The Inner Circle Page 36

  “Why do you think I brought it? Why does anyone carry around oral chemo? It’s mine, Beecher. The medicine is for me!”

  My eyebrows knot. Dallas shakes his head.

  “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

  “Orlando… He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Clementine stutters. “When Orlando opened that SCIF and handed me his coffee… I thought the chemo would just… I thought he was in the Plumbers—that he was watching me for the President… that they’d found out about me. I thought it would knock him out… but I never thought it’d…”

  “What do you mean, the medicine’s for you?” I ask.

  “Ask yourself the real question, Beecher: After all these years, why now? Why’d I pick now to track down my father?” Her chin is still down, but she finally looks up at me. “They diagnosed me eight months ago,” she says, her hands—and the gun—now shaking. “I’m dying, Beecher. I’m dying from… back when Nico was in the army… I’m dying from whatever they did to my father.”

  105

  She’s a liar,” Dallas insists.

  “They changed him!” Clementine shouts. “Whatever the army put in Nico… that’s what made him insane!”

  “You see that, Beecher? It’s pure delusion,” Dallas says.

  “It’s not delusion,” Clementine says. “Ask him, Beecher. He’s in the Plumbers, isn’t he?”

  “I’m not in the Plumbers,” Dallas insists.

  “Don’t let him confuse you,” Clementine says. “I knew it when I saw him at the cemetery. But when I first found out about Eight-ball… ask him what I was blackmailing Wallace for. It wasn’t money. Even when they nibbled and replied to my message in that rock at the graveyard—I never once asked for money.”

  “Is that true?” I say to Dallas.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Tell him!” Clementine growls, her hand suddenly steady as her finger tightens around the trigger. “He knows you’re working with the President and the barber and all the rest of his ass-kissers who’ve been hiding the truth for years!”

  Dallas turns my way, but never takes his eyes off Clementine’s gun.

  “She asked for a file,” Dallas finally says. “She wanted Nico’s army file.”

  “His real file,” Clementine clarifies. “Not the fake one they dismissed him with.” Reading my confusion, Clementine explains, “My mother told me the stories. She told me how Nico… she told me how he was before he entered the army. How when they were younger… how she used to keep the phone on her pillow and he’d sing her to sleep. But when he finally came home… when he left the army—”

  “He didn’t leave the army. They kicked him out—for trying to use a staple remover to take out one of his superiors’ eyes,” Dallas says.

  “No—they kicked him out because of what they put inside him… what they turned him into,” Clementine shoots back. “Have you even bothered to read his fake file? It says he got transferred from army sniper school in Fort Benning, Georgia, to the one in Tennessee. But I checked. The address in Tennessee was for an old army medical center. Nico wasn’t just a sniper! He was a patient—and he wasn’t the only one!” she adds, looking right at me. “You know another one! You know him personally!”

  “What’re you talking about?” I stutter.

  “My mother—before she died—she told me, okay. You think they came to our tiny town and just took one person? They took a group of them—a bunch of them. So you can think I’m as crazy as you want, but I’m not the only one with the results of their experiments in me, Beecher. You have it in you too! You have it from what they did to your father!”

  I shake my head, knowing she’s nuts. “My dad died. He died on the way to the recruitment office. He never even got a chance to sign up.”

  “And you believed that. You believed that because that’s what they told you, okay. But he was there. He and Nico and the others… they were enlisted long before anybody knew it. Your father was alive, Beecher. And if I’m right, he still may be!”

  My lips go dry. My stomach crumples, folding in on itself. She’s a liar. I know she’s a liar…

  “You can look for yourself,” she adds. “Ask them for the records, okay!” It’s the third time she’s ended a sentence with the word okay, and every time she uses it, every time her voice cracks, it’s like a fracture, a faultline that’s splintering through her, threatening to undo everything she always keeps so neatly packed in place. “My mom told me—the experiments were all going right—until everything went wrong—!”

  “Do not listen to her!” Dallas says. “She spent months planning this—months to manipulate you and blackmail us. She’s an even bigger psychopath than Nico!”

