The Fifth Assassin (38 page)

Reed doesn’t answer.

I don’t mind the silence. What I mind is the smell, which is stronger than ever. My stomach lurches with each whiff of it.

Burnt hair.

You okay?
Palmiotti asks with a glance.

I nod, trying to keep pace, but I know something’s wrong.

From the industrial design of the staircase, the cinderblock walls, and the buzzy fluorescent lighting, the whole place feels like a 1960s bomb shelter. But there’s no missing the recent additions: motion detectors in the corner… a chemical sniffer that I
spotted when we first walked in… and a thin plastic sheath—like flypaper—that coats the metal banister. I don’t even want to think what it’s for. What really matters is, if the world goes boom, this is where they’ll rebuild it from.

As we reach the first landing, an open door reveals a narrow hallway, like an old hospital, lined with doors on both sides. Agent Reed keeps going, down toward the lower level. My ears again tighten and pop. By my count, we’re at least two or three stories underground, and all I can think about is that when Richard Nixon’s secretary, Rose Mary Woods, transcribed the Nixon tapes and famously lost eighteen and a half minutes, it was at Camp David, where no one would see the crime.

With a final
thump
, Reed slams down on the final metal step, his feet slapping against the concrete. We’re at rock bottom, or at least the bottom of the stairwell.

Reed’s pace never diminishes. As I follow him through the threshold and into a hallway that’s lined with closed doors, the ceiling gets lower, but the fluorescent lighting stays bright.

“Here, we’re in
here
,” Reed says, leading us into the first room on our left. Like the stairwell, the walls are cinderblock and bare. There’s not much inside: an army barrack metal bed, a matching government-issue dresser, and in the corner, a new Secret Service agent—a pale Irish-looking man with a pointy nose—who sits at a wooden desk and is watching something on TV. This isn’t like the surveillance room, though. As far as I can tell, these are sleeping quarters.

“We’re all clear, sir,” the Irish agent calls out, standing up as we enter. “He’s on his way.”

I hesitate, staying back by the door, still unsure what’s really going on. But I know what
he
means.
He
is always the President.

“Relax. Take a breath, Beecher,” Reed says, his voice now warm and friendly. “You did good.”

He gives me a small smile and I can’t help but smile back, feeling strangely comfortable as I step into the room. “So Wallace is safe?” I ask. “You got him covered?”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Reed says. “The President has never been safer.”

Behind him, on the TV, I catch a glimpse of a waving American flag. But as the camera pulls out, I see that it’s one of the tiny flags on the front of the President’s private limo, the black Cadillac known as the Beast. The way the handheld camera’s shaking… this is the Service’s live surveillance footage.

As the door to the car opens, President Wallace steps out, followed by his young daughter. They don’t wave or look around. They head straight for their destination. But from the background, from the black pavement where they’re parked—

“President and his daughter on her school trip,” one of the agents announces.

School trip?
But wasn’t that—? I squint at the TV, confused. I thought they canceled the school trip. Wallace took a helicopter
here
. So how’d—? I don’t understand. “Wallace brought the school trip
here
?”

Reed looks over at Palmiotti, then back to me. “I’m sorry, Beecher.”

From behind, the Irish agent grabs my arm, nearly pulling my shoulder from its socket. There’s a loud
kk-kk-kk
as something bites my wrist. A handcuff. Then another
kk-kk-kk
and a metal clang. I look down as—I’m handcuffed to the metal foot of the bed.

“
What’re you—? Get these off me!
” I shout, trying to tug myself free. The cuffs bite deeper into my wrist. The bed’s bolted to the floor.

“You’re not listening, Beecher. You can wait here until he’s done,” Reed says. “Our job’s to keep him safe.”

“Safe!? I just told you someone’s gonna try and kill him here in the next ten minutes! Why would you suddenly let him walk around Camp David!?”

“Camp David?” Reed asks, his lips curved in a thin smile. “You really think we’d let you through the gates if the President was still at Camp David?”

Onscreen, the camera cuts to a wide shot of familiar marble
columns and the wide steps that run up to it. Everyone knows that building.

“Breaking news,” the agent at the TV teases. “President Wallace surprises daughter at Lincoln Memorial.”

