Including Dustin Gyrich.
It doesn’t make sense. The guard saw him come here. For him to move that fast… It’s like he knew we were coming. But the only ones who knew that were-
“Who’s calling you?” Tot asks.
I spin around to see Tot standing next to Clementine. In her hand, her phone is vibrating.
She looks down to check the number. “It’s my job-they probably want to know if I’m coming in tomorrow,” she explains. “Why?”
“Why aren’t you picking it up?” Tot pushes.
“Why’re you using that tone with me?”
“Why aren’t you picking it up?”
Clearly annoyed, and looking paler than ever, Clementine flips open her phone and holds it to her ear. She listens for a few seconds and then says, “I’ll call you back, okay?” Reading Tot’s reaction, she asks, “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Tot challenges, making sure she hears that challenge in his voice.
“Just say it,” she pushes back.
He shakes his head.
“So now you don’t believe me?” she asks, holding out the phone to him. “You wanna speak to them? Here-speak to them.”
“Listen, everyone’s had a long day,” I jump in.
“And don’t give me that evil eye stare you give everyone else,” she says, still locked on Tot. He walks over to the main check-in desk. She follows right behind him. “Beecher’s been in my life long before he’s been in yours. I’ve been helping him since the moment this started-and what? — now you think I’m tipping off Gyrich or something?”
“Those are your words, not mine,” Tot says.
“But they can just as easily be applied to you,” Clementine shoots back. “Oh that’s right-I almost forgot you got that magic phone call three minutes ago that sent us racing up here. What a perfect time for Gyrich to check in and say, ‘All’s clear.’ I’m telling you now, you hurt my friend, and I’ll make sure the world knows who you are.”
I wait for Tot to explode, but instead, he stares down at a red three-ring binder that sits open on the main desk.
Of course. The binder…
“Beecher…” Tot says.
I fly to the desk.
“What?” Clementine asks. “What is it?”
Ignoring her, Tot flips back one page, then flips forward to the current one.
“Every day, this room is staffed by us-by archivists,” I explain. “We’re on call for an hour or two each day so when visitors come in, we can help them with their research. But more important, the supervisor who runs this room marks down the exact time each of us gets here, just so she knows who’s staffing the room at any particular moment.”
“And of the fifty archivists in this building, look who was the very last one who was in here today-according to this log, barely ten minutes ago,” Tot says, stabbing his crooked finger at the last name on the sheet.
4:52 p.m.-Dallas Gentry.
My coworker. And officemate. And along with Rina, the one other person staffing President Wallace yesterday when he was arriving in the SCIF.
45
Six minutes ago
When he was cutting hair, Andre Laurent put no premium on speed.
His focus was accuracy. Precision. Giving the client exactly what he wanted. Or at the very least, convincing the client that whatever he gave them was exactly what they wanted.
But this was different.
As he entered the mint green Finding Aids room on the first floor of the Archives, Laurent didn’t waste a single second.
Without question, today was very much about speed. Most of the time, the goal was to move slowly-to go to the upstairs research room, pull a cart full of documents and pamphlets and half a dozen other records, and then hide what they needed right in plain sight.
But if what it said in A Problem from Hell was true… if someone else had grabbed the dictionary…
He didn’t even want to think about it.
A quick scan of the room told him he at least picked the right time. God bless government employees. This close to five, nearly all the staff was gone.
“Can we help you?” an older employee called out as she wheeled a rolling cart filled with small boxes toward the microfilm reading room on their far left.
“I’m actually okay,” Laurent said, waving his thanks, but not moving until she was gone.
When she was out of sight, he cut past the main research desk and headed for the bookshelves that lined the walls of the room. Ignoring record group numbers, he started counting. The one… two… three… fourth-here-fourth bookshelf on the right. Like nearly every other shelf in the room, it was filled with old leather books-mostly brown and dark blue, but a few red ones as well-each volume dedicated to a different subject matter. On the top shelf was a row of black binders and some pamphlets. According to the spines, Record Group 267.
Laurent nodded. That’s the one. Glancing over his shoulder, he double-checked that the supervisor was gone.
All clear.
Reaching to the top shelf, he used two fingers to tip back one of the thick black binders. As he removed it with one hand, he placed it squarely on top of the book he was carrying-A Problem from Hell-and then, in one easy motion, slid both books onto the top shelf and headed for the door.
The theory was so simple it was elegant. Archives employees are concerned about visitors sneaking records out. But no one ever suspects someone sneaking something in.
There it sat. Just another book in the world’s biggest archive.
Thirty seconds after that, Laurent was gone.
Thirty seconds after that, he was outside, using a crowd of departing employees to keep him out of the eyespace of security.
And thirty seconds after that, he was on his phone, dialing the number that by now he knew by heart.
As it began to ring, a beat-up Toyota whizzed by. On the back was a faded presidential bumper sticker: Don’t Blame Me-I Didn’t Vote For Wallace.
In the barber’s ear, the phone stopped ringing. Someone picked up.
Laurent didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Without a word, he shut the phone. Message sent.
Fourth bookcase. Top shelf. Fast as can be.
Just like the client wanted.
46
"He’s gone,” I say.
“Check his desk,” Tot says.
I go cubicle to cubicle, passing my own in our office on the fourth floor, but I already know the answer.
When we first got here, I saw the metal wipe-off board and the little magnet heads with our pictures on them. There were two people in the IN column. Everyone else is OUT. Including the one archivist we came here to see: Dallas.
“No answer on his cell. Maybe he’s downstairs,” Tot says. “Or in the stacks.”
“He’s not,” I say, heading back to the magnets in front. “You know how he is-he doesn’t check out until the moment he’s leaving. God forbid we shouldn’t know that he’s always working and-Hold on. Where’s Clementine?”
Tot looks over his shoulder. The door that leads out to the hallway is still open.
“Clemmi?” I call out, craning my neck outside.
She’s sitting down, cross-legged on the tiles. “Sorry, I’m just-It’s been a long day.”
“Y’think? Usually, when I meet my long-lost father, and get nabbed by Security, and find secret writings that may lead me to a murder, I’m way peppier than that.”
Forcing a smile, she reaches up and grips the doorframe to help her stand. But as she climbs to her feet, her face-it’s not just white anymore. It’s green.
“You’re really not okay, are you?”
“Will you stop? I’m fine,” she insists, forcing another smile. But as she tucks a few stray strands of black hair behind her ear, I see the slight shake in her hand. I’ve had twenty years to romanticize Clementine’s strength. It’s the worst part of seeing old friends: when your rose-colored memories become undone by reality.