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Authors: Brad Meltzer
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you—?”
“There are worse things in life. He could’ve been dead; he could’ve been—” She cuts herself off, and slowly—right in front of me—it’s like she’s finally hearing her own words. Her jawbone shifts in her cheek. Her knees buckle. Before, she was unprepared. Now she’s unraveling.
I grab her arm, tugging hard. Time to get her out of here. At the end of one of the stacks—the real end this time—I push a metal door open and the dusty old stacks on the ninth floor dump us into the polished office hallway on the third floor of the main building.
The sirens from the motorcade still scream through the hall. No doubt, the President is inside the Archives by now, probably already in the SCIF with Dallas and Rina. The sirens should be fading soon. But as we head down the final steps to the lobby, as I tuck the coat-covered book tight under my arm and tug Clementine along, the sirens keep wailing. By the time I wave my badge and hear the click that opens the heavy door, there are a half dozen armed Secret Service agents standing in the lobby. The sirens are louder than ever.
A blast of mean December air from outside nearly knocks over the lobby’s Christmas tree as it sends its shredded paper decorations flying. On my right, I spy the source of the sudden wind tunnel: The automatic doors that lead out to Pennsylvania Avenue are wide open.
“ Step aside! Emergency! ” someone yells as a gleaming metal gurney comes blasting through the entrance, pushed by two impassive paramedics in dark blue long-sleeved shirts.
“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest uniformed Secret Service guy. “Something happen with the President?”
He glances at my badge, making sure I’m staff. “You think we’d be standing here if that were the case? We took him out of here six minutes ago. This is one of yours.”
A strand of shredded paper kisses the side of my face, hooking around my ear. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. “How do you mean, one of ours ?”
“One of them ,” he clarifies, pointing with his nose at the Security guys who run the main check-in desk. “Apparently, some poor guy had a seizure—or heart attack—they found him on the floor of his office. I think they said his name was…”
“ Orlando!? ” a guard shouts from the check-in desk.
“ Orlando!? ” Clementine blurts behind me.
No. No no. He didn’t just say—
The string of shredded paper slips off my ear, blowing into a small swirl at the center of the marble lobby. Clementine is silent behind me.
There’s no way. I was just… he was just…
“Beecher,” Clementine whispers behind me.
I’m already running, dragging her with me by her hand.
This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
But it is.
10
Move! Move it! Move! ” I yell, running full speed up the bright white basement hallway with the white-and-gray checkerboard floor. The magic key bounces against my chest as I fight my way through the insta-crowd that’s already forming outside Orlando’s office.
I’m not a big person. Or strong. But I have two older sisters. I know how to get what I want:
I lie.
“ We’re with them! ” I shout as I point to the paramedics who’re barely fifty feet ahead, riding their wake as they pull me and Clementine through the crowd.
Not a single Archives employee tries to stop me. Archivists aren’t built for confrontation. They’re built for observation, which explains why small groups of gawkers fill the hall all the way to the front door of the Security Office.
I hear more whispers as I run: Orlando…? Orlando…! Heard a seizure… Orlando…!
“Don’t assume the worst. He could be okay,” Clementine says.
I refuse to argue as we squeeze into the large office suite. Inside, it’s quiet and looks like any other: a long rectangular layout spotted with cubicles and a few private offices. All the action is on our left, where I hear the squawks and crackles of far too many
“There are worse things in life. He could’ve been dead; he could’ve been—” She cuts herself off, and slowly—right in front of me—it’s like she’s finally hearing her own words. Her jawbone shifts in her cheek. Her knees buckle. Before, she was unprepared. Now she’s unraveling.
I grab her arm, tugging hard. Time to get her out of here. At the end of one of the stacks—the real end this time—I push a metal door open and the dusty old stacks on the ninth floor dump us into the polished office hallway on the third floor of the main building.
The sirens from the motorcade still scream through the hall. No doubt, the President is inside the Archives by now, probably already in the SCIF with Dallas and Rina. The sirens should be fading soon. But as we head down the final steps to the lobby, as I tuck the coat-covered book tight under my arm and tug Clementine along, the sirens keep wailing. By the time I wave my badge and hear the click that opens the heavy door, there are a half dozen armed Secret Service agents standing in the lobby. The sirens are louder than ever.
A blast of mean December air from outside nearly knocks over the lobby’s Christmas tree as it sends its shredded paper decorations flying. On my right, I spy the source of the sudden wind tunnel: The automatic doors that lead out to Pennsylvania Avenue are wide open.
“ Step aside! Emergency! ” someone yells as a gleaming metal gurney comes blasting through the entrance, pushed by two impassive paramedics in dark blue long-sleeved shirts.
“What’s going on?” I ask the nearest uniformed Secret Service guy. “Something happen with the President?”
He glances at my badge, making sure I’m staff. “You think we’d be standing here if that were the case? We took him out of here six minutes ago. This is one of yours.”
A strand of shredded paper kisses the side of my face, hooking around my ear. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. “How do you mean, one of ours ?”
“One of them ,” he clarifies, pointing with his nose at the Security guys who run the main check-in desk. “Apparently, some poor guy had a seizure—or heart attack—they found him on the floor of his office. I think they said his name was…”
“ Orlando!? ” a guard shouts from the check-in desk.
“ Orlando!? ” Clementine blurts behind me.
No. No no. He didn’t just say—
The string of shredded paper slips off my ear, blowing into a small swirl at the center of the marble lobby. Clementine is silent behind me.
There’s no way. I was just… he was just…
“Beecher,” Clementine whispers behind me.
I’m already running, dragging her with me by her hand.
This isn’t happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
But it is.
10
Move! Move it! Move! ” I yell, running full speed up the bright white basement hallway with the white-and-gray checkerboard floor. The magic key bounces against my chest as I fight my way through the insta-crowd that’s already forming outside Orlando’s office.
I’m not a big person. Or strong. But I have two older sisters. I know how to get what I want:
I lie.
“ We’re with them! ” I shout as I point to the paramedics who’re barely fifty feet ahead, riding their wake as they pull me and Clementine through the crowd.
Not a single Archives employee tries to stop me. Archivists aren’t built for confrontation. They’re built for observation, which explains why small groups of gawkers fill the hall all the way to the front door of the Security Office.
I hear more whispers as I run: Orlando…? Orlando…! Heard a seizure… Orlando…!
“Don’t assume the worst. He could be okay,” Clementine says.
I refuse to argue as we squeeze into the large office suite. Inside, it’s quiet and looks like any other: a long rectangular layout spotted with cubicles and a few private offices. All the action is on our left, where I hear the squawks and crackles of far too many
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