The Fifth Assassin (46 page)

“They’re nice,” he says.

“Yeah, when I put them up, I told myself they 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.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Marshall, I appreciate the pep talk, but—”

“Do you have any idea why I went to the Lincoln Memorial?” he challenges.

I shake my head.

“Because you sent me there, Beecher.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“From the very start, I was trying to find the person who killed Pastor Riis. So when that first rector was murdered at St. John’s, the only pattern I saw was someone killing
pastors
. That is, until you came in and found all those links to John Wilkes Booth: the peephole in the wall, and the piece of wood in the umbrella stand. Once I heard you and Tot talking about that—”

“Wait. You bugged me?”

“In your wallet. Right after you bugged my car,” Marshall shoots back. “But the fact remains, without you spotting that original Abraham Lincoln connection, I would’ve never found the pattern of dead Presidents. That’s when I started looking at Wallace, and his schedule, and all the places he was supposed to be.”

For thirty seconds I stand there, still digesting his words. “I still don’t understand how you knew the Knight would be at the Lincoln Memorial.”

“I didn’t. In fact, I thought it was A.J. who was doing the killing. So when it came to the Memorial, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance. And even if I was wrong, I had you at Camp David,” he says, his voice warming up as much as his voice can ever warm up. “You understand what I’m saying, Beecher? I may’ve grabbed the gun and shot the Knight, but when it comes right down to it,
you’re
the one who actually saved President Wallace. That was the job, right? You did everything the Culper Ring couldn’t. That’s why they picked you.”

I look straight at Marshall, who, for once, doesn’t look away. Though I try to fight it, I feel a grin lifting my cheeks.

“Beecher, you truly don’t make any sense, y’know that?” Marshall adds, sounding mad. “I thought you hated Wallace.”

“I do hate him.”

“So you’d rather save his life now, and then hope to take him down fair and square later?”

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Marshall.”

“You sure about that? Because when I was up by that big Lincoln statue and the Knight started reaching for his gun… God, I took joy in pulling that trigger. Real joy.” Reading the look on my face, he adds, “Don’t look so shocked. You know how many people he might’ve killed if I didn’t take that shot? Y’know how many kids were up there?”

“But that’s not why you took the shot, is it?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You weren’t at the Lincoln Memorial to protect Wallace, or even to save a bunch of kids. You said it just now. You were after the Knight because he killed Pastor Riis.”

“What’s your point, Beecher?”

“I’m not—I just—” I cut myself off, still wondering whether to touch the subject we’ve both avoided for so long. “It always goes back to that night, doesn’t it? With Paglinni and the basement… when we… when I—” My voice cracks. I fight to catch my breath, still terrified that the words I’ve waited so long to say will never repair this pain. “Marsh, I’m sorry I sent you in there. I was a coward that night. I never should’ve let you go down there alone.”

“Beecher…”

“No. I need to say this, and you need to hear it. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.”

“Beecher, there’s nothing you could’ve stopped.”

“That’s not true. If you never went down there… if you never saw your mom with Pastor Riis—”

“Don’t blame Riis. It wasn’t him.”

“How can you say that?”

“It wasn’t
him
.”

“But he’s the one who—”

“Listen to what I’m saying, Beecher. It. Wasn’t.
Him.
”

Struggling to read Marshall, I replay the night. I can still see the yellow tint from the porch lights. Still see the view from the driveway. And still see the front door flying open as Marshall’s mom, holding her bra in her hand, shoved Marshmallow outside.

“Pastor Riis wasn’t even there,” Marshall insists.

I hear the words, but they don’t make sense. Marshall’s mom was half dressed. She was with
someone
. But if Pastor Riis wasn’t there—

Oh.

In front of me, the yellow porch lights fade, leaving me staring back at Marshall’s gold eyes, which drill at me in my living room.

“
Mrs. Riis
?” I blurt.

Marshall doesn’t move, but I feel him nod.

I nod back, my mind still processing. “But even so… if we—If I didn’t send you down there—”

“Beecher, do you know how I got into your house tonight? I picked all three of your locks. Easily. And back when I was in the military and finishing the training that taught me how to do it, for the final exam, my squad leader gave us one final lock that we’d have to pick. In the corner of the room, he’d lock you in one of those diver’s cages like you see during Shark Week. In your pocket, he’d give you a bent piece of metal, then he’d point at the rusted old lock and tell you it should take you three minutes or less to pick your way out. ‘
Go
,’ he said, slamming the cage shut and hitting the stopwatch.

“Within the first few minutes, the lock didn’t budge and I knew I was in trouble. As ten minutes went by, I started to sweat. By the thirty-minute mark, I’m flipping out and still can’t open the door. Finally, after an hour of trying to pick this lock… in total frustration, I collapse against the door, which swings open. The squad leader shoots me a grin.”

“The door was unlocked the entire time,” I say.

“Completely unlocked. But in my mind, it was locked—and that was enough to keep me from opening that door and getting out.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“You didn’t put that gun in my mother’s mouth, Beecher. Or pull the trigger. It’s time to let yourself out of your cage.”

