The President's Shadow (25 page)

G
otta pee,” Alby said.

That’s
all it took. The marine guard barely turned as Alby raced down the brick staircase, from the roof, toward the barracks. He didn’t enter the barracks, though. Instead, as Alby reached the ground floor, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out an unread week-old newspaper,
Stars and Stripes
.

They didn’t get much news on the island. Papers came once a week, shipped from abroad in a separate delivery from the one that brought food and fresh water. If Alby got caught, this was his excuse, that he was delivering the new issue to Dr. Moorcraft.

By now, he knew the pattern. Every day after breakfast, Dr. Moorcraft carried a set of file folders to the colonel in the officers’ quarters. A few hours later, Dr. Moorcraft left the offices, carrying those files deeper into the fort’s brick labyrinth.

Just as he’d planned, Alby walked as calmly as he could, pretending to read the
Stars and Stripes
. Sure enough, up ahead, Dr. Moorcraft was exiting the colonel’s quarters. Like clockwork.

Still holding the
Stars and Stripes
, Alby kept his pace, walking evenly. A hundred feet ahead of him, Dr. Moorcraft weaved through the fort’s connecting brick rooms. According to what Julian had said, during the Civil War these rooms had held cannons and guns. Toda
y
, sand and rat droppings were everywhere.

As the hallway bent to the left, the true labyrinth began. There were barely any windows, barely any light. With a sharp turn, Dr. Moorcraft disappeared. Alby didn’t panic. For a week now, he’d been wondering where Dr. Moorcraft disappeared to. Now it made sense. Straight ahead,
a
metal plaque was bolted to the wall:

From the very first day the Plankholders had arrived, this was
the place with the best ghost stories: the old dungeons where they locked up the men who tried to kill Abraham Lincoln.

As Alby turned the corner, he didn’t hear anything. No footsteps. No running. No shuffling in the sand. Just the usual rhythm of ocean waves in the distance. He squinted down the dim hallway. An orange crab walked sideways along the stone floor. But otherwise…

Dr. Moorcraft was gone.

Confused, Alby headed around the corner. The
Stars and Stripes
was now damp where he clutched it. The ceiling was lower down here, the hallway narrower. Ahead of him was an archway that framed a metal jail door, like you’d see in an old Western. Above it was a plank of wood that held a hand-carved message:

This was it. The entrance to the dungeon and Dr. Mudd’s cell.

As Alby got closer, he saw that the door with the metal bars was still shut, locked with a chain.

It didn’t make sense. Where was…?

Fwuuup.

The sound came from behind him, from the main hallway, like a door scraping against the floor. Alby spun. As he raced back to the hallway, he heard the click and
thunk
of a lock.

There. On his left was another narrow corridor, this one with white-painted bricks. At the end of the corridor was an old wooden door. Alby had been here before, during their safety orientation. It used to be one of the fort’s old gunpowder rooms. Now, because it had an interior location that didn’t face the ocean, it was the go-to hurricane shelter in case another storm hit.

Now it made sense. Every da
y
, Dr. Moorcraft met with the colonel. Every day, when that meeting was done, the doctor came here. The perfect hiding spot for his files.

Alby walked away, still pretending to read
Stars and Stripes
.

Soon enough, D
r
. Moorcraft would be gone. And then, later tonight, Alby would get what he wanted.

T
his is it?” I ask, leaning over the private jet’s eucalyptus-wood desk and staring down at the oversize, mottled sheet of paper. The map Mina found. It’d been rolled up for so long, we put my two shoes on it to keep it open. “Anything special about it?”

“All maps are special,” Mina explains from the opposite side of the desk as she redoes her ponytail. It’s past one in the morning, though even with the jet’s dimmed lights and reclinable caramel leather seats, neither of us can sleep. “Think of the maps Magellan used to circle the globe. They were filled with trade routes that every rival country wanted. But for centuries, as someone smarter than me once said, the Portuguese controlled the Indies because they controlled the maps.”

I study our own map, which features an old aerial satellite photo that looks like it was taken during the Cold War. At the center is a black-and-white hexagonal building, surrounded by water on all sides. Fort Jefferson, aka Devil’s Island, aka the prison that held Abraham Lincoln’s killers—and, for some reason, my father and his Plankholders unit. If my hunch is right, it’s also where my dad died.

