The President's Shadow (19 page)

I
press the chipped, circular button, feeling it vibrate on my fingertip.

“
Who’s there?
” an older woman’s voice crackles through the intercom.

“My name’s Beecher White. I have a delivery. Needs a signature.”

There’s a pause, followed by a loud, metallic roar that no modern building would ever permit.

“How’s it look?” Mac asks through the phone in my ear. When I don’t reply, she adds, “Why’re you being so quiet?”

Pushing my way inside, I still don’t answer.

“Beecher, what’re you seeing? Something wrong?”

I’m in an area of Baltimore called Pigtown, which pretty much lives up to its name. A few blocks away, some of the apartment buildings and row houses have been refurbished. This four-story walk-up hasn’t. It’s not a terrible area. “It just reminds me of my neighborhood in Wisconsin,” I explain. “Working class. In another life, I’ve lived here before.”

“Welcome home, huh?”

I nod to myself as I climb the narrow staircase. The hallway smells of fresh paint, but there’s no missing the frayed gray carpet, loose banister, or missing metal treads on every third or fourth step. Our landlord used to do the same: adding new paint, hoping it would cover all problems.

“You can leave the package on the mat,” the woman yells through the door at apartment 4D.

“Sorry, ma’am. Needs a signature,” I call back, working extra hard to sound friendly.

She lives in a rough neighborhood; she’s no sucker. She opens the door a half inch, chain still in place as her narrow bloodshot eyes stare up at me. “Where’s your package?”

“Mrs. Young, I’m sorry to bother you—”

She slams the door in my face.

“Ma’am, please,” I say. “I’m here to ask you about your son.”

The door stays shut.

“Your son is Kingston Young, yes?” I ask, using the name of Ezra’s former roommate who died from a suicide two weeks ago and, according to the Secret Service, is the owner of the severed arms that were buried in Camp David and the Rose Garden.

“If you’re not police, I’m calling them right now,” she threatens.

“Tell her you’re FBI,” Mac says in my ear.

I shake my head. “Mrs. Young, you don’t know me, but let me tell you the most important thing about me: I will never lie to you.”

“You lied about delivering a package,” she shoots back.

“Time to stop being nice,” Mac scolds in my ear.

“Ma’am, I care about what happened to your son.”

“Did you even know him?” she challenges.

“I didn’t, but here’s the absolute truth: I don’t think Kingston committed suicide.”

I stare at the peephole. A solid ten seconds go by. The chain rattles and clinks, then the door swings open, revealing a sixty-year-old pudgy woman with elegant silver hair and a mouth that curves downward at the corners. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a month.

“You won’t regret this, Mrs. Young. I promise you that.”

M
arshall couldn’t put his finger on it. But he could feel it coming.

“Three more minutes,” Clementine said from the driver’s seat, gripping the door handle but waiting to open it.

Marshall barely noticed. In the passenger seat, he was scanning the strip-mall parking lot, focusing on the lone BMW motorcycle parked by the dog groomer’s. The only thing worse than a Harley snob was a fool on a BMW.

“That motorcycle’s always there,” Clementine reassured him.

On his left was a dinged-up black Honda Prelude, with an old
Elliot in the Morning
bumper sticker.

“The Honda belongs to the nurse. The doctor parks around back,” Clementine added. “Trust me, this is how it always is.”

Marshall couldn’t argue with that. So far, ever
y
detail was exactly as Clementine had described. The parking lot was perfectly empty. The passing traffic on Wilson Boulevard was perfectly far away. Even the way the plaza curved around meant that the Happy Jade Herbal Shop was always perfectly out of sight. But as Marshall knew, when everything was going right, and especially when things were going right with Clementine, something was about to go wrong.

The winter sun slipped from the sky as the digital clock blinked to 3:58 p.m. Two more minutes.

From the passenger seat, Marshall studied the storefront. A bright red
Closed
sign kept most people away. Tinted windows scared away the rest. If Clementine was right and Ezra was inside, there
’s no way they’d know it.

“This is a bad idea,” Marshall said.

Clementine shook her head as the clock blinked to 3:59. “Then why’d you come?”

“What’re you—?”

“Why’re you here? If it’s such a disaster, why’d you bother?”

“You said he was going after Beecher.”

“No. If this was about Beecher, you would’ve called Beecher and told him everything. You didn’t. You didn’t even try. We all play our personal games, Marshall. I’m not judging you for it, but how’d you put it again? ‘You’re a killer just like me. Some dirt won’t ever come off’? So. For the fourth and fifth time: Why’re you really here?”

Marshall studied the girl in the brown wig whom he’d known since second grade. She had crow’s-feet at her eyes, a deep worried crease between sharp eyebrows, and shiny, waxy skin from all the chemo. These past few years had taken their toll. But to him, sh
e
looked exactly the same. Just as fiery.