I tighten my glance, making sure I’m seeing it right. Wallace holds his daughter’s hand as they make their way toward what looks like the back of the Lincoln Memorial. But this event… this tour of the Memorial… they said it was canceled. The press said he was coming to Camp David. I saw the footage of them all getting on board the helicopt—

No. I saw his wife get on board. And their son. Then the helicopter took off. Which means—

“President Wallace was never on that helicopter, was he?” I ask, trying to step toward him as the handcuffs tug me back. “You never had any intention of bringing the President here!”

“We’ve got four deaths mirroring four different assassinations,” Reed explains. “You really think we’re gonna sit on our thumbs and let there be a fifth?”

“But if you—”

“I told you, Beecher, our job is to keep the President safe. And do you know the best way to do that? You take him to a place where no one knows he’s coming. Or at least… well… where
most
people don’t know he’s coming,” he adds, tossing a quick thank-you look at Palmiotti, who grins back, gloating like a toad with newfound flies.

A flush of blood runs through my ears. My wrist swells from the bite of the handcuff. He
knew
. He knew all along. That’s why he took me here—he knew Wallace was somewhere else.

Palmiotti stares at the TV, refusing to look my way. “You protect your friends; I protect mine,” he tells me.

“You think Wallace is your friend? How many times can he chew you up and crap you out before you realize you don’t owe him anything?”

“Think whatever you want of me, Beecher. What Wallace and I have been through… When I buried my father and had to identify the body, he was the one standing next to me. In his will, I was the
one named to take care of his kids in case he died. He was the same for mine. When that person leaves your life, you have any idea how bad you want him back?”

As he says the words, all I can see is my own mental image of Tot in the hospital, lying there with a bullet in his head.
No brain activity.
The anger hits so fast, I nearly bite through my tongue.

“
YOU SPINELESS TOADY! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PAIN YOU CAUSED!?
” I scream, lashing out with my free hand and grabbing his neck. I dig my fingers into his scar. I don’t let go. My fingers burrow down. His scar goes purple as I press even harder. No question, his skin’s about to split—

Puuum.

The punch clips me in the back of the head, knocking me to the ground. The Secret Service are all over me.

“
Get off me!
” I scream, thrashing and kicking wildly as flecks of spit fly from my mouth.

The Irish agent grabs my free arm; Small Ears grabs my legs. I fight hard, refusing to let them take hold, but…

I have no chance. They’re the Secret Service. They train for this every day. Without a single word uttered—without even a grunt—the Irish agent presses his thick forearm across my neck. As I gasp for air, they pin me to the cold concrete ground, my handcuffed arm still hooked to the bed and raised, like a kid in junior high asking a question of the teacher.

“You done yet, Beecher?” Reed asks, standing over me as they cuff my other hand to the bed.

My chest rises and falls, but no words come out. I show enough calm that Agent Irish lets go of my throat and the air returns to my lungs. “
Huuuh huuuh
,” I pant, fighting to catch my breath.

Palmiotti holds his neck, annoyed at the pain.

“It’s time to stop lying, Beecher,” Agent Reed adds, still standing over me. “We know who sent you. Just like we know who gave you the ace of clubs with
Camp David
written on it. Enough bullshit, son. Tell us why you’re helping the Knight and working with Nico.”

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

M
aybe you misplaced it. Did you misplace it?” Beecher whispered, careful to keep his voice down.

Kneeling in the treehouse, Marshall replied with an anxious look as he shook the box of Lucky Charms cereal. There was nothing inside. Even the bra advertisements were gone.

“Maybe someone took it,” Paglinni scolded.

“No one took it,” Marshall insisted, pushing his glasses up on his face as he scrambled toward the foldout bed and ran his hand underneath the mattress. Nothing there either.

“Someone definitely took it,” Paglinni said as an infection of moans spread throughout the treehouse.

On this lazy Saturday morning, they were all here for the same reason. Now, that reason was gone.

“I told you you should’ve put a lock on this place. I bet Claudio snuck in and took it,” Paglinni said, referring to a seventh grader even he didn’t mess with.

Marshall shot a look at Beecher.
Claudio didn’t take it.

