The Fifth Assassin Page 27

  “What kind of help?”

  “Help from someone close.”

  “Like your old high school friend who happens to be the White House doctor.”

  “Or a trusted Secret Service agent,” Palmiotti explains. “When we get there, that’s who we need to be looking for. A.J. Ennis. Find him and you’ll find the President.”

  “So why not just call A.J?”

  Palmiotti turns from the rearview and shoots me a look. “I told you, Beecher. My direct line isn’t as direct as it used to be.” He pauses for a moment, like he wants to say something else, but it never comes. I see the loss in his eyes. All it does is make me think of Tot and everything I owe him, everything he’s done. Grace said he picked me to help rebuild the Culper Ring… to help him do what’s right. For that alone, it’s enough to keep me going.

  “So this guy A.J. That’s who Wallace replaced you with?”

  Palmiotti doesn’t answer.

  “You think A.J. might be a part of this?” I add. “I mean, if he is that close to Wallace, he’d be in the perfect spot to take a shot.”

  Before he can answer, I spot a yellow, diamond-shaped highway sign: Watch for Ice on Bridge.

  It’s the only warning I get. My chest flattens, pressing against my organs. Up ahead, there’s no missing it: the small two-lane arched bridge that runs across a shallow ravine.

  The metal bridge is old—bits of ice shine on the rusted archway—but it looks safe as can be. Still, at just the sight of it, my fists tighten around the steering wheel.

  “Beecher, you okay?” Palmiotti asks.

  I nod and hold my breath.

  I don’t like bridges. My father died on a bridge. But as we get closer and the tires thump across its threshold…

  I’m not sure that that version of my father’s death is true anymore.

  Next to me, Palmiotti says something about President Wallace and how much he doesn’t trust A.J.

  I barely hear it.

  Indeed, as the car’s tires choom-choom-choom across the bridge’s metal grated roadbed, the only thing going through my head is the letter from last night…

  The letter Clementine showed me. My father’s suicide note.

  I fight hard to stare straight ahead—but in my peripheral vision, I still see the snow-covered rocks that lead down toward the frozen stream below us.

  For as long as I can remember, I was told my father died on a bridge just like this one. Small bridge. Small town. Small death, so easily forgotten.

  But like any son, of course I never forgot. For decades now, I’ve pictured every version of my father’s death: his car plummeting because of an oncoming truck, his car plummeting because he had a heart attack, his car plummeting because he swerved to save a special old dog. I’ve seen my father die in every different permutation. But to read that note—to see his handwriting—and especially to see the date on that letter: one week after he supposedly perished…

  Halfway across the bridge, Palmiotti’s still talking, and I’m still holding my breath. My lungs tighten from the lack of oxygen. Blood rushes to my face, which feels like it’s about to burst. But as we pass the midway point and the bridge’s curved metal arches begin their angled descent, I—I—

  I look around cautiously. The wheels continue to choom-choom-choom across the bridge’s metal grating. And I still hold tight to the steering wheel. But not as tight as before.

  “Beecher, you hear what I just said?”

  “Yeah… no… you were talking about the President. That… that he’s not the man you thought he was.”

  “You weren’t even listening, were you? What I said was… when we were in seventh grade, Wallace ran for student government treasurer. Not even president. Treasurer. And he got beat. Miserably. The kids hated him back then. Do you understand what that means?”

  “It means everyone’s beatable.”

  “No. It means people can change, Beecher. Perceptions can change. For bad—or even good—not everyone is who they used to be. Just because something happens in your past, doesn’t mean it defines your future.”

  He lets the words sink in as I think about my father, and Clementine, and of course about the President and Palmiotti. But I’m also thinking about Marshall and everything I did to him. So much that can never be undone.

  With a final ca-chunk, the wheels of the car leave the metal bridge and I watch it fade behind us.

  “But you are right,” Palmiotti says, still staring in the rearview. “Everyone is beatable. Especially when you know where their weak spot is.”

