The Fifth Assassin Page 20

  “This is the government we’re talking about. You really think they’ll admit they created the monster that attacked their own President? Back when they thought Nico was cured, they sent him into the regular army as if he was a brand-new recruit showing up on day one. Your dad and Marshall’s dad were sent elsewhere.”

  “And that’s the big finale? They buried the records, hoping no one would ever find them?”

  “But don’t you see, Beecher? When it came to Nico’s records, someone did find them! You know this better than anyone. No matter how hard you hide them, or where you bury them, the files are always found. So for someone to be re-creating the crimes of John Wilkes Booth… and killing pastors on top of it… someone clearly knows what Nico did!”

  “Or maybe they’re just copying the original assassins. Don’t forget, when Timothy McVeigh blew up the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, he was wearing a T-shirt that said Sic Semper Tyrannis. These assassins have never been forgotten.”

  “But to kill pastors…”

  “Nico only killed one pastor.”

  “No. He only killed one that we know about. Look at the similarities, Beecher. You think someone just happened to have the same crazy idea, using the same ancient weapons, targeting the same innocent pastors? This isn’t Timothy McVeigh. Whoever’s doing it read Nico’s files!”

  “Maybe,” I say, my voice slowing down. “Or maybe they just heard the story from their father.”

  She looks at me. “Wait. You don’t think I—?”

  “I didn’t say you.”

  “So you think Marshall—?”

  “I’m not saying it’s Marshall either. And when it comes to who he could’ve heard it from, from what he told me, Marshall’s dad is dead.”

  “So? His dad could’ve told him the details before he died,” she says, grabbing one of the books—a narrow book about the cartography of battlefields—and slotting it onto the bookshelf.

  I snatch it back out. “It’s in the wrong spot,” I say with a verbal shove.

  I wait for her to shove back. She always shoves back. But instead she just stands there, chastised, like she’s physically shrinking in front of me. She shifts her weight, and I get the feeling that this—right here—is the first real and honest reaction she’s shown me. She knows the pain she’s caused. But as I study this petite, broken girl who, back in eighth grade, pulled me close and gave me my first real kiss… I can’t help it. Even now, even bald, I forgot how stunning she is.

  “So what happens now? How do you figure out if Marshall’s the killer?” she finally asks.

  “You go to the source. The only one who’s left.” From the way her face falls, she knows who I’m talking about.

  There’s no avoiding it. We know a third murder is coming. If we want to stop it…

  “We need to go see Nico.”

  63

  And if you had to rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?” the doctor with the bald head and thin beard asked.

  “Probably a five,” Pastor Frick said, walking down the hallway toward his room, on the fourth floor of George Washington University Hospital.

  The doctor watched the pastor carefully, motioning for him to walk the hall one last time so he could see how Frick was breathing. “And no shortness of breath?” the doctor asked.

  “No. No more problems than I usually had,” the pastor joked, though the doctor, like most doctors, didn’t laugh. It was late. These were clearly the last of the doctor’s rounds.

  “What about pain anywhere else?” the doctor asked.

  “I told the nurses, I’m sore, but otherwise just fine. The thing I feel worst about is taking this bed. If you need it for someone else—”

  “We can spare the bed,” the doctor reassured him, motioning Frick back into his room. As Pastor Frick took a seat on the bed, the doctor pulled his stethoscope from his pocket. “I just need to listen to your lungs and we can—”

  There was a loud ringing: the hospital phone on the side table.

  From the look on the doctor’s face, plus the late time, he didn’t want Pastor Frick to pick up the phone, but the pastor had been away from the church all day. If someone needed him, or needed help…

  “Sorry, it’ll just take a minute,” the pastor promised. “Hello…?” he asked, cradling the phone.

  “Pastor Frick, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but my name is Tot Westman. I’m working on the investigation of today’s shooting and was just wondering… is now a good time to chat?”

