A blast of mean December air from outside nearly knocks over the lobby’s Christmas tree as it sends its shredded paper decorations flying. On my right, I spy the source of the sudden wind tunneclass="underline" The automatic doors that lead out to Pennsylvania Avenue are wide open.
“Step aside! Emergency!” someone yells as a gleaming metal gurney comes blasting through the entrance, pushed by two impassive paramedics in dark blue long-sleeved shirts.
“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest uniformed Secret Service guy. “Something happen with the President?”
He glances at my badge, making sure I’m staff. “You think we’d be standing here if that were the case? We took him out of here six minutes ago. This is one of yours.”
A strand of shredded paper kisses the side of my face, hooking around my ear. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. “How do you mean, one of ours?”
“One of them,” he clarifies, pointing with his nose at the Security guys who run the main check-in desk. “Apparently, some poor guy had a seizure-or heart attack-they found him on the floor of his office. I think they said his name was…”
“Orlando!?” a guard shouts from the check-in desk.
“Orlando!?” Clementine blurts behind me.
No. No no. He didn’t just say-
The string of shredded paper slips off my ear, blowing into a small swirl at the center of the marble lobby. Clementine is silent behind me.
There’s no way. I was just… he was just…
“Beecher,” Clementine whispers behind me.
I’m already running, dragging her with me by her hand.
This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
But it is.
10
"Move! Move it! Move!” I yell, running full speed up the bright white basement hallway with the white-and-gray checkerboard floor. The magic key bounces against my chest as I fight my way through the insta-crowd that’s already forming outside Orlando’s office.
I’m not a big person. Or strong. But I have two older sisters. I know how to get what I want:
I lie.
“We’re with them!” I shout as I point to the paramedics who’re barely fifty feet ahead, riding their wake as they pull me and Clementine through the crowd.
Not a single Archives employee tries to stop me. Archivists aren’t built for confrontation. They’re built for observation, which explains why small groups of gawkers fill the hall all the way to the front door of the Security Office.
I hear more whispers as I run: Orlando…? Orlando…! Heard a seizure… Orlando…!
“Don’t assume the worst. He could be okay,” Clementine says.
I refuse to argue as we squeeze into the large office suite. Inside, it’s quiet and looks like any other: a long rectangular layout spotted with cubicles and a few private offices. All the action is on our left, where I hear the squawks and crackles of far too many walkie-talkies. The paramedics have them. Security has them. And so does the small team of firefighters who arrived earlier and are now in a small circle at the center of the office, crouched on their knees like kids studying an anthill.
“They’re still working on him,” Clementine says.
That’s good news. If they’re working on him…
But they’re not working. There’re no frenzied movements. No CPR.
“On three,” they call out, getting ready to lift the stretcher. “One… two…”
There’s a metal howl as the stretcher’s steel legs extend and pins and sockets bite into place. With a tug, the firefighters pull tight on the black Velcro straps that tighten around the white sheet…
Not just a sheet… under the sheet…
Orlando.
One of the firefighters takes a half-step back and we get a short but perfect view of Orlando’s face. His skin is dry like a faded chalkboard. You don’t need a medical degree to know when you’re staring at a dead man.
“Beecher, take a breath,” Clementine whispers behind me. “Don’t pass out.”
“I’m not going to pass out.”
“You are. I can see you are.”
“What do you want me to do? That’s-We-This man’s my friend!”
I crane my neck to look through the crowd, studying Orlando’s profile. His head is tilted to the side-almost toward us-and the bottom right corner of his mouth sags slightly open and down, the way my mom looked when she had the complications with her heart surgery.
“He was just-We just saw him,” Clementine whispers.
I try to focus on Orlando’s eyes, which are closed and peaceful. But that bottom corner of his mouth, sagging open so slightly…
“I’m so sorry,” Clementine offers.
A whiplash of pain stings my heart, my lungs-like every one of my organs is made of crushed glass. The shattered pieces cascade like sand down my chest, landing in my stomach.
Please tell me this wasn’t because we were in that room… I say to myself.
“You heard them,” Clementine says, reading me perfectly. “He had a heart attack… or a seizure.”
I try to believe that. I really do. There’s no reason to think otherwise. No reason at all. Except for that gnawing ache that’s tunneling through my belly.
“What?” she whispers. “How could it not be a heart attack?”
“I’m not saying it’s not, but… it’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? I mean, think of the odds: Right after we find that hiding spot, Orlando just happens to-” I lower my voice, refusing to say it. But she hears it. When Orlando made that call through the intercom, he put himself on record. He’s the only one listed as being in the SCIF, so if someone else went in that room after we left, if they went looking for-
Oh crap.
I look down at my bundled lab coat covered in coffee stains. It’s squeezed by my armpit. But all I feel are the worn edges of what’s hidden underneath.
The book. Of course. The stupid book. If that was left there for the President, and they thought Orlando took it-
“Beecher, get it out of your head,” Clementine warns. “For anyone to find out he was even in there… no one’s that fast.”
I nod. She’s right. She’s absolutely right.
In fact, besides us, the only person who even knew Orlando was in there was-
“What an effin’ nightmare, eh?” a soft-spoken voice asks.
I stand up straight as a burning sting of vomit springs up my throat. I know that voice. I heard it earlier. Through the intercom. When he buzzed us into the SCIF.
“Venkat Khazei,” says a tall Indian man with low ears and thin black hair that’s pressed in a military-combed side part. He knows I know who he is, and as he puts a cold hand on my shoulder, I notice that he’s got the shiniest manicured fingernails I’ve ever seen. I also notice the equally shiny badge that’s clipped to his waist. Deputy Chief of Security-National Archives.
And the only person who I’m absolutely sure knew that Orlando was in that SCIF and near that book.
“Beecher, right?” he asks, his sparkling fingers still on my shoulder. “You got a half moment to chat?”
11
What a horror-and especially with you two being so close, eh?” Khazei asks, his accent polished, like a Yale professor. Across from us, a firewoman covers Orlando’s face by pulling up the thin bedsheet that’s neither crisp nor white. The sheet’s been beaten and washed so many times, it’s faded to the color of fog. Worst of all, it’s not big enough to really cover him, so as he lies there on the stretcher, as the paramedics confer with the firefighters, Orlando’s black work boots stick out from the bottom like he’s in a magician’s trick, about to float and levitate.