“I came here for Ezra,” Marshall finally offered. “He buried those arms. He knows what happened to your crazy father; he knows what happened to my dead one.”

“Your dead one, huh?”

Marshall sat there, unmoving.

“Is that the story you told Beecher? Or did you tell him what really went down?” Clementine asked. “Don’t worry. I understand. We all have our secrets, right, Marshall?”

His gold eyes studied her. Nico. Only Nico could’ve told her that truth.

Clementine went to say something else, but as the clock blinked to 4:0
0 p.m., she shoved open the car door, charging forward.

Following behind her, Marshall kept his pace slow and steady, studying the storefront and the front door. “You’re sure he doesn’t know we’re coming?” he called out.

“He doesn’t. I know how he works. I’ve been coming here for weeks,” Clementine insisted, spinning around and crossing defiantly into Marshall’s personal space. Her single-mindedness was what Beecher loved most. Beecher saw it as fearless. Marshall saw it as reckless. Either way, as Marshall knew, the most dangerous person to follow is someone with nothing to lose.

“Whattya think, he’s got a sniper on the roof, ready to shoot at us?” Clementine challenged as Marshall slowed down even more.

“Sniper on the roof makes no sense. If he misses, it’d take too long to climb down and chase us.”

“You really can’t turn it off, can you? You always see the world as trying to take your head off.”

“You’re still not listening. This whole approach—trying to surprise him—it’s a mistake,” Marshall said as they moved toward the storefront. “We don’t even know if Ezra’s here.”

“Of course he’s here. He doesn’t miss my appointments. I don’t even think they’d let me inside if he wasn’t there.”

Marshall stopped, refusing to follow.

“What? What’s wrong now?” Clementine asked.

“When you come here, is Ezra usually with you?”

“Why would—?”

“Just answer the question: Is Ezra with you or not?”

“So far, he’s been. He’s usually my ride.”

“But now you’re suddenly coming by yourself?”

“Relax. I told him I was running late, that I’d meet him here.”

Clementine continued toward the herbal shop. Marshall stayed where he was. On their far left, a loud horn blasted from Wilson Boulevard. Perfectly normal for rush hour.

“I’m out. Gimme your keys,” Marshall said.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You and Ezra had an understanding. A pattern. Now you’re changing it. Gimme your keys. I’ll be in the car.”

“Will you just—?”

“Keys.
Now.
”

Rolling her eyes, Clementine tossed Marshall the keys. He headed back toward the parking lot. She kept walking toward the storefront.

Both refused to look back, so neither saw what was coming.

There was no loud screech of tires. Just a low guttural rumble, like the sewer below was clearing its throat. Marshall was halfway to the car as he heard it. Before he even turned, he knew what it was. And who it was headed for.

The black Dodge Charger tore around the corner, picking up speed. Its engine burbled with an angry snarl.

“Clementine…!”

She nearly jumped out of the way as the car clipped her, the nose of it biting her legs and grazing her thigh. Her movement saved her life. But lik
e a human seesaw, her legs flew up, her head crashed down.

Marshall was frozen in place, still in mid-yell as the sound of bone and crushed glass twirled together in a haunting ballet
. Clementine’s arm bounced against the windshield, her limbs flailing like they were filled with rubber bands as she spun to the ground. Her shoulder skidded across the asphalt.

The driver of the black Dodge hit the brakes. Even with the sky growing dark, there was no mistaking his bald head. Or his slitted eyes and white eyelashes.

Ezra didn’t say a word as he leaned out the window. He simply glared at Marshall, pulled his gun, and fired.

Y
ou’re sure this is his handwriting?” I ask.

Mrs. Young nods. As she passes me the letter, her body’s shaking, like she’s been hollowed out and filled with bits of glass.

I’m still in the hallway, just outside her apartment, which reeks of an overdose of potpourri. Over her shoulder are the torsos of three tailor’s mannequins, all without heads or arms. On her wrist is a tomato-shaped pincushion bracelet.

“The police kept the original,” she explains, motioning to the letter, but refusing to look directly at it. “They said I’ll get it back when… I-I don’t even know when.”

I nod like I understand. And I do. Last month, Clementin
e
gave me a similar note by
my
father. A suicide note from what I’m still not convinced was a suicide.

“He did it on his birthday. Read it,” she adds.

“He used a shotgun,” she says. “Put the barrel to his chin, aimed straight at the ceiling, and—” She takes a breath, reliving the moment. “The police wouldn’t let me in. They said the shotgun blast blew his entire face…” As I glance at Mrs. Young, she doesn’t look away. Her dead eyes beg me, searching for something that can’t be replaced. My mother has that same look when she talks about my dad. The light in her face isn’t just faded. It’s gone.

“I-I know that’s his handwriting… I know those’re his words…” she adds, her voice unraveling. “But no matter how many times I read it—
I’ve memorized it at this point
—okay, he carried his darkness around, but I still don’t understand why he’s
gone
! Do you know what that feels like? To have the person you care about most plucked from your life, and you don’t even know
why
!?”

