The man smiled to himself, knowing better than to argue with Lenore, a woman well trained, from Princeton all the way up to the White House, in the fine art of arguing.
“If I weren’t a little nervous, I’d be insane,” the man said with a laugh.
Shoving hard on the carved wooden double doors, he pushed his way inside and winced as the hinges shrieked. But there was something instantly calming about being back here, especially that smell: the damp wood and the rosewater candles.
“
Ignoring the question-and the slamming doors behind him-the slender man headed straight for the source of the smell, the ancient iron rack filled with the white rose prayer candles.
“
The man couldn’t help but smile. In this world, there was nothing scarier than trusting someone. But there was also nothing more rewarding.
“They were good memories,” he said as he picked up an unlit candle, dipped it into the flame, and whispered a silent prayer for his mother. Two years ago, for a prayer like this, he would’ve bobbed his head sixteen times before saying amen. He would’ve pulled out two eyelashes, setting them perpendicular in his palm until they formed a miniature cross. But today, as he looked up toward the intricate stained glass window… Nico Hadrian was better.
And so was former First Lady Lenore Manning.
Even though she’d been dead for two years now.
“Nico, let’s go-they want you in the day room,” the tall orderly with the sweet onion breath called out.
Peering over his shoulder, Nico looked across his small bare room at St. Elizabeths Hospital. He looked past his single bed and the painted dresser that held his Bible and the Washington Redskins calendar. Italy was gone, and there was no one there except for Sweet Onion Breath.
“Please tell me you’re not talking to no imaginary friends,” the orderly pleaded. “You do, I gotta report it, Nico.”
Nico cranked his small smile into a kind, wider one. He’d made the mistake of honesty once. He wouldn’t make it again. “You know I don’t do that anymore.”
He was mostly right. After his escape and capture, when he was finally returned to St. Elizabeths, it took Nico four months before he stopped picking off his own fingernails, determined to punish himself for what he’d done. To be manipulated like that-to be so lost in the religious spirit-to kill in the name of God. By now, the doctors were thrilled with his progress. They gave him mail privileges, even access to the grounds. For the past two years, Nico had fought back to his own level of normalcy. Yes, he was better. But that didn’t mean he was cured.
Turning toward the one window in his room, Nico watched calmly, patiently, as the single bed, wooden nightstand, and painted dresser were replaced by the ancient iron rack of white rose candles, and the wide shatterproof window turned back into the beautiful stained glass window of the church Sant’Agata dei Goti, the church dedicated to Saint Agatha, who never-even when the torturers severed her breast-ever renounced her faith.
“
“I think I’m excited. Yes. I’m very excited,” Nico whispered to himself.
“C’mon, Nico-you have a visitor,” the orderly called out as the church again faded and the hospital returned.
“No. I have more than just a visitor,” Nico insisted as he headed for the day room. God always provided. “I have Clementine.”
27
When I was in tenth grade, there was a kid in our class-Weird Warren-who used to be able to bend down his ear, and keep it down, so he’d look like an elf. Most of my classmates did their usual teasing, knighting him with the nickname. But Clementine-she said it so nicely I’ll never forget it-she asked him if he could grant her three wishes.
Pounding the faded red button with the heel of his palm, the St. Elizabeths guard raises the gate arm, allowing me to drive past the guardhouse. I told him I was here to pick up records for the Archives. With my government ID, it was enough to send me toward the main security check-in and onto the property, a 350-acre piece of land that’s encased by a ring of tall black metal gates.
As I head up the hospital’s poorly plowed road and scan the parking lot that sits across from the main five- story brick building, Clementine’s cab is long gone. She’s inside, probably already with Nico. I have no idea what her three wishes would be today. But if I had the chance to get even two minutes with my dead dad, I know what at least one of my wishes would be.
As I kick open the car door in the parking lot, a blast of winter air stings my face, but before I get out I reach down and pull out the copy of
For a moment, I think about hiding it in my briefcase, but if I do that, I risk security here rummaging through it. No. If this book is as important as we think it is-if Orlando really died for it-I need to keep it close.
Stepping outside and heading across to the building, I tuck the book under the back of my jacket and carefully slide it into the back of my slacks. It fits-with most of the pages gone, it’s just the covers. I take a fast glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. But as I look up, standing on one of the second-floor balconies is a pale bald man with no eyebrows.
I strain a smile, even as I pick up my pace.
He glares down. But his expression never changes. I don’t think he even sees I’m here.
For a moment, I think about just waiting out here for her. But I don’t slow down.
As I finally reach the front, the doorknob gives with barely a twist. The cold has definitely eased up, but a pitiless chill climbs my spine. According to Clemmi, this is the mental hospital that holds not just Nico, but also John Hinckley, the man who shot Ronald Reagan. Why the hell’s the front door unlocked?
I push the door inward, revealing a 1950s waiting room decorated in a pale drab green. Straight ahead, a thin guard who looks like David Bowie circa 1983 sits at an X-ray and metal detector also stolen from the same era.
“C’mon in-only about half our patients bite,” a woman’s voice calls out. She laughs a silly puffy laugh that’s supposed to put me at ease. On my left, standing inside a thick glass booth, is a second guard-a female guard with a bad Dutch-boy haircut and great dimples.
“You must be Mr. White, correct?” She got my name from when I checked in at the guardhouse. “Relax, Mr. White. They keep the doors unlocked so that the patients feel they have more freedom. But not that much freedom,” she says with the puffy laugh, pointing at a thick steel door that looks like a bank vault: the real door to get inside.
“Um… great,” I blurt, not knowing what else to say.
“So how can we help you, Mr. White?” she asks as I realize she’s one of those people who says your name over and over until you want to eat poison.
“Actually, it’s Beecher. I’m here from the National Archives. Anyhow, we were thinking of doing an exhibit on the history of St. Elizabeths-when it was run by the government and founded to help the insane… then converted in the Civil War to help wounded soldiers… It’s just a great part of American history-”
“Just tell me what time your appointment is and who it’s with.”
“That’s the thing,” I tell the woman behind the glass. “They told me to come over and that I should take a quick tour of the campus.”
“That’s fine, Beecher. I still need a name to call first.”
