The Inner Circle Read online

  “How’s it look?” she asks.

  “Truthfully? Kinda horrible,” I say, eyeing the curves of the marble stonework. “It’s just the back. You can’t see the good part with the statue.”

  “But it’s real,” she says, looking over at the memorial. “And at least you saw it for yourself. Not in a book. Not in some old record. You saw it here—now—in the freezing cold, from the side of a bridge, in a way that no tourists ever experience it.”

  My fists still clutch the steering wheel. I keep my head down, again refusing to look outside. But I am listening.

  “That was the part I liked,” I say.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I kinda am,” I admit as my heart begins to gallop. “I’d never seen it from this angle.”

  Turning away from the Jefferson Memorial, Clementine glances my way—just a bit as she peers over her shoulder—and looks back at me. Our eyes lock. She won’t let herself smile—she’s still making her point. But I see the appreciation for the trust.

  “She did dump me,” I blurt.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My fiancée. Iris. You asked before. She did dump me.”

  “I figured,” she says. “It’s pretty obvious.”

  “But it wasn’t for another guy.”

  “For another girl?” Clementine asks.

  “I wish. Then I would’ve at least had a good story.”

  This is the part where she’s supposed to ask, What happened? But she doesn’t.

  My head’s still down. My hands still clutch the wheel. As I relive the moment, she sees the pain I’m in.

  “Beecher, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to say it. It really doesn’t matter.”

  “She dumped me for the worst reason of all,” I say as the sirens continue to get closer. “For absolutely no reason at all.”

  “Beecher…”

  I clench my teeth to keep it all in. “I mean, if she fell in love with someone else, or I did something wrong, or I let her down in some unforgivable way… That, I’d understand, right? But instead, she said… it wasn’t anything. Not a single thing. It was just me. I was nice. I was kind. We just… she didn’t see the connection anymore.” I look up at Clementine, whose mouth is slightly open. “I think she just thought I was boring. And the cruelest part is, when someone says something mean about you, you know when they’re right.”

  Watching me from the passenger seat, Clementine barely moves.

  “Can I tell you something?” she finally offers. “Iris sounds like a real shitwad.”

  I laugh, almost choking on the joy it brings.

  “And can I tell you something else, Beecher? I don’t think you’re in love with the past. I think you’re scared of the future.”

  I lift my head, turning toward her in the seat next to me. When we were leaving St. Elizabeths, Clementine said that the hardest part of seeing Nico was that so much of her life suddenly made sense. And I know I’m overstating it, and being melodramatic, and rebounding something fierce just because we raised the specter of Iris—but ever since Clementine returned to my life… life doesn’t make complete sense. But it definitely makes more sense than it used to.

  I turn toward the passenger seat and lean in toward Clementine. She freezes. But she doesn’t pull away. I lean even closer, moving slowly, my fingers brushing her cheek and touching the wisps of her short black hair. As my lips part against hers, I’m overcome by her taste, a mix of caramel and a pinch of peach from her lip gloss.

  There are great kissers in this world.

  I’m not one of them.

  I’m not sure Clementine is one of them. But she’s damn near close.

  “You got better since Battle of the Bands,” she whispers as she takes a quick breath.

  “You remember that?”

  “C’mon, Beecher… how could I forget my first kiss?” she asks, the last few syllables vibrating off my lips.

  Within seconds, I’m no longer leaning toward her. She’s leaning toward me.

  I’m overwhelmed by her scent… by the way her short black hair skates against my cheek… by the way her hand tumbles down my chest and slides so close to everything I’m feeling in my pants.

  Behind us, a flood of red lights pummels the back window. I barely heard the siren from the police car, which is now two cars behind us, trying to get us moving.

  Taking a breath, I slowly pull away.

  “Feeling any better?” she asks.

  “Definitely better. Though also pretty terrified that we’re still on this bridge.”

