The Fifth Assassin Read online

  Paglinni wheeled around, excited by the challenge. “What’d you say?”

  “In Riis’s basement. Mallow was there. Ask him.”

  Paglinni looked at Marshall.

  “I was,” Marshall said.

  “And when exactly did this fantasy take place?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Same day you started visiting our treehouse,” Beecher added, now the one wearing the smile that came with feathers.

  Even for Paglinni, it didn’t take long to do the math. “Wait… so that was…” Paglinni’s eyes went round. “Leg Show! Sonuva—! Don’t tell me that’s where you got all the porn!”

  “Fine, I won’t tell you,” Beecher teased.

  “I’m serious, Beech Ball. You expect me to believe Pastor Riis really keeps a secret smut stash?”

  “Not only does he keep it; Marsh stole it. And unless you want to keep wasting our time with dumb questions, you’re gonna miss him stealing it again, because he’s about to sneak back in for round two. Isn’t that right, Mallow?”

  Marshall nodded hesitantly, even as he shot Beecher a look. I thought we were both going in. You’re not coming?

  You don’t need me. You’ll be great, Beecher replied with his own quick look, meaning every word.

  Across the street, the light in Pastor Riis’s kitchen went dark, while the one in the living room blinked on, dim and flickering behind the lowered vinyl shades. The upstairs was still black. As was the small basement window.

  “I think he’s watching TV. C’mon…” Beecher whispered, tugging Marshall by the shirt, leading him across the dark street. “Let’s get you in there. If he goes to bed, it’ll be too quiet.”

  “You’re serious? You’re really doing this?” Paglinni asked as they took off without him. For a few long seconds, he stood there, alone in the dark, still cradling his dog. A chorus of crickets sang out, harmonizing with the rrrrrr of Tom Sable’s distant lawn mower. Paglinni looked around. No way was he missing this.

  Catching up with them at the curb, Paglinni’s dog let out another loud yip. “Marshmallow, I gotta say, you even pretend to pull this off and you’re officially fifty times more whacked in the head than I ever thought you were,” Paglinni added, patting Marshall on the back with one hand and still holding his dog with the other.

  For Marshall, though, it wasn’t the thundering back pat that kick-started a sudden flush of confidence. Sure, peer pressure was a potent social lubricant. But as any seventh grader knew—especially when it came from Paglinni—nothing emboldened a teenager more than simple admiration.

  “Marsh, you’re gonna be town hero after this,” Beecher added as they reached Riis’s driveway, whose only light came from the nearby porch lights. They glanced around again, checking the street, the sidewalks, even nearby windows. No one was in sight.

  “He’s right,” Paglinni said, a newfound excitement in his voice. “You pull this off, we’ll have a victory parade. They’ll make a statue of you. You’re like the Hugh Hefner of seventh grade.”

  “I know you’re just saying that to get me in there,” Marshall said.

  “Think whatever you want,” Paglinni shot back. “You’re clearly not the pud I thought you were.”

  Standing there in the dark, Marshall didn’t move.

  “That’s a compliment, jackass,” Paglinni added.

  Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Marshall smiled. Looking over at Beecher, he gave his friend one last chance to come along.

  Beecher stayed where he was. By Paglinni’s side.

  “So I’ll see you soon,” Marshall said, though it sounded like a question.

  “I’ll be right here,” Beecher reassured him, adding a final nod for him to get going.

  “You heard it here first: Hugh Hefner of seventh grade!” Paglinni whisper-yelled as Marshall took off up the driveway, ducked low like a waddling ninja.

  Marshall was chubby and wasn’t a great runner. “He gonna fit through there?” Paglinni asked.

  “He said it’s bigger than it looks.”

  For about thirty seconds, Beecher and Paglinni stood there silently in the dark, watching Marshall’s pudgy silhouette get swallowed by the black shadows of overgrown shrubs.

  Double- and triple-checking in every direction, Beecher again studied the house, the empty sidewalk, every nearby window. At one point, a car rumbled down the block but passed without incident. Even on Saturday night, Sagamore didn’t have much nightlife.

