Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Nico knew that’s what made it different from cryptography, which was all about secret codes. Steganography had nothing to do with codes. In steganography, the message isn’t scrambled. It’s simply hidden so no one knows you’re sending a message at all.

“You’re joking, right?” Nurse Karina asked as she stood behind Nico.

Nurse Rupert didn’t bother to answer, standing right next to her.

Ignoring them both with his back to them, Nico sat at a blond wooden desk, staring blankly at a computer screen, both of his palms flat on the desk. Along the left wall of the room was a working stove, a microwave, a washer/dryer, and a toilet, each item right next to the other.

The room was used for ADL skills—Activities for Daily Living—which meant that patients came in here to learn how to survive in the actual world. Staff taught them how to turn on a stove, wash their clothes, and even the most basic of tasks, like keeping a clean toilet.

For a few patients, including Nico, it also included minor computer privileges.

“And that’s what he likes?” Karina whispered.

“That’s it. It’s his favorite,” Rupert replied.

From the angle they were at, they had a clear view of Nico’s monitor, which held a YouTube video called “Cutey Cute Lester.”

Onscreen, a fluffy and adorable tabby kitten named Lester rolled back and forth across a plush gray carpet, like he had an itch he couldn’t reach. In the background, the cat’s owner tapped his foot, laughing along with him.

“So the man who shot the President also likes cat videos?” Karina asked.

“Sometimes he prefers one called ‘I’m Just a Cat and I’m Doing Cat Stuff.’ Though personally, I prefer Lester. Look at that range …”

Onscreen, Lester the kitten was stretched out on his back, his front left paw looking like it was waving right at the viewer.

Nico stared at the screen, thinking of ancient Greece, where Herodotus told the story of a secret message that was tattooed onto the shaved head of a slave and concealed by his grown-back hair. The message stayed hidden until the slave arrived at his destination and shaved his head again. Perfect steganography.

Almost as perfect as George Washington using invisible ink and writing between the lines of his own handwritten letters.

Almost as perfect as what Nico—and the dead First Lady—were staring at today. The video uploaded by a user named LedParadis27.

“That’s all he does? He sits here and watches cat videos?” Karina asked.

“We call it his kitty porn . But yeah—ever since they stopped letting him feed the cats next door, you wanna keep Nico calm, this is how you do it.”

“So how long does he—?”

Before Karina could finish, Nico stood from his seat, picked up his book, and headed past them.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced, the dead First Lady right behind him.

“I think it’s on the left… down the hall,” Rupert said, pointing him out into the main section of the clinic. The building was still new to them all. “Oh, and Nico—y’know you can leave the book here if you want.”

Nico looked at him blankly. Then he looked at the female nurse.

Saying nothing, Nico headed for the restroom that was just down the hall. Onscreen, the kitty named Lester was still rolling and wriggling wildly, fighting to scratch the itch on his back. All the while, the cat’s owner tapped his foot, presumably laughing.

Yes, Nico knew all about steganography. And now, thanks to the Knight, he finally had the newest message.

Flicking his ten of spades bookmark, all he had to do was write back.

42

As the lock clicks and the metal door slowly yawns open, the smell hits me first.

It’s bitter, like vinegar mixed with mothballs and the smell of rain. I know it immediately. Formaldehyde.

The sign on the door reads Wet Tissue Room . I don’t know what wet tissues are, but I’m sure this is what they smell like.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” Dale says, reading our expressions. “I don’t even smell it anymore.”

Before I can reply, the motion sensor lights pop on, and the worst part hits: I see where the smell is coming from.

There are jelly jars of all shapes and sizes—each filled with pale yellow fluid and stacked on shelf after shelf, from floor to ceiling. This is an archive. Just like the one Tot and I work in. But instead of books, these shelves… this whole room… it’s filled with—

From inside the jelly jar, a mucusy gray ear is listening to our every word.

“Now you know why we moved all the Booth stuff back here,” Dale explains as we reach the back corner of the room. “After the break-in—” She cuts herself off, stopping at a metal map cabinet. Like the ones we have at the Archives, it has a half dozen wide drawers that are only a few inches tall. “We figured, who’d be sick enough to break into here ?”

I keep my eyes locked on Dale, refusing to see the hundreds of pale yellow body parts that’re floating in the jelly jars all around us.

“So you were saying about John Wilkes Booth?” I nudge.

“Yeah. No. Sorry, we had two parts of him,” Dale says, pulling open the middle drawer of the map cabinet, which is lined with a thin sheet of white foam board. On it is a clear plastic cube with a brownish-white piece of bone preserved inside. Running diagonally through the bone is a bright, sky blue plastic probe.

“Booth’s spinal cord,” Tot says as if he’s asking a question. But like before, he knows the answer.

This time, though, so do I. After Booth was shot at Garrett’s Barn, they did a quick autopsy, then buried him secretly so he wouldn’t become a martyr. What I didn’t know was that they kept some of his body parts.

“The blue probe shows the actual path of the bullet,” Dale adds, handing me the cube. “Many think that’s the actual killshot that did him in.”

“So this is the prize of the collection,” Tot says.

“Exactly, and like before, instead of taking the priceless artifact, they instead stole this …” From her file folder, she pulls out a color copy of a dark gray vertebra that’s mounted on a round wooden stand.

“Booth’s cervical vertebra. He was hit there too,” I say, noticing where the bone is jagged and sharp.

“Were there any signs of a break-in?” Tot asks.

“That’s the thing,” Dale says. “No windows smashed, no doors kicked open, no fingerprints, no nothing. It’s like a ghost himself came in and walked off with everything.”

Tot glances my way. He doesn’t have to say Marshall’s name. In the last forty-eight hours, who else have we encountered who knows how to break into a military installation?

“Here’s what still doesn’t make sense, though,” Dale says. “Whoever it was that broke in, why’d they take a random Booth vertebra, but leave the far more priceless killshot?”

“And why’d they take a replica Lincoln mask, but not the actual bullet that killed him?” Tot asks.

“He wants them alive,” I blurt.

They both turn my way.

My eyes stare down at the plastic cube and the chunk of spine that’s locked within it.

“I’m not following,” Tot says.

“You said this was the killshot, right?” I ask, holding up the cube.

Dale nods, just as confused.

“And in your display case, the bullet that shot Lincoln. That was the killshot too, right? The bullet from Lincoln’s brain.”

“He left both of those here,” Tot says, starting to see where I’m going.

“But the plaster mask, even if it’s a replica… that was made when Lincoln was alive ,” I point out. “And the same with this,” I add, motioning to the color photocopy of Booth’s stolen vertebra. “Booth was alive when he got hit here.”