  She offers a quick laugh. But as she settles back in her seat, she knots her eyebrows, offering a brand-new look—a sad silent confession that I’ve never seen before. Like yet another new door has opened—I’m starting to realize she’s got dozens of them—and I finally get to see what’s inside. “We’re all terrified,” she says as we race ahead and leave the bridge behind. “That’s how you know you’re alive, Beecher. Welcome to the present.”

  “Please make next… left turn,” the female GPS voice announces through my cell phone over an hour later. “Destination is… straight ahead… on the left.”

  “Clemmi, we’re here,” I call out as I hit the brakes at the red light, waiting to turn onto her narrow block. As I’ve done at every stop since the moment we left the highway, I check the rearview. No one in sight.

  When we first arrived in the small city of Winchester, Virginia, a huge brick residence hall and an overabundance of kids with backpacks told me we were in a college town. But as with any college town, there’s the good part of the college town, and the bad part of the college town. The closer we weaved toward Clementine’s block, those students gave way to boarded-up row houses, far too many abandoned factories, and even a pawn shop. Let’s be clear: The good part of town never gets the pawn shop.

  “Clemmi, we’re… I think we’re here,” I add as I turn onto the long dark block that’s lined with a set of beat-up skinny row houses. Half the streetlights are busted. At the very last second, I also notice a taxi, its dim lights turning onto the block that we just left.

  Two years ago, the Archives hosted a brown bag lunch for an author who was presenting a book about the effects of fear and its role in history. He said that when you go down a dark alley and you feel that tingling across the back of your neck, that’s not just a bad feeling, that’s a biological gift from God—the Gift of Fear, he called it. He said when you ignore that gift—when you go down the dark alley and say, Y’know, I’m sure it’ll be okay—that’s when you find real pain.

  Next to me, while I’m still replaying our kiss, Clementine is fast asleep in the passenger seat, exhausted from the long ride as her chin rests on her clavicle. It’s late enough and quiet enough that when I listen closely, I can hear the rise and fall of her breathing. But as I squint to read house numbers and pass one home with a door off its hinges, and another with a spray-painted sign across the front that reads PVC pipes only, no copper inside, all I hear right now is God’s biological gift telling me this is not where I want to be.

  Behind us, a car turns onto the block, then changes its mind and disappears.

  “Destination,” the GPS voice announces. “You have arrived.”

  Leaning forward, I double-check the house numbers: 355. This is it.

  With a jerk of the wheel, I pull into the nearest open spot, right in front of a freestanding row house with a saggy old sofa on the front porch. I remember having a house like this. Back in college.

  As I shift the car into park, my hand knocks into Clementine’s purse, which sits between the bucket seats and opens its mouth at the impact. Inside, I spot the edge of a purple leather wallet, a ring of keys, and a single sheet of paper that makes me smile. Even with just the light from the lamppost, there’s no missing what’s on it—it’s young me and Clementine, in a photocopied black-and-white version of the framed photo she gave me earlier today. She gave me the color one. But she kept a copy. For herself.

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nbsp; “Mary Mother of Christ! What you do to my girl?” a cigarette-stained voice calls from outside.

  I jump at the noise, but as I scan the block, I don’t see—

  “You! You heard me!”

  The sound takes me up the cracked brick steps, to the front door of Clementine’s house. The screen door’s shut, but thanks to the glow of the TV inside, I see the outline of an old woman with a bob of white hair.

  “She said she’d call me back—she never called me back!” the woman shouts, shoving the screen door open and storming out into the cold wearing a faded pink sweatsuit. She hobbles down the stairs.

  Right at us.

  49

  Clemmi, this would be a good time to get up…” I call out, shaking her awake. As I kick the car door open, the woman—in her late sixties, maybe seventies—is already halfway down the stairs. She’s a thin and surprisingly tall woman whose sharp features and natural elegance are offset by the slight hunch that comes with age.

  “And I’m freezing!” she yells. “Where the hell you been?”

  “Nan, you need to get inside,” Clementine pleads, snapping awake and racing from the car.

  Nan. Nana. Grandmother. Clemmi’s grandmother.