  “Beecher, do you know what kind of cancer they found in me?” Clementine asks as I replay the last words Nico said to me back at the hospital: Nico begged God to make Clementine different from him. He wanted her to be different. “The kind of cancer no one’s ever heard of. Ever,” she adds. “Every doctor… every specialist… they said there’re over one hundred and fifty types of cancer in the world, but when they look at mine, they can’t even classify it. The mutation’s so big, one doctor described it as a DNA spelling mistake. That’s what my body is. That’s what yours may be! A spelling mistake!”

  “Beecher, I know you want to believe her,” Dallas interrupts. “But listen to me—no matter what she’s saying—we can still help you walk away from this.”

  “You think he’s stupid!? Your Plumbers caused this!” Clementine yells.

  “Will you stop?” Dallas insists. “I’m not in the Plumbers—I’m in the Culper Ring! I’m one of the good guys!”

  “No,” a brand-new voice—a man’s deep voice—announces behind us. “You’re not.”

  There’s a hushed click.

  And a muffled boom.

  A small burst of blood pops from Dallas’s chest. Lurching backward, Dallas looks down, though he still doesn’t register the fresh gunshot wound and the blood puddle that’s flowering at his chest.

  Even before we spin to face his attacker, I know who pulled the trigger: the one man who benefits most from having all of us out here, in one place—the man who will do anything to get this file—and who’s spent nearly three decades proving his loyalty while protecting his dearest friend.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Dr. Palmiotti says, his eyes burning as he turns the corner and points his gun at us. “You had to know this was coming.”

  106

  That’s not… No…” Dallas stutters, barely able to stand and still not registering his wound. “You told me… you said I was in the Culper Ring—”

  Ignoring him, Palmiotti steps in close and snatches the file from Dallas’s hands. “You need to know you were serving your country, son.”

  Dallas shakes his head, his body still in shock.

  I try to take a breath as the stale air fills my lungs. Tot had it only part right. Yes, Dallas was in the Plumbers. But he didn’t know he was in the Plumbers.

  “Beecher, you see what these people are capable of?” Clementine snaps as all the doubt, all the sadness, all the weepiness she just showed us is suddenly gone. For the past few days, every time Clementine had a mood shift or revealed a new side of herself, I kept saying it was another door opening inside her. She had dozens of rooms. But as I look at her now, I finally understand that it doesn’t matter how many rooms she has. It doesn’t matter how striking the rooms are. Or how well they’re decorated. Or how mesmerizing they are to walk through. What matters is that every one of her rooms—even the very best one—has a hell of a light switch. And it flips. Instantly. Without any damn warning. Just like her father.

  On my left, Dallas looks down at his chest, where the blood puddle has blossomed, soaking his shirt. His legs sway, beginning to buckle.

  Wasting no time, Palmiotti turns his gun toward me. I see the blackness of the barrel. I wait for him to make some final threat, but it doesn’t come. “My apologies, Beecher,” he says as he
pulls the trigger and—

  Ftttt.

  The air twists with a brutal hiss.

  Palmiotti doesn’t notice. Not until he looks down and spots the singed black hole, like a cigarette burn, that smolders in his forearm. A thin drip of blood begins to run down.

  It’s not like the movies. There’s no wisp of smoke twirling from the barrel. There’s just Clementine. And her gun.

  She saved me.

  Palmiotti stands there, stunned. His gun drops from his hand, bounces along the floor, and makes a dull thud near Dallas’s feet.

  Dallas can barely stand, but he knows this is his chance. His last chance. He spots Palmiotti’s gun.

  But before Dallas can even bend for it, he grabs his own chest. He’s bleeding bad. His legs buckle and he crumples, empty-handed, to the dusty floor.

  “I’m leaving now,” Clementine says, keeping her gun on Palmiotti and once again tightening her finger around the trigger. “You can hand me that file now, please.”

  107

  Dallas…! ” I yell, sliding on my knees and trying to catch him as he falls forward.