  The pastor wanted to help, was determined to help. But he took one look at the doctor, who held up his stethoscope, not even bothering to hide his impatience.

  “Actually, is there a way we can do this a little later, or maybe tomorrow?” Frick said into the phone.

  “Tomorrow sounds perfect,” Tot replied. “If you want, I can come by first thing in the morning.”

  “That’d be great.” Hanging up the phone and turning back to the doctor, he added, “My apologies. Just trying to help them catch who did this.”

  “No worries at all,” the doctor replied as he pressed his stethoscope against Pastor Frick’s chest. “We all have our jobs to do.”

  64

  It’s nearly midnight as I head downstairs clutching an old comforter, fresh sheets, and a waffle-thin pillow against my chest.

  “Beecher, I really appreciate that you’re—”

  “Please stop thanking me. And stop pretending we’re friends. You have information about my father. And information about these murders—information which I hope will save innocent lives.” I dump the sheets and comforter on my black art deco sofa.

  “I can stay in a hotel if you want,” Clementine says. “I’ll be fine there.”

  She’s wrong. It may not be the smartest move to keep her here. In fact, considering she’s still wanted for questioning by the Secret Service, it’s a pretty dumb move. But to put her in some random hotel room, by herself, where there’s nothing stopping the killer—or even the President—from taking their own crack at her? I’ve seen enough movies to know what happens when you let your key witness out of your sight. This isn’t the time for taking chances. Especially when we’re this close to finally figuring out what’s really going on.

  As Clementine spreads out the sheet and tucks the pillow near the sofa’s armrest, her wig is back on and all once again seems calm. But she tentatively glances back at me.

  “Can I just ask you one last thing?” she pleads.

  “Only if it’s not about psychotic killers or dead parents.”

  “It’s not. It’s about—When we were little, did you ever listen to my mom’s CD?”

  I don’t answer. Clementine’s mom was a hippie lounge singer whose only recording was the “Greatest Hits” CD she made herself. Most people in town never bought a copy, much less listened to it. But in tenth grade, all I wanted was Clementine. I listened to that album more than even the Grease soundtrack. “I heard it once or twice. Why?”

  “Y’remember the third song on there?” she asks. “ ‘The Worst Thing You’ll Ever Do…’ ”

  “ ‘… Will Be to Someone You Love,’ ” I say, completing the title.

  “You actually remember it!” Her face flushes with excitement. “Beecher, what I did to you, I can’t take it back. But when I think about hurting you, all I can say is… My mom sang it right,” she adds, reaching out for my forearm. She’s so close, I notice her nose piercing, a sparkling silver stud no bigger than the head of a pin. As she puts her hand on mine, her body temperature feels about ten degrees warmer than my own.

  Two months ago, that would’ve worked on me. In fact, if I’m being honest, it’s still (slightly) working on me. But not entirely.

  “Good night, Clementine,” I say coolly as I head for the stairs.

  PART III

  The Third Assassination

  “It is useless, gentlemen, I think we ought to have prayer.”

  —President William McKinley, his eyes half closed
,

  six days after he was shot by assassin Leon Czolgosz

  He was the third President murdered in office.

  65

  St. Elizabeths Hospital

  Washington, D.C.

  Nico knew they were talking about him.

  Even from his room, even with the door closed, as he knelt down and meticulously made his bed, tucking the sheets into crisp forty-five-degree military corners, he heard the morning shift of nurses—up the hallway, at the nurses’ station—saying his name and bitching about what happened yesterday.

  “They’re worried about you,” the dead First Lady told him, standing behind Nico as he folded another corner of the bedsheet into place.

  “They’re not worried. They’re annoyed.”

  “You’re wrong. They’re worried. You didn’t eat your breakfast this morning.”

  “The eggs are runny here.”

  “They don’t care about the eggs. After your tantrum in the labyrinth yesterday, they’re concerned you may be taking a step backwards.”

