The Inner Circle Read online

  Her father smiles, heading toward me.

  Before I can register anything, Nico’s all over me.

  * * *

  30

  Wasting no time, Nico climbs on my stomach, my chest, his baseball-bat forearm now pressing like a nightstick against my neck. His breath smells like cigarettes and old coins. I try to breathe, but he’s… huuuh… huuuh… he’s on my windpipe… I scream for the guards, but no one knows we’re here.

  “I heard you,” he says, completely calm as his chocolate eyes rattle back and forth, picking apart my face. “In the entryway. I hear things better than you.”

  “G-Get off him!” Clementine shouts, racing out from where he shoved her behind the Dumpster. She plows toward him, ready to push him away.

  “Do. Not,” Nico says, whipping around and grabbing her wrist with one hand, while holding my throat with the other. I’ve never seen anything move so fast.

  Clementine thrashes, fighting to get free. No. She’s not fighting. She just wants him off her. Stumbling backward, her face goes gray and ashen like she’s about to throw up. Back at the Archives, I remember what the pop, pop, pop of the gunshots did to her. She could barely deal with that. She certainly can’t deal with this.

  As she finally breaks free, Clementine falls on her ass. It shifts Nico just enough that he lets go of my throat as my lungs lurch for air.

  “Huuuh… hgggh…”

  He watches my face… studies my eyes as I look to Clementine…

  No. I shouldn’t look at her.

  Too late.

  Glancing to his left, he studies Clementine, then turns back to me.

  “You know him,” he says to Clementine, who’s still on her rear, crabwalking and scrambling to get away. “You brought him here.”

  “I-I didn’t,” she insists. “I swear to—”

  “God’s name. Don’t take it in vain,” Nico warns, his voice just a whisper.

  I wait for her to say something, but from the panic in her eyes… She can’t. She’s done. There’s no reconnecting with this man. All she wants is out of here.

  Nico turns, like a dog spotting a squirrel. His chest rises and falls so quickly. He hears something.

  “Nico…? ” a sharp voice calls from the distance. We can’t see who it is, but the way Nico turns… Whoever’s coming… It’s a guard.

  Clementine crabwalks back even farther. With a leap, Nico climbs to his feet and I get my first clear breath.

  “Nico, get yer ass outta there!” a man shouts in a deep southern accent.

  I stumble to my feet just as a black guard with small shoulders turns the corner.

  “What the hell you doing?” the guard asks.

  Nico’s eyes roll toward him, unafraid. “We were feeding the cats.”

  The guard shoots Nico a look that says, Do I look stupid to you? Then he shoots us a look that says, Why’d you let him take you back there?

  “Public spaces only. You know that,” the guard growls.

  “We’ll just be a minute,” Nico says, gripping Clementine’s shoulder as she rises to her feet.

  “Nico, hands off her. You okay there, miss?” the guard asks.

  “We’re coming up front. To feed the cats,” Nico replies. “The tabby still hasn’t eaten.”

  “Nico, I am not in the mood for your freakiness right now. Shut your face,” the guard says. “Miss, you okay or not?”

  Clementine stiffens. I know she wants to run… to scream… to get away from here, but the last thing she needs is Nico freaking.

  “We’re coming to the front. To feed the cats,” she repeats, her voice barely working.

  Looking at all three of us, the guard studies us, especially Nico. “Public spaces. Everyone. Now!”

  Nico doesn’t move. But as Clementine takes off, he falls in behind her. Right next to me.

  “You came here to protect her,” Nico whispers to me. “To make sure she was okay.”

  I don’t answer.

  “You like her,” Nico adds, calm as ever as we follow the guard out of the alley, toward the front of the building. “I see the way you study her. Is that why you brought a gun with you? To keep her safe?”

  Clementine looks back at me. Just like Nico.

  “A gun?” I ask. “I don’t have a gun.”

  “I can see it,” Nico says, never raising his voice. It’s like he’s part robot. “I can see it tucked under your jacket. In the back.”