  I’m not nearly fast enough. I grab his waist, but his face knocks with a scary thud against the concrete.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Clementine holding her gun inches from Palmiotti’s face. Without a word, she plucks the file from his grip.

  “Dallas, can you hear me!?” I call out, rolling him on his back.

  “I-I didn’t know, Beecher…” Dallas stutters, holding his chest, his eyes hopping back and forth, unable to focus. “I swear I didn’t know…”

  “Dallas, listen—”

  “You shoot him back!” Dallas interrupts, reaching out and pointing to Palmiotti’s gun. He wriggles—and reaches all the way out, finally grabbing it.

  Next to us, Palmiotti’s bent over, dealing with his own pain and putting maximum pressure on the bullet wound in his arm.

  Dallas fights hard to shove the gun in my hand, but his movement’s too jerky. The gun bounces off my wrist, crashing to the ground.

  I pick it up just as Clementine races at us.

  Clementine stops. Her ginger brown eyes lock with my own. She has no idea what I’m thinking. No idea if I’m capable of picking this gun up and shooting her with it. But whatever she sees in my eyes, she knows she has no chance of making it all the way to the front entrance of the cave—all the way down the long well-populated main cavern—without us screaming murder. Switching directions, and not seeming the least bit worried, she tucks the file in the back of her pants and takes off deeper into the cave.

  In my lap, Dallas is barely moving. Barely fighting. “Beecher, why can’t I see in my left eye?” he cries, his voice crashing.

  As the blood seeps out beneath him, I know there’s only one thing he needs.

  A doctor.

  “You need to help him,” I say, raising my gun and pointing it toward Palmiotti.

  But Palmiotti’s gone. He’s already racing to the back of the cave, chasing after Clementine.

  “Palmiotti, do not leave him!” I yell.

  “She has the file, Beecher! Even you don’t want her having that on the President!”

  “Get back here…!” I insist.

  There’s a quick drumroll of footsteps.

  Palmiotti—and Clementine—are long gone.

  108

  Dallas’s head is in my lap. He struggles to sit up. He can’t.

  “D-Don’t you dare sit here and nurse me,” he hisses, his breathing quick, but not out of control. “What Palmiotti did to us… you take that, Beecher!” He motions to Palmiotti’s gun. “You take that and do what’s right!”

  Behind me, I still hear the echo of Palmiotti chasing after Clementine. I watch Dallas’s chest rise and fall, making sure he’s taking full breaths.

  “Beecher, y-you need to do what’s right,” Dallas begs.

  But as he fights to get the words out, the only thing I hear is Tot’s voice in my head. Two days ago, he said that history is a selection process—that it chooses moments and events, and even people—that it hands them a situation that they shouldn’t be able to overcome, and that it’s in those moments, in that fight, that people find out who they are. It was a good speech. And for two days now, I’ve assumed history had chosen me.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  History doesn’t choose individual people.

  History chooses everyone. Every day.

  The only question is: How long will you ignore the call?

  I’ve been waiting for Tot… for Dallas… for the Culper Ring… for just about anyone to save me. But there’s only one person who can do that.

  “I got it,” I tell him.

  Holding Palmiotti’s gun, and still thinking about what Clementine said about my dad, I glance to my right. On the wall, there’s a small red fire alarm built into the rock. I hop to my feet and jab my elbow into the glass. The alarm screams, sending a high-pitched howl swirling through the cave.

  That should bring Dallas the help he needs far faster than anything I can do. But as I check to make sure he’s still conscious…

  “I’m fine…” Dallas whispers, drowned out by the alarm. “I’m fine. Go…”

  Far behind us, there’s a low rumble as hundreds of employees follow their protocol and pour into the cave’s main artery, ready to evacuate. I barely hear it—especially as my own heartbeat pulses in my ears.

  This isn’t history.

  But it is my life. And my father’s. What she said…

  I need to know.

  Running full speed with a gun in my hand, I turn the corner and head deeper into the cave.

