Leaving the entryway, I take it slow, always careful to use the nearby trees for cover. On my far left, the guard is still patrolling the gates. As I reach the beginning of the path, he spots them too.

It’s not hard to see where he’s leading her. The thin black path curves downhill toward another 1960s-era brick building. Throughout the wide campus, it’s the only thing that’s plowed. Even I get the message: This path is the one place patients are allowed to walk.

The farther they get, the more they shrink. I still can’t tell if they’re talking, but as they finally reach the front of the building, I’m all set to follow. To my surprise though, instead of going inside, Nico points Clementine to the wooden benches out front.

Taking the seat next to her, Nico puts the brown bag between them. Even from here, I can see Clementine scootch back, away from the bag. Whatever he’s got in there… my brain can’t help but imagine the worst.

That’s when the cats start arriving.

A gray tabby races out of the building, followed by a chubby black one. Then two small matching orange kittens, followed by what must be their mom. There’re half a dozen cats in total, all of them heading for the exact same spot: straight to the bench. Straight to Nico.

On my far left, the guard is still down by the perimeter fence, but he hasn’t moved much. This is clearly Nico’s routine. From the brown bag, Nico sprinkles the ground with whatever food he has inside. Feeding the cats. The woman behind the glass said it’s one of his jobs. But the way Nico leans down to pet them-scratching tummies, necks, between ears, like he knows each of their soft spots-he isn’t just feeding these cats.

He loves them.

And the way they rub against Nico, weaving infinity loops around his legs, they love him right back.

Sitting up straight and settling into his stiff, alien posture, Nico won’t look at anything but the cats. I can’t read lips, but I can read body language. Fidgeting next to him, Clementine looks even more awkward than he is, and from her hand movements-she scratches her wrist, then her neck, like there’s something living beneath her own skin. Back at the Archives, she couldn’t even look at Nico in the old assassination video. It’s only worse here. No matter how ready she thought she was, she’s not ready for this. Until…

He suddenly rises from his seat, standing erect.

The cats startle at the sudden movement, then settle back around his feet. Before Clementine can react, Nico looks at his watch and starts walking to the far side of the building. He’s calm as ever. He makes a quick hand motion, asking Clementine to follow.

No, don’t go with him-!

She pauses, searching around. She’s definitely smarter than that. She needs to be-she knows who she’s dealing with. But she can’t help herself. A few cats trail him like the Pied Piper. A few others, including two tuxedo cats-black, with white bib and feet-start to groom themselves, then walk away, aloof. Clementine needs to decide which cat she’ll be.

It doesn’t take long. She’s wondered about this man for nearly thirty years. She takes a few hesitant steps… then scratches the back of her neck… then follows.

Nico turns the corner and…

They’re both gone.

I give them a moment to come back. Thirty seconds to see if they return.

Still gone.

There’s no reason to break the emergency glass. Maybe he’s just getting more cat food.

I search for the guard back by the fence. He’s gone too.

I look around, but there’s no one else. I can run back to the main building, but by the time I get there, God knows where Nico will be. More important, if something happened to Clemmi, it’d be my fault.

Tot called history a selection process that hands us situations we should never be able to overcome.

He’s right. I can’t overcome this. Nico’s a trained monster. A killer. A destroyer.

I can’t do this.

I can’t.

But I have to try.

Running full speed, I race down the concrete path. With each step, my feet slap the pavement, splattering puddles of slush.

As I pass the front of the building, I spot the blur of my own profile in the reflection of the glass doors. The tuxedo cats are milling around, looking bored as they ignore me. I even see Nico’s and Clementine’s footsteps where the snow isn’t melted yet. They can’t be far.

At the corner of the building, I make a sharp left and…

Nothing.

A long alley of browning snow, a rusted Dumpster, and just beyond the Dumpster, an empty golf cart that-

Mrrow.

Cat. That’s one of the cats.

I crane my neck.

There. In the back. The tabby one.

I’m already halfway there as its tail disappears around the back of the building. As I fly past the Dumpster-

Pfuump.

A thick forearm rams my neck, hitting like a baseball bat and clotheslining me so hard, my feet leave the ground.

Keeping his forearm at my throat, Nico shoves me backward by my neck until I crash-hard-onto the freezing concrete. The back of my head hits first, and a flash of bright stars blinds me on impact.

“What’re you doing!? Are you crazy!?” Clementine shouts at Nico.

Her father smiles, heading toward me.

Before I can register anything, Nico’s all over me.