The Fifth Assassin Page 35

  “You’re serious? You want to help rebuild the Culper Ring?”

  “Stronger than ever,” he says, moving the teacup to the floor, taking the seat opposite me and crossing his legs. “I won’t interfere, Beecher. You keep doing everything you need to. But if you get in trouble or need help, do you have any idea of the resources I can bring? In fact, just today, when Nico escaped—”

  “Nico escaped?”

  He sits up straight, enjoying the slight advantage that comes with being a step ahead. “He walked right out through the St. Elizabeths loading dock. Stabbed a poor nurse to do it. Apparently, someone who looked like his daughter, Clementine, was spotted there too,” he says, reminding me of the fact that I still have no idea where Clementine is or what she’s up to. “But when they checked the list of visitors, you know who Nico’s last official visitor was? You, Beecher. That’s what it said in the computer. Until about an hour ago,” he adds, flashing the insta-grin that convinced sixty-eight million people to vote for him. I know he’s the President of the United States, but sometimes I forget how charming he can be. Still, it doesn’t erase what I found out months ago: that as he climbed the rungs of power, he and Palmiotti were part of a ruthless attack and at least two recent murders.

  “So whattya say, Beecher? Stronger than ever?”

  “It’s a generous offer, Mr. President. And I’m thankful for you looking out for me. But when it comes to the Culper Ring, I think it’s better if it stays independent.”

  “Now you’re talking like a politician. I’m offering you a chance to help the Culper Ring reach its true potential. Isn’t that why George Washington created it? To arm the President with a fighting force no one else would see coming?”

  “You make us sound like a weapon.”

  “And you make it sound like you’re in charge,” Wallace says, his insta-grin now gone. “Or that I’m asking your permission.” He lifts his grin back in place, hoping it’ll intimidate. Last time, it worked. But this time isn’t last time.

  “Sir, what you said about George Washington… You’re wrong,” I tell him, trying to keep the conversation upbeat. “He didn’t create the Culper Ring to protect the President. He created it to protect the Presidency. Especially from those who might do it harm.”

  “You think that’s clever, Beecher? Let me say this as clearly as I can: I’m currently extending my hand to you. If you refuse it, this offer, this opportunity I’m offering right now… it’ll never come back.”

  “I appreciate that, sir. And I also appreciate that you’re not used to people saying no to you. But let me remind you,” I tell him, leaning forward so we’re only a few feet apart. “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. And just so we truly understand each other, the Culper Ring doesn’t work with murderers.”

  “Then you should talk to your friend Tot,” the President shoots back, keeping his voice steady, his legs still crossed for teatime. I forgot how he fights. No matter how hard he’s hit, he never loses his composure. He just keeps acting like he’s in control. Until he is.

  “You just made that up about Tot to get in my head.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, Beecher. But don’t be so sure you know who you’re working with.”

  “Tot’s not a murderer.”

  “If you say so,” he says, resting both palms on his crossed knee. “I’m just sorry we won’t be working together.” Calmly reaching down toward the floor, he picks up his teacup and tosses me one last false grin. “So. We’re done here, yes?”

  “Y’know, you said that to me two months ago. That we were done. But we’re not, Mr. President. Not yet. In fact, do you remember what else you told me last time? You said this was a prizefight. And near as I can tell, we just finished round two.”

  “From where I’m sitting, you lost round two.”

  “Maybe I did. But next time I see you, Mr. President…” I tug hard on the chains, pulling them tight against the footboard. “… I’m not gonna be in handcuffs.”

  “Good news for me, then. Because the next time I see you, Beecher, I most definitely won’t be offering you tea,” he says, toasting me with his teacup. Standing from his seat and heading for the door, he adds, “Be sure to say hi to Tot for me. And if I were you, I’d get there as quickly as I could.”

  111

  Three hours later, I’m staring at a set of closed doors with frosted glass squares cut into them.

