The Inner Circle (52 page)

Across from us, Clementine doesn’t either.

“Beecher, listen to me,” Palmiotti says. “Whatever you think our mission is, we can fight about this later. But if you don’t shoot her—if you don’t protect us—she’s gonna kill both of us.”

“I know you don’t believe that,” Clementine jumps in, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and Palmiotti. “Of course he wants you to shoot me, Beecher. Think of why he put that bullet in Dallas’s chest! He’s cleaning up one by one… and once I’m gone, you’re the only witness that’s left. And then… and then…” She slows herself down as the pain takes hold. “Guess how quickly you’ll be dead after that?”

“So now
we’re
the bad guys?” Palmiotti asks, forcing a laugh. “For what? For trying to protect the leader of the free world from a blackmailer and her crazy father?”

“No—for helping your boss bury a baseball bat in the side of someone’s head! I saw Eightball’s medical chart. Puncture wounds in the face! Shattered eye socket; broken cheekbones! And brain damage from an in-driven fragment of his skull! Lemme guess: You held Eightball down while Wallace wound up with a hammer. Did it feel good when you heard that boy’s eye socket shatter? What about all these years when you helped the President of the United States keep him in storage like a piece of old furniture—and then used all the real Culper Ring’s methods to hide it!? How’d that one feel?” Turning to me, she adds, “Pay attention, Beecher. Palmiotti wants you to think
I’m
the bad guy. But remember, he didn’t need you and Dallas to get the file. Once you found it, he could’ve had Dallas take you home, and he could’ve grabbed it himself. So what’s the benefit to Palmiotti of having all of us in an underground cave in the middle of nowhere…?”

“Jesus, Beecher—even if you think she’s telling the truth—make her stand up!” Palmiotti pleads.

“… because even if they smoke that hospital file, the last thing Palmiotti and the President need is you running around, bearing witness to the world,” Clementine says, as serious as I’ve ever seen her. “That’s the only reason you’re here, Beecher—that’s the big ending. Whether you shoot me now or not, you’re gonna die here.
I’m
gonna die here. Both of us… with what’s in our blood… don’t you see… we’re history.”

Behind her, the bird isn’t chirping. There’s only silence.

“That’s not true,” I say, still pointing my gun at her.

“You lie. And worst of all, you lie to yourself,” she tells me. “Think of everything you’ve seen: You saw him shoot Dallas. You’ve already seen what they’ll do to protect what they have in that White House. You pull that trigger on me, and I guarantee you you’ll be dead in ten minutes—and you wanna know why? Because that’s your role, Beecher. You get to play Lee Harvey Oswald… or John Hinckley… or even Nico. That’s your big part in the opera. Think of any presidential attack in history—you can’t have one without a patsy.”

“Beecher, make her stand the hell up!” Palmiotti begs, his voice cracking. His face should be a red rage. Instead, it’s bone white. The way he’s gripping his neck and using his free hand to steady himself against the wall, he’s losing blood fast.

I look back at Clementine sitting in the water. Both of her legs are straight out, like she’s coming down a waterslide. The water’s above her waist. I still can’t see if she has her gun.

“You know I’m right,” she says as she starts to breathe heavily. The pain in her leg is definitely getting worse. But as she sits there, she starts using her good leg to slowly push herself backward in the water. “This is your chance, Beecher. If we leave together… with this file… Forget making them pay—we can finally get the truth.”

“Beecher, whatever you’re thinking right now,” Palmiotti pleads, “she has the file tucked in her pants and her gun in one of her hands. Do not assume—
for one second—
that the moment you lower your gun, she’s not going to raise hers and kill the both of us.”

“Help me up, Beecher. Help me up and we can get out of here,” Clementine says, reaching out with her left hand. Her right is still underwater as she stops maneuvering back.

“S-She’s the one who killed Orlando!” Palmiotti says, coughing wildly.

“Clementine, what you told me before… about being sick,” I say. “Are you really dying?”

She doesn’t say a word. But she also doesn’t look away. “I can’t be lying about everything.”

“
She can… she admitted it, Beecher… She killed your friend!
”

From the back of the cave, the trapped red bird again swoops through the darkness, and just as quickly disappears with a high-pitched chirp.

I look over at Palmiotti, who’s got no fight left in him, then back to Clementine, who’s still holding one hand out to me—and hiding her other beneath the water.

