“We should get you home,” I say, quickly realizing that, in all my excitement to see her, I have no idea where she lives. “Where in Virginia are you going? Is it far?”
“I can take the Metro.”
“I’m sure you can. But where’re you going?”
“By Winchester. Not far from Shenandoah University.”
I look at Tot, who’s already shaking his head. That’s far. Real far. “You sure the Metro goes out there?” I ask.
“Metro, then commuter bus. Will you relax? I do it all the time.”
I again look at Tot. He again shakes his head.
“Don’t ask me to drive her,” Tot says.
“I’m not asking you to drive her.”
“And don’t ask me for my car,” he warns.
I don’t say a word. Clementine’s face is green; her hand still has the shakes. Tot may not like her. And he may not like how overprotective she’s being. But even he can see it. She’s not making it home by herself.
“I’m fine,” she promises.
“Beecher…” Tot warns.
“It’ll be good. You’ll see.”
“No. I won’t see,” Tot says. “I’m tired and I’m cranky, and thanks to your dictionary I got nothing done today. The last thing I need is a two-hour tour of Virginia. You take her home, you come back and pick me up.”
“Right. Yes. You got it.”
Within six minutes and nineteen seconds, Clementine and I are in the powder blue Mustang, pulling out of the Archives garage and plowing into the evening traffic.
I know Tot’s worried. He’s always worried. But when I think of what we’ve been through today…
How could it possibly get worse?
47
The archivist had to make one stop first.
With Beecher now gone, it wouldn’t take long.
Just a quick moment to duck back into Finding Aids and head for the one… two… three… fourth bookshelf on the right. The archivist glanced back, but knew no one was here. That’s why they picked this room in the first place.
The President was always so focused on the SCIF. And that made sense. The SCIF was secure. The SCIF was perfect.
Until yesterday, when it wasn’t.
Reaching for the top shelf, the archivist shoved aside the black binders and went right for the book. A Problem from Hell.
From a pocket, the archivist took out a small plastic bottle about the size of a shot glass with a triangular nipple on top. The nipple was actually a sponge. The archivist flipped to the copyright page of the book, turned over the small bottle, and let the liquid mixture that was inside the plastic bottle soak into the triangular sponge. With a quick few brushes, the archivist painted the page.
Within seconds, small green handwriting revealed itself.
The archivist read it fast, already knowing most of it. But at the end…
The archivist nodded. When it came to Beecher… and this woman Clementine… That’s exactly what had to happen.
The words faded back to nothingness as the archivist slapped the book shut and headed through the lobby, out into the cold of Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Taxi!”
A black-and-yellow cab bucked to a stop.
“Where you going tonight?” an older cabbie with a round nose and thick bifocals asked, handing the archivist a laminated card as he slid inside.
“What’s this?” the archivist said.
“My mission statement.”
Sure enough, the laminated card said: To take you to your destination in an environment that is most pleasing to you. Underneath was a listing of all the local radio stations.
Only in D.C. Everyone’s a damn overachiever.
“Just turn the corner up here,” the archivist said. “I’m waiting for some friends-they’re in a light blue Mustang.”
“Y’mean like that one?” the cabbie asked, pointing through the windshield as the classic car, with Beecher and Clementine inside, climbed up the security ramp and made a sharp right into traffic.
“That’s the one. Beautiful automobile, huh?”
“Y’want me to follow it? Like the movies?” the cabbie asked.
“You can stay back a bit. Even if you lose them,” the archivist said, holding A Problem from Hell on the seat, “I already know where they’re going.”
48
"You feeling any better?” I ask Clementine.
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound better. That sounds like a yeah.”
She sits with it a moment, staring into the mirror on her side of the car and eyeing the bright lights of the mob of cars behind us. Using the rearview, I do the same, making mental notes of who’s behind us: a blue Acura, a few SUVs, a disproportionate number of hybrids, and the usual rush-hour taxis. Nothing out of the ordinary. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Tot hates me,” Clementine says.
“Why would you say that?”
“Y’mean besides the long glares and accusatory stares-or maybe when I answered my phone and he basically said, Who’re you talking to? I hate you?”
“He’s just worried about me.”
“If he were worried, he’d be sitting in this car right now. He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t trust me.”
“Well, I trust you.”
As I tug the wheel into another right and follow the rush-hour traffic up Constitution Avenue, she doesn’t respond.
“What, now I don’t trust you?” I ask.
“Beecher, the fact you were there for me today-with Nico-I know how you feel. And I pray you know how I feel. In all these years… People aren’t nice to me the way you’re nice to me. But the only thing I don’t understand: How come you never told me what you saw in those call numbers-y’know, in the book?”
She’s talking about the invisible ink message:
Exitus
FEBRUARY 16
Acta
26 YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP A SECRET
Probat
WRITE BACK: NC 38.548.19 OR WU 773.427
“You know what those numbers mean, don’t you?” she asks. “You know what books they are.”
I shake my head.
“Beecher, you don’t have to tell me. Honestly, you don’t. But if I can help-”
“They’re not books,” I say.
Making a left and following the parade of cars as it edges toward I-395 and the signs for the 14th Street Bridge, I take another glance at the rearview. SUVs, hybrids, taxis-a few pushy drivers elbow their way in, but for the most part, everything’s in the same place.
“Beecher, I was there. The guy in Preservation said-”
“The Diamond doesn’t know what he-”
“Wait. What’s the diamond?”
“Daniel. In Preservation. That’s his nickname. The Diamond,” I tell her. “And while he’s clearly the expert on book construction and chemical reactions, he doesn’t know squat about library science-because if he did, he’d know that neither of those is a call number.”
She squints as if she’s trying to reread the numbers from memory.
“NC 38.548.19 or WU 773.427,” I repeat for her. “They look like library call numbers, right? But they’re both missing their cutters.” Reading her confusion, I explain, “In any call number, there’re two sets of letters. The NC is the first set-the N tells us it’s Art. All N books have to do with art. The C will tell you what kind of art-Renaissance, modern, et cetera. But before the last set of numbers-the 19-there’s always another letter-the cutter. It cuts down the subject, telling you the author or title or some other subdivision so you can find it. Without that second letter, it’s not a real call number.”
“Maybe they left out the second letters on purpose.”
“I thought so too. Then I saw the other listing: WU 773.427.”
“And the W stands for…?”