Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“Help me get out of this chair,” Pastor Frick blurted. “My rear end’s falling asleep.”

A.J. helped him up and watched as Frick took a few steps around the room. He was moving slowly, but he was clearly strong. A pastor in a tough neighborhood has to be.

“You need to be careful,” A.J. warned. “Bullet wounds can take the life out of you.”

“That’s fine, but you have any idea how many congregants will stop believing in the Almighty if I’m not there tomorrow morning when they have their crisis? I’m not joking. As they say: Faith begins with self-interest.”

A.J. paused, then: “One more question, Pastor. Do you know the rector who runs St. John’s Church?”

44

The skeleton is in hundreds of pieces, yellow bones of every shape and size. But what catches my eye is the jelly jar that’s lying on its side in the corner of the drawer. Like the ones around us, it’s filled with a milky yellow fluid and a pale gray, spongy mass.

“Guiteau’s brain,” I say, still listening for any noises coming from down the hall.

“What makes you think that?” Dale laughs, lifting the jar and pointing to the handwritten sticker on it that says, What is left of brain of Guiteau.

“He’s not as famous as John Wilkes Booth, but he still killed a President,” Dale explains. “The jury found him guilty in little over an hour, and since the science back then said that you could actually see insanity in someone’s brain, after Guiteau was hanged, the doctors dissected every part of him, trying to prove it. The theory was that people were insane because of the degeneration of gray cells in their brain. They actually find the same thing today in people who are in asylums too long—and in their offspring too,” she says as Tot shoots me a look.

“You were saying, about the parts of Guiteau that were stolen…” I interrupt.

From her file folder, she pulls out a final color photocopy, this one of a flat piece of pale brown leather. It’s cracked and faded, like it’s been in the sun too long. At the center of it is a picture of…

The lines of the drawing are slightly muddy, and the colors are pale red and blue, but there’s no mistaking the hand-drawn threepointed shield with the American flag on front. Gripping the top of it is an eagle with wide wings and a lowered head. Just like the eagle on the package of playing cards that Marshall had in his apartment.

“That’s not a canvas, is it?” I ask.

“Skin. It’s human skin,” Dale says.

The muddy lines. The pale blue-and-red coloring. It’s a tattoo.

“That’s what he stole?” Tot asks. “I didn’t know Guiteau had a tattoo, much less that they saved it.”

“What about the symbol?” I ask, staring at the eagle and the shield. I know it’s not the eagle from the Great Seal. That one has its head held high, holds the arrows and the olive branch, and came in around 1782. But this one—with its head down for the attack—is a pretty standard eagle from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century.

“You’ll see it on china, and as a decorative accent on some antiques. Even the Philadelphia Eagles football team used to use a similar one for its logo,” Dale offers. “But back during Guiteau’s time, this apparently was the emblem of some group.”

“What group?” I ask.

Dale purses her lips. “I hadn’t even heard of them until a colleague mentioned them after the robbery. They were called the Knights… the Knights in the…”

“The Knights of the Golden Circle,” Tot says coldly, still locked on the red-and-blue tattoo.

45

St. John’s? You mean the church down by the White House?” Pastor Frick asked, slowly walking in a small circle around the hospital chapel. “I’ve heard they run a nice service, but the truth is, we’re Methodist and they’re—”

“Turns out, the rector at St. John’s was found murdered last night,” A.J. interrupted. “It was on the local news this morning, but happened too late for the papers to pick it up.”

“M-My word… I had no… Oh .” The pastor’s pale round face grew even paler. He made his way back toward the wheelchair and held its pushbars to steady himself. “You think the same person who did that might have been the one who came after me?”

A.J. knew that was the question. Two churches… two pastors… two places filled with history. “Pastor Frick, does your church have any ties to Abraham Lincoln?”

The pastor looked thoughtful. “Lincoln was a Methodist. Back when he was President, he was actually a life member of our church.”

“So he spent time there?”

“Of course. A great deal of time. But none of that—In our neighborhood, we always have a few too many robberies and muggings. Nothing violent, thankfully. That’s part of the territory when you serve a less affluent population. But that doesn’t explain—”

“Sir, I saw that your regular pastor—Pastor Phelps—is away in New Zealand for over four months now,” A.J. said. “Any particular reason why he left?”

“He has family there. Why?”

“When I spoke to the staff at St. John’s, some of the staffers there said that in the weeks before their rector was killed, he took a lot of criticism for trying to update St. John’s, instituting a Date Night for singles and things like that.”

“Pastor Phelps used to give away fruit smoothies to bring people in. But that’s just part of running a modern church,” Frick agreed. “Though what makes you think that’s tied to Abraham Lincoln?”

“What about our current President?” A.J. asked. “Have you had any interactions with him?”

“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with President Wallace?”

“These are just standard questions, sir. That’s our job in the Service.”

The pastor blinked quickly, taking a seat in the wheelchair. “I’ve only met the President once, when he came for services.”

A.J. froze. Over the years, he knew there were dozens—maybe hundreds—of religious leaders, of every denomination, whom the President had said prayers with. But last year, after the Easter Egg Roll on the South Lawn, President Wallace had gone to services at St. John’s. And now it was clear that the President had also attended services with Pastor Frick. “Sir, can you please tell me everything that happened when you were with President Wallace?”

46

It didn’t take long for Marshall to find the small silver beacon.

He knew it had to be there. It was the only way to explain how Beecher tracked him to the restaurant in Georgetown. Sure enough, after a few minutes of searching the passenger seat and the floor mats, there it was, tucked into the plastic well of the passenger-side door.

From the tiny size of the beacon, Marshall knew this was certainly as good as anything the government had. Maybe even better, which wasn’t a surprise. Years ago, the CIA and NSA had the best research and development shops, producing the smallest and most impressive toys. These days, it was the private sector that led the way, doing the R&D themselves, then selling it at top dollar to the government. For better or worse, industry was no longer about keeping the world safe—they cared about making money. So for tech this good, whoever Beecher was working with, they knew exactly what they were doing.

Marshall made a mental note. He knew what he was doing too. And now that it was dark, it was all so much easier. Still, he had to admit, despite all his planning, even he was surprised by the rush of emotions that came with seeing Beecher.

Following the same path he took two weeks ago, Marshall stuck to the service road and eyed the gray concrete behemoth at the center of Walter Reed. At the front of the building was a wide U-shaped driveway that held two cars: an old white Honda with an Elliot in the Morning radio show bumper sticker, and a pristine 1966 Mustang.