The Fifth Assassin Read online

  That was this morning.

  It was dark now, nearly ten o’clock. Yet for Marshall, who was sitting alone on the treehouse carpet, in the glow of one little lantern, glaring down through the Plexiglas window at the last few visitors leaving his house, that wasn’t even the hard part. The funeral was already a blur. It’d been nearly a week since his mother crouched down in her walk-in closet, prayed the rosary, then put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. At this point, filled with so much anguish and rage, he just wanted everyone to stop telling him that it would all be okay. Even twelve-year-olds know when they’re being lied to.

  “Knock, knock, Marsh—you there?” his father called, rolling out to the treehouse when everyone was finally gone.

  Marshall didn’t answer.

  “Buddy, you okay? You been up there all night,” his father added.

  Still no response. And unlike the past few nights, when Marshall insisted on sleeping in the treehouse, his father didn’t press. Plus, as Marshall knew, even if he did, it wasn’t like his dad could climb up and bring him down.

  For that reason, twenty minutes later, Marshall sat up straight in his beanbag chair when he heard someone climbing the ladder rungs nailed to the tree.

  “Whoever it is, I hear you,” Marshall warned.

  No one replied.

  “Beecher, if it’s you, get the hell out,” Marshall added even though he knew that while Beecher’s mom had let him attend the funeral, she had forbidden him to pay any more visits to the treehouse. It was the same with Paglinni. And the rest. No one told him directly, but after a week of sitting alone in a beanbag, Marshall got the point.

  “You taking visitors?” a familiar voice asked.

  From the ladder, Pastor Riis peered over the floorboards, his normally neat hair looking scruffy and overgrown in the dim light.

  “Go away,” Marshall said, disgusted.

  “It’s a hard day. I came to see how you’re doing.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Says who?” the pastor challenged.

  Shifting in his beanbag chair, Marshall thought about it. He didn’t have an answer.

  “I heard the funeral was… uff… I heard it was beautiful,” the pastor said, hoisting himself up and climbing into the treehouse.

  “No one showed,” Marshall said, refusing to look up. “It was practically empty.”

  “I heard. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I really wanted to.”

  Rolling his eyes but refusing to turn and face him, Marshall stared down at the worn and filthy carpet.

  “Marshall, you know I couldn’t be there, no matter how much it hurt me. And I promise you, it hurt me.”

  Hearing a crack in the pastor’s voice, Marshall looked up. Not out of concern. Or sympathy. Marshall was damaged goods, his eyes filled with a darkness that came from getting a good hard look at what life eventually offers all of us. When Pastor Riis saw those eyes, he knew it was a darkness that Marshall would carry forever.

  Riis took a seat on a nearby milk crate. When he was on the pulpit, the pastor stood tall and vibrant. Today he looked ten years older, hunched forward as he fidgeted with a stray thread that dangled from the wrist of his sweater.

  “I heard they fired you from the church,” Marshall finally offered.

  “They had no choice.”

  Marshall nodded, though it still made no sense. What Paglinni saw, when he ran home and the word got out… He told his parents it was Pastor Riis and Marshall’s mom. But the pastor wasn’t even there. It was Riis’s wife who—Marshall closed his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell them the truth?” he said.

  “She’s my wife, Marshall.”

  “But she’s the one who—”

  “She’s my wife. Bound by God. To care and protect,” he insisted in that voice that could keep an entire town quiet for hours at a time. “Nothing would’ve changed if people heard the truth. Not for any of us.” Pausing a moment, he added, “That includes your mom too.”

  Grabbing the side of the beanbag chair, Marshall pinched it until he was squeezing just a single bean of foam between his thumb and his forefinger.

  “I know you’re thinking something, Marshall. Just say it.”

  Marshall squeezed the bead of foam even tighter.

  “You want to know about my wife, don’t you? And what she and your mom—”

  “Don’t talk about my mom,” Marshall growled.

  “Then tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me something.”

