What the hell is this place? Why aren’t there any signs of life?
I try to fight free, but my head nearly caves in. Whatever they drugged me with… the dizziness… it’s still taking its toll.
From the bathroom, there’s a rush of water from the sink. Underneath the door, a shadow passes and…
Click.
I spin back as my weight jerks the chair into a half-spin. The bathroom door opens and my attacker reveals-That smell… Of cherry rum.
Cherry rum pipe smoke.
“Man, I really messed up your chin, didn’t I?” Dallas asks, stepping forward, scratching at his little beard, and reminding me why he was always the most hated archivist in our office. “Sorry, Beech-we just needed to get you out of there. When I saw someone following-”
“What’re you talking about? What the hell’s going on?”
“I can explain.”
“You damn well better explain!”
My brain flips back to yesterday. When they were taking Orlando’s body out, I spotted Dallas with Rina, and they quickly ran for cover. Right now, though, he stands his ground, taking new pride in whatever it is he’s up to.
“Remember when you first started at the Archives, Beecher?”
“Are you about to make a speech right now? Because if I get out of these handcuffs, I’m about to kill you.”
“Listen to me,” Dallas insists. “Remember that first night when you worked late, and visiting hours were over, and all the tourists were gone-and you made your way down to the Rotunda, just to stand in the darkness so you could have your own private viewing of the Declaration of Independence? Every employee in the building has that moment, Beecher. But as you stood there by yourself and you studied those fifty-six handwritten signatures that changed the entire world, remember that wondrous feeling where you dreamed what it would be like to be a part of history like that?” Dallas touches the gash on my chin. From the pain, I jerk my head up. He gets what he wants. I’m now looking him right in the eye. The smell of his pipe seeps off him. “This is your chance to add your signature, Beecher. History’s calling you. All you have to do is help us.”
“Us? Who’s us?”
“The Culper Ring,” Dallas says. “We’re the Culper Ring. And with your help, we can catch the other one.”
“The other what?”
“The ones who did this. The ones who killed Orlando. The other Culper Ring, of course.”
51
It was cold and late-well past two in the morning-as Dr. Palmiotti stared at the drop phone that sat on his nightstand.
But as he lay there, wrapped in his down comforter, he knew he wasn’t even close to sleep.
For a while, he tried his usual tricks: visualizing a walk in the wide green stretch of grass in the arboretum behind his college dorm. He didn’t particularly like the outdoors. But he liked the idea of it. And he liked college. And usually, that was enough to do the trick.
Not tonight.
“Baby, you’re gonna be exhausted tomorrow,” Lydia said, rolling toward him as she faded back into her own slumber. “Stop worrying about him. If he needs you, he’ll call.”
He was still amazed to see her do things like that-to read him so clearly… to feel him being awake. He was lucky to have her. She understood him better in six months than his ex-wife did in nearly twenty years. And for a while, he thought about just that-in particular, about their night at the Four Seasons and the thing with the fishnet stockings she had done for his birthday-hoping it would be the key to his sleep.
But once again, the doctor’s thoughts wandered back to his friend, and the message the President had written, and to this nightmare at the Archives-which of course took Palmiotti right back to his nightstand, to the phone with the gold presidential seal on the receiver.
If he needs you, he’ll call.
It was good advice. But the one thing it failed to take into account was just how complex a President’s needs were. In fact, it was those particular needs that caused the Ring to be created in the first place. Both Rings. And while it was bad enough that someone accidentally found the book, if the rest was true, if there was now a third party involved and the original Culper Ring was closing in… In med school, they used to call it CD. It had the same acronym in politics. Certain Death.
Palmiotti stuck his leg out from the comforter, trying to break his sweat. The drop phone would be ringing any minute.
But for the next hour and a half, nothing happened.
Palmiotti was tempted to call the medical unit. From there, the on-duty nurse could confirm that Wallace was upstairs. But Palmiotti knew he was upstairs. At this hour, where else would the President be?
By 4 a.m., the doctor was still tossing and twisting, eyeing the phone and waiting for it to ring. He knew his friend. He knew what had to be going through his head. He knew everything that was now at stake.
The phone had to ring.
But it never did. Not tonight.
And as Dr. Palmiotti stared up at his ceiling, both legs sticking out of his comforter, one hand holding Lydia, it was that merciless silence that worried him most of all.
52
"Why am I in handcuffs?”
“Beecher, did you hear a word I just said?” Dallas asks.
“Why am I in handcuffs!?”
“So you wouldn’t do exactly what you’re doing right now, namely throwing a fit rather than focusing on the big picture,” Dallas shoots back. “Now. For the second time. Did you hear what I said?”
“There are two Culper Rings. I got it. But if you don’t undo these cuffs…”
“Then what? You’ll scream? Go. Scream. See what happens,” he says, motioning at the barely lived-in room.
I take another glance around, still stuck in my seat. I’m not sure I believe there’s really such a thing as a two-hundred-year-old secret spy unit. And even if I did, I’m not sure why they’d ever pick Dallas. But there’s only one way to get answers. “Where are we anyway? What is this place?”
“I’m trying to tell you, Beecher. Now I know you don’t like me. I know you’ve never liked me. But you need to understand two things: First, I want to get you out of here-the longer we keep you out of sight, the more suspicious it looks. Second, I’m on your side here. Okay? We’re all on your side.”
I’m about to unleash, but as my shoulders go numb, I stay locked on the priorities. “Undo the cuffs.”
“And then you’ll listen?”
“I can’t feel my pinkies, Dallas. Undo the cuffs.”
Squatting behind me, he pulls something from his pocket and there’re two loud snaps. As the blood flushes back to my wrists, he tosses the set of clear plasticuffs into the no-longer-empty trash can.
“Here… take this,” he says, reaching for the bookcase and handing me a square cocktail napkin. I didn’t even notice it before-an entire shelf in the bookcase is filled with a high-end selection of rum, vodka, scotch, and the rest. Whatever this room is used for, it clearly requires a good drink.
He pulls a few cubes from a silver ice bucket and drops them in my napkin. “For your chin,” he explains, looking surprised when I don’t say thanks.
“At Clementine’s… to be there,” I say as I put the ice to my chin. “How long were you following?”
“I wasn’t following. I was trying to talk to you-to get you alone. I mean, yesterday in Orlando’s office… this morning when Tot chased me away. Have you really not noticed how often I’ve been showing up?”
“So you gas and cuff me? That’s your solution? Send an email next time! Or wait… just call! It’s a lot less headache!”
Shaking his head, Dallas takes a seat on the leather sofa. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? Face-to-face-that’s the only reason it’s lasted. The problem is, every time I get near you, you’re running off with your little group, and no offense, but… your high school first kiss? That’s who you’re trusting your life to?”