“You okay?” Mina asks for the fourth time in the last hour.

I keep staring at the map. “Why’d you come here?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m serious, Mina. You did your job; you got me this map; you pointed me where to go. Why get on the plane with me and put yourself at risk?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Because you did the same for me, Beecher. When my brother needed you, you gave him the very best day of his life. I want to pay that back. And if I’m wrong, and this is all some big lie, well, then I guess I’m on the case of my life.”

Makes sense. “Now why’d you really come?” I add.

“I just told you—”

“No. You didn’t do this for some karmic payback, or even for some casework. You may be a fellow archivist and even a friend, but first and foremost, you’re a Secret Service employee. Job one is reporting suspicious activity. So for you to be here with no backup, no one to help you, and no cover in case this all blows up and you’re suddenly the one knee-deep in manure…? You could’ve called in a supervisor and watched it play out from your office. Try again, Mina. A real answer this time. Why. Are. You. Here. With. Me?”

Across the pullout desk, Mina stands up straight. With the jet’s low ceiling, she’s too tall. She lowers her chin toward her chest. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t know.”

Her words, packed with a far-too-familiar loneliness, catch even her off guard. I stay right where I am. There’s something about this girl. This stubborn, unstoppable girl. I know she loves the past as much as I do. But unlike me, when it comes to her personal history, she’s figured out a way to embrace it…and draw strength from it. It’s the only way to reach the future. “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.

“So am I,” she agrees.

I can’t help but grin.

“Beecher, now would be a good time to kiss me.”

“I was about to.”

“Sure y—”

I flip up the table, sending the map and my shoes catapulting across the cabin. She’s a good two inches taller than me. It excites me even more.

My fingers slide to the nape of her neck. I pull her toward me, kissing her hard as our tongues find each other. She tastes warm and somehow familiar.

There’s no such thing as a perfect kiss. But this one’s definitely in the running.

“Mm,” she murmurs, catching her breath. She plants a soft kiss on my cheek and whispers three words into my ear: “Do that again.”

I’m facing the front of the plane, Mina’s facing the back. With the momentum of the jet, she’s closer than ever, pressing hard against me. Her body’s so strong, her muscles are tensed. She’s a thoroughbred.

“This’s the reason you wanted the private jet, isn’t it?” she whispers, her lips vibrating against mine.

“I’d be just as happy in the back of a Toyota.”

“That’s cute. You’re cute, Beecher. But you really think you’d get this in the back of a Toyota?” she teases, hitting me with a dark, sly grin that I’ll be thinking about for hours. This day has felt like one of the longest and shortest of my life. But I finally know what I want for my birthday.

Over our heads, next to the lights and the call button, there’s another button: a red
Do Not Disturb
one. When we first got on board, I didn’t know what it was for. I do now.

Kllk.

A rose-colored light tells me it’s on. We crash into a nearby recliner. Mina starts unbuttoning my shirt, kissing her way down my neck, toward my chest.

There really is something about this girl. And right now, something I want more of.

N
ine hours later, Marshal
l
woke up. It was morning and his armpit was throbbing. Clementine was still sitting there, her face swollen, the sleeping cat in her lap, watching over both of them. She hadn’t moved from her spot on the edge of his fold-down bed. For a while, h
e
just lay there in the sleeping car, lost in the train’s churning rhythm.

“Why’d you save me?” Clementine finally asked, sounding indisputably thankful.

“What’re you talking about?”

“At the herbal shop. When Ezra hit me with the car. You could’ve turned the ignition and taken off. Instead you came back and saved me.”

“You deserve to be saved,” Marshall said, though he wouldn’t face her.

She paused at that, unable to contain her grin.

“Don’t make this more than it is,” Marshall pleaded.

“I’m just saying…”

“You’re making it more than it is.”

“I’m just saying, people don’t usually do stuff like that for me. Not without wanting something.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“I know you don’t,” she said, reaching for Marshall’s hand.

Marshall pulled it away, though it didn’t take the joy from Clementine’s scabbed face. Her hands were scraped. Her left eye was red from a broken blood vessel. “By the way, what was Ezra whispering to you?” she added.

Marshall replayed Ezra’s offer to join the Knights. To become one of them. “Nothing. Kooky rambling.” The train continued to churn. “Where are we anyway?”

“I think Orlando. We’ll be in Miami in a few hours.”