  “I’m sorry, visiting hours are done for the day,” the nurse tells me, her voice coming through the in-house phone that’s next to the doors.

  “Is this Angelica? Angelica, my name is Beecher White. I was told to ask for you.”

  There’s a pause. Without another word, the closed doors of the ICU swing open. It’s nearly midnight, but as I step inside, a chorus of pings and beeps swarm like a hornet attack.

  At the nurses’ station, behind the main desk, Angelica doesn’t say a word. Like most nurses, she knows the emotional risk of eye contact; she also knows what happened here today. Two people were shot. Their hospital chaplain was killed. Keeping her head down, Angelica points me around to the left and I start reading room numbers.

  There, midway down the hall: Room 214—home of the Knight’s final victim. And my best friend.

  Still thinking of the President’s warning, I slow down, my stomach hollowing out from the terror that comes with most hospital visits. The room is sealed by sliding glass panes, frosted at the bottom and transparent up top.

  As I look through the glass, the lights are dimmed and a mass of red and white dots glow inside. They warned me before I came that there’d be lots of machines… and that they had to shave his head for the surgery… but to finally see him… The lump in my throat makes it hard to catch my breath.

  I slide the glass door open and the lump expands. His beard… They shaved his beard, trimming it so the accordion feeding tube could be inserted in his neck, where bits of dried blood mark the entry point. His eyes are closed and his color’s gray, like a corpse, which only makes the nasty black scar on his head stand out even more. The scar’s stitches and knots are thick and black, arcing down the side of his head like a jagged roller coaster that dead-ends at the pillow of gauze covering most of his ear.

  But the worst part is the other half of his head, where his silver hair is still long. They only shaved half his head, making Tot look like a baseball that has patches of gray yarn sprouting from it. His mouth hangs open like a urinal. His palms are up, facing the ceiling, like he’s begging for death.

  “I wish they hadn’t shaved his beard,” a soft female voice whispers.

  I spin, following the sound. At the foot of the bed, in a wood and vinyl hospital recliner, sits an older woman with a wide nose, unpierced ears, and horn-rimmed glasses that weren’t stylish even in the 1950s. Her silver hair is in a bob that grazes her chin, and on her wrists are two carpal tunnel Velcro braces. Of course. She’s on the computer all day. Immaculate Deception.

  “Grace,” I say, though it comes out as more of a question.

  She nods, blinking enough that I can tell she’s been crying. And though she barely fills out the black sweater she’s wearing, there’s nothing frail about her.

  “He doesn’t look good,” I say.

  She tries to reply, but when nothing comes out, I’m hit with that feeling you get at a funeral, where the dread rises off the mourners, engulfing everyone nearby. But what I’m really seeing is relief.

  “They said he’ll make it. They said he’s strong,” Grace says, nodding and trying to smile.

  “So the doctors—?”

  “They’re on it. They’ve mobilized half the hospital for this. Apparently, President Wallace called them personally,” she says as I picture him toasting me with that teacup. “They said when Tot was shot, the bullet hit him in the bone behind his ear. It kept the bullet from his brain. They called it a miracle. They said when the swelling goes down, they can check the rest of his functions.”

  “But he
’ll be okay?”

  She nods, her whole body shaking. “They hope so… they think so.”

  I close my eyes and whisper a quick thank-you. As I open them, I see Tot’s open mouth and the way he’s barely moving. I replay Grace’s words: He’ll make it.

  “He’s tougher than they think,” I insist.

  “You have no idea.”

  Standing from her chair, she smooths her skirt and approaches the bed. She adjusts one of the Velcro straps at her wrists. “How long did the Service keep you locked up for questioning?” she asks.

  “What’re you—?”

  She motions to the red marks on my own wrists, from the handcuffs.

  “They wanted me to see Wallace,” I tell her.

  “And did you?”

  I nod.

  “He do anything but hit you with veiled threats?”