  “Don’t you tell me where to go!” the grandmother explodes, narrowing her glassy blue eyes, which seem to glow in the night. As she reaches the curb, she shoves a plastic bottle of pills at Clementine’s chest. “With dinner! You know I take my medicine with dinner!” Turning to me, she warns, “Don’t you think I’m talkin’ ’bout drugs either! Rectal cancer. I got cancer in my rectum,” she says, patting the side of her leg. I didn’t notice it at first. The lump that’s hidden inside her sweatpants. A colostomy bag.

  “What kinda person leaves ya with no way to open your medicine?”

  “Nan, I’m sorry…”

  At first, I assume it’s Clementine’s way to soften Nan’s outrage, but the way Clementine won’t look her in the eye… She’s terrified of this woman.

  On our far left, at the very end of the block, there’s a loud clink-clink. Like a beer bottle spinning on concrete. Clementine and her grandmother don’t even notice. I tell myself it’s a cat.

  “Of course you’re sorry,” Nan growls, snatching the now open prescription vial from Clementine’s hands. Again turning to me, she adds, “Who’re you anyway? You the one who did this to her?”

  “Did what?” I ask.

  “Nan!” Clemmi pleads.

  “Y’know what this chemo costs? Two hundred dollars a bottle—and that’s with insurance!”

  “Nan!”

  Nan stops right there, locking back on Clemmi. “Did you just raise your voice at me?”

  “Don’t talk to him like that.”

  Clearly smoldering, Nan slides her jaw off-center, opens her mouth, and pops her jawbone like she’s cocking a gun. It freaks the hell outta me. From the look on Clementine’s face, I’m not the only one.

  “I know you want me dead,” Nan says.

  “I don’t want you dead,” Clementine pleads, cutting past her on the stairs. “If I wanted you dead, I would’ve never agreed to look after you.”

  “Look after me? I’m not a cat! This is my house! You live with me!”

  At the end of the block, a car door slams. I squint, cursing how far it is. No way was that a cat.

  “Um… Clemmi,” I try to interrupt.

  “I’m not fighting with you, Nan. Not tonight.”

  “Why? Because your boyfriend’s here in his nice fresh suit? You’re worried about him seeing the real you—the girl that lost her job at the radio station and is lucky to live with an old lady?”

  Clementine freezes. Nan stands up straight, well aware of the damage.

  “You didn’t even tell him you lost your job, did you?” Nan asks almost as if she’s enjoying herself. “Lemme guess—you’re still trying to impress him.”

  “Will you stop?” Turning to me, Clementine adds, “I swear, I was gonna tell you—I just figured one lie at a time—”

  “I absolutely understand,” Nan interrupts. “A girl in your condition—”

  “Nan!” Clemmi explodes, her voice echoing up the dark block. “Beecher, I’m sorry—I really am. She gets mean when it’s late.”

  “Hold on, this is Beecher?” Nan asks. “This is the one you used to have the crush on? He’s a nothing—look at him!”

  “You know nothing about him!” Clementine threatens.

  “I can see right now…!”

  “No. You can’t see anything. And y’know why?” Clementine growls, turning back and leaning in close on the staircase. “Because even on your very best day, you’re not half the person he is. Not even close,” she insists as Nan takes a small step backward, down to the lower step.

  “Beecher, I’m sorry—I’ll call you tomorrow,” Clementine calls out as she tugs her grandmother by the arm. “Nan, let’s go.”

  Anxious to disappear, Clementine races up the stairs. Her grandmother’s about to follow, but at the last moment the old woman turns back to me, feeling my stare. “What? You being judgmental? Say it already.”

  “You’re lucky you have her,” I tell her.

  Her jaw shifts off-center, and I again wait for the pop. The only thing that comes is her low whisper, each syllable puffing with a tiny blast of cold air. “Go lick yourself, Dudley Do-Right. If it wasn’t for you knocking her up, she wouldn’t even be in this mess.”

  A buzzing in my ears becomes deafening.

  “Wh-What?”

  “You think I’m blind as well as dumb? Would you really be coming back here if she didn’t have you by the scrotum with this kid thing? I swear to Christ, they keep getting dumber.”

