The President's Shadow Page 19

  On his left was a dinged-up black Honda Prelude, with an old Elliot in the Morning bumper sticker.

  “The Honda belongs to the nurse. The doctor parks around back,” Clementine added. “Trust me, this is how it always is.”

  Marshall couldn’t argue with that. So far, every detail was exactly as Clementine had described. The parking lot was perfectly empty. The passing traffic on Wilson Boulevard was perfectly far away. Even the way the plaza curved around meant that the Happy Jade Herbal Shop was always perfectly out of sight. But as Marshall knew, when everything was going right, and especially when things were going right with Clementine, something was about to go wrong.

  The winter sun slipped from the sky as the digital clock blinked to 3:58 p.m. Two more minutes.

  From the passenger seat, Marshall studied the storefront. A bright red Closed sign kept most people away. Tinted windows scared away the rest. If Clementine was right and Ezra was inside, there’s no way they’d know it.

  “This is a bad idea,” Marshall said.

  Clementine shook her head as the clock blinked to 3:59. “Then why’d you come?”

  “What’re you—?”

  “Why’re you here? If it’s such a disaster, why’d you bother?”

  “You said he was going after Beecher.”

  “No. If this was about Beecher, you would’ve called Beecher and told him everything. You didn’t. You didn’t even try. We all play our personal games, Marshall. I’m not judging you for it, but how’d you put it again? ‘You’re a killer just like me. Some dirt won’t ever come off’? So. For the fourth and fifth time: Why’re you really here?”

  Marshall studied the girl in the brown wig whom he’d known since second grade. She had crow’s-feet at her eyes, a deep worried crease between sharp eyebrows, and shiny, waxy skin from all the chemo. These past few years had taken their toll. But to him, she looked exactly the same. Just as fiery.

  “I came here for Ezra,” Marshall finally offered. “He buried those arms. He knows what happened to your crazy father; he knows what happened to my dead one.”

  “Your dead one, huh?”

  Marshall sat there, unmoving.

  “Is that the story you told Beecher? Or did you tell him what really went down?” Clementine asked. “Don’t worry. I understand. We all have our secrets, right, Marshall?”

  His gold eyes studied her. Nico. Only Nico could’ve told her that truth.

  Clementine went to say something else, but as the clock blinked to 4:00 p.m., she shoved open the car door, charging forward.

  Following behind her, Marshall kept his pace slow and steady, studying the storefront and the front door. “You’re sure he doesn’t know we’re coming?” he called out.

  “He doesn’t. I know how he works. I’ve been coming here for weeks,” Clementine insisted, spinning around and crossing defiantly into Marshall’s personal space. Her single-mindedness was what Beecher loved most. Beecher saw it as fearless. Marshall saw it as reckless. Either way, as Marshall knew, the most dangerous person to follow is someone with nothing to lose.

  “Whattya think, he’s got a sniper on the roof, ready to shoot at us?” Clementine challenged as Marshall slowed down even more.

  “Sniper on the roof makes no sense. If he misses, it’d take too long to climb down and chase us.”

  “You really can’t turn it off, can you? You always see the world as trying to take your head off.”

  “You’re still not listening. This whole approach—trying to surprise him—it’s a mistake,” Marshall said as they moved toward the storefront. “We don’t even know if Ezra’s here.”

  “Of course he’s here. He doesn’t miss my appointments. I don’t even think they’d let me inside if he wasn’t there.”

  Marshall stopped, refusing to follow.

  “What? What’s wrong now?” Clementine asked.

  “When you come here, is Ezra usually with you?”

  “Why would—?”

  “Just answer the question: Is Ezra with you or not?”

  “So far, he’s been. He’s usually my ride.”

  “But now you’re suddenly coming by yourself?”

  “Relax. I told him I was running late, that I’d meet him here.”

  Clementine continued toward the herbal shop. Marshall stayed where he was. On their far left, a loud horn blasted from Wilson Boulevard. Perfectly normal for rush hour.

  “I’m out. Gimme your keys,” Marshall said.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You and Ezra had an understanding. A pattern. Now you’re changing it. Gimme your keys. I’ll be in the car.”

