upward. It’s already open. There’s no address on it. No return address either.
I look back at the bedroom. He’s still busy.
As I push back the flaps and peer into the box, staring back at me is a shiny white face, with no eyes.
I jump at the sight.
A mask.
It’s a plaster mask. White, like chalk. It looks like…
It’s Abraham Lincoln.
I pull out my phone and try to take a quick pic, but my hand’s shaking. I can’t steady it.
I look again over my shoulder. Marshall’s still pacing in the bedroom.
My phone makes the fake
cha-chick
as I snap the picture. Tot needs to see this. I forward the photo to him, with a note:
Found in Marshall’s place.
Quick as I can, I fold the box shut and put the stack of mail back on top.
I have no idea why Marshall would have his own Abraham Lincoln mask—but considering we’re looking for John Wilkes B—
Over my shoulder, there’s a low steady sound, like someone breathing.
I don’t even have to turn around.
Marshall’s right behind me.
24
Four days ago
Ann Arbor, Michigan
T here are certain moments that change a person’s life. For some, it comes quickly and violently, in the form of a car crash. For others, it comes from bad news at a doctor’s office.
For Clementine, as she sat Indian-style at the kitchen table in her small rental apartment, papers spread out in front of her, she assumed it would come with Nico’s file.
She finished reading the file days ago. She read every word. Every report. Every review.
She read the commendations—six in total. One called her father
sober, industrious, and of impeccable character
. Another commented on his attendance record, and noted that he had accumulated hundreds of hours of unused sick leave. Another said that Nico had
rendered invaluable assistance
when there was a fire on base.
She read the scolding letters of reprimand too—all of them coming in the later years, when whatever they did to him was already long done. Doctors warned of sudden
long periods of silence
, then of his
disregard for the safety of himself and others
, and finally of his
aggressiveness and inability to distinguish fantasy from reality
.
But as Clementine flipped through the file again and again, there wasn’t much more than that. Yes, the file showed that her father… that Nico… had been inducted into the military three years earlier than his public records say. And yes, if she was piecingit together correctly, that some of that time was spent with the navy, despite the fact he was an army man. Aside from that, as she tried to rebuild the file in chronological order, there was no other paperwork from any of those first three years. They were gone. Three entire years—totally unaccounted for. No commendations, no letters of discipline, no nothing.
Until Clementine could unlock those years, she’d never know what really happened, never know what her father went through. Most important, assuming she was right that the experiments on
him
had been passed to
her
, she’d never be any closer to understanding the cancer that was currently eating through her own body.
She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. What’d she expect? That the President would hand her a smoking gun wrapped in a big bow?
Here you go… even though we’ve kept it hidden for two decades, here’s that top-secret info about your dad that you kept asking for.
The truth was, the file already told her the answer. Or part of the answer. Those three years—by the mere fact they were missing—that’s when the damage was done.
Unfolding herself from her Indian position and sliding one leg under her, Clementine continued flipping through the file. In front of her, on the table, she made four different piles—one for each of the “acknowledged” years that Nico served in the army.
Page by page, she distributed the papers, assigning each document to its appropriate year. Most of the commendations came in the early years, the reprimand letters in the
I look back at the bedroom. He’s still busy.
As I push back the flaps and peer into the box, staring back at me is a shiny white face, with no eyes.
I jump at the sight.
A mask.
It’s a plaster mask. White, like chalk. It looks like…
It’s Abraham Lincoln.
I pull out my phone and try to take a quick pic, but my hand’s shaking. I can’t steady it.
I look again over my shoulder. Marshall’s still pacing in the bedroom.
My phone makes the fake
cha-chick
as I snap the picture. Tot needs to see this. I forward the photo to him, with a note:
Found in Marshall’s place.
Quick as I can, I fold the box shut and put the stack of mail back on top.
I have no idea why Marshall would have his own Abraham Lincoln mask—but considering we’re looking for John Wilkes B—
Over my shoulder, there’s a low steady sound, like someone breathing.
I don’t even have to turn around.
Marshall’s right behind me.
24
Four days ago
Ann Arbor, Michigan
T here are certain moments that change a person’s life. For some, it comes quickly and violently, in the form of a car crash. For others, it comes from bad news at a doctor’s office.
For Clementine, as she sat Indian-style at the kitchen table in her small rental apartment, papers spread out in front of her, she assumed it would come with Nico’s file.
She finished reading the file days ago. She read every word. Every report. Every review.
She read the commendations—six in total. One called her father
sober, industrious, and of impeccable character
. Another commented on his attendance record, and noted that he had accumulated hundreds of hours of unused sick leave. Another said that Nico had
rendered invaluable assistance
when there was a fire on base.
She read the scolding letters of reprimand too—all of them coming in the later years, when whatever they did to him was already long done. Doctors warned of sudden
long periods of silence
, then of his
disregard for the safety of himself and others
, and finally of his
aggressiveness and inability to distinguish fantasy from reality
.
But as Clementine flipped through the file again and again, there wasn’t much more than that. Yes, the file showed that her father… that Nico… had been inducted into the military three years earlier than his public records say. And yes, if she was piecingit together correctly, that some of that time was spent with the navy, despite the fact he was an army man. Aside from that, as she tried to rebuild the file in chronological order, there was no other paperwork from any of those first three years. They were gone. Three entire years—totally unaccounted for. No commendations, no letters of discipline, no nothing.
Until Clementine could unlock those years, she’d never know what really happened, never know what her father went through. Most important, assuming she was right that the experiments on
him
had been passed to
her
, she’d never be any closer to understanding the cancer that was currently eating through her own body.
She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. What’d she expect? That the President would hand her a smoking gun wrapped in a big bow?
Here you go… even though we’ve kept it hidden for two decades, here’s that top-secret info about your dad that you kept asking for.
The truth was, the file already told her the answer. Or part of the answer. Those three years—by the mere fact they were missing—that’s when the damage was done.
Unfolding herself from her Indian position and sliding one leg under her, Clementine continued flipping through the file. In front of her, on the table, she made four different piles—one for each of the “acknowledged” years that Nico served in the army.
Page by page, she distributed the papers, assigning each document to its appropriate year. Most of the commendations came in the early years, the reprimand letters in the
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