Nodding, Marshall opened and closed his fists. He’d been sleeping too long. His scars had tightened and his skin was stiff. It was the worst at his elbows, knees and knuckles. If he flexed them too fast, it felt like he was tearing open his scars.

“Does it hurt when you do that?” Clementine asked.

“No,” Marshall said far too fast. Clementine knew it was a lie, but she didn’t call him on it. She looked down at his hand. He again pulled away.

“Y’know yo
u
do the same thing in your sleep,” Clementine said. “I’d try to hold your hand, and each time, you’d tug it free.” When Marshall didn’t respond, she said, “It’s really not a healthy way to live.”

“I didn’t realize we were suddenly sharing life advice.”

“All I’m saying, Marsh, is that—”

“Marshall.”

“Can you just listen? Whatever demons you carry in your life, they become more powerful over time.”

Flat on his back, Marshall stared up at the fluorescent lights, still flexing his fists and stretching his skin.

“Y’know, in France, scars aren’t even considered ugly,” Clementine added. “They’re thought of as beautiful—as signs of experience and grand adventures. It’s only in America that we try to cover them up and get embarrassed by them. For the French, they’re proof of a life well lived.”

“I’ve been to France. They stared at me just as hard as people here.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re—”

“Clementine, I appreciate the group therapy, but let me explain something. Once a year,
I
go back to the local burn center for checkups and whatever new grafts I need. Last time I was there, I saw this family huddling and crying in the hallway. Their son was set on fire as he was getting off a city bus. A local gang doused him with gasoline and set him ablaze. The poor kid’s body was charred. His ears and whole face melted away. We’re talking 90 percent of his body with third- and fourth-degree burns. That means it extends into his muscles and bones,” Marshall explained. “So when the father of the family noticed my face, he pulled me aside, pointed to his son, and asked, ‘How do you come through all that and survive?’ I looked him straight in the eye and told him, ‘He won’t.’”

The train continued to churn. “You didn’t have to tell him that,” Clementine said.

“So you think lying and giving him false hope is a better option? Not every story gets a happy ending—and not every burn on your face is a sign of good living.”

Locking eyes with him, Clementine reached into her mouth and—
tuukk
—used her thumb to unhinge something from the roof of her palate. From between her lips, she pulled out the metal bridge that held a row of fake teeth. It was still dripping with saliva as she tossed it onto Marshall’s chest. “We all have our scars,” she lisped, flashing a nervous jack o’lantern grin and revealing three pointy, filed-down teeth that hung like stalactites from her gums.

Marshall cocked his head. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop.

Clementine didn’t move, no matter how much she wanted to.

“That thing you said about France, with the scars…” Marshall eventually asked. “That really true?”

“Dunno.” She snapped her bridge back in place. “A therapist told it to me years ago. I choose to believe it,” she explained as she scootched forward and reached out—again—for Marshall’s hand.

His fist was clenched, but this time, he didn’t pull away. “What about your boyfriend Beecher?”

“He’s never been my boyfriend. Not even in fifth grade. Besides, do you think Beecher knows what it’s like to live like this?” she asked, pointing to his face, then her own.

Marshall stared straight at her, his fist still tight as ever.

As gently as possible, Clementine lifted his hand. His candle-wax skin was bumpy and felt stiff to the touch. Leaning down, she planted a soft kiss on Marshall’s middle knuckle. He still didn’t pull away.

Along the back of his hand, she eyed a fleshy white knob of skin, a spot where the burns ran deep. She put her lips on the lump and kissed him again.

She was close to him now, so close she was in his scent. He smelled like an old hardware store. On the back of her neck, she felt that familiar humming that’d been gone for so long. She wanted to be closer. Lifting her chin, she leaned toward his lips and…

“Clementine, don’t—”

It happened so fast, she was still moving.

Marshall shoved the air to push her back. “I mean it. I’m not doing this.”

“I-I wasn’t— I just thought—”

“I know what you thought. And if it makes you feel better, I had the same thought. But I’m not doing it.”

For a moment, Clementin
e
just sat there. With each churn of the train, she felt the subtle shift from embarrassment, to anger, to pity. “Let me ask you something, Marshall: Is this how you punish yourself, or are you just terrified to be happy?”

Marshall turned toward the wall. He didn’t say another word until the train reached Miami.