  As the road weaves us through the small town of Thurmont, Maryland, and out onto the open road, a slight incline tells me we’re beginning our ascent into the mountain. The next sign we see is a wooden one from the National Park Service.

  Welcome to Catoctin Mountain Park

  If we head right, to the eastern side, we’ll find public camping grounds, hiking trails, and scenic mountain vistas. Instead, I turn left, toward the western side, where the road narrows even further—down to two thin lanes.

  There’s no more open farmland. No more small town. As we weave upward, slowly climbing the mountain, we’re surrounded by steep slopes, rocky terrain, and thick swaths of towering oak, poplar, hickory, and maple trees. We can’t see more than a few feet in any direction.

  Still, we both know what’s up ahead, hidden deep within the park. I glance at the car’s digital clock. We still have a half hour.

  “We’ll make it,” Palmiotti says. “But whatever happens from here on out, no more blaming yourself. What matters is you tried, right?”

  Of course he’s right. But that’s exactly why I can’t stop thinking about that night in the basement. I know who Marshall used to be. I know what I did to him. And in less than a half hour, I’m about to come face-to-face with exactly what I turned him into.

  91

  Eighteen years ago

  Sagamore, Wisconsin

  It’s dark down there.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Timothy Lusk said from his wheelchair, rolling to the edge of the steps and looking down, down, down into the dim basement. “You’ll be good, right, Marsh?”

  Holding the pushbars of his father’s wheelchair and peeking over his father’s shoulder, young Marshall took his own look down the unfinished stairs with the rusted metal treads. The black basement floor seemed to sway and move with a life of its own.

  “I can get you a flashlight,” Pastor Riis’s wife—a woman everyone called Cricket—said.

  “If you want, I can go,” Pastor Riis added.

  “He’ll be fine,” Marshall’s father said. “It’s just water.”

  Pushing his glasses up on his face, Marshall stepped backward, which sent a small, inch-high tidal wave flowing back through the kitchen. It was just water. And thanks to a cracked drainpipe that kept the pastor’s dishwasher running during the entire weekend they were gone, it was everywhere: in the kitchen… in the living room… and, with some help from gravity, in the basement, which now looked like a dark black cesspool. When Marshall and his dad first arrived, Pastor Riis said it was knee-high down there. That meant even deeper for Marshall.

  “Here… here’s a flashlight,” the pastor’s wife said, handing the light to Marshall, who shined its beams down the steps, though it barely penetrated the dark.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be right here,” his father said, pivoting his wheelchair and motioning Marshall forward.

  Before Marshall could argue, a flashbulb went off, and his father’s Polaroid vrrred, spitting out an instant image.

  “Don’t forget—you need this,” his father said, handing Marshall the camera. “Get pics of everything.”

  Marshall nodded. For six months now, since his dad had been hired as an insurance adjuster, that was the job: take photos, document the damage, write up the report.

  Of course, Marshall knew his dad got the job as a favor—even insurance companies feel bad for an unemployed guy in a wheelchair. But as the company
quickly found out, so did claimants, who had a tough time complaining about how bad their damage was when they were talking to a double amputee who would never walk again.

  “I told him not to run the dishwasher before we left. Didn’t I tell you that, dear?” the pastor’s wife asked, putting a hand on Riis’s shoulder. Quickly catching herself, she glanced at her guests and added, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to snap at my husband like that.”

  “You call that snapping?” Timothy laughed, motioning his son to the edge of the steps. “They should come to our house, right, Marsh?”

  Staring down into the darkness, Marshall didn’t even hear the question. Over the past six months, he didn’t mind being dragged along with his dad. In fact, he liked it. There was something nice about being alone in the car with your father as the radio played and the wind whipped through your hair. Plus, when there were places his dad couldn’t go—when the accident happened on the second floor of a house and there was no stair-lift, for instance—Marshall was the perfect assistant, grabbing the Polaroid and using the climbing skills he got from the treehouse to scurry up into attics or even out onto roofs. It didn’t just make him feel good. It made him feel useful. Special.

