The President's Shadow (29 page)

O
n the islan
d
, there weren’t many places to keep prisoners, so they locked Alby in the dungeon.

It was the same brick dungeon and six-by-six cell that’d held Dr. Mudd over a century ago. Like they’d done with Mudd, they clamped Alby’s wrist in the rusted shackle that was bolted to the wall.

They didn’t want to chain him up like that, but it was the only way for Dr. Moorcraft to give Alby his shot.
To calm him down
, the doctor said.

For the first few hours, Alby was screaming and thrashing, though out here on the island, it didn’t matter. By day two, h
e
was hoarse and exhausted. Starving too. They gave him a wooden bucket for his diarrhea, but barely any food. By day three, h
e
just sat there in the empty cell, sagging down on the stone floor, swatting at mosquitoes that weren’t there. And a moth, though somewhere in his head, he knew there were no yellow moths on the island.

Just outside the cell, Dr. Moorcraft had brought in a wooden desk and even a metal floor stand that held a tall American flag, o
ne
of the few flashes of color for Alby to focus on, especially when the sun was gone and darkness arrived
. He’d save the flag for night, when it stood in a pool of lamplight. During the day, he’
d
stare out the thin window—barely two inches wide—that looked out toward the front moat of the fort.

According to Dr. Moorcraft, during the Civil War, all the feces and urine from every latrine on the island had drained into that front moat. The goal was to send a message to approaching foreigners, and to punish those in the dungeon, who had to sleep with the reek every night.

For some reason, he also told Alby that Dr. Mudd and the other prisoners had dug an underground tunnel. Alby spent most of that day trying to pry at the stone floor. He never found the tunnel, though when he hit a certain part of the wall, a loose stone moved in the ceiling, sprinkling a few grains of fine black dust. Alby had no idea it was gunpowder that was stored in the rooms above him.

Other than the window, the only source of light was a tall halogen lamp whose plug ran out of the dungeon, all the way back to the hurricane shelter. Twice a day, D
r
. Moorcraft sat at the desk and asked questions that Alby refused to answer.

Alby had only one question: “
Why am I still here!?
” he shouted as Moorcraft lowered the halogen and darkness descended. Alby had broken into an off-limits area. It was clear insubordination. The supply boat had come yesterday. So why hadn’t they shipped him off the island? “
Why not send me home!?
”

As usual, Moorcraft left the dungeon, giving no answer. The waves crashed outside. A fat three-quarter moon added a silver tint through the narrow window. But otherwise, i
t
was another night of Alby lying on the stone floor, listening to rats skitter in every direction.

That is, until two hours later, well after midnight, when the skittering stopped.

Alby’s eyes popped open at the sudden lack of sound. Even when you can’t see it, you still know when someone enters a room.

Sitting up, Alby swatted away a swarm of mosquitoes.

“
Who’s there?
” Alby hissed into the dark.

No reply.

Alby sat up on his knees, the chain on his wrist clanging against the brick and stone. Through the bars, h
e
couldn’t see far. Past the desk, th
e
hallway twisted around to the left. “
You trying to give me another shot!?
”

Again, no response. Something was wrong. When Dr. Moorcraft and the guards gave shots, they didn’t lurk there in the darkness. Maybe he was really crazy; maybe it was all in his head.

Alby squinted hard, his breathing in perfect sync with the crashing waves outside. He knew someone was there. He felt it.

It couldn’t be Timothy. Timothy hated him too much. Maybe it was Arkansas Ovalface. But again, the only reason Arkansas sat with him, much less spoke to him, was to get Alby’s extra hash browns and biscuits. No, the longer Alby knelt there, the rusty chain tugging at his wrist, there was only one person who made
sense. The person he’d last seen reading Julian’s book.

“Nico, I know it’s you,” Alby finally said.

Still nothing.

“Nico, you came here for a reason. Don’t just sit there like a coward!”

Nothing again.

