“You really don’t see it?” I ask.
“I really don’t-and even if I did, invisible ink is invisible ink. Since when are a few random dots a secret code?”
“Maybe now.”
I toss him back the pencil. He tugs hard on the eraser.
“The eraser’s attached. There’s nothing hidden inside.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Dallas says.
“I do. I brought it downstairs and ran it through the X-ray. It’s not hollowed out.”
Dallas again brings the pencil close to his face-so close it almost touches his patchy beard.
“It still could be nothing,” he says.
“It’s supposed to look like nothing. And that dictionary was supposed to look like a dictionary. Until you find the exact right someone who knows how to read what’s hidden underneath.”
Standing at the sink, Dallas glances back at me. “You got someone in mind?”
For the first time today, I smile. “I very much do.”
71
The archivist knew there was trouble when the cell phone started ringing.
The sound came from across the office, back by Beecher’s desk.
Of course, he knew the ringtone-the theme song from the History Channel’s Last Days of the Civil War. Everyone knew Dallas’s phone.
But it wasn’t until Dallas went darting out of the office that the archivist got concerned.
Being smart, the archivist didn’t stand up… didn’t panic… didn’t even look up above the sightline of the cubicle.
Instead, all it took was the best tool in his arsenal-the one tool every historian must have.
Patience.
For sixteen minutes, the archivist sat there.
For sixteen minutes, the archivist waited.
He heard the door to the office again slam open. Dallas rushed in, bursting back into the office to grab something-sounded like winter coats sliding together-then darted back out again.
And then, giving Dallas time to make his way downstairs, the archivist turned to the one tool that served him, at this moment, even better than patience: the large plate glass window that doubled as an entire wall of his cubicle-and that gave him a perfect bird’s-eye view of Pennsylvania Avenue.
Staring outside, the archivist watched as the two familiar figures bolted out of the building, racing across the street.
There they were.
Dallas. And Beecher.
Dallas and Beecher.
Definitely together.
The archivist’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Just like he knew it would. No way would they let something like this slip by.
“Yeah, I see it,” the archivist answered.
As they talked it through, an old silver Toyota-Dallas’s Toyota-eventually stopped in front of the Archives. That’s where Dallas and Beecher ran: to get Dallas’s car. And from what it looked like, Beecher was the one driving. The car stopped and Dallas got out. From this height, four stories up, the archivist couldn’t hear the screech. But he saw how fast Beecher drove off.
Like he was on a mission.
The archivist wasn’t thrilled.
Now there was definitely no choice.
“I know… I see it too,” Tot said into the phone, pressing his forehead against the cold plate glass window and watching as Beecher turned the corner and disappeared down 9th Street. “No, I don’t know for sure, but I can guess. Yeah. No, of course we tagged the car. But it’s time to tell the others,” Tot added. “We’ve officially got ourselves a problem.”
72
"Who you here to see?” the female guard with the bad Dutch-boy hair asks through the bulletproof glass window.
“We’re on the list,” I say, handing over my ID and stepping aside so she sees who I’m with.
From behind me, Clementine steps forward and slides her driver’s license, along with her own temporary ID badge (the one that says she’s a graduate student), into the open metal drawer just below the glass. With a tug, the St. Elizabeths guard snaps the drawer shut, dragging the contents to her side of the glass, but never taking her eyes off me. No question, she remembers me from yesterday.
“He’s my assistant,” Clementine explains.
“I don’t care who he is. He still needs to be checked in,” the guard pushes.
“I did. I called,” Clementine pushes right back, tapping her thumb ring against the counter. Unlike last night with her grandmother, her voice is back to pure strength. “Check your computer.”
The guard hits a few keys, and as her face falls, it’s clear I was right to bring in Clementine. But as I take back my ID and the new sticker, and the guard motions us through the X-ray, it’s also clear that Clementine’s not exactly ready for the victory dance. “End of the hall,” the guard says. “Escort’ll meet you upstairs.”
With a baritone tunk, the thick steel door on our left pops open, and we head inside to the heart of the building. Barely two steps in, we come to another steel door. This one’s closed. It’s the same system they have in prisons-a sally port-the next door won’t open until the previous one is shut. That way, the patients can’t escape.
Behind us, the first door clamps shut. I’m barely half a step behind Clementine. All I see is the back of her head, and a black beauty mark on the curve of her neck. But you don’t have to be fluent in body language to see the way she’s not moving. This is harder than yesterday. She knows what she’s about to face.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper.
She doesn’t look back.
“Clemmi, I’m serious,” I add. “If you want, just wait here.”
“How come you haven’t asked me about last night?” she blurts.
“Wait. Are we fighting now? Is this about the kiss?”
“Forget the kiss. Last night. What you saw with Nan… why haven’t you asked me about it?”
“I did ask you. You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, now I do. Especially as I’m starting to hyperventilate in this tiny metal box.”
Another metal tunk makes us both jump-the next door unlocks-and there’s another long lime green hallway with an elevator at the far end. Clementine doesn’t move, though it looks like she’s trying to. In the past few days, I’ve seen her be both strong and weak, fearless and terrified, and also kind and protective. There are so many Clementines in that body. But when it comes to her family-especially her father-the girl who used to be prepared for anything reminds me that the number one thing she’s not prepared for are her own insecurities.
“Y’know I don’t judge you based on how you’re treated by your grandmother,” I tell her.
“I know you don’t. But it’s not just about how she treats me. It’s about how I let her treat me. You saw it yesterday-I’m not… when she…” She presses her lips together. “I’m not my best with her.”
I stand there, pretending I didn’t see exactly that last night. “Sometimes you’re so strong, I forget you can be hurt.”
She shakes her head. “We can all be hurt.”
I nod, thinking about the fact that Iris’s bicycle is still sitting in my garage from where she accidentally left it. Iris loves that bicycle. But she still won’t come pick it up.
As I study the single beauty mark on the back of Clementine’s neck, it reminds me that there’s nothing more intimate in life than simply being understood. And understanding someone else.
“How long’ve you been taking care of your grandma?” I finally ask.
“Four years. Ever since my mom died. And yes, I know it’s good to take care of the elderly, but… living with a nasty old woman… having no job… which, also yes, I should’ve told you… and then finding out that Nico is my… y’know… I’m not saying I needed my life to be a symphony-I just never thought it’d turn out to be a country song.”
“Yeah, well… it’s better than realizing that your life is elevator music.”