The Inner Circle (20 page)

“That’s the key part,” Nico says. “The Culper Ring weren’t soldiers. They were normal people—a group no one could possibly know—even Washington didn’t know their names. That way they could never be infiltrated—no one, not even the commander in chief, knew who was in it. But this Ring—they were regular people,” he adds, standing over me as his chocolate eyes drill into mine. “Just… just like us.”

I scootch back on the bench, still wondering whether he’s being extra crazy because of me, or he’s just permanently extra crazy. Next to me, Clementine’s just as worried. She’s done asking questions.

“So these guys in the Culper Ring,” I say to Nico, “I still don’t understand what they have to do with
Entick’s Dictionary
.”

“Ask yourself,” Nico says, pointing to me.

“Okay, this is just silly now,” I shoot back. “I have no idea what the Culper Ring did with a dictionary.”

“You know,” Nico says. “Deep down, you should know.”

“How could I possibly—? What the hell is going on?”

“Nico, please… he’s telling the truth—he doesn’t know what the book is for—we don’t have a clue,” Clementine says, locking eyes with her father. When Nico stares back, most people can’t help but look away. She stays with him.

To Nico, it matters. Her glance is as mesmerizing as his own. He nods to himself slowly, then faster.

“The book—the dictionary—that’s how George Washington communicated with his Culper Ring,” he finally says.

“Communicated
how
?” I ask. “There’s nothing in the dictionary but empty pages.”

Nico studies the guard, but not for long. “You can’t see the wind, but we know it’s there. Just like God. We know it’s there. We feel it. Not everything can be seen so easily.”

I flip the dictionary open and the only thing there is the handwritten inscription.

Exitus

Acta

Probat

The other pages—the few that haven’t been torn out…“Everything’s blank,” I say.

“Of course they’re blank,” Nico replies, his chest rising and falling even faster. He doesn’t care about the guard anymore. “This is George Washington you’re trying to outsmart,” he adds, now eyeing the dictionary. “He knew they’d be looking for it. That’s why he always wrote it with his
medicine
.”

“Medicine?”

“That was his code name for it,” Nico says. “That’s what he called his
invisible ink
.”

*              *              *

32

You don’t believe me,” Nico says, fine-tuning his gaze at me. “Of course you’d think like that.”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask. “You don’t even know me.”

“You’re wrong. You’re
very
wrong!” he growls, his chest pumping like wild.

“You got three minutes!” the guard calls out behind us, just to make sure we know he’s watching. “Make them count.”

Nico
psssts
at the two tuxedo cats, who continue to ignore him.

Clementine knows I’m not going anywhere. Not now. She stands there, still facing us. But she won’t come closer. She’s heard enough. She wants to go.

“
Tell me
,” Nico says excitedly, sitting on his own hands as he returns to the bench. “When you found that book… for you to bring it here. You of all people…”

“Why do you keep saying that?” I scold.

“Benjy!” Clementine pleads.

“
Benjy?
” Nico asks, scanning my ID that hangs around my neck. “Is that your name?”

“My name’s Beecher.”

His eyes recheck my ID, which lists my full name in impossibly small type. He has no problem reading it.
White, Beecher Benjamin.
He starts to laugh. A strong, breathy laugh through his gritted teeth. “It couldn’t be more perfect, could it?”

He’s no longer excited; now he’s absolutely giddy.

“Yesyesyes. This is it, isn’t it?” he asks, his head turned fully to the left. Like he’s talking to someone who’s not there. “This is the proof…”

“Nico…” I say.

“… this proves it, right? Now we can…”

“Nico, if you need help, I can get help for you.”

“You are,” he snaps. “You’re helping me. Can you not see that? To follow her here… to come see me… every life… all our lives are lived for a reason.”

“Nico, you said it’s a test for me,” I say. “Tell me why it’s a test for me.”

Across from us, a gray tabby cat leaps up, landing delicately on the edge of an outdoor metal garbage can. There’s not a single sound from the impact.

Nico still flinches.

“That’s it, Nico! Time’s up!” the guard shouts, quickly approaching. “Say goodbye…”

“How do you know this book?” I challenge. “What the heck is going on?”

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Nico replies, calmer than ever and still sitting on his hands. “I don’t know who’s using that dictionary, or what they have planned. But for you to be the one who found it… such a man of books… and the name
Benjamin
… like your predecessor—”

“Wait. My predecessor? Who’s my predecessor?”

Nico pauses, again turning to his left. His lips don’t move, but I see him nodding. I don’t know who his imaginary friend is, but I know when someone’s asking permission.

“We all have souls, Benjamin. And our souls have missions. Missions that we repeat, over and over, until we conquer them.”

“Y’mean like
reincarnation
?” Clementine asks, earnestly trying to understand, though she still won’t take a single step toward us.

“Nico! Let’s go!” the guard yells.
“Now!”

He barely notices.

“I can see who you are, Benjamin. I can see you just like the Indian chiefs who saw George Washington as a boy. They knew who he was. They knew he was chosen. Just as I knew when I saw
you.
”

Oh, then that makes far more sense
, I think to myself. “So now that we’re all reincarnated, lemme guess—I’m George Washington?” I ask.

“No, no, no—not at all,” Nico says. “You’re the traitor.”

“
Nico, I’m taking mail privileges first, then the juice cart!
” the guard threatens.

