Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

She was actually giggling as she cupped her hands over her young son’s eyes and walked him into the snow-covered backyard.

Of course, even at eleven years old, Marshall had known they were about to surprise him. He knew it earlier in the week when he caught his mom on the phone, whispering, “ He’s here… gotta go…”

Kids aren’t stupid. Christmas was only a week away. And after eleven years of being the only kid in their small town with an unemployed father who also happened to be in a wheelchair, well… Marshall was accustomed to the extra thoughtfulness that came this time of year.

Five years ago, the town pitched in to redo the rotted wood wheelchair ramp that led up to their front door.

Three years ago, when his mom lost her job, they bought new clothes and a new backpack for Marshall to wear to school.

Two years ago, they bought Marshall a new bike to replace the one he’d outgrown.

This year? Had to be a dog, Marshall decided. He’d mentioned a dog a few weeks back. But the fact that they kept him at church… stalling him so long—and that he was now blindfolded and being led into the backyard—?

With each step, the icy snow snapped like fresh popcorn under his feet.

He could hear the buzz of dozens of imperceptible whispers. He could feel their… their energy ?… their presence ?… whatever it was, he could feel it against his chest. There was definitely a crowd here. But it was coming from…

Above.

“On C…” his father called out. “A… B…”

“ SURPRISE! ” the crowd yelled as his mom removed her hands.

Following the sound and readjusting his glasses, Marshall craned his neck up at the giant mulberry tree, where at least a dozen kids, plus a few parents, were out on the porch of the—In his head, he was about to use the word treehouse . But this—It looked like a real house, with a pitched roof and a porch . This wasn’t a treehouse. It was a—

“Welcome to the Watchtower !” Vincent Paglinni, a meaty eleven-year-old with furry eyebrows, shouted. “ Get up here, Marshmallow! You gotta see this! ”

“It was the pastor’s idea,” Marshall’s mom said, pointing to Pastor Riis, who was pushing Marshall’s dad in his wheelchair.

“Give it a whirl,” his dad added, looking prouder than ever.

Marshall darted for the ladder rungs that were nailed to the tree.

“No! Grab the rope! Take the elevator!” Vincent Paglinni yelled from above.

Following where everyone was pointing, Marshall headed for the thick rope that dangled down, a baseball-sized knot at its end. As Marshall grabbed the rope, he looked up and saw the pulley that was attached even higher than the roof of the treehouse.

“Ready for liftoff…!” James Wert, a heavy kid from his class, called out. Without warning, Wert leaped off the side of the treehouse and gripped the rope, wrapping his legs around it like he was sliding down a firepole.

The pulley began to spin; the rope pulled taut.

Like a bottle rocket, Marshall shot into the air, where a crush of hands grabbed him, tugging him onto the porch of…

“ It’s the greatest damn treehouse of all time! ” Vincent Paglinni shouted as the crowd of kids cheered.

Marshall knew he was right. This wasn’t something built by a dad. This was built by a town. Ushered inside, Marshall saw that the doorway had a real frame—and the way the roof was sealed so perfectly on all sides… No doubt, it was watertight.

“Lookit this!” Lee Rosenberg, who always wore Lee jeans, called out. “Beanbag chairs! Comic books! Foldout beds!” he said, pointing to two cots, which folded down from the wall. “There’s even working windows!” Lee added as someone pushed the large Plexiglas window that had a hinge on top and swung out like a huge doggie door.

“If it’s raining, you prop it open and still get fresh air,” Eddie Williams’s dad, who sold wholesale Plexiglas, pointed out.

“Plus… look! A carpeted floor!” Lee shouted, motioning at the pale blue carpet. “Carpets are the Cadillac of treehouse options!”

“No, here’s the Cadillac!” Vincent Paglinni interrupted, pointing to a bottle opener that was built into the wall. “ For beer! ”

“For orange soda and root beer only!” one of the brave mothers up there insisted as the whole group laughed.

For Marshall, that was the best part. Not the beanbag chairs, or the working window, or even the bottle opener. It was the laughter. And not at him , for once. With him.

Sure, he spotted friends like Beecher in the corner. And Jeff Camiener, who he always ate lunch with and was the only one who never called him Marshmallow. But most of the kids here were kids he never talked to… who he was too afraid to talk to, like Vincent Paglinni, who usually focused his attention on what rock concert shirt he’d wear the next day. But there Paglinni was, as excited as the rest. They were all thrilled for him. Like friends.

“ Check it out, Mallow! The pastor’s looking up your mom’s skirt! ” Vincent called out as the mob of kids rushed out to the porch to see Marshall’s mom climbing up the tree’s ladder rungs, with the pastor right behind her.

The pastor looked down quickly. He wasn’t looking up her skirt.

Still, the kids were laughing. So was Marshall. They were all laughing. Together.

Forget the treehouse. For Marshall, this sense of belonging made his chest swell so large, he thought it would burst open. To have so many friends, their mouths all open with laughter…

This was the greatest day of his life.

Even as he looked out the Plexiglas window and saw his father, in the wheelchair, looking up at him—even that couldn’t ruin it.

“ You gotta see this! ” Marshall called out, pushing the Plexiglas outward and letting in a wisp of cold air.

“Already did!” Marshall’s dad called back, pumping a fist in the air.

“Awesome, right!?” Marshall shouted, not even catching his dad’s lie.

No matter how well the treehouse was built, there was no way his father would ever make his way up there. Not today. Not ever.

But at this moment, surrounded by so many new friends, Marshall wasn’t being naïve, or insensitive. He was just being eleven years old.

He smiled and pumped his fist back at his dad.

From this height, Marshall could see over his house, over the telephone poles, over everything.

Nothing could ruin a day like this.

18

Today

Crystal City, Virginia

Marshall’s silent the entire ride down.

But as his SUV moves deeper and deeper down into the underground garage, what’s far more discomforting is this: If Marsh is really the one who killed that rector last night—if he’s the one carrying around old playing cards and thinking he’s John Wilkes Booth—why’s he taking me inside?

And more important, why am I letting him?

For both questions, I tell myself it’s because he’s clearly not a murderer. I know that Marshall used to have Muppet sheets on his bed. I remember thinking his house smelled like werewolf. And I remember, when we were twelve, being at his mother’s funeral, right before his dad moved them out of town.

But as the SUV curves down another level, I keep glancing over at him, waiting for him to say something. He never does. I try to play it cool, but I can’t stop staring, especially at his face.

In the mugshot, his face looked shiny, like it was coated with putty. But up close, even in this bad light, the lumpy texture of it makes his forehead and cheeks look like a melted candle. His skin isn’t red, it’s pink. Whatever happened, it was years ago. But he was burned badly. His nose is square at the tip from whatever surgery put it back together. His eyebrows are tattooed on. His black hair covers what’s left of his ears. I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s been through.