  Patting myself around the waist, I quickly realize what he’s talking about. The book. The dictionary. The way it props my jacket up in the back of my pants.

  “No—okay—look, it’s just—It’s a book,” I tell him, taking out the thin, gutted dictionary and showing it to him. “Just a book.”

  But as I hold it out between us, Nico freezes.

  “You wanna feed your cats, feed ’em here,” the guard calls out, pointing us back to the wooden benches in front of the building. No longer trusting Nico, the guard heads toward the building and stands in front of the doors, about fifty feet from us. This time, he’s not letting us go far.

  Clementine heads back toward the main path. She can’t get out of here fast enough.

  Still focused on the book, Nico’s eyes squeeze into two angry slits. “Why do you have that?” he asks.

  “Have what? The book?”

  “Why do you have it!?” Nico growls. “Tell me why you brought it here.”

  “Just calm down,” I say, glancing over at the guard.

  Following my eye, Nico turns to the guard, then sits down on the bench, swallowing every bit of rising anger. However long he’s been in here, he knows the consequences of losing his cool.

  “Is this a test?” he asks. “Is that it? It’s a test for me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, offering him a quick goodbye as I follow after Clementine. “I work in the Archives, and I found this book, so I—”

  “You found the book?” Nico interrupts.

  I freeze, confused.

  Clementine keeps walking.

  Nico’s eyes go wide, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “Of course you found it. Of course,” he says. “Why else would you be here?”

  “Hold on. You know this book?” I challenge.

  “Don’t you see? That’s why she found me,” Nico says, motioning to his daughter.

  Clementine stops, utterly confused—and for the first time, looks directly at Nico.

  “And that’s why you followed,” Nico says, pointing to me. “God knows how I was misled. But God provides…”

  “Nico, you’re not making sense,” I say.

  “The book. To bring that book,” Nico insists. “The Lord knows my belief is just in Him. I’m no longer fooled by ancient stories of devil worship or secret cults or—or—or—This isn’t—This has nothing to do with me. It’s not a test for me,” Nico insists, his voice picking up speed. He points at my chest. “It’s a test for you!”

  I glance over my shoulder. To the guard, it just looks like we’re talking.

  “What kind of test?” Clementine asks, hesitantly walking toward us.

  “This dictionary. Entick’s Dictionary,” Nico says, now locked just on me. “You work in the Archives. That’s why you smell of wet books. Don’t you know your history? This was the book George Washington used.”

  “Time out. You do know this book?” I ask again.

  “It’s the one Washington used. To test the loyalties.”

  “The loyalties of what?”

  Stretching his long spider legs out, Nico creeps off the bench, stands up straight, and kicks his shoulders back. “What else?” he asks, eyeing the guard and smiling. “For the Culper Ring.”

  31

  Say again?” Clementine stutters.

  “The Culper Ring,” Nico says. “When George Washington was—” He cuts himself off, but this time doesn’t look back at the guard. He looks at me. His eyes flick back and forth. “You of all people… You know who they are,
don’t you?”

  “Me? Why should I know?” I ask.

  He studies my face. Like he’s looking for something no one else can see. “To work in the Archives… You know. I know you know.”

  This time I don’t respond.

  “Is he right? Beecher, please… say something,” Clementine pleads, more unnerved than ever. “You know, don’t you? You know what this Culper Ring is.”

  “Not what. Who,” Nico says. “The strength was in the who. That’s why they saved us,” he explains. “Back during the Revolutionary War, the British were slaughtering us. Not just physically. Mentally too. War is mental.”

  War’s not the only thing mental, I think to myself.

  “If you know, please… why’re you not saying anything?” Clementine asks, looking just at me and making me realize just how unsettling—and unlikely—all these coincidences are to her.

  “I don’t know,” I insist.

  “You just said—”

  “I’ve heard of them. I work in Old Military—of course I’ve heard of them—but all I know are the basics: They were George Washington’s private spy group. He personally put the group together.”