  But even twelve-year-olds know… attics and roofs are very different than a dark basement.

  “If he’s scared, I really don’t mind going,” Pastor Riis said for the fourth time.

  “He’s not scared. He loves the dark, right, Marsh?” his dad insisted, rolling his wheelchair forward, using the empty footplate to give Marshall one last shove.

  Aiming the flashlight at the stairs, Marshall took his first step down.

  “There you go. Toldja he liked the dark,” his dad added.

  For Marshall, this was about far more than just the dark. For years now, he’d heard the gossip about Pastor Riis. Two years ago, Bobby McNamera used to take a private Bible class that Riis used to teach in this basement. Soon after, Bobby abruptly moved away without saying goodbye, never to be heard from again. Every kid in seventh grade knew: Don’t go down into the pastor’s basement.

  “Just be careful,” the pastor’s wife called out as Marshall took a few more steps down, the damp air clogging his nose. No doubt, the water was high, covering at least five steps from the bottom. Tucking the flashlight under his armpit and holding the camera over his head, he aimed and shot. A flashbulb popped and a quick photo popped out. He didn’t even bother looking at it.

  As he took another step down, his foot was swallowed by icy water, which filled his sneakers and made a sponge of his socks. With another step, the water was over his ankles, then up to his calf, his knee, his thigh. By the time he reached the final step, holding the camera even higher above his head like an army grunt trudging through a river, the water covered his thighs, skimming the edge of his testicles. It was freezing, but Marshall was sweating.

  “Make sure you shoot it all! They need to see how bad it is!” his dad called out, though all Marshall was thinking of was Bobby McNamera, who he heard was put in a mental institution, though no one could confirm it.

  Wading through the water, which tugged at his thighs and slowed him down, it wasn’t as if Marshall expected to find human bones, or chains that hung from the wall. But as he glanced around he couldn’t help but wonder what else was buried under all this water.

  In every direction, loose papers, the lids to cardboard storage boxes, a plastic garbage can, even an old piece of luggage floated through the room, which had less than three feet of headroom because of the basement’s low ceiling and a maze of high piping. Barely ten seconds had passed, and Marshall was breathing heavily. He knew the main water line was turned off, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about what would happen if the water got any higher. Looking up at the ceiling, with the camera still over his head and the flashlight jerking back and forth in its own crazed light show, he could feel his sweat spreading, his glasses sliding down his nose.

  On his left, from the banister, a thick black bug with the body of a spider and the legs of a cricket hopped through the air, landing in the water. Spider-bugs, Marshall called them, knowing them from every local basement, including his own.

  From what he could tell as he looked around, the basement was divided into two rooms. This first was all mechanical. A flashbulb exploded as he took a picture of the half-submerged water heater on his left. Another bulb exploded as he snapped one of the nearby boiler, an old 1920s metal beast that barely broke the surface of the water.

  “And get the boiler and water heater!” his father added as Marshall waded through the doorway that had no door on it, into the next room, which for some reason was better lit. On his right, he saw why: There was a narrow basement window, no bigger than an air-conditioning vent, that looked out into the backyard, but was covered in so much dust, the light barely got in. As for the room, it didn’t look much different—lots of floating papers and debris—but instead of machinery and pipes, it had a chest-high built-in bookcase along the back wall.

  The water had already risen to ruin half the books. But as Marshall snapped a photo and another Polaroid spit out, he saw that on the top shelf a large framed picture leaned diagonally against the wall.

  “Marsh, how you doing!?” his father called out.

  “Almost done!” Marshall called back, still holding the camera over his head as his glasses slid even farther down his nose. “I found this big picture frame down here…!”

  “That’s from my parents’ wedding! Please don’t tell me it’s underwater!” the pastor’s wife called back.