  Twisting lower in the beanbag, Marshall felt a swirl of questions racing through his brain. He did want to know about the pastor’s wife. He wanted to know how long it went on, and how serious it was, and if anyone else knew. But more than anything else, he wanted to know if his own mom… what she did with the gun… He wanted to know if she was in love, or did she just hate having to take care of him and his dad?

  But instead, Marshall said nothing, squeezing the bead of foam so hard, it flattened in his fingertips.

  “Marshall, I can’t pretend to have known your mom very well,” Pastor Riis finally said. “But I do know this. Your mother loved you. And despite what you’re so intensely feeling, she loved your family.”

  “That means you don’t know the answer.”

  “No. It means everything is complicated. No one has all the answers.”

  It was as true a statement as Pastor Riis had ever uttered, but that didn’t mean it helped Marshall, who was still glaring down at the carpet.

  “Let me ask you this, Marshall. When a tornado hits, which is a better use of your time: wondering why your house blew down—or figuring out how to rebuild?”

  “You gave that speech this past Easter. This is where I’m supposed to say that I need to rebuild.”

  “You disagree?”

  “If you don’t figure out why the house blew down, how can you rebuild it so it’s strong enough so that it won’t happen again?”

  “You’re missing the point, Marshall. Even the strongest house can be knocked down by a big enough tornado. And those really big ones? There’s no predicting their path, or trying to understand, much less control, what can’t be.”

  “So you’re saying my mom’s a tornado?”

  “No, what I’m saying is, you already have all the tools to build your house. And I promise you one thing: It’ll be a great one.”

  Marshall gave no answer.

  “I found a new parish. It’s a small one,” the pastor finally said. “In Toledo.”

  Marshall nodded.

  “And I heard you’re moving to Michigan,” Riis added.

  “My dad’s sister. If we stay with her, she said she’d help with my dad.”

  “Family’s important,” the pastor agreed.

  Shifting again in the beanbag, Marshall slowly looked up, glancing over at the pastor.

  “Y’know that day when your basement flooded,” Marshall began, “I stole a stack of magazines that were down there.”

  “I know. I saw you,” Pastor Riis said. “They weren’t mine. We confiscate them every few months and just toss them down there. Cricket’s always worried about people seeing them in the church trash.”

  “You’re not listening,” Marshall insisted, his voice starting to speed. “When I came back last week… to your basement… it was because I thought you snuck into my room—”

  “Marshall, I’d never—”

  “I know. I know that now,” Marshall stuttered, feeling the tears swelling behind his eyes, but refusing to let them out. “I found them a few days ago in my dad’s closet… when I was helping him clean up. He’s the one who took them from my room. But if I didn’t go back to your house… back into your basement… If I didn’t see my mom and Mrs. Riis—” Fighting the tears, he started to gasp, struggling to catch his breath as a week’s worth of horrors cracked the dam in his chest, flooding forward. “Oh, God, don’t you see what I’ve done!? I killed my mom!”

  “Marshall, this is not your fault. Your mo
ther killed herself. You’re not responsible.”

  “No, that’s not true! This is God’s punishment. This is for what I did…! I’m so sorry…!” he said, sobbing and sinking downward.

  Pastor Riis knelt by the beanbag, taking Marshall in his arms. “That’s not how God works, Marshall. Are you hearing me? God doesn’t work like that,” Riis said as Marshall crumpled against his chest.

  For several minutes, Marshall sobbed, sniffling over and over. Finally, the storm subsided. He was exhausted.

  “I will say, though, I think you ruined my sweater,” Pastor Riis joked, pointing to the gob of snot that was now on his chest.

  Even Marshall had to laugh, pulling away, lifting his glasses, and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m—I’m just so sorry I caused so much pain for you.”

  “You owe me no apologies,” the pastor said. “The experienced life is far more fulfilling than the blissful and innocent life. Y’know who said that?”

  “Jesus.”

  “No, not Jesus. William Blake. He’s pretty good too.”