  “You know why he brought them together,” Nico challenges. “Why are you so fearful to show your knowledge? Is it her? Or are you uncomfortable around me?”

  I again stay silent. Clementine knows he’s the one I’m worried about. Indeed, my mind tracks back to the crazy Freemason/Founding Fathers conspiracy that caused Nico to shoot the President all those years ago. Nico was convinced Thomas Jefferson and the other Founders were trying to rule the world, and it was his job to save us.

  The guy’s got a PhD in crackpot history, so the last thing I need is to add another gallon of crazy to his tank. The problem is, like before, the real last thing I need is to rile him for no reason. “Okay, just listen,” I say. “Back during the Revolution, George Washington was frustrated that our side couldn’t keep a secret—our plans kept getting intercepted by the British, since they knew who all our military spies were,” I continue, glancing back at the guard, who’s watching us, but seems satisfied all is under control. “And that’s when Washington decided to stop relying on the military, and instead put together this group of regular civilians…”

  “That’s the key part,” Nico says. “The Culper Ring weren’t soldiers. They were normal people—a group no one could possibly know—even Washington didn’t know their names. That way they could never be infiltrated—no one, not even the commander in chief, knew who was in it. But this Ring—they were regular people,” he adds, standing over me as his chocolate eyes drill into mine. “Just… just like us.”

  I scootch back on the bench, still wondering whether he’s being extra crazy because of me, or he’s just permanently extra crazy. Next to me, Clementine’s just as worried. She’s done asking questions.

  “So these guys in the Culper Ring,” I say to Nico, “I still don’t understand what they have to do with Entick’s Dictionary.”

  “Ask yourself,” Nico says, pointing to me.

  “Okay, this is just silly now,” I shoot back. “I have no idea what the Culper Ring did with a dictionary.”

  “You know,” Nico says. “Deep down, you should know.”

  “How could I possibly—? What the hell is going on?”

  “Nico, please… he’s telling the truth—he doesn’t know what the book is for—we don’t have a clue,” Clementine says, locking eyes with her father. When Nico stares back, most people can’t help but look away. She stays with him.

  To Nico, it matters. Her glance is as mesmerizing as his own. He nods to himself slowly, then faster.

  “The book—the dictionary—that’s how George Washington communicated with his Culper Ring,” he finally says.

  “Communicated how?” I ask. “There’s nothing in the dictionary but empty pages.”

  Nico studies the guard, but not for long. “You can’t see the wind, but we know it’s there. Just like God. We know it’s there. We feel it. Not everything can be seen so easily.”

  I flip the dictionary open and the only thing there is the handwritten inscription.

  Exitus

  Acta

  Probat

  The other pages—the few that haven’t been torn out…“Everything’s blank,” I say.

  “Of course they’re blank,” Nico replies, his chest rising and falling even faster. He doesn’t care about the guard anymore. “This is George Washington you’re trying to outsmart,” he adds, now eyeing the dictionary. “He knew they’d be looking for it. That’s why he always wrote it with his medicine.”

  “Medicine?”

  “That was his code name for it,” Nico says. “That’s what he called his invisible ink.”

  * * *

  32

  You don’t believe me,” Nico says, fine-tuning his gaze at me. “Of course you’d think like that.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I ask. “You don’t even know me.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re very wrong!” he growls, his chest pumping like wild.

  “You got three minutes!” the guard calls out behind us, just to make sure we know he’s watching. “Make them count.”

  Nico psssts at the two tuxedo cats, who continue to ignore him.

  Clementine knows I’m not going anywhere. Not now. She stands there, still facing us. But she won’t come closer. She’s heard enough. She wants to go.

  “Tell me,” Nico says excitedly, sitting on his own hands as he returns to the bench. “When you found that book… for you to bring it here. You of all people…”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I scold.

  “Benjy!” Clementine pleads.

  “Benjy?” Nico asks, scanning my ID that hangs around my neck. “Is that your name?”

  “My name’s Beecher.”