  “No, it’s good! I’ll bring it up!” Marshall said, slogging forward toward the bookcase as the cold water nipped at his testicles. As he placed the camera and the flashlight on the top shelf, a trio of spider-bugs hopped through the air, skimming across the water and leaving a faint wake behind them.

  Stepping up on his tiptoes, Marshall reached for the gilded frame that held the old black-and-white photo of a young man in a tux posed so elegantly with his new bride. Like in most old photos, neither was smiling, just staring, lips pressed together in that way that made them look like grandparents even when they were newlyweds. But as Marshall grabbed the bottom corners of the frame, unwedging it from its place, his fingers hit… something.

  There was something behind it.

  As he pushed the frame aside, he saw a neat stack of magazines, though he didn’t even give them a second look. That is, until he saw…

  Breasts. There were breasts. Big ones, cupped by a long-legged brunette with teased-out, tousled hair and a red headband. Kneeling on a pool table, she leaned toward the camera, but looked over her own shoulder, where a muscular, bare-chested man held her hips like he was—Oh jeez.

  Marshall looked at the title. Leg Show. As he flipped through the photos inside, they revealed far more than legs. Lots more, including some wildly graphic shots of the woman on the cover and what she and this guy were doing on that pool table.

  Marshall stood up straight, feeling something rise in his pants. Porn. Pastor Riis had porn. Lots of it.

  Quickly thumbing through the stack, he found a half dozen more magazines, with titles like Score, High Society, and even one called Bitchcraft. Marshall laughed at that. If Beecher saw this—

  “C’mon, Marsh, what’s taking so long!?” his father called out.

  Scrambling and still thinking of Beecher’s reaction, he grabbed the stack of magazines and stuffed them in the waist of his pants. He was sweating so hard, they stuck to his doughy stomach as he tried to shove them in place. “Almost done! Just grabbing the picture frame!” he called back to his dad. But as he lowered his shirt over the magazines—

  “Maybe I should help you with that,” a voice asked behind him.

  His body jolted wildly, his glasses almost flying from his face. He reached for the large gilded picture frame and spun around to find Pastor Riis standing there, knee deep in the water.

  A single spider-bug leapt through the air.

 
“I-I was just coming up,” Marshall said, holding the large frame.

  “What about the flashlight? And your camera?” Riis asked, motioning over Marshall’s shoulder. Both were still lying on the top shelf.

  For a frozen moment, Marshall stood there. He could hand the frame to the pastor. But right now, that was the only thing preventing Pastor Riis from getting a good look at the outline of the magazines under Marshall’s shirt.

  “Sure. Of course. Here you go,” Marshall said, tilting the picture frame toward the pastor, who grabbed it quickly, keeping it out of the water. With a quick pivot, Marshall spun toward the bookshelf, keeping his back to the pastor as he gathered the Polaroid and the flashlight.

  “Y’know, some of the things down here,” Pastor Riis began, “some of them have been here for years.”

  “That’s what basements are for, right?”

  “Of course. But in church… You wouldn’t believe what people have given me over the years. And what I’ve had to confiscate.”

  A decade from now, a grown-up Marshall would’ve had the perfect retort. But right here, in this flooded, mildewed basement, with a glob of muddied light coming through the narrow window, young Marshall simply stared, frozen and terrified, at the pastor he’d known for his entire life.

  “My dad’s waiting for me,” he blurted, pushing his glasses up on his nose and shining the light in the pastor’s face, not even realizing it meant Riis couldn’t see anything.

  “Honey, the plumber’s here with the shop-vac!” the pastor’s wife called out. “C’mon up, I don’t want you getting sick down there!”

  And that was it.

  At the top of the stairs, the pastor put the picture frame down on the kitchen table just as the plumber and his assistant joined them in the kitchen. Behind him, the pastor’s wife wrapped a striped beach towel around Marshall, who used it to hide the rectangular bulge along his chest.

  “Marsh, what the hell is this?” his father asked, flipping through the Polaroids and shifting angrily in his wheelchair. “You didn’t let them dry! All the photos are stuck together!”