  At the back of the driveway, down on his knees, Marshall pulled out the Swiss Army knife that one of his dad’s clients had bought him as a thank-you gift, then wedged it into the cracks at the base of the window. Old hinges shrieked as he tugged the low awning window toward him, flipping it upward.

  “I think he’s… He’s inside…” Beecher whispered as Marshall disappeared down the rabbit hole and the window flapped back into place, snapping shut like a car trunk.

  Next to Beecher, in the dark, Paglinni grinned, letting out a barely audible chuckle.

  “What? What’s funny?” Beecher asked, smiling along, but knowing that look on Paglinni’s face. Something was wrong.

  “You’re kidding, right? You didn’t see it?”

  “See what?”

  As his grin spread even wider, Paglinni held his pup and gave her another kiss on the head.

  “Vinnie, if you know something—”

  “All I’m saying is, don’t be so sure Marshall is the only one visiting the pastor tonight…” Taking a step toward the sidewalk, he pointed at the tan Honda that was parked up the block—just far enough that it didn’t look like it was in front of Pastor Riis’s house.

  Beecher’s teeth began to hurt as soon as he saw it. The tan Honda. He knew that car.

  That was Marshall’s mom’s car.

  Turning back to the pastor’s house, Beecher studied the dimly lit living room window and the way its shadows flickered against the shades.

  Oh, God. If Marshall’s mom… if she’s inside—

  “How long’s the car been there?” Beecher blurted.

  “What’m I, a meter maid? I thought you saw it too. I figured you didn’t want him to wuss out or—”

  “And you let him go in? What’s wrong with you!? If Pastor Riis… if they’re alone…” Beecher could barely get the words out. “How could you do that to someone?”

  “I want the porn,” Paglinni said matter-of-factly, his eyes cold and his grin long gone. “Besides, even if it all goes wrong, can you imagine? Marsh walks in and finds his mom bent over? Beech Ball, this is gonna be theater!”

  Shaking his head, Beecher studied the closed basement window at the end of the driveway. If the porn was where they thought it was, Marshall would be out any second. Any moment now, Beecher told himself, his teeth feeling like they were about to drop from his mouth. The window didn’t move.

  “We need to tell him!” Beecher said, heading for the house.

  Paglinni grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Tell him what? That his mom’s got her panties off in the living room? He’s already inside. He’ll be done any minute.”

  “What if he’s not?”

  “Beecher, look around. There are only two options here: Either Marshmallow rescues the porn and gets out… or Pastor Riis catches him and gives our boy the shock of his life. But I promise you, if you race in there making noise and trying to warn him, you’ll guarantee that the second one is the one that takes place. And even worse, you’re gonna get caught along with him.”

  Focusing on the distant buzz of Sable’s lawn mower and swaying from one leg to the other, Beecher didn’t respond. If he wanted, he could go help Marshall in the basement. He could scramble through the window and be right there, right by Marshall’s side. Even if everything went wrong and they got nabbed by Pastor Riis, at least they’d be together and Marshall wouldn’t be alone.

  That’s what a real friend would do.

  Indeed, as Beecher swayed there in the darkness, he could see in his mi
nd’s eye just how much better it would be for Marshall to at least have a friend by his side.

  But as he stared across at that small basement window—as the buzz of the lawn mower grew louder than ever—Beecher just stood there. And did nothing at all.

  It was a decision he’d regret for the rest of his life.

  103

  One hour ago

  Washington, D.C.

  The Knight knew how it would end.

  Today was a perfect day to kill a President. And in less than an hour, as a fine mist of snow tumbled from the sky, that day would come.

  But as the Knight squinted at the silver-and-red tour bus at the end of the block, he understood that the President wasn’t the only one who would die today. No. Today was the day that the Knight would die too.

  There was no arguing with it. From John Wilkes Booth, to Charles Guiteau, to Leon Czolgosz, to Lee Harvey Oswald, the four men who successfully murdered the President of the United States were all men with a cause. And when their task was complete, all four—every single Knight of the Golden Circle—lost their lives.

