twenty pounds by now,” he adds, flashing a grin.
Francy makes a face. She’s heard the joke before. Even better, unlike A.J.—unlike just about everyone—she doesn’t take a half-step back as Wallace gets closer. Francy stays right where she is. She’s growing on me more and more.
The President’s still holding the china plate, which has the Great Seal of the United States on it. But what I’m focused on is the file folder he rests it on top of. The one with the Plankholders penny. From my father’s unit. The President knows how bad I want it. But he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something just as much.
“Relax, son. I told you, I’m here with an opportunity. A good one.”
“Define good . Because last time I saw you, you pounded your big desk and swore you’d stomp out the Culper Ring and me along with it.”
His smile spreads even wider as he approaches the table. I’m on one side; Francy and A.J. are still on the other. Wallace steps to the head. “I heard today’s your birthday. Happy birthday.”
“I appreciate that. Now in the hopes of getting me back to the shredded-paper confetti that they’re going to surprise me with in my office, why don’t you tell me what you’re really after?”
He knots his fingers together prayer-style. His smile’s still perfectly in place. “Beecher, you know what your defining characteristic is? You always do what’s right. The moment you see someone being hurt, or some sort of injustice, even when it puts you at risk, you can’t turn your back to it. You have to help. That’s a beautiful trait,” the President says, sounding genuine. “As for me, you know what my defining characteristic is? I know what people are good at. My defining trait is that I can find that defining trait. It’s not as beautiful a trait as yours, but it most certainly comes in handy,” he points out. “Which brings us to our little gardening problem. I thought you might be interested in helping us clean it up.”
I stare straight back at him. “So you want my help?”
“Is that so unreasonable?” the President counters. “Whatever’s left of the Culper Ring, you’re the one who leads them now. Isn’t that why Tot—”
“Don’t mention Tot. I appreciate you calling the hospital so he can stay in the ICU instead of transferring him, but that doesn’t mean we owe you anything.”
“I agree. You owe me nothing. But isn’t that the purpose of the Ring: protecting the President?”
“We protect the Presidency ,” I clarify. “Besides, don’t you have hundreds of Secret Service agents already investigating all this?”
The President and Francy both go silent. A.J. turns back to the TV, which clicks, as if on cue, to four new camera angles. I glance around the laundry room, with its foldable card tables and hastily assembled computer stations. We’re two stories below the White House. A tiny windowless room that few people know about. “You think the Service had a hand in this?”
“It’s too early to point fingers,” the President says. “But to bury someone’s arm in the Rose Garden…to get that far without being seen… You don’t just hop the fence and make a mad dash. To pull off a trick like that…”
“You need help,” I say with a nod. Only way to bury that arm is with an inside job. “You think it was someone on staff?”
“Maybe it’s staff; maybe it’s the Service,” Francy says as I again picture that angry look on the First Lady’s face. For the first time, I start wondering if maybe this isn’t just about the President. “The point is, however they pulled it off, it was nearly flawless.”
“Nearly?”
The President gives a nod to Francy, who flips to a new photo in the file folder. Unlike the sterile close-up of the flattened penny, this is an outdoor shot of dozens of people on the South Lawn of the White House.
“Looks like a party,” I say, studying the smiling crowd, which is being entertained by the Marine
Francy makes a face. She’s heard the joke before. Even better, unlike A.J.—unlike just about everyone—she doesn’t take a half-step back as Wallace gets closer. Francy stays right where she is. She’s growing on me more and more.
The President’s still holding the china plate, which has the Great Seal of the United States on it. But what I’m focused on is the file folder he rests it on top of. The one with the Plankholders penny. From my father’s unit. The President knows how bad I want it. But he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want something just as much.
“Relax, son. I told you, I’m here with an opportunity. A good one.”
“Define good . Because last time I saw you, you pounded your big desk and swore you’d stomp out the Culper Ring and me along with it.”
His smile spreads even wider as he approaches the table. I’m on one side; Francy and A.J. are still on the other. Wallace steps to the head. “I heard today’s your birthday. Happy birthday.”
“I appreciate that. Now in the hopes of getting me back to the shredded-paper confetti that they’re going to surprise me with in my office, why don’t you tell me what you’re really after?”
He knots his fingers together prayer-style. His smile’s still perfectly in place. “Beecher, you know what your defining characteristic is? You always do what’s right. The moment you see someone being hurt, or some sort of injustice, even when it puts you at risk, you can’t turn your back to it. You have to help. That’s a beautiful trait,” the President says, sounding genuine. “As for me, you know what my defining characteristic is? I know what people are good at. My defining trait is that I can find that defining trait. It’s not as beautiful a trait as yours, but it most certainly comes in handy,” he points out. “Which brings us to our little gardening problem. I thought you might be interested in helping us clean it up.”
I stare straight back at him. “So you want my help?”
“Is that so unreasonable?” the President counters. “Whatever’s left of the Culper Ring, you’re the one who leads them now. Isn’t that why Tot—”
“Don’t mention Tot. I appreciate you calling the hospital so he can stay in the ICU instead of transferring him, but that doesn’t mean we owe you anything.”
“I agree. You owe me nothing. But isn’t that the purpose of the Ring: protecting the President?”
“We protect the Presidency ,” I clarify. “Besides, don’t you have hundreds of Secret Service agents already investigating all this?”
The President and Francy both go silent. A.J. turns back to the TV, which clicks, as if on cue, to four new camera angles. I glance around the laundry room, with its foldable card tables and hastily assembled computer stations. We’re two stories below the White House. A tiny windowless room that few people know about. “You think the Service had a hand in this?”
“It’s too early to point fingers,” the President says. “But to bury someone’s arm in the Rose Garden…to get that far without being seen… You don’t just hop the fence and make a mad dash. To pull off a trick like that…”
“You need help,” I say with a nod. Only way to bury that arm is with an inside job. “You think it was someone on staff?”
“Maybe it’s staff; maybe it’s the Service,” Francy says as I again picture that angry look on the First Lady’s face. For the first time, I start wondering if maybe this isn’t just about the President. “The point is, however they pulled it off, it was nearly flawless.”
“Nearly?”
The President gives a nod to Francy, who flips to a new photo in the file folder. Unlike the sterile close-up of the flattened penny, this is an outdoor shot of dozens of people on the South Lawn of the White House.
“Looks like a party,” I say, studying the smiling crowd, which is being entertained by the Marine
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