Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

As Clementine spreads out the sheet and tucks the pillow near the sofa’s armrest, her wig is back on and all once again seems calm. But she tentatively glances back at me.

“Can I just ask you one last thing?” she pleads.

“Only if it’s not about psychotic killers or dead parents.”

“It’s not. It’s about—When we were little, did you ever listen to my mom’s CD?”

I don’t answer. Clementine’s mom was a hippie lounge singer whose only recording was the “Greatest Hits” CD she made herself. Most people in town never bought a copy, much less listened to it. But in tenth grade, all I wanted was Clementine. I listened to that album more than even the Grease soundtrack. “I heard it once or twice. Why?”

“Y’remember the third song on there?” she asks. “ ‘The Worst Thing You’ll Ever Do…’ ”

“ ‘… Will Be to Someone You Love,’ ” I say, completing the title.

“You actually remember it!” Her face flushes with excitement. “Beecher, what I did to you, I can’t take it back. But when I think about hurting you, all I can say is… My mom sang it right,” she adds, reaching out for my forearm. She’s so close, I notice her nose piercing, a sparkling silver stud no bigger than the head of a pin. As she puts her hand on mine, her body temperature feels about ten degrees warmer than my own.

Two months ago, that would’ve worked on me. In fact, if I’m being honest, it’s still (slightly) working on me. But not entirely.

“Good night, Clementine,” I say coolly as I head for the stairs.

PART III

The Third Assassination

“It is useless, gentlemen, I think we ought to have prayer.”

—President William McKinley, his eyes half closed,

six days after he was shot by assassin Leon Czolgosz

He was the third President murdered in office.

65

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

Nico knew they were talking about him.

Even from his room, even with the door closed, as he knelt down and meticulously made his bed, tucking the sheets into crisp forty-five-degree military corners, he heard the morning shift of nurses—up the hallway, at the nurses’ station—saying his name and bitching about what happened yesterday.

“ They’re worried about you ,” the dead First Lady told him, standing behind Nico as he folded another corner of the bedsheet into place.

“They’re not worried. They’re annoyed.”

“You’re wrong. They’re worried. You didn’t eat your breakfast this morning.”

“The eggs are runny here.”

“They don’t care about the eggs. After your tantrum in the labyrinth yesterday, they’re concerned you may be taking a step backwards.”

Nico glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the First Lady. In his old room, she had always sat in the small alcove, just inside the window. Here, in his new room, she was always standing. She wasn’t comfortable yet.

Nico wasn’t comfortable either. Especially with what was coming. These next few hours—

He stopped himself from thinking about it, knowing the dangers of overexcitement. The Knight was close now. But there was still so much to be done… so much that could go wrong. Indeed, he’d warned the Knight about rushing. Especially with going back to that unfinished business at the hospital. But the Knight was proud. The Knight was determined. And the Knight saw it all as his personal destiny.

How could Nico possibly argue with—?

“Nico, you dressed?” a voice called out as a loud knock rapped against his door. A warning knock. “Nico… you hear me?” the nurse with the pointy breasts added.

Before he could answer, the door opened. The nurse stepped inside, doing her usual scan of the room. She smiled at the sight of Nico making his bed.

“ See that? ” the First Lady called out. “ Now she thinks you’re accepting the new building as your home. ”

Nico fought hard to ignore the First Lady, staying locked on the nurse. “I didn’t eat my eggs because they were runny,” he blurted.

The nurse just looked at him. “You’ve got a visitor downstairs.”

Still on his knees, Nico stopped making his bed. He didn’t get many visitors.

“Is it someone I know?”

“I think so. He’s on your list. Someone named Beecher White?”

Nico shot to his feet. At first he just stood there.

“Nico, you okay?”

He blinked three times, then three more times, searching the room for… There. He grabbed his leather book—with the playing card bookmark, the ace of clubs—from the nightstand and tucked it under his arm. “I’d like to see Beecher now,” he told the nurse as he followed her out into the hallway.

66

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

Marshall’s mother liked working at the church.

The job, especially when she got to read the early drafts of the pastor’s sermons, was interesting. And the pay, thanks to the generosity of a few anonymous donors, was slightly better than the supermarket. Most important, unlike her house, it was exceptionally quiet.

Though some days were less quiet than others.

“ Heads up! Coming in! Everyone get their clothes on! ” a female voice sang through the closed door that led to the back office.

As the door swung wide, a middle-aged woman with short dyed-black hair, bright coral lipstick, and a matching, far-too-short coral sundress strolled playfully toward Marshall’s mom’s desk. As she walked, a dozen cheap metal bangles banged like tambourines at her wrist. Penny Kaye. Clementine’s mother.

“Oh, c’mon, Cherise. That was funny,” Penny teased, smiling wide. Marshall’s mom didn’t smile back.

“What do you want, Penny?”

“Just dropping these off. Can you give them to Pastor Riis?” Penny asked, handing her a stack of photocopied flyers. “I have a gig next Saturday. In Madison. Ten-dollar cover, but you get two beers. Figured the pastor could give them out to the congregation.”

“I’ll put them right on his desk,” Marshall’s mom said dryly, dropping them next to her in-box. But not inside it.

Penny shifted her weight and started biting her coral nails. “You’re gonna put those straight in the trash the moment I leave here, aren’t you, Cherise?”

“And why would I do that?” Marshall’s mom asked, now the one smiling. On her left, Penny noticed, in one of the open offices, the pastor’s wife was eavesdropping. And smiling too.

“Cherise, what the hell…?”

“Don’t bring that language in here.”

“… happened to you? We used to be friends.”

“That was a long time ago. People change.”

“People don’t change… people never change! So you can act as prissy and super-religious as you want, but I know who you are. I remember you sneaking into your mom’s purse… and stealing money from her so you could buy silver wire and make all that jewelry you used to sell at my gigs. Wasn’t that your dream back then? I’d sing songs; you’d make jewelry? For chrissakes, when you were pregnant, we used to smoke pot at—”

“ Enough! ” Marshall’s mom exploded, jumping out of her seat and racing around the desk. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“There we go. There’s the spitfire I used to know.”

“I’m serious, Penny. For you, it’s simple to be the hippie chick who never grew up. Even your daughter doesn’t care if you’re out all night. But have you seen my life!? Do you know what it costs to put hand controls in a car so someone in a wheelchair can drive it? Or how much it is for massage therapists to come in three times a week so that whatever muscles are left in Tim’s legs don’t cramp?”