  Nico glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the First Lady. In his old room, she had always sat in the small alcove, just inside the window. Here, in his new room, she was always standing. She wasn’t comfortable yet.

  Nico wasn’t comfortable either. Especially with what was coming. These next few hours—

  He stopped himself from thinking about it, knowing the dangers of overexcitement. The Knight was close now. But there was still so much to be done… so much that could go wrong. Indeed, he’d warned the Knight about rushing. Especially with going back to that unfinished business at the hospital. But the Knight was proud. The Knight was determined. And the Knight saw it all as his personal destiny.

  How could Nico possibly argue with—?

  “Nico, you dressed?” a voice called out as a loud knock rapped against his door. A warning knock. “Nico… you hear me?” the nurse with the pointy breasts added.

  Before he could answer, the door opened. The nurse stepped inside, doing her usual scan of the room. She smiled at the sight of Nico making his bed.

  “See that?” the First Lady called out. “Now she thinks you’re accepting the new building as your home.”

  Nico fought hard to ignore the First Lady, staying locked on the nurse. “I didn’t eat my eggs because they were runny,” he blurted.

  The nurse just looked at him. “You’ve got a visitor downstairs.”

  Still on his knees, Nico stopped making his bed. He didn’t get many visitors.

  “Is it someone I know?”

  “I think so. He’s on your list. Someone named Beecher White?”

  Nico shot to his feet. At first he just stood there.

  “Nico, you okay?”

  He blinked three times, then three more times, searching the room for… There. He grabbed his leather book—with the playing card bookmark, the ace of clubs—from the nightstand and tucked it under his arm. “I’d like to see Beecher now,” he told the nurse as he followed her out into the hallway.

  66

  Eighteen years ago

  Sagamore, Wisconsin

  Marshall’s mother liked working at the church.

  The job, especially when she got to read the early drafts of the pastor’s sermons, was interesting. And the pay, thanks to the generosity of a few anonymous donors, was slightly better than the supermarket. Most important, unlike her house, it was exceptionally quiet.

  Though some days were less quiet than others.

  “Heads up! Coming in! Everyone get their clothes on!” a female voice sang through the closed door that led to the back office.

  As the door swung wide, a middle-aged woman with short dyed-black hair, bright coral lipstick, and a matching, far-too-short coral sundress strolled playfully toward Marshall’s mom’s desk. As she walked, a dozen cheap metal bangles banged like tambourines at her wrist. Penny Kaye. Clementine’s mother.

  “Oh, c’mon, Cherise. That was funny,” Penny teased, smiling wide. Marshall’s mom didn’t smile back.

  “What do you want, Penny?”

  “Just dropping these off. Can you give them to Pastor Riis?” Penny asked, handing her a stack of photocopied flyers. “I have a gig next Saturday. In Madison. Ten-dollar cover, but you get two beers. Figured the pastor could give them out to the congregation.”

  “I’ll put them right on his desk,” Marshall’s mom said dryly, dropping them next to her in-box. But not inside it.

  Penny shifted her weight and started biting her coral nails. “You’re gonna put those straight in the trash the moment I leave here, aren’t you, Cherise?”

  “And why would I do that?” Marshall’s mom asked, now the one smiling. On her left, Penny noticed, in one of the open offices, the pastor’s wife was eavesdropping. And smiling too.

  “Cherise, what the hell…?”

  “Don’t bring that language in here.”

  “… happened to you? We used to be friends.”

  “That was a long time ago. People change.”

  “People don’t change… people never change! So you can act as prissy and super-religious as you want, but I know who you are. I remember you sneaking into your mom’s purse… and stealing money from her so you could buy silver wire and make all that jewelry you used to sell at my gigs. Wasn’t that your dream back then? I’d sing songs; you’d make jewelry? For chrissakes, when you were pregnant, we used to smoke pot at—”

  “Enough!” Marshall’s mom exploded, jumping out of her seat and racing around the desk. “You don’t know anything about me!”

