The Inner Circle

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MINNIE: Second Floor Residence

Now she’s upstairs.

“No place like home,” Wallace says, never once raising his voice. He turns directly at me, finally undoing the prayer grip of his hands. “So. We’re done now, yes?”

“We’re not.”

“We are. We very much are.”

“I can still find proof.”

“You can try. But we’re done, Beecher. And y’know why we’re done? Because when it comes to conspiracy theories-think of the best ones out there-think of the ones that even have some semblance of proof… like JFK. For over fifty years now, after all the Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald stories… after all the witnesses who came forward, and the books, and the speculation, and the Oliver Stones, and the annual conventions that still happen to this very day, you know what the number one theory most people believe? The Warren Commission,” he says dryly. “That’s who the public believes-the commission authored by the U.S. government. We make a great bad guy, and they all say they hate us. But at the end of every day, people want to trust us. Because we’re their government. And people trust their government.”

“I bet you practiced that monologue.”

“Just remember where you are: This is a prizefight, Beecher. And when you’re in a prizefight for a long time- take my word on this-you keep swinging that hard and you’re only gonna knock yourself out.”

“Actually, the knockout already happened.”

“Pardon?”

“Just remember where you are, Mr. President. Look around. By the end of the week, this office will be empty. The photo in the silver frame will be, I’m guessing, slipped inside Palmiotti’s coffin. Your doctor’s gone, sir. So’s your barber. Your Plumbers are finished. Goodbye. All your work did was get two loyal men killed. So you can try to pretend you’ve got everything exactly where you want it, but I’m the one who gets to go home for the rest of my week-while you’re the one at the funerals, delivering the eulogies.”

“You have nothing. You have less than nothing.”

“You may be right. But then I keep thinking… the whole purpose of the Plumbers was to take people you trust and use them to build a wall around you. That wall protected you and insulated you. And now that wall is gone,” I say. “So what’re you gonna do now, sir?” Standing from my seat and heading for the door, I add, “You have a good night, Mr. President.”

116

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Third floor

Nico didn’t like card games.

It didn’t matter.

Every few months, the doctors would still have a new pack of playing cards delivered to his room. Usually, they were cards from defunct airlines-both TWA and Piedmont Air apparently gave out a lot of free playing cards back in the day. But Nico didn’t know what the doctors’ therapeutic goal was. He didn’t much care.

To Nico, a card game-especially one like solitaire-could never be enjoyable. Not when it left so much to chance. No, in Nico’s world, the universe was far more organized. Gravity… temperature… even the repetition of history… Those were part of God’s rules. The universe definitely had rules. It had to have rules. And purpose.

So, every few months, when Nico would receive his playing cards, he’d wait a day or two and then hand them back to the orderlies, or leave them in the day room, or, if they found their way back to him, tuck them into the cushions of the couch that smelled like urine and soup.

But tonight, at nearly 10 p.m. in the now quiet main room, Nico sat at one of the Plexiglas tables near the nurses’ station and quietly played a game of solitaire.

“Thanks for being so patient, baby,” the heavy nurse with the big hoop earrings said. “You know how Mr. Jasper gets if we let him sit in his diaper too long.”

“Oooh, and you’re playing cards so nice,” the nurse crooned, making a mental note and clearly excited for what she’d inevitably be telling the doctors tomorrow.

It wasn’t much. But Nico knew it mattered. The hospital was no different than the universe. Everything had rules. And the number one rule here was: If you don’t please the nurses, you’re not getting your privileges.

It was why he didn’t complain when they let someone else feed the cats tonight. Or when Rupert brought him apple juice instead of orange.

Nico had been lucky earlier today. When he approached that car-the one with the barber and the blasphemous wrists-he was worried the blame would be put on him.

It wasn’t. And he knew why.

Whoever had burned Beecher-whoever had caused all that pain-the last thing they wanted was Nico’s name all over this. If that had happened, a real investigation would’ve been started.

The ones who did this… They didn’t want that.

In the end, it didn’t surprise Nico. But it did surprise him that, when it came to that investigation, they had the power to stop it.

Right there, Nico knew what was coming next.

“I see you put Randall’s Sprite cans in the recycling-cleaned up his crackers too,” the nurse added. “I know you’re sucking up, Nico-but I appreciate it. Now remind me what you’re waiting for again? Your mail?”

“Not mail,” Nico said. “My phone. Any new phone messages?”

The nurse with the hoop earrings gripped a blue three-ring binder from the shelf above her desk and quickly flipped to the last pages.

Nico could’ve snuck a look at the book when she wasn’t there.

But there were rules.

There were always rules.

And consequences.

“Lemme see… according to this…” she said as her chubby finger skated down the page. “Nope. Sorry, baby. No calls.” Snapping the book shut, she added, “Maybe tomorrow.”

Nico nodded. It was a good thought. Maybe it’d be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or even the day after.

But it was going to happen. Soon.

Nico knew the rules.

He knew his purpose.

Beecher would be coming back. He definitely would.

It might take him a month. Or even longer. But eventually, Beecher would want help. He’d want help, and he’d want answers. And most of all, he’d want to know how to track down Clementine-which, if Nico was right about what was in her, was the only thing Nico wanted too.

Shoving his way back through the swinging doors and still thinking of how his daughter had misled him, Nico headed back to his room.

Soon, he and Beecher-George Washington and Benedict Arnold-would again be working together.

Just like the universe had always planned.

117