Nico pops from his seat and strolls toward the guard at the front of the building. But as he circles past us, he glances back over his shoulder, his voice barely a whisper. “All these years… haven’t you seen the battles I’ve been chosen for?
I’m
George Washington,” Nico insists, tapping a thumb at his own chest. “But you… I know you, boy. And I know how this ends. This is
your
test.
I’m
George Washington. And
you’re
Benedict Arnold.”

33

“… and now you know why they call it an
insane
asylum,” I say, giving an angry yank to the steering wheel and tugging Tot’s old Mustang into a sharp right out of the parking lot.

“Can we please just go?” Clementine begs.

“Benedict Arnold? He hears my middle name is
Benjamin
and suddenly I’m Benedict Arnold? He could’ve picked Benjamin Franklin or Benjamin Harrison. I’d even have accepted
Benjamin Kubelsky
.”

“Who’s Benjamin Kubelsky?”

“Jack Benny,” I tell her as I pump the gas and our wheels kick spitballs of slush behind us. “But for your dad to look me in the face and say that I somehow have the soul of one of history’s worst traitors—not to mention him trying to eat us…”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Wha?”

“
My dad
,” she pleads. “Please don’t call him
my dad
.”

I turn at the words. As we follow the main road back toward the front gate at St. Elizabeths, Clementine stares into her side mirror, watching the hospital fade behind us. The way her arms are crossed and her legs are curled on the seat so her body forms a backward S—to anyone else, she looks pissed. But I’ve seen this look before. It’s the same one she had back in the Archives, when she didn’t think I was looking. Over the past twenty-four hours, the real Clementine keeps showing her face, reminding me that pain isn’t something she works through. It’s something she hides.

In my mind, I was visiting a presidential assassin. For Clementine, it was the very first time she met her father.

“Y’know, in all the dreams where I get to see my dad again,” I tell her, “the reunion always goes smoothly and perfectly.”

“Me too,” she says, barely able to get the words out.

I nod, already feeling like an insensitive tool. I should’ve realized what this visit did to her, but I was too busy being spooked out with this Culper Ring and Benedict Arnold hoo-hah.

“I’m sorry for surprising you like that,” I tell her.

She waves me off. That’s the least of her problems.

“So what’d he say?” I ask as I turn onto the poorly plowed streets of Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. Clementine doesn’t even blink at the gang-tagged storefronts and the two burned-out cars on our right. Craning her neck to look out the back window, she still can’t take her eyes off the hospital. “When you first got there, did he seem—? Was he happy to see you?”

“Beecher, we can talk about anything you want—even the Benedict Arnold stuff—but please… don’t ask me about him.”

“I hear you, Clemmi. I do. And I’m not trying to push, but for a moment, think of what just happened. I mean, no matter who he was, I would still saw my left arm off to have even thirty seconds with my father—”

“Beecher, please. Don’t call him that,” she begs. “Especially around him.”

I pretend to stare straight ahead, focusing on the road. But the way those last words hang in the air…

Especially around
him.

Clementine bends her knees, tightening her backward S and fighting to hold it together.

“You never told him, did you?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

“He doesn’t know he’s your father?”

“I meant to. I was going to tell him,” she finally says, still staring in the rearview. “But then…” She shakes her head. “Didja know he speaks to the dead First Lady? When we were there… that’s who he was mumbling to. I read it in an article. I think he hides it from the nurses. They said he used to talk to his last victim as some desperate way to absolve himself.”

I sit with that one, not sure how to respond. But there’s still one piece that doesn’t make sense. “If you didn’t tell them you were a relative, how’d you even get in to see him?” I ask.

“Grad student. I told them I was writing a dissertation on complex psychosis,” she explains.

“And they just let you in?”

“It’s not up to the doctors. It’s up to the patient. Don’t forget, it’s been a decade. Nico doesn’t get too many visitors anymore. He okays whoever shows up.”

“But to be that close and not tell him who you are…”

“You should be thanking me,” she points out. “If I did, he probably would’ve called me Martha Washington.”

“That’s funny. I’m actually thinking about laughing at that.”

“Of course you are. You’re trying to get on my good side. Classic Benedict Arnold move.”

I shake my head, amazed at just how much the joke burrows under my skin. “Clemmi… you know I’d never betray you.”

She turns to me. A small appreciative grin lifts her cheeks. “Beecher, why’re you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Besides these past few months of emails, I haven’t spoken to you in fifteen years. You were cute in high school—in that quiet, smart, scared-of-me way—but we didn’t stay much in touch. Plus at your office, you’ve got the head of security ready to pin you for murder. So why’d you come here? Why’re you being so nice?”

Holding the wheel, I stare straight ahead, pretending to watch the road. “She was my fiancée.”

“Huh?”

“Before. You asked before who Iris was, and I said she was my
girlfriend.
She was my fiancée. The one. We sent out invitations. The table seating was done. On one night with a few cheap margaritas, we even started picking baby names. And yes, there are worse things, but when it all fell apart, it felt like she strangled and killed my entire life. Everything was dead. Anyway, I figure after all the honesty you’ve shown me, you at least earned that back.”

“So she
did
dump you for another guy?”

“Don’t push. We’re not being that honest yet,” I say.

She stays with the rearview, her head slightly swaying back and forth, like she’s whispering an imagined question to someone.

“I’m not a DJ,” she finally blurts.

“What?”

“For the radio station—I’m not a DJ,” Clementine says. “I sell ads. I’m just an ad sales rep. I-I thought you’d—I sell on-air ads for soft drinks, car dealerships, and in Virginia, we do a ton for places that help people addicted to chewing tobacco.”