  “There we go. There’s the spitfire I used to know.”

  “I’m serious, Penny. For you, it’s simple to be the hippie chick who never grew up. Even your daughter doesn’t care if you’re out all night. But have you seen my life!? Do you know what it costs to put hand controls in a car so someone in a wheelchair can drive it? Or how much it is for massage therapists to come in three times a week so that whatever muscles are left in Tim’s legs don’t cramp?”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to bury every dream you ever had! Your jewelry—”

  “Stop talking about my jewelry! It’s been ten years since my—!”

  Gripping Marshall’s mom by the shoulders, Penny pulled her close and planted a kiss—firmly—on her mouth. For a moment, the two women stood there, their lips pressed together as Penny slid her tongue…

  With a shove, Cherise freed herself, pulling away. Penny began to laugh, but it didn’t last long. Cherise unleashed with an openhanded slap that slammed Penny across the face.

  The room went silent.

  On their left, the pastor’s wife disappeared, shrinking back into her office.

  “What’s wrong with you!? How dare you!?” Cherise exploded, wiping lipstick from her mouth.

  “C’mon, Cherise, I was just having fun… like the old—”

  “You’re an abomination! Y’know that? An abomination!” Cherise screamed, shouting the words so loud the whole room shook.

  Stepping backward at the outburst, Penny searched Cherise’s face, still looking for her old friend.

  “I want you out of here,” Marshall’s mom insisted.

  “Yeah, I got that part. But can I just say…? I’m sorry your life got jackknifed. I truly am. But Cherise, you can’t take everything you are and just shut it inside yourself. The more you bury it, the more the pressure starts to build, and the more that sucker’s gonna blow.”

  “I appreciate that. Especially since in this town, you’re the expert on what blows.”

  “Heh. A cheap blowjob joke. Good for you on that one,” Penny said with a laugh as she walked to the door. “But I’m not just talking about your life, Cherise. You’re not the only one under pressure. You teach your husband to live like that, and your son to live like that, that’s when it tightens. And then one day, when you least expect it, it’s your boy Marshall who’s gonna go boom.”

  “I appreciate your insight, Penny. But you don’t know what the hell
you’re talking about.”

  67

  Today

  The man carried a clipboard as he walked up the street. The tail of his red scarf waved behind him.

  There was nothing on the clipboard, just a few blank sheets. But in any suburban neighborhood, a clipboard meant neighbors wouldn’t look twice at a passing stranger, and even if they did, the bright red scarf hid his face.

  Eyeing Beecher’s townhouse from across the street, he knew Beecher and Clementine were gone. He knew where they were going and the new car they were driving. And last night, as he watched them through the side window until nearly three in the morning, he even knew about Clementine’s clumsy attempt to get Beecher into bed, an attempt that most men would’ve fallen for.

  Whoever was training Beecher, he was clearly learning something.

  But that didn’t mean he’d learned everything.

  Faking a quick look at the clipboard, the man stepped over a drift of blackened snow, crossed the street toward Beecher’s townhouse, and walked right past the front door. He didn’t care what was inside the house. Right now, he was here for what was outside.

  Ducking into the narrow driveway, the man followed the tire tracks in the snow until he saw—

  There.

  Flat on the ground, its glass face shattered, was the cheap wristwatch he’d left there last night.

  It was an old detective trick Jack Nicholson used in Chinatown: Buy an inexpensive, non-digital wristwatch—only $14.99 at Target—tuck it under the tire of the car you’re tracking, and when the car rolls over it… crack… the hands stop, telling you exactly what time they left.

  “Eight-oh-four a.m.,” Marshall whispered to himself, staring down at the cracked watchface as he placed it on his clipboard. Beecher should just be arriving at St. Elizabeths.

  Readjusting his red scarf, Marshall grinned to himself. He wished he could be there. But right now, now that he knew where Beecher was, there was so much more that needed to be done.