Staring across at my old friend, I try to swallow, but my throat expands with a ball the size of a grapefruit. I had no idea until this exact moment, but I’ve been waiting eighteen years to hear those words. “Marsh…”

“Don’t thank me, Beecher. And don’t cry either,” he says, serious as ever. “If you cry, I’ll stab you.”

“Yeah… no… I’m not crying,” I say, fighting hard not to laugh. “But y’know what’s funny? I think I remember Pastor Riis telling a story just like that during one of his sermons. But when he told it, it was Harry Houdini who was in the cage.”

Staring back at me, Marshall presses his lips together, unreadable as ever. “It’s still a good story,” he says.

“I agree.” Nodding to myself, I’m amazed how much it makes me think about the still missing Clementine.

Stealing one last look at the black-and-white photos, Marshall turns toward the door and reaches into his pocket. “By the way, here you go…” he says, tossing me a small black object.

“What’s this?” I ask as I catch the outdated, flip-style cell phone.

“It’s a phone.”

“I can see it’s a phone.”

“It’s a clone of the one Palmiotti uses to call A.J. When Palmiotti’s phone rings, so will that one.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“I told you. My friend in the Service. Not everyone there is a scumbag. Anyway, you listen to it long enough, you might hear something interesting.”

I glance at the phone, then at Marshall, who’s nearly out the door. “But you’d never join the Culper Ring, right?” I call out to him.

“I don’t like bullies, Beecher. Especially presidential ones.”

“I’m taking that as a
yes
!”

Stepping out into the night with his head ducked down, Marshall doesn’t answer.

Three hours earlier

Washington, D.C.

A
t first, the dark blue car just circled the block, around and around, slowing down as it cruised along Pennsylvania Avenue, then speeding up again as it approached the corner and made a sharp right on 6th Street.

Over and over, the driver retraced the circle, but not for too long. There was nothing suspicious about pretending to look for a parking space. But this close to the White House, which was barely ten blocks away, only a fool thinks he can circle the block too often without being noticed.

Quietly settling into an open spot on 6th Street, the driver shut the engine, looked around, and eyed the two or three nearby pedestrians.

Nothing so far. It was almost time, but the driver still knew it was best to be patient.

The only problem was, the driver hated Washington, D.C.—especially this part of D.C., diagonally across from the National Archives. Too many bad memories.

After a half hour, the car pulled out of the spot and started circling again: looping around the block, slowly rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, and speeding up on the corner of 6th Street.

These days, the northeast corner of 6th and Pennsylvania held a modern glass-fronted building that was home to the Newseum, a museum dedicated to news and media. But what the driver really
cared about—aside from the two uniformed guards who stood just inside the glass doors of the museum—was what
used
to be here. Years ago. Nearly a hundred and fifty years, to be precise, which is when the National Hotel used to occupy this exact corner.

Founded in 1827, the National was so popular that sitting Presidents from Andrew Jackson to Abraham Lincoln used to leave the White House and spend a night there, enjoying terrapin dinners and rare old wines. Indeed, Lincoln even had his post-Inauguration banquet there. In 1852, Henry Clay died in Room 116. But of all the great secrets contained in its halls, none was greater than the one that was hatched on the second floor—in Room 228—where John Wilkes Booth stayed while he plotted to assassinate President Lincoln.

Glancing down at the car’s digital clock, the driver pumped the brakes and again searched the sidewalk as the car rolled slowly along Pennsylvania Avenue. A young woman with a forceful gait and a Justice Department ID leaned forward as she plowed against the wind tunnel created by the canyon of tall buildings that lined the block. In the opposite direction, a middle-aged couple held hands as they headed for the Metro.

But as the car reached the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, what caught the driver’s eye was a homeless man approaching the corner of 6th Street.

He was no different from most of the homeless people on the street tonight. His knit cap was tattered and old, he wouldn’t make eye contact, and his crumpled jacket and torn pants looked like they were fished from the garbage. But as he reached the northeast corner of 6th and Pennsylvania—just as his foot touched the edge of the curb where the National Hotel used to exist—the driver couldn’t help but notice the time: 10:11 p.m.

The exact moment John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger on Lincoln.

Hitting the brakes on the corner of 6th Street, the driver lurched forward as her car bucked to a stop. The homeless man didn’t look up.

“You’re not alone,” the driver of the car called out as she lowered the passenger-side window.

“Clementine?” the homeless man asked, staring at the woman behind the steering wheel.

Clementine nodded, staring back at the so-called homeless man. At Nico, her father.

“Nico, you need to get inside,” Clementine added, popping the locks.

Turning to the side, Nico muttered something as if he were talking to someone next to him. His imaginary friend.

“Nico…”

Adding a quick prayer, he pointed a thank-you up to God and mouthed a silent
Amen
. Pulling open the car door, he slid into the front passenger seat, smelling of fish and wet garbage.

As her fingers curled around the steering wheel, Clementine couldn’t take her eyes off him, overwhelmed at how simultaneously old and young she felt every time she was in her father’s orbit.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Nico blurted, drilling her with a look that felt like he was trying to break her down to a chemical level.