  “Nan! Come inside!” Clementine calls out.

  With a final angry glare—a protective glare—the old woman makes her way back up the brick staircase, the colostomy bag swaying like a pendulum inside her pant leg.

  For a moment, I just stand there.

  Pregnant.

  If it’s true… it’d certainly explain why Clemmi was nauseous before—and more important, why now, of all moments, she suddenly started looking for her father.

  Still, as it all sets in, as I realize where I am—alone… in the dark… with no one around—I need to get out of here.

  Opening the door and sliding inside Tot’s car, I notice a black leatherette glove in the passenger seat. The fingers are thin. Definitely Clementine’s.

  I look up the brick staircase. Both the screen door and the main door are shut. But I can still see the glow of the light inside.

  I should leave her alone. She’s had enough embarrassment for one night. But if I drop it off now… It’ll only take a second. I can even make sure she’s okay.

  I elbow the car door open.

  As I hop outside, a hard shove drills me from behind, knocking me face-forward to the pavement. I fight to stop the fall, but my arms—zzzzppp, zzzzppp—they’re pinned… handcuffed… Whoever it is, he’s strong. My arms are pinned behind my back.

  Help! Someone help, I want to yell as my chin stabs the concrete and the wind’s knocked out of me. A sharp knee digs into my back and long strong fingers stuff a smelly rag in my mouth. The smell… It’s awful… Like burnt hair.

  I try to spit out the rag, but the strong fingers grip my mouth and pinch my nose, making me take an even deeper breath.

  Facedown on the pavement, I twist like a fish, trying to fight… to get free… to get a look at my attacker. A second knee stabs my back.

  Dizziness sets in…

  No, don’t pass out!

  I twist again and he shoves my face down, pinning my left cheek to the cold pavement, which now seems soft and warm. Like it’s melting. The world seesaws and continues to tumble.

  The very last thing I see, in the reflection of the Mustang’s shiny hubcap, is an upside-down, funhouse-mirror view of my attacker.

  * * *

  50

  I’m awake.

  I was unconscious, n
ow I’m awake.

  It takes nothing to snap between the two. No time.

  My eyes open, and I’m staring at bright yellow flowers. Sunflowers. My sister loves sunflowers.

  I blink quickly, struggling to adjust to the light.

  It’s light. Is… is it daytime?

  No, the curtains are closed. The light’s in here.

  There’s the hum of central heating.

  My brain’s swirling. Is Clemmi…? Yeah… I remember… Clemmi’s pregnant.

  Nuhhh.

  Clemmi’s pregnant and my chin hurts. It hurts bad.

  My shoulders are sore. A hard tug tells me why. My arms are still handcuffed behind my back.

  But as I look down, what catches my eye is the chair I’m sitting in. It’s got armrests. Upholstered fancy armrests. With nailheads.

  I look back at the sunflowers. They sit in a fine Asian vase on a beautiful hand-carved coffee table.

  In the Archives, I’ve read the top-secret reports of where the CIA brought all the terror suspects after 9/11. It wasn’t a well-appointed room like this.

  But even without the handcuffs, drugging, and kidnapping, I’m starting to think this is worse.

  I glance around, trying to figure out how long I’ve been out. It looks dark through the closed curtains, but it could just as easily be early morning. I search the room for a clock. Nothing. In fact, the more I look around—at the little wastebasket, at the built-in library, where every leather-bound book is the exact same size—the whole room is so perfect, it makes me wonder if I’m in some kinda hotel, or… maybe this is someone’s private SCIF…

  On my left, I spot a framed black-and-white photograph of the White House covered with scaffolding and surrounded by dump trucks. It’s from 1949, back when they were doing the construction that added the Truman Balcony.

  Please tell me I’m not in the White House…

  There’s a flush of a toilet behind me.

  I twist in my seat, frantically following the sound. Someone’s in the bathroom. But what grabs my attention is the sliding mirrored door of the closet that sits next to it.

  The closet’s empty. No clothes… no shoes… not even a set of hangers.