  I shake my head.

  “That’s his style. He’ll never change. That’s why, back at your house, I told you not to go with Palmiotti.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything.”

  “I did. You stopped listening. Once he said the words Camp David, you were out the door and—”

  “Grace, is that really the best use of our time right now? You gloating that you were right about Palmiotti?”

  “I’m not gloating, Beecher. But I was right about Palmiotti.”

  “And you were wrong about Marshall. So was Tot.” I look over at the bed. From this angle, the way Tot’s head is tipped back with his mouth agape, I see he has no teeth. They took out his dentures. But at least he’ll survive. “It doesn’t feel like much of a win,” I say, my voice catching.

  “Win?” Grace shoots back. “You think this is a win? Look around, Beecher: We lost! The Culper Ring lost! We didn’t stop the Knight, Nico escaped and is God knows where. And worst of all, the President, who we all know is a monster, is now taking a victory lap and is more beloved than ever, thanks to surviving this assassination attempt. The only good news is that Tot won’t be using diapers and bedpans for the rest of his life.”

  “We still found out about Palmiotti. We can prove he’s alive.”

  “And where does that get us?”

  “It’ll show what a liar Wallace is. Isn’t that the real goal? Tot told me you’ve been trying for years to build a case against Wallace. Palmiotti’s the way to finally put it together.”

  “And again, where does that get us? They’ll either deny it, and people will believe them, or they’ll make up some excuse and no one will care. Either way, Palmiotti only gets us so far. To topple a President, you need to get the President, not his childhood pal.”

  “But if the rest of the Ring—”

  “The Ring is decimated, Beecher. You’re looking at most of it right now.”

  “But I’m not looking at all of it, am I? You said Tot was starting to rebuild.”

  For once, Grace stays quiet. Reaching down, she takes Tot’s open hand, holding it between both of her own.

  “Grace, Wallace is the one who’s been hunting and killing the Culper Ring, isn’t he?”

  This woman’s been doing this since before Kennedy was President. She’s no novice. But as I watch her holding Tot’s hand, the way her thumb gently brushes circles into his palm… I don’t know how far it goes back, but something tells me that when Tot’s wife was alive, she wasn’t Grace’s number one fan.

  “So that’s it? We just sit here and wait until Tot’s better?” I ask.

  “Beecher, did you ever hear that Winston Churchill quote, the one where he says, Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense?”

  “What about it?”

  “This is the moment of good sense.” Still holding on to Tot’s hand, Grace turns my way, her dark eyes looking even smaller through the thickness of her horn-rimmed glasses. “The Culper Ring didn’t last this long because we’re the toughest, Beecher. We lasted this long because we’re the smartest.”

  “But if we stop fighting now…”

  “… then we’ll survive. And regroup. And try to figure out what the hell just hit us. That’s how we rebuild. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again. I’m sorry, Beecher, I know it’s not as satisfying as punching someone in the face and yelling a good catchphrase, but that’s how this chapter ends.”

  Standing on the opposite side of the bed, I don’t say a word.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Beecher. We don’t have a choice. The fight’s over. There’s no one left to send in the ring.”

  “Maybe,” I say, glancing through the sliding glass door into the empty hallway. “But maybe not.”

  “Beecher, wait—! Where’re you going?”

  112

  By the time I get home, all the adrenaline is gone.

  It’s nearly 1 a.m., my wrists are even more sore, my toes are frozen, and my body temperature is plummeting from exhaustion and hunger.

  Unlocking my front door, I flick on the lights and bathe in the calm, familiar smell of my townhouse. As I look around, the sofa’s still made up like a makeshift bed, and across the carpet, I spot a few remnant strands of Clementine’s blonde wig, but it’s all untouched. Not a single thing is out of place.

  “Marshall, I know you’re here,” I call out.

  As the kitchen door swings open, I spot my best friend from childhood.

