Brad Meltzer - The Inner Circle

For a moment, the three of us just stand there in the silence of the hallway. Even now, his son offers up a we’re-waiting-for-the-same-elevator smile.

I should say something.

I need to say something.

My brain slingshots to the very best advice someone gave me when they heard my dad was dead: Our fathers never leave us. Ever.

I could even say something about how nice Orlando was to everyone.

I can give them that one final memory.

But as the elevator rumbles, its doors slide open, and Orlando’s wife and son step inside…

I just stand there in the hallway. Paralyzed.

They both stare at the floor, in no mood for eye contact.

The doors bite shut, consuming them whole.

And I’m still standing there, once again reminded that the only feeling more painful than loss is the feeling of guilt .

I reach for the elevator call button, but as my finger ignites the up arrow, I can’t help but notice the sudden burst of voices coming from the open door of the Security Office. Following the sound, I lean back and take a fast peek into the wide room of cubicles, where small clusters of coworkers are talking-just whispering, gossiping.

It makes sense. With Orlando’s wife and son gone, there’s no need for whatever self-imposed silence the office had been carrying while his family went through his desk.

“You see them?” the receptionist asks me. “Just heartbreaking, right?”

She says something else, but I’m too busy looking at Orlando’s cubicle on the left side of the office. All the photos… the holiday cards… the clutter of life… even his Wisconsin Badgers pencil cup… it’s all gone. I search for his computer, but that’s gone too (which probably means there’s no chance the videotape is here either). I still need to check. With me and Clementine on it, that video holds our fate. But except for a few stray pens and a single pink photocopy that’s push-pinned to the wall (the instructions for how to use voicemail), the only remaining proof that someone worked here is the big telephone, with the long cord and two blinking lights, that floats like an island at the center of the otherwise empty desk.

Orlando’s desk phone.

According to Khazei, I’m the last person Orlando called. But that doesn’t mean I’m the last one who called him.

I rush toward his desk-and just as quickly stop myself. This isn’t the time, especially with half the staff still standing around and watching. But as I think about Orlando’s wife and son… about everything I should’ve said to them just now… this is exactly the time. Forget the Culper Ring and the dictionary and all of Nico’s ramblings. If I can find out what really happened to Orlando-I owe his family at least that much.

Sliding into his chair, I take a final glance around to see who’s looking. But to my surprise, the only one watching is the person who just stepped into the office. I turn toward her just as she peeks inside. Rina.

I lock eyes with the Mona Lisa, but by the time the chair fully swivels around, she’s already gone.

I saw her, though. I know she was there.

But right now, I need to stay focused on the current problem.

My fingers dive for the phone’s keypad, tapping the button for caller ID. The first one reads Security-ext. 75020 . Those’re the guys from the front desk, probably wondering when Orlando was coming to do his shift. The next one’s from someone in Exhibits. Then a call from Westman, Aristotle-ext. 73041 .

Tot? Why’s Tot calling him?

But as I scroll down to make sure I have it right, a brand-new name pops up. Then pops up again. It only gets worse.

Forget the slipknot around my stomach. My whole chest tightens like it’s squeezed by a noose.

My fingers attack caller ID like a woodpecker. Of the last dozen calls made to Orlando… seven of them… eight of them… nine of them… my Lord, ten of them …

… are all from Rina.

I spin back toward reception.

“Get off me!” a woman’s voice yells.

I know that voice. I’ve known it since junior high. It sure as hell ain’t Rina.

By the time I see what’s going on, sure enough, Rina’s not there. But in her place-

“I said, get… off !” Clementine barks, fighting to get free.

Just behind her, Khazei grips her by the biceps. I almost forgot. I’m in his territory.

The deputy chief of security isn’t letting go.

" Let go of me! ” Clementine insists, still fighting to free her arm from Khazei’s grip.

He shoves her into the hallway, refusing to let go.

Khazei’s no idiot. If he’s bringing us out here, he’s hoping to avoid a scene.

Too late.

“I didn’t do anything!” Clementine adds, her feet slip-sliding along the checkerboard tile.

“Really? So waiting in the Rotunda-strolling there for nearly twenty minutes without taking a single look at the gasper documents,” he shouts back, referring to the Constitution and the other documents that make tourists gasp. “You’re telling me that you weren’t waiting there for Beecher to sneak you over?”

“It’s a public area! I can stroll there all I want!” she yells.

Khazei pulls her close, squeezing her arm even tighter. “You think I didn’t look you up when you signed in this morning and last night? We’ve got cameras outside! I saw him drop you off on the damn corner!”

A puddle of sweat soaks the small of my back. The only reason I tried to sneak her in was so Clementine-and her dad-would avoid getting linked to everything with Orlando and the President. So much for that. Still, Clementine doesn’t seem to care. She’s got far more pressing problems to deal with.

“I swear to God, if you don’t let go…!” she threatens, still thrashing to get free.

“Clemmi, calm down,” I tell her.

“She can’t, can she?” Khazei challenges. “Got too much family blood in her.”

“ Get your hands off me! ” she explodes, the intensity catching me off guard. A flick of spit leaves her lips as she roars the words. Her eyes have volcanoes in them. This isn’t anger. Or rage. This is her father.

Khazei doesn’t care. He grips Clementine by the back of her neck, hoping it’ll take the fight out of her.

He doesn’t know her at all. And the way she continues to boil, her whole body shaking as she fights to break free of his grip, I start thinking that maybe I don’t know her either.

She twists fast, trying to knee him in the nuts. He turns just in time to make sure she misses.

“Clemmi, please… It’s enough,” I beg.

“Stop fighting and I’ll let you go,” Khazei warns her.

“Get… off… me!” she snarls as a silver spit bubble forms at her lips.

“You hear what I said?” Khazei asks.

Clementine refuses to answer. Still trying to escape, she punches at his hands. Her body trembles. She’s determined to break away. Khazei grits his teeth, pinching her neck even tighter.

“Let her go…!” I shout, shoving Khazei’s shoulder.

“You listening?” he asks her again, like I’m not even there.

Her trembling gets worse. The spit bubble in her mouth slowly expands. She’ll never give up. It has nothing to do with Khazei. Clementine just met her father for the first time in her life. She had to sit there and listen as he told us that our lives and our choices are predetermined. Then Khazei jumped in and basically accused her of the same.

Clementine looks over at me, her face flushed red. She’s trying so hard to prove them wrong, to prove to the entire world-and especially to herself-who she really is. But as the volcanoes in her eyes are about to blow, that’s exactly her problem. No matter how far we come, our parents are always in us.