  His eyes recheck my ID, which lists my full name in impossibly small type. He has no problem reading it. White, Beecher Benjamin. He starts to laugh. A strong, breathy laugh through his gritted teeth. “It couldn’t be more perfect, could it?”

  He’s no longer excited; now he’s absolutely giddy.

  “Yesyesyes. This is it, isn’t it?” he asks, his head turned fully to the left. Like he’s talking to someone who’s not there. “This is the proof…”

  “Nico…” I say.

  “… this proves it, right? Now we can…”

  “Nico, if you need help, I can get help for you.”

  “You are,” he snaps. “You’re helping me. Can you not see that? To follow her here… to come see me… every life… all our lives are lived for a reason.”

  “Nico, you said it’s a test for me,” I say. “Tell me why it’s a test for me.”

  Across from us, a gray tabby cat leaps up, landing delicately on the edge of an outdoor metal garbage can. There’s not a single sound from the impact.

  Nico still flinches.

  “That’s it, Nico! Time’s up!” the guard shouts, quickly approaching. “Say goodbye…”

  “How do you know this book?” I challenge. “What the heck is going on?”

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” Nico replies, calmer than ever and still sitting on his hands. “I don’t know who’s using that dictionary, or what they have planned. But for you to be the one who found it… such a man of books… and the name Benjamin… like your predecessor—”

  “Wait. My predecessor? Who’s my predecessor?”

  Nico pauses, again turning to his left. His lips don’t move, but I see him nodding. I don’t know who his imaginary friend is, but I know when someone’s asking permission.

  “We all have souls, Benjamin. And our souls have missions. Missions that we repeat, over and over, until we conquer them.”

  “Y’mean like reincarnation?” Clementine asks, earnestly trying to understand, though she still won’t take a single step toward us.

  “Nico! Let’s go!” the guard yells. “Now!”

  He barely notices.
r />   “I can see who you are, Benjamin. I can see you just like the Indian chiefs who saw George Washington as a boy. They knew who he was. They knew he was chosen. Just as I knew when I saw you.”

  Oh, then that makes far more sense, I think to myself. “So now that we’re all reincarnated, lemme guess—I’m George Washington?” I ask.

  “No, no, no—not at all,” Nico says. “You’re the traitor.”

  “Nico, I’m taking mail privileges first, then the juice cart!” the guard threatens.

  Nico pops from his seat and strolls toward the guard at the front of the building. But as he circles past us, he glances back over his shoulder, his voice barely a whisper. “All these years… haven’t you seen the battles I’ve been chosen for? I’m George Washington,” Nico insists, tapping a thumb at his own chest. “But you… I know you, boy. And I know how this ends. This is your test. I’m George Washington. And you’re Benedict Arnold.”

  33

  “… and now you know why they call it an insane asylum,” I say, giving an angry yank to the steering wheel and tugging Tot’s old Mustang into a sharp right out of the parking lot.

  “Can we please just go?” Clementine begs.

  “Benedict Arnold? He hears my middle name is Benjamin and suddenly I’m Benedict Arnold? He could’ve picked Benjamin Franklin or Benjamin Harrison. I’d even have accepted Benjamin Kubelsky.”

  “Who’s Benjamin Kubelsky?”

  “Jack Benny,” I tell her as I pump the gas and our wheels kick spitballs of slush behind us. “But for your dad to look me in the face and say that I somehow have the soul of one of history’s worst traitors—not to mention him trying to eat us…”

  “Don’t call him that.”

  “Wha?”

  “My dad,” she pleads. “Please don’t call him my dad.”

  I turn at the words. As we follow the main road back toward the front gate at St. Elizabeths, Clementine stares into her side mirror, watching the hospital fade behind us. The way her arms are crossed and her legs are curled on the seat so her body forms a backward S—to anyone else, she looks pissed. But I’ve seen this look before. It’s the same one she had back in the Archives, when she didn’t think I was looking. Over the past twenty-four hours, the real Clementine keeps showing her face, reminding me that pain isn’t something she works through. It’s something she hides.