“C’mon, don’t you wanna know what they’re doing to us!?” Alby pleaded. “How many shots have they given us? You think that’s normal? I saw the proof! They’re putting things in us, Nico! All we are are lab rats! If you let me out of here, I can tell you! I’ll show you!”

But as Alby continued to yell, the room stayed dark and the shadows seemed to shift. Whoever had been waiting around the corner, they were no longer there.

M
ina had her back to the door. She was moving quickly, tugging fistfuls of files from the cabinet and stuffing them into the backpack.

In the distance, th
e
ocean waves continued to cartwheel. She could hear Clementine running—limping really—every other footstep slapping hard against the stone floor as she chased after Beecher and Marshall. But in no tim
e
, those echoes faded too, and the storage room settled, embracing its usual silence.

Mina didn’t mind the quiet. Like most archivists, she preferred it. What she didn’t prefer was being so caught off guard by Clementine’s arrival. Beecher had kept that one a secret. He’d known Clementine would be here—and that Nico would too—he and Marshall had set it up. Could Mina fault him for that? Not really. Beecher was being smart and cautious. On top of that, they’d kept Clementine in the dark as well.

So why was it gnawing so deeply at Mina? Deep down, she knew the answer. Had she made the wrong choice? Should she have called it in? From her pocket, sh
e
pulled out her phone.
No signal.
Same as it’d been since they boarded the plane. Yet as she finished the last file cabinet and zipped up the backpack, Mina’s biggest problem was simply this: Her back was still to the door.

She barely even noticed as the island’s newest arrival joined her in the room.

“Clementine, that you?” Mina called out.

She was in mid-turn. The man’s hand was arced up in the air. Stabbing down, he rammed the butt of his gun into the back of Mina’s head. She stumbled, but was still on her feet. She was strong, like a bull. Not that it helped.

He hit her again and again until the blood started coming. Mina fell to the ground face-first.

How nice
, the man thought to himself as he grabbed the full backpack. Everything was all packed up for him.

W
hat’d you say?” I ask.

Nico doesn’t answer. Jamming his shovel at the wall and scattering another chunk of the red-and-black bricks, he knows I heard him. He shakes his head, still talking to his imaginary friend.

“How do you know my father died here?” I challenge, the files still tucked under my armpit.

“This room was different back then. It wasn’t empty like this; it was divided into half a dozen tiny jail cells, Benjamin,” he explains, always calling me by my middle name. He thinks he’s the reincarnation of George Washington and I’m Benedict Arnold. Trust me, he’s got no lack of crazy. But usually, hi
s
voice is filled with the confidence that comes from that crazy. Right now, h
e
sounds—and looks—deflated, staring off at an old memory. “Do you know who else was transformed in this place? Do you know whose cell this was?”

The ancient brass plaque on the wall tells me this is where they held Dr. Mudd. But all I care about is my father. “Nico, tell me how you—?”

“This is where Dr. Mudd’s life changed too. Mudd was a bitter racist—one of the takers of Abraham Lincoln’s life. But when an outbreak of yellow fever hit the island, all four nurses on the island died. The army doctor died too. Mudd was the only one with medical training left, and here he was, shackled to the wall in this exact spot where we’re now standing.

“His jailers had no choice. Four hundred people lived on this island. The yellow fever caused black vomit, and the pain from it was so brutal, once you got it, they’d bring a makeshift coffin to the side of your bed, just waiting for you to die. Then they’d bury you at the edge of the island and let the tides take you away. Without proper medical treatment, yellow fever would’ve consumed everyone on this island.”

“I know the story of Dr. Mudd.”

“Then you know that when they released him from this cell, he became a new man. A different man. One day, he was a vindictive racist who wanted blacks to be kept in chains. The next day, he was working tirelessly without sleep and without help to save everyone here, black or white. Suddenl
y
, he was a hero. In this hole, h
e
was redeemed. They pardoned him soon after. Don’t you see?” he asks, his spirit and energy all gone. “Mudd was no different than the rest of us. We all have one body, with many versions of ourselves in it.”

“Nico, how do you know my father died in this room?”