I stare straight into this woman’s hollow face. When I was twelve, our local pastor was the one who gave me the birds-and-bees talk. When I was thirteen, our next-door neighbor taught me how to shave. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve celebrated every Father’s Day remembering the Father’s Day all those years ago, when I opened my mom’s medicine cabinet and found a shakily handwritten Post-it she’d written to herself:
You have all the strength to make it through today.

She still doesn’t.

Today,
I
tell myself I do.

“Mrs. Young, your son was wrong about one thing: I know you gave him more than twenty-seven good days. Now please, let me help you help him one last time.”

Nodding violently, she pinches the bridge of her nose to hold back tears.

“In the letter, your son mentioned someone named Ezra. Did you know Ezra well?”

“The police asked the same thing. Ezra was his roommate. He’s a good boy, though. From a good family. If anything, he’s exactly what Kingston needed.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose tighter than before. She’s not fighting back tears. She’s thinking.

“When my husband died, everyone told me stories of how wonderful he was. And he
was
. Like any of us, he had moments of pure greatness. But he could also be petty. He was bad with money. And most of the time, he couldn’t see that his biggest problems were usually his own doing.”

“You’re saying Kingston—”

“Look at the neighborhood we live in. Ever since Kingston was little, I knew he wasn’t meant for this place. He was a workhorse too. Driven to get out. But when he met Ezra…to see someone from money…someone who had taste, and knew how many years to wait until you opened a certain bottle of scotch… Ezra’s grandfather apparently worked for President Reagan. When Kingston met Ezra, his whole world became
bigger
. It wasn’t just the connections, though. Ezra showed him restraint. And kindness.”

“Kindness?”

She takes a half-step back, giving me a good look at her apartment. “Son, I get ten dollars to hem a pair of pants. Fifteen dollars to shorten the sleeves on a dress shirt, though in this neighborhood, most people roll up their sleeves. Even with grad school loans, you know what it costs to have your own apartment plus meals down in D.C.?”

I nod, well aware of why I live in the Maryland suburbs.

“Kingston never said it, but when it came to paying for groceries, meals, and everything else, I know Ezra stepped in to help. Even gave Kingston a winter coat when he saw the ratty old jacket my son was wearing.”

“That doesn’t sound like our man with white eyelashes,” Mac blurts in my ear. I almost forgot she was there. “You think we have the wrong guy?” she adds.

“Ma’am, can I ask you one last favor? Do you happen to have a picture of Ezra? Just for our records.”

“Like a photo? Of my son’s roommate? I don’t think I— Wait. That’s not true— Here…
C’mere
,” she says, waving me inside. As I follow her toward the living room, she flips through a stack of pictures piled up on top of a nearby end table. “When the boys first moved in, I took a picture to show my sister the hardwood floors. Anyway, as I snapped it, Ezra was—
Here
,” she says, pulling a single picture from the stack and handing it my way.

The photo’s grainy, from an old camera, and shows an apartment that’s typical grad school: futon, coffee table made from a wide plank of wood on stacked cement blocks, even a guitar. In the far left corner, a young man wearing a faded green-and-yellow plaid shirt enters from the kitchen, his mouth half-open, midsentence. He’s definitely bald. But as I zero in, he’s got sleepy and handsome features, thick eyebrows, and the preppy, untucked style of a J.Crew model.

One thing I know for sure: This isn’t the guy with white eyelashes who was spying on us outside the White House. My stomach twists. It makes no sense. How can this be the wrong guy?

“You’re sure this is Ezra?” I ask.

“Who else would it be?” Mrs. Young asks, getting nervous.

I look back at the photo, still picturing the slitted eyes of the guy who looked like Andy Warhol.

“Beecher, send me a copy,” Mac barks in my ear.

“Ma’am, you mind if I use your restroom?”

Mrs. Young points me toward the kitchen. “Second door on your left.”

Moving quickly, I hold tight to the photo, getting ready to text it to Mac. Halfway down the hallway, I notice the array of framed photos on either side of me. They’re from decades ago, Christmas shots taken at Sears, each one of Mrs. Young and Kingston, each with a different outdated sweater. I almost run right past them until—

Oh God.

I squint to make sure I’m seeing it right. There’s no mistaking it. In every Christmas photo, year after year, her dead son…Kingston…has a bowl cut of white-blond hair and an awkward smile. He’s also got thin slitted eyes and stark white eyelashes.

Son of a bitch.

“What’s wrong?” Mac asks.

“Ezra’s not Ezra.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“The guy we’re chasing—the guy with white eyelashes. He may be calling himself Ezra. He may’ve shaved his head like Ezra. But I’m telling you right now, he’s a man who supposedly died two weeks ago. His real name’s Kingston Young.”