  Marshall smiled at that. “Still doesn’t change the fact that my mom’s gone. I ruined my life.”

  Taking a seat back on the milk crate, Pastor Riis gave a sharp tug to the thread at his wrist, snapping it from the sweater. “Marshall, y’ever hear of Harry Houdini?”

  “Of course. I did a book report on him last year. World’s greatest magician.”

  “And escape artist. Magician and escape artist. And did you know he was from Wisconsin? Not far from here.”

  “In Appleton—I know. That was in the report too.”

  “Then you know that after his father died, his mother wanted him to take a factory job that would help support the family. Instead, Houdini followed his heart, literally joined the circus, and eventually became the most famous performer of his time. Such a great story, right? But of all his achievements, you know what Houdini’s greatest escape was?”

  “The one where he’s in a coffin at the bottom of a pool for an hour and a half?”

  “That’s the trick that killed him. Not his finest.”

  “What about the water torture one, where he’s tied up and lowered into a fish tank?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t know… The one where he jumps from the bridge… or where they stuff him in a milk jug… They’re all the same.”

  “You’re right. They are all the same. But y’know which escape is his best, Marshall? When Houdini left Wisconsin. And moved on with his life.”

  Turning toward the pastor, Marshall sniffled hard, sucking everything inside. He stared down, through the Plexiglas window, at the roof of his house. His old house.

  “Pastor Riis, can I ask you a dumb question? How far is Toledo from Michigan?”

  “Barely an hour. Why?”

  “No, no reason. I was just thinking, if you’re ever bored or something, I dunno… Maybe you could come for a visit. Or something.”

  Sitting on his milk crate, Pastor Riis leaned his elbows on his knees, and grinned with just his eyes. “I’d like that. And even when I’m not bored, if you ever need anyone to talk to, or want to hear me steal quotes from my old sermons, just let me know and I’ll be there too.”

  He meant it.

  Over the course of the next decade, Pastor Riis would stay in touch with Marshall, offering advice, visiting Michigan, and (though he never told Marshall) helping out financially when Marshall’s dad got sick and the hospital bills again began to pile up. Even when Marshall’s dad got better, and a teenage Marshall got arrested after that incident in East Lansing, and arrested again in his twenties, Pastor Riis would check in, still write, and still work to keep Marshall out of the trouble that always seemed to find him.

  Indeed, it was Riis who would first suggest that Marshall enlist with the military, since Riis was a military man himself. It was a decision that would change Marshall forever.

  So, three weeks ago, when Marshall heard about Pastor Riis’s death, and found out that someone had shot him in the chest with an obscure old gun, Marshall swore he would tear the gates of hell off their hinges to find the person responsible.

  “Maybe we can plan something for Christmas break. Or even earlier,” Pastor Riis offered, standing from the milk crate and ducking down slightly in the treehouse.

  “Sure,” Marshall said, watching Pastor Riis climb down the ladder rungs, not really believing he’d ever see the pastor again.

  110

  Today

  Camp David

  My wrists hurt.

  So does my back.

  I’ve lost track of time. It feels like seven or eight at night, but since the shelter has no windows, it’s hard to know for sure. I’m still hunched on the edge of the bed, my hands still cuffed to the metal footboard.

  For the first few hours, they asked questions nonstop: about Marshall, and the Knight, and about what I knew and didn’t know about the foiled attack on the President. I saw most of it onscreen, including Frick and Marshall. When the Service finally left, I knew we weren’t done. But when an hour went by and no one returned, it made no sense. Then a second hour went by. Then a third, making me wonder if they’d forgotten about me. It’s almost nighttime now.

  Leaning toward the metal door, I listen, trying to see if anyone’s coming. The problem is, the whole shelter has an odd metallic hum, most likely from whatever generators are down here. Closing my eyes, I focus harder, listening through the noise. Above me, a wisp of warm air blows from the air ducts. Every once in a while, there’s a click-clack of someone walking the hallway. But from the faint rumble of voices coming from the room across the hall, at least half a dozen agents are still gathered together in one place.