  “Will you just—?”

  “Keys. Now.”

  Rolling her eyes, Clementine tossed Marshall the keys. He headed back toward the parking lot. She kept walking toward the storefront.

  Both refused to look back, so neither saw what was coming.

  There was no loud screech of tires. Just a low guttural rumble, like the sewer below was clearing its throat. Marshall was halfway to the car as he heard it. Before he even turned, he knew what it was. And who it was headed for.

  The black Dodge Charger tore around the corner, picking up speed. Its engine burbled with an angry snarl.

  “Clementine…!”

  She nearly jumped out of the way as the car clipped her, the nose of it biting her legs and grazing her thigh. Her movement saved her life. But like a human seesaw, her legs flew up, her head crashed down.

  Marshall was frozen in place, still in mid-yell as the sound of bone and crushed glass twirled together in a haunting ballet. Clementine’s arm bounced against the windshield, her limbs flailing like they were filled with rubber bands as she spun to the ground. Her shoulder skidded across the asphalt.

  The driver of the black Dodge hit the brakes. Even with the sky growing dark, there was no mistaking his bald head. Or his slitted eyes and white eyelashes.

  Ezra didn’t say a word as he leaned out the window. He simply glared at Marshall, pulled his gun, and fired.

  56

  Baltimore, Maryland

  You’re sure this is his handwriting?” I ask.

  Mrs. Young nods. As she passes me the letter, her body’s shaking, like she’s been hollowed out and filled with bits of glass.

  I’m still in the hallway, just outside her apartment, which reeks of an overdose of potpourri. Over her shoulder are the torsos of three tailor’s mannequins, all without heads or arms. On her wrist is a tomato-shaped pincushion bracelet.

  “The police kept the original,” she explains, motioning to the letter, but refusing to look directly at it. “They said I’ll get it back when… I-I don’t even know when.”

  I nod like I understand. And I do. Last month, Clementine gave me a similar note by my father. A suicide note from what I’m still not convinced was a suicide.

  “He did it on his birthday. Read it,” she adds.

  Dear Mom,

  Here’s my reason: I’ve lived on this planet for twenty-seven years, yet there aren’t twenty-seven days that I would live over again. When you wonder why I’ve done this, read that sentence again.

  I know you’ll blame yourself. I love you for that. But this is my choice. I know where I’m going. I know what I’m doing. I’m not afraid of where this takes me.

  Thank you especially for that day out by the piers after Dad died. Also, please tell Ezra I’m sorry for the mess.

  Your son,

  Kingston

  “He used a shotgun,” she says. “Put the barrel to his chin, aimed straight at the ceiling, and—” She takes a breath, reliving the moment. “The police wouldn’t let me in. They said the shotgun blast blew his entire face…” As I glance at Mrs. Young, she doesn’t look away. Her dead eyes beg me, searching for something that can’t be replaced. My mother has that same look when she talks about my dad. The light in her face isn’t just faded. It’s gone.

  “I-I know that’s his handwriting… I know those’re hi
s words…” she adds, her voice unraveling. “But no matter how many times I read it—I’ve memorized it at this point—okay, he carried his darkness around, but I still don’t understand why he’s gone! Do you know what that feels like? To have the person you care about most plucked from your life, and you don’t even know why!?”

  I stare straight into this woman’s hollow face. When I was twelve, our local pastor was the one who gave me the birds-and-bees talk. When I was thirteen, our next-door neighbor taught me how to shave. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve celebrated every Father’s Day remembering the Father’s Day all those years ago, when I opened my mom’s medicine cabinet and found a shakily handwritten Post-it she’d written to herself: You have all the strength to make it through today.

  She still doesn’t.

  Today, I tell myself I do.

  “Mrs. Young, your son was wrong about one thing: I know you gave him more than twenty-seven good days. Now please, let me help you help him one last time.”

  Nodding violently, she pinches the bridge of her nose to hold back tears.

  “In the letter, your son mentioned someone named Ezra. Did you know Ezra well?”

  “The police asked the same thing. Ezra was his roommate. He’s a good boy, though. From a good family. If anything, he’s exactly what Kingston needed.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  She pinches the bridge of her nose tighter than before. She’s not fighting back tears. She’s thinking.