  At first, the Knight thought he’d find a way around it. That somehow he’d be the one who’d figure out how to escape. But the more he studied his predecessors, the more God’s will became clear. Every fraternity had its rituals. And its rites of initiation. Indeed, if Nico had succeeded in killing the President, he’d be dead now too. There was no choice. To join this brotherhood, the cost of admission was life itself. But the reward? As others had said: Blood alone moves the wheels of history.

  Up the block, a young couple walked straight at him, hand in hand, both of them looking at their own cell phones. Like every one of his predecessors, the Knight was careful, cautious. On his head, he wore a checkered newsboy cap. On his face he’d glued a fake gray beard. In his shoe he’d tucked a single small pebble, which gave him a convincing and realistic limp. It was an old CIA trick. Changing your face made you hard to spot; changing your walk made you an entirely new person.

  Sidestepping the couple and heading farther up the block, the Knight checked every nearby bench, every tree, every parked car. No Secret Service. No undercover agents. And as far as he could tell, no sign of Beecher or any of Wallace’s staff.

  He could feel it now. It wouldn’t be long until his initiation was complete.

  For weeks, the Knight had been dreaming of this moment—truly dreaming of it. As he eyed the tour bus in the distance, he wondered if President Wallace had had similar dreams. Wallace wouldn’t be the first. Throughout his life, Abraham Lincoln was obsessed with his own dreams. Indeed, on the day he was shot, at what became his final Cabinet meeting, Lincoln told his Cabinet members that the same dream preceded “nearly every great and important event of the war.” It was a water dream.

  In it, Lincoln said he was in some “singular and indescribable vessel” that was moving fast toward an indefinite shore. He told his Cabinet that he had the same dream that very night, and that it meant great news was coming soon. Within hours, John Wilkes Booth entered Ford’s Theatre. Great news was coming. Just as it would today.

  At the end of the block there was a loud mechanical belch as the silver-and-red tour bus opened its front door and spit a mob of Dutch tourists onto the sidewalk. Taking it as a sign, the Knight lowered his head and slipped into the group’s jet stream. As they shuffled diagonally across the street, he walked right past a uniformed member of the Park Police who was standing guard on the corner, near the entrance to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

  On his right, at the sight of the Lincoln Memorial’s grand marble staircase, the Knight’s skin began to prickle. In his jacket pocket he fingered the brand-new gun he’d bought for the occasion. In his other pocket was a hunting knife, a set of old playing cards, and the plaster Lincoln mask that he knew was now his totem.

  Scanning the crowd and its steady stream of tourists, the Knight picked out two other members of the Park Police, but still no Secret Service agents. For a moment, he was worried he might’ve misjudged the President—but as always, he trusted in his predecessors.

  When the third Knight, Leon Czolgosz, was a boy, he used to go hunting with his brother. Leon always carried the gun. But it was his brother, armed with only a stick and a burlap sack, who was the smart one. Approaching a rabbit hole, his brother would set a small fire on one end of the hole, then cover the other end with the burlap sack. Once the smoke started, like clockwork, the rabbit would take off, scurrying right into the sack. Best of all, there was no blood. Until later.

  It was a lesson not lost on the Knight. For days now, from the murder at St. John’s to this morning at the hospital, everyone thought these were copycat crimes or some sad tribute to Nico’s early days. But for the Knight, each attack was simply a small fire.

  At this moment, he’d sent Beecher scurrying down one rabbit hole, and the President down another. All the Knight had to do was hold tight to the burlap sack.

  “U ziet de architectuur,” the Dutch tour leader announced, leading the crowd along the main plaza and pointing out the Reflecting Pool on their left. Just ahead, a tourist carrying a tennis bag glanced around, pretending to enjoy the sight. Undercover Secret Service, the Knight knew. Tennis bags were where they hid the M-4 assault rifles.

  Sticking to the base of the famous steps, the group of Dutch tourists headed for the open door on the far left side of the monument.

