Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“Yeah, I can totally picture that. You’d be a perfect astronaut.” Beecher laughed. “Haven’t you had like every eye disease known to man?”

Pushing his glasses up on his face, Marshall kept staring out at the sky. “But imagine, Beecher. To go that high… to escape everything… Don’t you ever wonder how far we can go?”

Beecher sat up in the beanbag chair, suddenly excited as he waved the newspaper. “No, I know ! That’s exactly why I like obituaries! When you see what people have accomplished… They’re proof of how far we can go—of what we’re capable of on our very best days.”

“I guess,” Marshall said, thinking it over. “But obituaries are weird.”

“You wish. Outer space is weird.”

The two boys looked at each other. For a moment, the treehouse was silent.

Hopping off the bed, Marshall raced for the treehouse door.

“Where you going?” Beecher asked.

“To fart. My mom said it’s rude t—”

“How old are you? Six? Fart here! No one cares!”

Standing there, Marshall kept his hands at his side and did exactly that.

It was a quiet one.

“You do realize,” Beecher said, leaning back in the beanbag chair, “it’s conversations like these that make people not wanna hang out with us.”

Marshall laughed at that. A real laugh.

“But with space, and the obits, it’s also why we will escape,” Beecher added. “From here… from Wisconsin. We’ll be the only ones who get out of here.”

“I’m not worried about getting out of here,” Marshall replied, sitting on the edge of the foldout bed and glancing down at his house below them. “I’m just worried about who’ll take care of my dad.”

Beecher fell silent, but not for long. “I bet we can find someone to take care of him too.”

In that moment, as Marshall focused his attention back on the treehouse… as he scooched back on his foldout bed and thought about how many people had been packed in here just eight months ago… as he looked past the Plexiglas window and the super-cool bottle opener, Marshall Lusk realized that when it comes to treehouses, the only thing you really need… is a friend.

“I just farted again, Beecher.”

“I know. I can smell, dumbass.”

20

Six days ago

Ann Arbor, Michigan

Sometimes, when the stress felt overwhelming, Clementine would imagine—would practically feel—her chubby ginger cat making figure-eight loops around her ankles.

She was doing it now as she drove back along the highway. In her lap, she had the file that Palmiotti had given her, propping it open and letting it lean against the steering wheel.

Clementine wanted to pull over, to just read it on the side of the highway. But the thought of Palmiotti, or anyone else, catching her by surprise… She knew she had to wait.

She couldn’t. She’d been waiting for so long—for her whole life, really. So as she focused on the calm that her cat brought, she stole quick glances at the file.

It was hard to read, especially at this speed—and there was so much to go through, from the physical and mental profiles to the documentation of her father’s service. As she kept glancing down to fish through the papers, she stopped on the very first thing that looked easy to skim.

It was a single, pink page, right at the front. The word commendation stood out.

It was just a letter. From the typewriter font, it looked like one of the oldest documents in there. Scanning the first paragraph, she kept glancing up at the road, then back to the text. According to the letter, her father—Nico Hadrian— was instrumental in rendering valuable assistance during battlefield operations modeling at Headquarters .

There was a loud tunk-tunk-tunk as her car drifted left out of its lane, plowing over the reflective road studs along the highway. Looking up, Clementine tugged the wheel, bringing the car back on course.

She tried to breathe, but her chest… it felt like someone had reached underneath her ribcage and wedged their fist up into her throat.

It was a simple letter. A commendation. From Commanding Officer Bryan Burgess… rendering valuable assistance … It said he did something good .

In her lap, the file folder fell to the right, spraying paper across the seat.

The swirl of emotions caught her by surprise. Her eyes became watery. But what she was feeling wasn’t sadness. Or even relief. Holding tight to the steering wheel, Clementine felt the fist in her throat growing heavy, sinking down into her belly. This was anger.

With a jerk of her foot, the ghost of her ginger cat dissipated like a rolling cloud.

Palmiotti was right. The real reason she had searched for this file… and risked so much to get it… was so she could get answers about her cancer. About her health. About herself. Her future.

But to see this commendation… to see what they wrote about him…

They always said he was a creature with no redeeming attributes. But here, this was proof. Proof of what could’ve been. Of what should’ve been.

Proof that Nico—her father—wasn’t born a monster. They turned him into one.

21

Today

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

Here you go, Nico. Welcome home,” Nurse Rupert announced, throwing open the heavy wooden door to Nico’s new room, which wasn’t much different than the average college dorm room, right down to the institutional furniture and the thick concrete walls.

Stepping inside, Nico noticed that instead of doorknobs, there was a metal latch that you push, like you see in hospital rooms. But unlike hospital rooms, next to the latch was a small metal switch. Nico knew what that was. If a nurse flipped the switch, instead of opening inward , the door would open outward , ensuring that as a patient you can’t barricade the door.

“ They put your calendar up ,” the dead First Lady pointed out as Nico turned toward the only item on the otherwise bare walls: his Washington Redskins calendar that was already hanging above his nightstand, just like in his old room.

“ The light switches are new too ,” the dead First Lady added.

Of course Nico noticed that. In the old building, patients used to unbend paper clips, jam them into the light switch, and use the live wire to light their cigarettes. But now the light switch in Nico’s room was covered with a bulky porcelain switchplate that was snug around the switch and didn’t allow anything inside.

“It’s childproofing for really big kids,” Rupert joked. “So whattyathink? Does your unbridled happiness make you committed to stop being such a pain in my keister?”

“Where’s my book?” Nico blurted. “They brought my calendar, but where’s my book?”

“I dunno. Check the dresser… or one of the drawers…”

Slowly opening the drawers on his nightstand, Nico saw a copy of his Bible, his red glass rosary, and a few other knickknacks from his drawers in his old room. But not the—

“My book isn’t here,” Nico insisted.

Before Rupert could argue back, the door opened behind them. “Just checking in to make sure everyone’s—” Dr. Gosling took one look at his star patient and could read the stress on his face. “Nico, what’s wrong?”

“They didn’t send my book,” Nico growled.

“I’m sure they sent it. We’ll find it,” Rupert insisted, frantically yanking open the drawers of the dresser.

“You mean this book here?” Dr. Gosling called out, pulling a book from the top of the wardrobe that was bolted to the wall.

“There!” Nico said. “My book .”