The answer is easy.

There’s only one real threat left.

I aim my gun at Clementine and cock the hammer. “Clementine, pick your hands up and stand up now, or I swear to God I’ll shoot you again,” I tell her.

Two minutes ago, Clementine said we were history. She knows nothing about history. History is simply what’s behind us.

“
Thank you!
” Palmiotti calls out, still coughing behind me. “Now we can—”

Palmiotti doesn’t finish the thought.

As Clementine is about to get up, there’s a loud splash behind me.

I turn to my right just as Palmiotti hits the water. He lands face-first, arms at his side, like he’s frozen solid. For half a second, I stand there, waiting for him to get up. But the way he lies there, facedown…

His body jerks. Then jerks again, wildly. Within seconds, his upper body is twitching, making him buck like a fish on land. I have no idea what that gunshot to the neck did. But I know a seizure when I see one.

“
Palmiotti…!
” I call out even though he can’t hear me.

I’m about to run at him, when I remember…

Clementine.

“He’s gonna die,” she says matter-of-factly, fighting to climb to her good leg. Her one hand is still hidden below the water. “You may hate him, but he needs your help.”

“If you run, I’ll shoot you again,” I warn her.

“No. You won’t. Not after that,” she says, pointing me back to Palmiotti, whose convulsions are starting to slow down. He doesn’t have long.

If the situation were reversed, Palmiotti would leave me. Gladly. Clementine might too. But to turn your back and just leave someone to die…

Right there, I see the choice. I can grab Clementine. Or I can race to help Palmiotti.

Life. Or death. There’s no time for both.

I think of everything Palmiotti did. How he shot Dallas. And how, if I save him, President Wallace will pull every string in existence to make sure Palmiotti walks away without a scar, mark, or paper cut.

I think of what Clementine knows about my father.

But when it comes to making the final choice…

… there’s really no choice at all.

Sprinting toward the facedown Palmiotti and tucking my gun into my pants, I grab him by the shoulders and lift him, bending him backward, out from the water. He’s deadweight, his arms sagging forward as his fingertips skate along the top of the water. A waterfall of fluid and vomit drains from his mouth.

I know what to do. I spent two summers lifeguarding at the local pool. But as I drop to my knees and twist Palmiotti onto his back, I can’t help but look over my shoulder.

With her back to me, Clementine climbs to her feet. She tries to steady herself, her right hand still down in the water.

As Palmiotti’s head hits my lap, his face isn’t pale anymore. It’s ashen and gray. His half-open eyes are waxy as he gazes through me. He’s not in there.

I open his mouth. I clear his airway. I look over my shoulder…

My eyes seize on Clementine as she finally pulls her hand from the water…

… and reveals the soaking-wet gun that she’s been gripping the entire time.

Oh, jeez.

Palmiotti was right.

She lifts the gun. All she has to do is turn and fire. It’s an easy shot.

But she never takes it.

Scrambling and limping, Clementine heads deeper into the cave, leaving a wake in the water that fans out behind her. The gun is dangling by her side. I wait for her to look back at me.

She doesn’t.

Not once.

I tilt Palmiotti’s head back. I pinch his nose. He hasn’t taken a breath in a full minute. His gray skin is starting to turn blue.

“Help…!” I call out even though no one’s there.

Palmiotti’s only movement comes from a rare gasp that sends his chest heaving.
Huuuh
. It’s not a breath. He’s not breathing at all.

He’s dying.

“
We need help…!
” I call out.

I look over my shoulder.

Clementine’s gone.

In my lap, Palmiotti doesn’t move. No gasping. No heaving. His eyes stare through me. His skin is bluer than ever. I feel for a pulse, but there’s nothing there.

“
Please, someone… I need help…!
”

*              *              *

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.

*              *              *

114

I try to sleep on the ride.

I don’t have a chance.

For the first few hours, my body won’t shut off. I’m too wired and rattled and awake. I keep checking my phone, annoyed I can’t get a signal. But as we pass into Maryland, I realize it’s not my phone.

“You’re blocking it, aren’t you?” I call out to the driver. “You’ve got one of those devices—for blocking my cell signal.”

He doesn’t answer. Too bad for him, I’ve seen the CIA files on interrogation. I know the game.