The Fifth Assassin (34 page)

I cock a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, so even though I think you’re a lying piece of garbage, I’m supposed to believe this sudden conversion and the fact that you want to go after the Presi—”

“
He took my life from me, Beecher! Not just my family! Not just my love! He took my life!
” Palmiotti explodes, his voice booming down the block.

“Only because you let him.”

He grits his teeth. His chest rises and falls from the outburst. “You’re right. There’s plenty I let him do,” he finally says. “But there’s so much more you have no idea about, Beecher. Beyond what
happened years ago… beyond the attacks and everything we did with Eightball. Whatever you think of me—whatever you want to believe—let me show you the proof. I have everything we need.”

“Everything for
what
? I’m still not even sure why you’re here. If you have the proof, and you know what he’s done… why not just take him down yourself?”

Palmiotti shakes his head, forcing a nervous laugh that freezes like cotton balls in the cold morning air. “I know you’re not stupid, Beecher. People love to point at Woodward and Bernstein, but they were just lucky that Nixon was such a cocky, lazy ass. These days, only a fool tries to take on the President of the United States—especially this President—by himself.”

“And assuming I even believe all this, you think
I’m
the solution?”

“No. I think your group is.” He pauses again, just to make sure I hear him. “I know about the Culper Ring, Beecher. The President told me. So if I help you with this, if I tell you what I know about Wallace and let you put the truth out there, I need the kind of help that only the Ring can muster.”

“Palmiotti, you do realize we live in the twenty-first century, right? If you want to put the truth out there, all you need is an Internet connection.”

“You misunderstand. I don’t need help hitting the
send
button. But once I hit that button,” he explains, his voice slowing down, “I need someone protecting me.”

I look down at my phone and see that I’m still connected to Amazing Grace. Her words continue to echo in my brain. Seven members. With Tot shot, we’re down to six.

“Doc, I’m not sure the Ring is the solution you think it is.”

“I know you can’t talk about them, Beecher. I know how it works. But I’ve seen their work firsthand. I know what they’re capable of.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“No, Beecher, you’re not hearing
me
. I’m offering to help you. With what I’ve seen… I can get you into Camp David.”

I look up, but don’t say a word.

“That is where you’re trying to go, isn’t it?” he challenges. “That’s
where you think your friend Marshall is striking next. You think we didn’t know about him either? Or that Clementine’s still unaccounted for? Wasn’t she with you, Beecher? Why’s she not by your side? For all you know, she’s there right now.”

He points down at my closed laptop. No. Not at my laptop. At the playing card that, as I grip the laptop, is still held in place by the palm of my hand. On the ace of clubs, the light purple words are easy to read:
Camp David
.

I look over his shoulder, still instinctively searching the empty street for Clementine. Even Nico asked her if she was the Knight. Of course she denied it. But Palmiotti is right about one thing: I have no idea where she is.

“Don’t overthink it, Beecher. I was there last Christmas, and on those recovery days after the President’s surgery, and even on the night Wallace had that surprise party for the First Lady. It’s a simple choice, really. You can either stay here and let the President get gunned down, or try to save his life and make sure he’s properly punished for everything he’s done. This is where you find out who you are, Beecher. No one can get you closer. Now do you want to get into Camp David or not?”

N
ico kept his eyes closed. For nearly an hour.

He kept them closed as they carried him from the parking lot, back into the new building.

He kept them closed as they patted him down, pulled out his shoelaces, and even as they checked his mouth, rectum, and under his fingernails.

He listened carefully as they talked about him. “…
recent increase in antisocial behavior…”
“…
broke Cary’s finger…”
“…
should put him down once and for all…”
And he kept his eyes closed as they undid the Velcro restraints and rolled him off the stretcher, onto the thin mattress.

From there, as the nurses left the room and bolted the door, he couldn’t hear anything. Not even an echo as they disappeared up the hallway.

Nico didn’t like that. With his hearing, he wasn’t used to such intense silence. But at least now he knew where he was. Whatever room they put him in, it was soundproof.

