The Inner Circle

clicking at the keyboard. Perfect. I turn my attention back to the phone…

“Beecher, it’s me,” Orlando begins again. He pauses a moment. “Crap, I don’t have your cell phone.” He pauses again, then his voice picks up speed. “I need you to call me. What you did…”

What I did?

“Just call me,” he finishes.

I hit the button and replay it again.

“Crap, I don’t have your cell phone.”

He pauses after that. Is that panic? Is he panicking? Is he sick?

“Crap, I don’t have your cell phone.”

I listen closely, but I was wrong before. His voice isn’t picking up speed. It’s fast, but no faster than usual.

“I need you to call me. What you did…”

There it is. The only moment his voice strains. Just slightly on the word did. I hit the rewind button again.

“What you did…”

He means finding the dictionary.

“What you did…”

There’s definitely an emphasis on the last word.

“What you did…”

It’s just three syllables. Three dumb words. It’s no different than looking at a photo of a happy, grinning child and then being told he died in a brutal car accident. No matter what you want to see, all you see is… it’s not just loss or sadness. To hear these words… uttered by this-this-this-ghost…

“What you did…”

All I hear is blame.

“Just call me,” Orlando finally says at 4:58 p.m. yesterday.

As his voice fades, I feel my body churn, straining for its own equilibrium. It doesn’t come. I’m squeezing the phone so hard, streams of sweat run from my fist down the inside of my wrist, seeping into my watchband.

It’s not until I look down that I spot Tot arching his head toward me, studying me with his good eye. If he heard…

He stares right at me.

Of course he heard.

I wait for him to judge, to warn, to say that I need to get rid of Orlando’s message.

“You’re not alone in this, Beecher.”

“Actually, I kinda am,” I say as I hear a beep on the other line. I look down at caller ID, which reads Security. I don’t pick up. The last thing I need right now is Khazei quizzing me again about Orlando’s death. Instead, I forward Orlando’s message to my cell and delete it from voicemail.

Tot shakes his head. “I’m telling you, you’re not alone. You need to hear that.”

“That’s fine-and I appreciate when someone says something nice to me, Tot, but… I’m just… I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what?”

“This. Any of this. Tracking old books that’re hidden for Presidents… playing Spy versus Spy… getting guilt and spooky messages from dead people…”

“Guilt? What’re you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear Orlando’s message? When he said, What you did… — heart attack or murder-he might as well have added… when you caused my death.”

“You really think Orlando was calling you for some bitter scolding?”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

At his jawbone, just below his ear, Tot twirls a few stray hairs of his wizard beard between his thumb and pointer-finger while eyeing the gutted copy of Entick’s Dictionary. “Maybe he was amazed you found it. Maybe he just realized the consequences: What you did…” He lowers his voice to sound like Orlando: “… you just uncovered something no one knew existed. President Wallace was… God knows what he was up to, but you found it, Beecher. You’re a hero.”

“A hero? For what? For spilling coffee? For trying to impress a girl from high school in the hopes of forgetting about my fiancee? I mean it, Tot. I woke up this morning with my feet sweating! Name one hero who has sweaty feet!”

I wait for him to answer-for him to pull some historian nonsense and tell me that Teddy Roosevelt was known for his sweaty feet, but instead Tot just sits there, still twirling his beard.

My phone again starts to ring. Like before, caller ID reads Security. Like before, I don’t pick it up.

Nodding his approval, Tot takes a deep breath through his nose. “Beecher, y’know what the best part of this job is? For me, it’s this sheet of paper,” he says, picking up a random sheet of paper from my desk and flapping it back and forth. “On any given day, this sheet is just another sheet in our collection, right? But then, one day-9/11 happens-and suddenly this sheet of paper becomes the most vital document in the U.S. government.” He tosses the paper back to my desk. “That’s what we’re here to witness, Beecher. We witness it and we protect it. We’re the caretakers of those sheets of paper that’ll someday define the writing of history.”

“Tot, I think you’re being a little dramatic about paper.”

“You’re not listening. It’s not just with paper. It also happens with people.”

At the far end of the office, the front door opens and there’s a quiet metallic clunk on our magnet board. Like a periscope rising from a submarine, I peer above the cubicles and spot my fellow archivist Rina, who offers a surprisingly warm Mona Lisa smile considering how pissed she was yesterday at coming in number two in our internal rankings.

“You okay?” Rina asks me.

“Huh?”

“Yesterday-I saw you downstairs. With Orlando. You were friends, no?”

“Yeah… no… I’m okay. Thanks,” I tell her as she heads toward her own cube.

Lowering periscope, I turn back to Tot. “Rina,” I whisper, quickly adding, “So in this analogy, I’m the sheet of paper?”

“You’ve been here a few years now, Beecher-you should know history isn’t just something that’s written. It’s a selection process. It chooses moments, and events, and yes, people-and it hands them a situation they should never be able to overcome. It happens to millions of us every single day. But the only ones we read about are the ones who face that situation, and fight that situation, and find out who they really are.”

“And now you’re the one not listening, Tot. I know who I am. I fought for this life. And I spent two full years taking 140,000 photographs of overpriced wedding cakes, and grooms who think they can dance, just to make sure that I didn’t have to go back to Wisconsin and say that life outside my mother’s house was just too tough for me. I got further than my father, and his father, and every rotten classmate who used to aim for my head in dodgeball even though they knew headshots didn’t count. But whatever history supposedly handed me… whatever we did find in the SCIF… I don’t know what it is… I don’t know where to start… I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for!”

Once again shaking his head, Tot turns back to my computer and hits the enter key. Onscreen, I see the Archives’ history for Entick’s Dictionary. Yes, we have a copy. Yes, it’s in this building. And according to this, it’s currently…

“Signed out,” I blurt, reading from the screen.

It’s the first good news I’ve had all day. Every day at the Archives, hundreds of people come to do research. To make it easier, once you register as a researcher, you can fill up two carts and keep them on hold, stored in our research room, for three days. And from what it says here, Entick’s Dictionary is currently on hold for a researcher named… Tot clicks to the next screen.

“Dustin Gyrich,” we both whisper as my phone rings for the third time. For the third