  “When my husband died, everyone told me stories of how wonderful he was. And he was. Like any of us, he had moments of pure greatness. But he could also be petty. He was bad with money. And most of the time, he couldn’t see that his biggest problems were usually his own doing.”

  “You’re saying Kingston—”

  “Look at the neighborhood we live in. Ever since Kingston was little, I knew he wasn’t meant for this place. He was a workhorse too. Driven to get out. But when he met Ezra…to see someone from money…someone who had taste, and knew how many years to wait until you opened a certain bottle of scotch… Ezra’s grandfather apparently worked for President Reagan. When Kingston met Ezra, his whole world became bigger. It wasn’t just the connections, though. Ezra showed him restraint. And kindness.”

  “Kindness?”

  She takes a half-step back, giving me a good look at her apartment. “Son, I get ten dollars to hem a pair of pants. Fifteen dollars to shorten the sleeves on a dress shirt, though in this neighborhood, most people roll up their sleeves. Even with grad school loans, you know what it costs to have your own apartment plus meals down in D.C.?”

  I nod, well aware of why I live in the Maryland suburbs.

  “Kingston never said it, but when it came to paying for groceries, meals, and everything else, I know Ezra stepped in to help. Even gave Kingston a winter coat when he saw the ratty old jacket my son was wearing.”

  “That doesn’t sound like our man with white eyelashes,” Mac blurts in my ear. I almost forgot she was there. “You think we have the wrong guy?” she adds.

  “Ma’am, can I ask you one last favor? Do you happen to have a picture of Ezra? Just for our records.”

  “Like a photo? Of my son’s roommate? I don’t think I— Wait. That’s not true— Here… C’mere,” she says, waving me inside. As I follow her toward the living room, she flips through a stack of pictures piled up on top of a nearby end table. “When the boys first moved in, I took a picture to show my sister the hardwood floors. Anyway, as I snapped it, Ezra was— Here,” she says, pulling a single picture from the stack and handing it my way.

  The photo’s grainy, from an old camera, and shows an apartment that’s typical grad school: futon, coffee table made from a wide plank of wood on stacked cement blocks, even a guitar. In the far left corner, a young man wearing a faded green-and-yellow plaid shirt enters from the kitchen, his mouth half-open, midsentence. He’s definitely bald. But as I zero in, he’s got sleepy and handsome features, thick eyebrows, and the preppy, untucked style of a J.Crew model.

  One thing I know for sure: This isn’t the guy with white eyelashes who was spying on us outside the White House. My stomach twists. It makes no sense. How can this be the wrong guy?

  “You’re sure this is Ezra?” I ask.

  “Who else would it be?” Mrs. Young asks, getting nervous.

  I look back at the photo, still picturing the slitted eyes of the guy who looked like Andy Warhol.

  “Beecher, send me a copy,” Mac barks in my ear.

  “Ma’am, you mind if I use your restroom?”

  Mrs. Young points me toward the kitchen. “Second door on your left.”

  Moving quickly, I hold tight to the photo, getting ready to text it to Mac. Halfway down the hallway, I notice the array of framed photos on either side of me. They’re from decades ago, Christmas shots taken at Sears, each one of Mrs. Young and Kingston, each with a different outdated sweater. I almost run right past them until—

  Oh God.

  I squint to make sure I’m seeing it right. There’s no mistaking it. In every Christmas photo, year after year, her dead son…Kingston…has a bowl cut of white-blond hair and an awkward smile. He’s also got thin slitted eyes and stark white eyelashes.

  Son of a bitch.

  “What’s wrong?” Mac asks.

  “Ezra’s not Ezra.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “The guy we’re chasing—the guy with white eyelashes. He may be calling himself Ezra. He may’ve shaved his head like Ezra. But I’m telling you right now, he’s a man who supposedly died two weeks ago. His real name’s Kingston Young.”

  57

  Gogogo! Get out of here! Marshall told himself. Scrambling into Clementine’s rental car and hearing the pop of a gunshot, he kept his head down and turned the keys in the ignition. Put it in reverse! Get away from here! It was the only way out. Fight smart. Fight later.