Still, just to be safe, Nico kept his eyes shut.

“
I think you’re clear
,” the dead First Lady finally said.

Squinting carefully, Nico looked around. The room was narrow but tastefully painted in the same calming celadon green color as the check-in area that they entered through yesterday. He was on a thin blue mattress that was on the floor. There was no furniture, no TV, nothing he could hurt himself with. On his right, one of the walls—the one with the door on it—was made of solid, thick glass that looked out into an empty hallway and allowed the doctors and nurses to look in. And for Nico to look out.

Decades ago, they’d have put Nico in a straitjacket and tossed him in a rubber room. But in today’s modern institutions, restraints were frowned upon and rubber rooms didn’t exist anymore. Now they were called “Seclusion Rooms” or “Quiet Rooms”—places where the patients could find their own calm and “help themselves.”

“
So the drugs they gave you… They didn’t work?
” the First Lady asked.

Nico shook his head, slowly sitting up. His fingers were stiff and his body was sore from the fighting. As he peered into the empty hallway, no one was there. He wasn’t surprised.

For weeks now, he knew
someone
had to be looking out for him. The Knight had shown up once, months ago. But after that, he was too smart to return to St. Elizabeths. Indeed, as Nico thought about it, with all the messages that the Knight was able to send—with the invisible ink playing cards that had been tucked into the old books—those messages didn’t just deliver themselves. Someone inside the hospital was helping the Knight communicate with Nico. Someone was on his side.

“
You think that’s who gave you the injection, don’t you?
” the First Lady asked.

“The Knight told me… He told me he would provide—that we wouldn’t be alone,” Nico said as he replayed the past few days and thought about the one person who always seemed to be showing up, again and again.

“
I know who you’re thinking about
,” the First Lady said. “
But you still need to be careful.
”

Nico
was
being careful. That’s why he was staring at the back corner of the room, where a surveillance camera sat inside an octagonal-shaped metal wedge with scratchproof glass. No question, the camera watched every part of the room. It watched Nico. But to Nico’s surprise, unlike every other camera in the new building, the little red light on top of the camera wasn’t glowing.

“
Is it possible to shut off just one camera?
” the First Lady asked.

“The Knight said he’d take care of us. That he’d provide,” Nico said, slowly climbing to his feet. He was still wary—but he was getting
excited. Everything the Knight had said… it was all coming true. Destiny.

Pressing his face and fingertips against the glass, Nico checked the dark hallway. The lights were off, and there were no nurses. No orderlies. No one.

“Looks like God’s looking out for you, Nico.”

“Not just God,” Nico said as he reached for the door. “The Knight looks out for us too. The Knight
provides
.”

With a tug on the doorknob, Nico waited for the standard metal
tunk
that came with a deadbolt. Instead, the door swung toward him, not making a sound.

Unlocked.

For an instant, Nico hesitated. But not for long. The Knight was definitely looking out for him. Plus, someone else was too.

Stepping out into the hallway, Nico was on his way.

S
o who do you think’s helping him?” Palmiotti asks, glancing over at me from the passenger seat.

“Helping Nico? Not sure,” I reply, holding tight to the steering wheel.

“Actually, I wasn’t talking about Nico. I was—” Palmiotti stops himself. “You think this goes back to
Nico
?”

I go silent, my eyes locked on the small two-lane road known as MD 77. For most of the first hour, the game has been the same—he brings up small details, trying to pump me for information. But he’s not the only one playing it.

“Who were
you
talking about then? You think the President’s getting help?” I ask.

Now Palmiotti’s the one who’s silent. On both sides of us, the suburban strip plazas that lined I-270 have given way to huge swaths of snowed-over northern Maryland farmland and the rising Catoctin Mountain that’s directly ahead. There’s no one around—no one anywhere—but Palmiotti’s still focused on our rearview mirror.

“How can someone be helping the President?” I add. “I thought Wallace was the victim here.”

“He is the victim. But you have to understand, when you’re President—just to communicate with the outside world… That doesn’t happen without help.”

“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.