Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Marshall licks his lips and I notice that the left side of his tongue is a lighter shade of pink than the right half. It almost looks like it’s plastic. His tongue was burned too.

“Do me a favor,” Marshall says. “Tell me why you’re here.”

I continue to look right at him. “I’m here to see what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“Pardon?”

“When you got arrested yesterday, you had my name in your pocket.”

He cocks his head, watching me. “I get it. The police called you.”

“Of course the police called me. They found my name and number in your pocket.”

His shoulders stay square. His grin’s back in place. I look down, noticing his perfectly shined shoes. “Why else would I have your number on me, Beecher? I wanted to talk to you.”

“Really.”

“Isn’t that what old friends do? I ran into Craig Rogers last week. Remember him?”

“I know who Craig Rogers is. I see him on Facebook.”

“Then you know he has your phone number. Which he gave to me and said I should call you. I didn’t even realize you lived here in Washington.”

I nod and take a look at that $22,000 painting. “Marshall, you know someone was killed in that church, right?”

“So I gathered. Apparently that’s why they arrested me.”

“What were you doing there, anyway?”

“What does anyone do at a church, Beecher? It’s nearing the anniversary of my mother’s death. You know how much prayers meant to her.”

“You were there praying ?”

“I was there praying.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“The sanctuary is open till midnight. Apparently there are some very religious people who work across the street.”

It’s a perfect story. No holes in it. “They said you also had a pack of old playing cards on you. With a missing ace of spades.”

“I always have them on me. I travel a lot. They’re good for solitaire.”

“And the ace of spades?”

Without warning, he hits both his front pockets. From one, he pulls out the pack of playing cards and tosses it at me. From the other, he pulls out his phone. I didn’t hear it ring or vibrate, but as he looks down at it, this is clearly a call he can’t miss.

“Beecher, you’ll have to excuse me a moment. I need to take this.” Heading back toward the bedroom, he adds, “This is Marshall…”

He closes the door quietly, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I study the playing cards. The box is yellowed and severely worn. On the back of the pack is a classic hand-drawn American eagle with spread wings. But instead of its head raised high, the eagle ducks down, its head lowered, like it’s ready to bite something.

I glance back at his closed bedroom door. Underneath it, Marshall’s shadow paces back and forth. Whoever’s calling him, he’s caught up in it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the nearest cabinets. When we were kids, I remember Marshall’s dad kept all his medication in the kitchen drawers, since he could reach them from his wheelchair. If I’m lucky, maybe Marshall does the same. But as I hunt through the drawers—silverware in one, spatulas and wooden spoons in another… nothing to speak of.

The overhead cabinets are the same. The first has dishes, bowls, cups, and glassware.

The next has wineglasses… coffee mugs… a few thermoses… but again, nothing revealing. The mugs are all plain, same as the thermoses. No school logos, team logos, work logos—nothing. And for the second time, I start wondering if this sterile place is really a safehouse.

But as I open the biggest cabinet—looks like the pantry—the first thing I spot are large boxes of breakfast cereal.

I scan quickly. Of course, there’s no Lucky Charms. It’s all healthy now: Raisin Bran… Special K… and one of those fancy oat ones you buy at Whole Foods. My brain flips back to the treehouse… and the hiding spot for every nudie pic we could find.

I grab the box of Raisin Bran, ripping it open. Nothing. Same with the Special K. And the fancy oat one. Nothing and more nothing.

Closing the cabinets, I turn back to the bedroom. Marshall’s still pacing. Time for one last attempt.

On my right, where the cabinets run in an L-shape around the corner, there’s a section of the counter that’s built like a desk, but with no drawers. It’s where Marshall threw his keys. There’s also a neat stack of mail and a few boxes from J.Crew.

Tossing his pack of cards on the counter, I flip through the mail. Electric bill… something from a wine-tasting organization… coupon circulars… His name’s on all of them. But the address—it’s not the same as the address here. They’re all addressed to the P.O. box that Immaculate Deception found earlier. It’s the same with the J.Crew packages. But as I lift the rest of the mail off the final box—

The flaps on the box pop upward. It’s already open. There’s no address on it. No return address either.

I look back at the bedroom. He’s still busy.

As I push back the flaps and peer into the box, staring back at me is a shiny white face, with no eyes.

I jump at the sight.

A mask.

It’s a plaster mask. White, like chalk. It looks like…

It’s Abraham Lincoln.

I pull out my phone and try to take a quick pic, but my hand’s shaking. I can’t steady it.

I look again over my shoulder. Marshall’s still pacing in the bedroom.

My phone makes the fake cha-chick as I snap the picture. Tot needs to see this. I forward the photo to him, with a note: Found in Marshall’s place.

Quick as I can, I fold the box shut and put the stack of mail back on top.

I have no idea why Marshall would have his own Abraham Lincoln mask—but considering we’re looking for John Wilkes B—

Over my shoulder, there’s a low steady sound, like someone breathing.

I don’t even have to turn around.

Marshall’s right behind me.

24

Four days ago

Ann Arbor, Michigan

There are certain moments that change a person’s life. For some, it comes quickly and violently, in the form of a car crash. For others, it comes from bad news at a doctor’s office.

For Clementine, as she sat Indian-style at the kitchen table in her small rental apartment, papers spread out in front of her, she assumed it would come with Nico’s file.

She finished reading the file days ago. She read every word. Every report. Every review.

She read the commendations—six in total. One called her father sober, industrious, and of impeccable character . Another commented on his attendance record, and noted that he had accumulated hundreds of hours of unused sick leave. Another said that Nico had rendered invaluable assistance when there was a fire on base.

She read the scolding letters of reprimand too—all of them coming in the later years, when whatever they did to him was already long done. Doctors warned of sudden long periods of silence , then of his disregard for the safety of himself and others , and finally of his aggressiveness and inability to distinguish fantasy from reality .

But as Clementine flipped through the file again and again, there wasn’t much more than that. Yes, the file showed that her father… that Nico… had been inducted into the military three years earlier than his public records say. And yes, if she was piecing it together correctly, that some of that time was spent with the navy, despite the fact he was an army man. Aside from that, as she tried to rebuild the file in chronological order, there was no other paperwork from any of those first three years. They were gone. Three entire years—totally unaccounted for. No commendations, no letters of discipline, no nothing.