  “How’d you know?” Marshall asks in his raspy voice, joining me in the living room and still wearing his wool peacoat.

  “I didn’t. But I know you.”

  He goes to say something, but for some reason decides against it. As he gets closer, his posture stays perfect, but he keeps his head slightly down and turned away. He doesn’t like being looked at.

  “Can I get you something to drink or—?”

  “Sorry about your wrists,” he says, motioning to the red marks from the handcuffs. Forever the wolf, he doesn’t miss a detail.

  “Why’d you come here, Marshall?”

  “You called me three times in the last half hour.”

  “You could’ve just called me back. Why’d you really come here?”

  He takes a deep breath through his mangled nose, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just upset. “I wanted to know if they killed you.”

  “What?”

  Pretending to stare at the three framed black-and-white photo cards that hang over my sofa, he presses his lips together, his sagging skin shifting in one large chunk. “They are going to kill you, Beecher. I called a friend in the Service who’s stationed up at Camp David. They know who you are. From here, it’s just a matter of time.” Letting the statement sink in, he adds, “So tell me, Beecher: Why’d you call me three times in the last half hour?”

  “Because we need your help.”

  “We?”

  “The group I work with.”

  “The Culper Ring?”

  I shoot him a look. Of course he knows their name.

  “They’re the ones who gave you that tracker you put in my car,” he reasons.

  “They’re good people, Marshall. Smart too. And I was thinking… with your skills… plus their resources…”

  “Don’t ask me to be part of your group, Beecher.”

  “But if we—”

  “There is no we. I’m not for sale. And I’m not some cheap grenade you get to toss at your enemies.”

  I stand there a moment. I expect him to leave, but instead he stays where he is, still staring at the framed photos.

  “That’s Saggy, isn’t it?” he asks, referring to our hometown.

  “From back in the 1920s,” I explain as he takes a step closer to the three side-by-side photo postcards showing men, women, and children waving American flags and marching down the street in front of Cannell Park. “They’re from an old firemen’s parade that the town used to have.”

  “They’re nice,” he says.

  “Yeah, when I put them up, I told myself th
ey were my daily reminder that if I screwed things up here, that’s where I was going back to. But I think it’s finally time to admit, I just like them because they remind me of home.”

  Marshall looks my way. “Home is terrifying for some people.”

  “It can also be a reminder of where you came from. And how far you’ve traveled.”

  He turns back to the photos. “You’re still a cornball, aren’t you, Beecher?”

  I laugh at the comment, studying my old friend and once again trying to see the old chubby, glasses-wearing version of himself. Tot said that was my problem, that I can’t stop remembering. He may be right. But some things are worth holding on to.

  “Marsh, I’m sorry for thinking you were the one who killed those pastors.”

  Still staring at the images, he doesn’t respond.

  “It’s just that when I saw you had that Lincoln mask and those old playing cards, plus your history with Pastor Riis…”

  “You were investigating the case, Beecher. You did everything you were supposed to.”

  “That’s not even true. I got fooled by Nico. I couldn’t save Tot. I fell into every trap the Knight left for me. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be watching the President’s funeral right now.”

  “So you think you lost?”

  “You telling me I didn’t?”

  Turning away from the photos, Marshall stands there, eyeing me. “Beecher, how’d you know Pastor Frick was the Knight?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My friend in the Service. He said you figured it out right before the shots were fired.”

  I take a breath, staring down at the carpet and reliving the moment. “The real assassinations. When all this started, I told Tot that when President Garfield was shot, he should’ve lived. It was medical malpractice that killed him, not the bullet. I figured that’s why Pastor Frick was left alive. But when I started thinking about how meticulous the Knight was—always killing in temples, using the old guns—it reminded me that Garfield did die. So for Pastor Frick to still be alive and walking around… and for him to be at the same hospital for the third and fourth attempts… That was it. But it still didn’t make me fast enough to save the President. Without you, Wallace would be dead right now.”