  Until they’re not.

  The rumbling comes quick, pounding out into the hallway, toward the metal stairwell. They’re moving fast, with purpose.

  “Viv, stay here,” Agent Reed calls back as the stampede rises upward. Within seconds, the submarine door slams shut, everything goes silent, and I’m still alone, handcuffed to the bed.

  I’m tempted to scream for someone to let me out. But in the underground shelter below Camp David, the Secret Service only moves like that for one person.

  All this time, I thought they were working me over. What they were really doing was making me wait.

  For him.

  From above, the submarine door again opens with a loud pop. There’s no stampede this time, just a lonely ting-ting of footsteps clanging against the metal treads. These aren’t the steel-toed boots that most of the agents wear. The sound is softer, like dress shoes.

  There’s a long silent pause. I lean toward the door, trying to hear, but my heart is drumrolling too loudly.

  With a soft click, the lock unclenches and the metal door to my room swings open, revealing a man wearing a black leather jacket and palming a cup of tea in fine bone china. He looks down at me with the world’s most famous gray eyes.

  President Orson Wallace.

  “Sir, if you need us…” Agent Reed announces, sticking his head in and making sure I’m still handcuffed to the bed.

  “He’ll be fine,” insists a younger agent, who fits the description of A.J. As the President steps into the room, A.J. stays in the hallway. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s not happening in front of anyone.

  Shooting a final look at the President, A.J. tugs the door shut but doesn’t lock us inside. I get the message. If anything bad happens, they’ll be in here within seconds.

  Taking a sip of tea and letting the silence take hold, Wallace is unreadable as always. As he walks toward the center of the room, it’s the first time I realize his other hand has been in his pocket the entire time.

  “Y’know, most people stand when I enter a room,” the President says.

  I stay where I am, shackled in a sitting position at the foot of the bed.

  “That was a joke, Beecher.” He shakes his head. “Would you like me to have them get you some tea?” the Pre
sident adds. “Red robe oolong. The Chinese government always brings it as a gift. It’s quite good.”

  I pull on my handcuffs just hard enough that he knows what I think of his oolong tea.

  Next to the bed, the President spots a metal chair, but he stays where he is, taking another sip of tea and standing over me.

  “What do you want from me, Wallace?”

  “I want you to know, I’m not your enemy, Beecher.”

  I’m silent.

  “I realize you want to see me as the bad guy, but I’m not the bad guy here. Not in this one.”

  I study his face, then look away.

  “Actually, I came to say thank you,” he goes on. “For trying to save my life. And my daughter’s too.” Taking a final sip, he sets his teacup on the edge of the metal chair. “Whatever else you think of me, Beecher, I know that’s the reason you drove to Camp David. To keep me and my family safe.”

  I shift in my seat. It’s the one point even I can’t argue with.

  “I assume you also had something to do with sending Marshall there,” the President says. “He’s an old friend of yours, yes?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “I owe you for that, Beecher. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

  I keep my eyes on the floor, refusing to look up at him.

  “They said this Pastor Frick… They said you figured out he was the Knight,” the President says. When I still won’t look at him, he adds, “The Secret Service has the body. When they ran a black light over it, he was covered with white ink tattoos, including one on his hand with the initials J.W.B. John Wilkes Booth.”

  I nod as if it makes sense.

  “You’re a smart guy, Beecher. And I know this wasn’t an easy one. They told me about your friend, about Tot. I already placed a call to the doctors at the hospital. He’ll get the best help anyone could ask for.”

  “He doesn’t need your help. And we don’t want it.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I look up, hearing that tone in his voice. It’s not a threat. He’s actually concerned.

  “I know how hard you’re fighting for this country, Beecher. And how much the Culper Ring’s lost,” he says. “But if you let me help you… if we put our heads together… this is our chance to build it back. Stronger than ever.”