“You know what those numbers mean, don’t you?” she asks. “You know what books they are.”
I shake my head.
“Beecher, you don’t have to tell me. Honestly, you don’t. But if I can help-”
“They’re not books,” I say.
Making a left and following the parade of cars as it edges toward I-395 and the signs for the 14th Street Bridge, I take another glance at the rearview. SUVs, hybrids, taxis-a few pushy drivers elbow their way in, but for the most part, everything’s in the same place.
“Beecher, I was there. The guy in Preservation said-”
“The Diamond doesn’t know what he-”
“Wait. What’s the diamond?”
“Daniel. In Preservation. That’s his nickname.
She squints as if she’s trying to reread the numbers from memory.
“NC 38.548.19 or WU 773.427,” I repeat for her. “They
“Maybe they left out the second letters on purpose.”
“I thought so too. Then I saw the other listing: WU 773.427.”
“And the W stands for…?”
“That’s the problem. W doesn’t stand for anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“Years ago, every library had their own individual system. But to make things more uniform, when the world switched over to the Library of Congress system, every letter was assigned to a different subject. Q stood for
“So if a book begins with an X-”
“Actually, Xs sometimes mean books that’re held behind the main desk, maybe because they’re racy or dirty-guess where
“Could it be something besides a book?”
“Ten bucks says that’s what Tot’s working on right now,” I explain as I check in the rearview. The towering Archives building is long gone. “I know under the filing system for Government Publications, W is for the old War Department. But WU-it doesn’t exist.”
“So it can’t be anything?”
“Anything can be anything. But whatever it is, it’s not in the regular system, which means it could be in an older library that doesn’t use the system, or a private one, or a-”
“What kind of private one? Like someone’s personal library?” she asks.
I rub my thumbs in tiny circles on the steering wheel, digesting the thought. Huh. With all the running around for Dustin Gyrich, I hadn’t thought about that.
“Y’think the President has his own private library at the White House?” she asks.
I stay silent.
“Beecher, y’hear what I said?”
I nod, but I’m quiet, my thumbs still making tiny circles.
“What’s wrong? Why’re you shutting down like that?” she asks. Before I can say anything, she knows the answer.
“You’re worried you can’t win this,” she adds.
All I hear are Orlando’s words from that first moment we found the book in the SCIF.
“That’s not true. As long as you have that book-and as long as he doesn’t
I start breathing hard. My thumb-circles get faster.
“You okay?” she asks.
I stay silent.
“Beecher, what’s wrong?”
Staring straight ahead, I motion outside. “Bridges. I don’t like bridges.”
She glances to her right as we’re halfway up the incline. But it’s not until the road peaks and we pass the glowing white columns along the back of the Jefferson Memorial that she spots the wide blackness of the Potomac River fanning out ahead of us. The 14th Street Bridge’s wide road doesn’t look like a bridge. But based on the shade of green that now matches my face with hers, she knows it feels like one.
“You’re kidding, right?” she laughs.
I don’t laugh back. “My father died on a bridge.”
“And my father tried to kill the President. Top that.”
“Please stop talking now. I’m trying not to throw up by visualizing that I’m back in colonial times writing letters with a dipped-ink pen.”
“That’s fine, but have you even seen what you’re missing? This view,” she adds, pointing out her window, “you can see the entire back of the Jefferson Memorial.”
“I’ve seen the view. We have the finest shots in the world in our photographic records. We have the early files from when the commission was first discussing it. We even have the original blueprints that-”
“Stop the car.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard. Stop the car.
“Clemmi, I’m not-”
She grips the handle and kicks the car door open. Blasts of cold air create a vacuum that sucks our hair, and a stray napkin on the floor, to the right. The tires of the car
I slam the brakes and an opera of horns finds quick harmony behind us. As I jerk the wheel and pull us along the shoulder of the bridge, the open door of the Mustang nearly scrapes against the concrete barrier.
“Are you mental!?” I shout as we buck to a stop. “This isn’t some eighth grade-!”
“Don’t do that.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t go to eighth grade… don’t talk about something old… don’t bring up old memories that have nothing to do with who we are now.
“The cops are gonna be here in two seconds,” I say, keeping my head down and staring at my crotch to avoid looking over the bridge. “You can’t stop at national monuments.”
“Sure you can. We just did. Now look up and tell me what you see.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. Just try. I know you can.”