  Across the parking lot, there was another loud pop from the front seat of Ezra’s black Dodge. A second gunshot. Putting the car in reverse, Marshall saw Clementine’s trembling body, twisted awkwardly across the concrete. Her wig had fallen off her head. She was lucky the car hadn’t been moving full speed.

  Of course he didn’t want to leave her. But as Ezra fired again, Marshall had no choice. In situations like this, you have to get away. Yet as he looked back at Clementine and her exposed bald head…

  Dammit.

  Throwing the car into drive, Marshall stomped the gas. The tires swirled, kicking bits of rock and melted snow through the air.

  As the car barreled forward, Marshall pulled his own gun, firing out the window with his left hand and holding the steering wheel with his right. At this speed, he knew he wouldn’t hit Ezra. But he would distract him.

  Sure enough, Ezra ducked down in the front seat, no longer firing.

  Pressing the gas even harder, Marshall picked up speed. The car blazed like a missile toward its target: straight into the side of the black Dodge, to that sweet spot midway between the front and back doors.

  The impact was a violent gnashing of metallic teeth. At that speed, Marshall’s car T-boned the black Dodge, which practically bent around the hood of the gray rental. Marshall knew what he was aiming for. Now the Dodge was undrivable. Ezra wasn’t getting away.

  Still skidding sideways, the Dodge snapped through one of the strip mall’s stucco support columns and sent a metal trash can flying. The skid stopped just short of the herbal shop’s plate glass window. Ezra flew from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat, hitting with a thud.

  “Clementine, you hear me!?” Marshall shouted, fighting the airbag from his face and searching for his gun, which had gone soaring during the impact.

  Outside, Clementine was still on her side, still trembling.

  Kicking open the car door and ignoring the burning pain where the steering wheel had smashed into his chest, Marshall raced to her.

  “Clemmi, open your eyes!” he yel
led, grabbing her nearby wig. He didn’t like seeing her bald. It reminded him of his mother’s funeral.

  Clementine didn’t move, but her stomach was— She was breathing. One of her cheeks was scraped raw. Blood poured from her mouth along with something wiry and metal. Marshall pulled it out to keep her from choking on it. It looked like a retainer, but with two fake teeth on each side. A bridge.

  He held the bridge in one hand and tried to put the wig back on her head. It wouldn’t stay, sliding to the ground like lifeless straw.

  “Clemmi, please—if you hear me, I need you to nod.”

  Still no response. If it’d been anyone else, he’d call for an ambulance. But this was Nico’s daughter, still at the top of every most-wanted list.

  Turning Clementine over and crouching down on one knee, Marshall scooped a hand behind Clementine’s neck and another below her knees. He put the wig on her belly, so focused on not dropping it, he didn’t even feel the barrel of the gun that poked him from behind and wedged its way into his armpit.

  “What in the f—!?”

  Behind him, Ezra again didn’t say a word. He just pulled the trigger.

  Pop.

  58

  Beecher, get out of there,” Mac blurts in my ear.

  “When was the last time you actually saw your son’s roommate?” I ask Mrs. Young, who’s either the greatest liar of all time, or clearly has no idea that her dead son Kingston is not only very much alive, but has recently gone all Talented Mr. Ripley with the real Ezra’s life.

  “I don’t know,” she says, sounding wary. “I last saw Ezra…maybe sometime around Christmas. Why?”

  “You need to leave there. Now,” Mac insists.

  “Was he at your son’s funeral?” I ask, staying with Mrs. Young.

  “I-I didn’t see him there, but I know he signed the guestbook and was—” She starts to sway, nearly knocking into a nearby sewing mannequin. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  I look over at another photo of her and Kingston on the wall, a high school graduation pic where he’s in full cap and gown. I don’t know what’s worse: this white-eyelashed bastard letting his own mother think he’s dead…or killing the real Ezra, and then showing up at his own funeral just to sign the guestbook to throw folks off the trail. Whatever the case, White Eyelashes clearly wanted Ezra’s life in more ways than one. “Two minutes,” I say to Mac in my ear.