  Just ahead, a small sign showed pictograms for men’s and women’s restrooms and a bright white arrow that pointed dead ahead. Through the open door, beyond the restrooms, was a small museum exhibit and a wheelchair-accessible elevator for those who couldn’t walk the steps to the statuary chamber. But what the sign didn’t say was that there was also a mechanical and electrical room that ran underneath the monument and out the back of it, making it the ultimate private entrance for a President who wanted to make a surprise unannounced visit.

  Feeling his skin prickle more than ever, the Knight closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back to the original Knight—the Sacred Knight known as Vignolles. For centuries, he’d been credited with creating the suits that we still see on modern playing cards. Spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds, each one representing a part of medieval society. But what had been lost to history was the fact that, from the start, there weren’t just four suits. There were five.

  Opening his eyes, the Knight still felt the aching soreness from the white ink tattoos he’d drilled into his own body. Four symbols—from his four predecessors—marked his back, his thighs, and his left hand. He did the last ones this morning. All were invisible to the naked eye. But now, as he pulled his left hand from his pocket and looked down at his open palm, he saw the bold black ink (there was no hiding now) of the final symbol—the secret symbol: a small crescent moon. Yes, the four suits represented the parts of society, but it was the moon that represented the final part, the part that made the circle complete: the Enlightened.

  “Let’s keep it moving!” a member of the Park Police called out, motioning the line forward.

  As the Dutch crowd shuffled through the open door, the Knight stood just outside the entrance, waiting patiently to go inside. Looking diagonally upward, toward the very top of the grand marble steps, he couldn’t see the statue of Abraham Lincoln. From this angle, it was hidden by the Ionic columns. But the Knight knew what was carved into the marble wall just above Lincoln’s head:

  IN THIS TEMPLE

  AS IN THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE FOR WHOM HE SAVED THE UNION

  THE MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  IS ENSHRINED FOREVER

  Unwrapping a butterscotch candy, the Knight tossed it into his mouth and stepped inside.

  He knew how it would end.

  In a temple. Just as it was supposed to.

  PART V

  The Fifth Assassination

  “Didn’t you ever hear what Queen Victoria wrote to her daughter?

  It is worth being shot at—to see how much one is loved.”

 
; —President Orson Wallace, joking around,

  two minutes before the gunshot was fired

  104

  Eight minutes ago

  Soon, they’d all be screaming.

  It always started with screaming—then running and scrambling, then the inevitable stampede that the Secret Service had no hope of containing.

  But right now, as the heavy bulletproof door of his SUV was tugged open and a light mist of snow tumbled into the car, President Orson Wallace stepped out, all smiles.

  His good mood had nothing to do with their current location or the fact that everyone thought he was still at Camp David. It had to do with who he was with.

  Behind him, following him out of the SUV, Wallace’s eleven-year-old daughter, Vanessa, stuck her head outside, instinctively looking around. Their SUV had stopped along the edge of the road on the D.C. side of Memorial Bridge. But to her surprise, there was no crowd waiting, no one cheering, no cell phone flashbulbs popping. It was the same trick they used for Obama’s surprise Christmas visit to Iraq… and for sneaking President Bush to his daughter’s rehearsal dinner before her wedding. Instead of a motorcade, they put the President in a pair of jeans, the leather jacket he never got to wear, and an unmarked black baseball cap—then tossed him in a single SUV that no one would look at twice.

  On her far left, pulled up on the grass, was an ambulance parked under one tree, and a black van tucked behind another. The Secret Service had prepositioned a few assets, but all were far enough away that father and daughter truly had something they never got to have: peace and quiet.

  “It’s just us,” Wallace promised, which, really, was the point.

  The President was determined not to miss this day. He’d missed so many already. Not the big ones, of course. Nessie’s birthdays, her elementary school graduation, even the spring piano recital—those were easy to block out on his calendar. But the small, everyday ones—like Fifth Grade Art Night or the softball game where they gave her a chance to pitch and she struck out two hitters!—those were the days he’d never get back.