Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“No, not at all. My dad, your dad, and Marshall’s dad were eighteen- and nineteen-year-old grunts. Subgroup 6 didn’t hire children. Think about it: When you’re putting together your top-secret team, you choose people you know. Veterans with experience. For Admiral Coady to bring our dads there, c’mon, Beecher. You know what they call an eighteen-year-old who’s drafted into something that top-secret? They were the experiments . The guinea pigs.”

Her words pop the imaginary membrane I didn’t even realize I kept around myself whenever she’s around. I’ve kept it there as a shield. But as the membrane ruptures and reality seeps through it, there’s nothing more emotional than hearing her talk about my own dead father. And the unspeakable things that might’ve been done to him. No one wants to hear that their dad was in pain.

“I know it’s a nightmare, Beecher. It’s a nightmare for me too. But now you know why they couldn’t let him be arrested. Whatever they put inside Nico—whatever they’d invested in him—if their top lab rat showed up on the front page of the newspaper with a story about how he was a homicidal maniac copying Lee Harvey Oswald, every eyeball in the country would’ve been staring at Subgroup 6. And that was a risk no one in the program was willing to take.”

I look down at the note—the suicide note—that I’m still gripping in my hand. “You think that’s why my dad died? Because of some cliché military cover-up?”

“No… I don’t think so. From what Dr. Yoo said, your dad died a year later. When Nico flipped, the Subgroup was split up. Nico got punished internally, locked away for nearly a year until they were convinced that whatever they put inside him was out of his system. Everything else was wiped.”

“And when Nico shot the President, none of this came out?”

“This is the government we’re talking about. You really think they’ll admit they created the monster that attacked their own President? Back when they thought Nico was cured, they sent him into the regular army as if he was a brand-new recruit showing up on day one. Your dad and Marshall’s dad were sent elsewhere.”

“And that’s the big finale? They buried the records, hoping no one would ever find them?”

“But don’t you see, Beecher? When it came to Nico’s records, someone did find them! You know this better than anyone. No matter how hard you hide them, or where you bury them, the files are always found. So for someone to be re-creating the crimes of John Wilkes Booth… and killing pastors on top of it… someone clearly knows what Nico did!”

“Or maybe they’re just copying the original assassins. Don’t forget, when Timothy McVeigh blew up the Federal Building in Oklahoma City, he was wearing a T-shirt that said Sic Semper Tyrannis . These assassins have never been forgotten.”

“But to kill pastors…”

“Nico only killed one pastor.”

“No. He only killed one that we know about . Look at the similarities, Beecher. You think someone just happened to have the same crazy idea, using the same ancient weapons, targeting the same innocent pastors? This isn’t Timothy McVeigh. Whoever’s doing it read Nico’s files!”

“Maybe,” I say, my voice slowing down. “Or maybe they just heard the story from their father.”

She looks at me. “Wait. You don’t think I—?”

“I didn’t say you .”

“So you think Marshall—?”

“I’m not saying it’s Marshall either. And when it comes to who he could’ve heard it from, from what he told me, Marshall’s dad is dead.”

“So? His dad could’ve told him the details before he died,” she says, grabbing one of the books—a narrow book about the cartography of battlefields—and slotting it onto the bookshelf.

I snatch it back out. “ It’s in the wrong spot ,” I say with a verbal shove.

I wait for her to shove back. She always shoves back. But instead she just stands there, chastised, like she’s physically shrinking in front of me. She shifts her weight, and I get the feeling that this —right here—is the first real and honest reaction she’s shown me. She knows the pain she’s caused. But as I study this petite, broken girl who, back in eighth grade, pulled me close and gave me my first real kiss… I can’t help it. Even now, even bald, I forgot how stunning she is.

“So what happens now? How do you figure out if Marshall’s the killer?” she finally asks.

“You go to the source. The only one who’s left.” From the way her face falls, she knows who I’m talking about.

There’s no avoiding it. We know a third murder is coming. If we want to stop it…

“We need to go see Nico.”

63

And if you had to rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?” the doctor with the bald head and thin beard asked.

“Probably a five,” Pastor Frick said, walking down the hallway toward his room, on the fourth floor of George Washington University Hospital.

The doctor watched the pastor carefully, motioning for him to walk the hall one last time so he could see how Frick was breathing. “And no shortness of breath?” the doctor asked.

“No. No more problems than I usually had,” the pastor joked, though the doctor, like most doctors, didn’t laugh. It was late. These were clearly the last of the doctor’s rounds.

“What about pain anywhere else?” the doctor asked.

“I told the nurses, I’m sore, but otherwise just fine. The thing I feel worst about is taking this bed. If you need it for someone else—”

“We can spare the bed,” the doctor reassured him, motioning Frick back into his room. As Pastor Frick took a seat on the bed, the doctor pulled his stethoscope from his pocket. “I just need to listen to your lungs and we can—”

There was a loud ringing: the hospital phone on the side table.

From the look on the doctor’s face, plus the late time, he didn’t want Pastor Frick to pick up the phone, but the pastor had been away from the church all day. If someone needed him, or needed help…

“Sorry, it’ll just take a minute,” the pastor promised. “ Hello…? ” he asked, cradling the phone.

“Pastor Frick, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but my name is Tot Westman. I’m working on the investigation of today’s shooting and was just wondering… is now a good time to chat?”

The pastor wanted to help, was determined to help. But he took one look at the doctor, who held up his stethoscope, not even bothering to hide his impatience.

“Actually, is there a way we can do this a little later, or maybe tomorrow?” Frick said into the phone.

“Tomorrow sounds perfect,” Tot replied. “If you want, I can come by first thing in the morning.”

“That’d be great.” Hanging up the phone and turning back to the doctor, he added, “My apologies. Just trying to help them catch who did this.”

“No worries at all,” the doctor replied as he pressed his stethoscope against Pastor Frick’s chest. “We all have our jobs to do.”

64

It’s nearly midnight as I head downstairs clutching an old comforter, fresh sheets, and a waffle-thin pillow against my chest.

“Beecher, I really appreciate that you’re—”

“Please stop thanking me. And stop pretending we’re friends. You have information about my father. And information about these murders—information which I hope will save innocent lives.” I dump the sheets and comforter on my black art deco sofa.

“I can stay in a hotel if you want,” Clementine says. “I’ll be fine there.”

She’s wrong. It may not be the smartest move to keep her here. In fact, considering she’s still wanted for questioning by the Secret Service, it’s a pretty dumb move. But to put her in some random hotel room, by herself , where there’s nothing stopping the killer—or even the President—from taking their own crack at her? I’ve seen enough movies to know what happens when you let your key witness out of your sight. This isn’t the time for taking chances. Especially when we’re this close to finally figuring out what’s really going on.