The Inner Circle

She stays with the rearview, her head slightly swaying back and forth, like she’s whispering an imagined question to someone.

“I’m not a DJ,” she finally blurts.

“What?”

“For the radio station-I’m not a DJ,” Clementine says. “I sell ads. I’m just an ad sales rep. I–I thought you’d-I sell on-air ads for soft drinks, car dealerships, and in Virginia, we do a ton for places that help people addicted to chewing tobacco.”

“But you told me-”

“I always wanted to be a DJ-I did it once for a few years at a community college’s radio station. But for the past ten years, I’m just-I used to be a peacock; now I’m just a feather duster.” Looking over at me, she adds, “I’m sorry for lying to you, Beecher. When we were first emailing, you said you had this perfect job at the National Archives, and when you asked me what I did, I wanted you to-I didn’t want you to think I was a failure.”

“Clementine, I’d never think-”

“And the lies just flowed, didn’t they? Instead of an ad rep-shazam! — I was magically a DJ with the life I’d always dreamed for myself. And the worst part was how fast the bullshit came-flush with all the details, and all the old jazz we play, and…” She won’t look at me. “I’m like him, aren’t I? The imagined life… I’m a natural liar, Beecher. I am.”

“Then I guess I shouldn’t believe that either.”

It’s a good joke, but it doesn’t help.

“I thought the worst part would be seeing Nico,” she explains, “but the real worst part, now that I finally have-is how much of my life now sadly makes sense.”

I’m all set to argue, but before I can say a word, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I can’t ignore this one.

“Where are you?” Tot asks the moment I pick up.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask, knowing that tone and wondering if he found the videotape.

“Y’mean besides the fact that you’re out fawning over some girl you barely know, who you’re just stupidly smitten with?”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Sure it’s not. You’ve got a beautiful girl in a pristine automobile. It’s not a guess, Beecher. It’s science.”

“Tot, can you please stop saying things that make me want to hang up on you?” I plead.

“Actually, no-especially when you hear this: Still no sign of the video, but I was able to track down your man Dustin Gyrich,” he says, referring to the guy who checked out Entick’s Dictionary every time President Wallace visited the Archives. “And, oof… it’s a doozy, Beecher.”

“What? He’s got some kinda record?”

“Oh, he’s definitely got a record,” Tot explains. “I started digging backwards through our pull slips, and from what I can tell… well…” Through the phone, I hear Tot roll his tongue inside his cheek. “Dustin Gyrich has been checking out books and pulling records for over a hundred and fifty years.”

34

They didn’t believe you, did they?” the dead First Lady asked.

Up on the third floor, standing near the edge of the screenedin balcony, Nico watched the powder blue Mustang squirm down the narrow paved road that led toward the guardhouse at the front gate.

“She’s watching me. I can see her,” Nico announced.

“Does that matter?” the First Lady asked.

“It means she’ll be back again. I know she’ll be back.”

“But what you said about the boy… about Beecher… They never believe you.”

Turning to the First Lady, he asked, “Do you believe me?”

“Nico, you shot me with a bullet that sprayed my brain across the front of my car’s dashboard. You took me away from my husband and children and grandchildren. I want to hate you with everything I have left. But this boy Beecher-he knows who he is. We all know who we are, even if we won’t admit it. So when he comes to betray us-”

“He may not betray us. That’s his test. I have to give him his chance.”

“A chance is fine. But if he fails, he better suffer the same punishment you gave me.”

Nico nodded, turning back to the fading Mustang.

“What about the girl?” the First Lady added. “You know who she is, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Nico replied as the car finally turned the corner. “I may be crazy, but I’m not an idiot.”

35

Pulling into Tot’s parking spot in the basement of the Archives, I catch my breath and take a peek in the rearview. Morris the security guy thinks I don’t see him as he peers down from the top of the ramp that leads outside. Like this morning, he did the full search, including the mirror sweep underneath the car. But he’s not gonna find anything-including Clementine, who’s no longer sitting next to me.

It was easy to drop her off half a block away. It’ll be even easier to meet up inside the building. She knows where. Our Rotunda holds original copies of the Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. It also holds the best meeting spot for staffers to sneak their friends off the public tour and into their offices on the working side of the building-without ever having to put their names on the sign-in sheet.

It’s bad enough I’m under Khazei’s microscope. I’m not bringing Clementine-or her dad-there with me.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m playing sacrificial lamb either. Beyond a good parking spot, there’s one other thing waiting for me in the basement.

With the dictionary once again tucked into the back of my slacks, I throw the heavy car door open, climb outside, and stroll right under the eye of the security camera in the corner. It follows me all the way to the double doors that take me to the interior checkerboard floors of the building.

Within the Archives, most people think that basement offices-with no windows and no view-are the worst. But for one office in particular, the lack of sunlight is an absolute necessity.

There’s no sign out front, no room number on the wall, and if you come at it from an angle, you can tell that the glass door, with its horizontal blinds pulled closed, is bulletproof. It needs to be. Forget the vaults upstairs. Here’s where the real treasures are kept.

“Daniel, you in there?” I call out, knocking hard on the glass.

Underneath the door, it’s clear the lights are off. I know his tricks.

“Daniel, I know you’re there. I have something good for you.”

Still no response.

“It’s an old one too…”

Still nothing.

And then…

“How old?” a voice finally calls out.

“Let’s go, Howard Hughes-open the door!” I shout.

There’s a muffled click as the door swings wide, revealing Daniel “the Diamond” Boeckman, the handsomest man in the entire Archives, wearing a crisp white lab coat that I swear doesn’t have a single crease, even in the tag. It’s the same with his manicured nails, perfect tie, and immaculate brushed-back blond locks-there’s not a thread, a hair, a molecule that’s out of place. More importantly, he’s one of the best talents we have in