“Guys, just give us a sec,” Beecher said to the group. Pulling Marshall aside and cornering him by the treehouse’s Plexiglas window, he whispered, “What’re you talking about?”

“I don’t hide the magazines up here,” Marshall whispered back. “At night, once everyone’s gone, the porn goes back to my room.”

“Your room? Why would you—?” Beecher stopped himself. “Don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know.”

“Will you stop? It’s me being smart. Those magazines are gold. How stupid would I be if I left them unprotected up here? In my room, at least they’re safe.”

“And they’re not in your room?”

“I thought they were. I could swear I brought them there, but when I checked…”

“You think your mom took them?”

“My mom?”

“No offense, but you’ve seen how she’s been since she started working at the church. She’s like a second pastor. If she found your porn, you really think she’d let you keep it?”

Looking over Marshall’s shoulder, Beecher saw how restless Paglinni and the rest were getting.

“Guys, give us two minutes—I think I know where it is,” Beecher added, heading for the treehouse door and down the ladder rungs that were nailed into the tree.

Hopping down from the final rung, Marshall chased behind Beecher. “What’re you—?”

“Double-check your room,” Beecher said as they tugged open the screen door, ran inside the house, and raced upstairs.

Like any kid’s room, there wasn’t much to tear through. Desk, bed, dresser…

“Toldja, it’s not here,” Marshall said, approaching the set of encyclopedias that filled two rows of a bookshelf in the corner. Pulling a chunk of encyclopedias out from the top shelf, he pointed to what was hidden behind the volumes. Nothing. “See? All gone.”

“And that’s where you hid them all? Behind the encyclopedias?”

“Don’t judge. At least I’m putting my encyclopedias to use.”

“Yeah, as a hiding spot.”

“And a good one at that. They were tucked behind F. Get it? For
Finally
. And
Friends
.”

“I get it,” Beecher said, following Marshall out of the room and into the hallway. “But for someone to break into your roo—”

“
You boys doing okay?
” a female voice called out.

On their left, halfway down the worn carpeted hallway that had two matching grooves from wheelchair traffic, Marshall’s mother was dressed in a freshly pressed black skirt, white gloves, and her favorite lemon yellow blazer. Church clothes, or more recently, work clothes.

“You said you’d be home today. It’s Saturday,” Marshall said.

“Just a few hours. Just to get everything set for tomorrow,” she explained. “Oh, and sweetie, I’m supposed to tell you: When your father gets back, he wants you to go with him to Dr. Pollack’s house. There’s a nest of dead rats in the attic and he needs you to climb up and take pictures.”

Marshall nodded as Beecher nudged him from behind.

“Mom, before you go: Has anyone been in my room?”

“In your room?” she asked, clearly confused.

“Or even at the house? I don’t know, maybe last night… or even this morning… Did any friends come over to visit?”

Marshall’s mother did that thing where she tapped her pointer-finger against her nose, lost in thought. “I don’t think so. I mean, except for Pastor Riis.”

Marshall stood up straight. “Pastor was here?”

“Just for two minutes. I think you were in the shower. He was dropping off a draft of his sermon he wanted me to look at.”

Beecher shot a look at his friend, who didn’t need to hear anything else.

“Did I say something wrong?” Marshall’s mom asked.

“No, that’s great. Thanks, Mrs. Lusk,” Beecher said, tugging Marshall by the front of his shirt and pulling him downstairs. Neither of them said a word until they reached the kitchen.

“That skeevy sonuva—He stole my stolen porn!” Marshall hissed.

“I’m more skeeved out that he went in your room.”

“
Plus
he went in my room! Plus he went through my stuff! Isn’t it bad enough he’s trying to screw my mom?”

“Marsh, whoa. That’s not even funny.”

“I’m not deaf, Beecher. I hear what people say. You see how she was dressed today? How many church secretaries get personal visits at home from the pastor?”

Shoving open the screen door and following Marshall back into the yard, Beecher didn’t argue. He’d heard the same rumors. But in all their time together, this was the first time he’d ever heard Marshall broach the subject.

“The real question is, without the porn, what do we tell
them
?” Marshall added, motioning up to Paglinni and everyone else in the treehouse.