He pauses at that, putting the shovel down and cocking an eyebrow toward the door. He hears someone coming. “One, two, three, four,” he mutters to himself. “Always four.”

“How’d you know my father—?”

“We’re on an island, Benjamin,” he says, turning back to me. “Everyone heard his screams.”

The words drill me like a nail gun in my chest. The oxygen tank sags to my side, suddenly weighing a ton. He has to be lying. He never tells the—

“
Nico
—
!
” a female voice calls out.

Behind m
e
, Clementine bursts into the room. Marshall’s limping beside her. They’re shoulder to shoulder, so close that I can’t tell if they’re holding hands or she’s helping Marshall stand. But the moment she sees her father, Clementine heads for Nico. By herself.

In life, the most complex relationship you’ll ever have is with your parent. It also comes with its own secret language.

Clementine’s eyes go wide, like she’s asking a question.

Nico turns away, refusing to face her. He knows the cure she’s looking for. And even worse, he knows the truth. Whatever was in those files, it’s not going to save his daughter.

It doesn’t slow Clementine down. She’s not worried about herself anymore; she’s worried about her father. The closer she gets, the more Nico shrinks, like he’s curling inside himself. Shaking his head, he turns back toward the wall, pressing his forehead against the brick. He’s not talking to his imaginary friend. He’s not talking to anyone.

“Nico, it’s okay…it’s okay…” she says before I even realize what’s happening.

When someone starts crying, you physically feel it across a room. It’s an emotional gravity field that pulls everything toward it.

Nico’s shoulders curve inward. His body trembles. He doesn’t want to let the tears come, but he doesn’t have a choice.

“
I-I’m so sorry
,” he sobs. “
I thought the files
—
All I wanted was to save you…!
”

“No…it’s okay,” Clemmi says.

“It’s not okay. Those sins that are in you
—
They’re
my
sins…! They should be in
me
, not
you
!”

“Nico, they’re not sins.”

“
They are! Don’t you see? I prayed to God every day to make you different from me. But now, I finally
understand
…
” His voice is speeding now as the tears finally come.

“No. Listen. Are you listening?” she interrupts, putting a hand on his back. “They’re not sins. Okay? They’re not sins,” she insists, her voice calm and fully in control.

It’s amazing really. The more Nico crumbles, the more Clementine finds her footing.

“I’m okay,” she insists. “Look at me. I’m okay.”

Nico won’t have it; he won’t look at her. “I know why God did this,” he insists, his forehead and fingers pressing against the bricks. “These past few weeks…these months… Nothing hurts me anymore. There’s no hurt I can feel. The only pain I suffer is when God punishes…” He takes a breath. “
…when
he punishes
you
.
”

Clementine clenches her jaw, fighting hard to hold it together. “You don’t have to worry about me, Dad.”

There it is:
Dad
.

Twisting toward his daughter, Nico collapses into Clementine’s open arms. His sobs are silent huffs of air that chug in their own erratic rhythm.

“I got you. I’m here,” she repeats, holding him tight. “I’m not letting go.”

I glance over at Marshall, who can barely stand in the entryway. “Clementine,” he calls out, leaning on the brick wall to keep himself up, “if you want to get him out of here, we need to go.
Now.
”

I start to run, knowing Marshall’s right.

Clementine agrees, following behind me and steering her dad toward the—

Nico cocks his head; I know that look. He hears something.

I toss the files to the floor and raise the oxygen tank like a baseball bat.

Marshall’s about to run through the archway. He stops, then backs up, raising his hands like it’s a stickup.

“One, two, three, four, five,” Nico mutters. “There shouldn’t be five.”

But there are. Through the darkness of the archway, there’s no missing the shine on our newest visitor’s head. Or the jagged gash across his right cheek where Clementine shot him.

“Is this really such a shock?” Ezra asks, entering the room and pointing an antique gun at Marshall’s chest. He tosses Mina’s backpack, thick with files, at his own feet. “Personally, I always saw the ending coming.”