  Clementine’s out there. So is Palmiotti.

  I know they’re waiting for me.

  But they have no idea what’s coming.

  109

  Get back here…!” Beecher’s voice bounced off the jagged walls as Palmiotti picked up speed and barreled deeper into the cave.

  Using his tie as a makeshift tourniquet, Palmiotti knotted it twice around his forearm. Luckily, it was a through-and-through. The bleeding wasn’t bad. Still, he had no intention of waiting. Not when he was this close to Clementine… this close to catching her… and this close to grabbing the hospital file and finally ending this threat to him and the President.

  No, this was the benefit of having everyone in one place, Palmiotti thought, ignoring the pulsing in his forearm and being extra careful as he reached another turn in the cave. Unsure of what was waiting around the corner, he stopped and waited. He’d seen what happened earlier. It wasn’t just that Clementine had a gun. It was how effortlessly she’d pulled the trigger.

  Without a doubt, Wallace was right about her. She was an animal, just like her father. But as Palmiotti now knew, that didn’t mean that Wallace was right about everything. Palmiotti tried to tell him—based on what Dallas was reporting—that even though Beecher let Clementine into the Archives, it didn’t mean Beecher was also helping her blackmail Wallace and the Plumbers. That’s why the President came back and requested Beecher in the SCIF—he had to test Beecher. He had to know. But even so, once Beecher had the book… once he started sniffing down the right path… and the hospital file—and then to bring in Tot and the attention of the real Culper Ring… No, at the level that things were happening, there was only one way to protect what he and the President had worked so hard for. Palmiotti knew the risk of coming here himself. But with everyone in one spot, he could put out every last fire. And not leave anything to chance.

  Those were the same lessons now, Palmiotti thought as he craned his neck out and found nothing but another empty cavity, slightly longer than a grocery aisle, with another sharp turn to the right. It was the fourth one so far, as if the entire back of the cave ran in an endless step pattern. But as Palmiotti turned the corner, down at the far end of the next aisle, there was a puddle of water along the floor and a red spray-painted sign that leaned against the wall with the words Car Wash on it.

&
nbsp; Racing down the length of the dark brown cavern—back here, the walls were no longer painted white—Palmiotti felt the cave getting warmer. He also noticed two yellow sponges, still soapy with suds, tucked behind the Car Wash sign. Whoever else had been back here, they haven’t been gone long, making Palmiotti wonder for the first time: Clementine was prepared for so much. Maybe there was another cave exit she knew about.

  Reaching yet another turn, Palmiotti stopped and slowly leaned forward, peeking around the corner. But this time, instead of another long narrow tunnel, there was a cavern—wide as a suburban cul-de-sac—and a dead end. Straight ahead, the tunnel was blocked and boarded off by tall sheets of plywood. It looked like one of those protective walls that surround a construction site. On the wall was a rusty metal sign that read Area 6.

  But the only sign that Palmiotti cared about was the glowing one above the red steel door on the far right of the cul-de-sac. Emergency Exit.

  Sonuvabitch.

  Leaping for the door and grabbing the handle, Palmiotti gave it a sharp tug. It didn’t open. He tried again.

  Locked. It was definitely locked. In fact, as he looked closer at the industrial keyhole, there was an old key broken off and stuck inside. It didn’t make sense. Clementine couldn’t’ve got out here. But if she didn’t get out here, then she should still be—

  Behind him, Palmiotti heard a small chirp. A squeak.

  Spinning back, he rechecked the cavern. A mess of muddy wheelbarrows were piled up on his left. Next to that were two enormous wooden spools of thick cable wire and another mound of discarded metal shelving, all of it rusty from the heat and dampness at this end of the cave. Diagonally across was another red metal door. Stenciled letters on the front read: Treatment Plant. But before Palmiotti could even run for the door, there was another squeak…

  There. On his right.

  He didn’t see it at first: Cut into the plywood wall, like a human-sized doggie door, was a hinged piece of wood that didn’t sway much.