Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“That doesn’t mean you have to bury every dream you ever had! Your jewelry—”

“Stop talking about my jewelry! It’s been ten years since my—!”

Gripping Marshall’s mom by the shoulders, Penny pulled her close and planted a kiss—firmly—on her mouth. For a moment, the two women stood there, their lips pressed together as Penny slid her tongue…

With a shove, Cherise freed herself, pulling away. Penny began to laugh, but it didn’t last long. Cherise unleashed with an openhanded slap that slammed Penny across the face.

The room went silent.

On their left, the pastor’s wife disappeared, shrinking back into her office.

“ What’s wrong with you!? How dare you!? ” Cherise exploded, wiping lipstick from her mouth.

“C’mon, Cherise, I was just having fun… like the old—”

“ You’re an abomination! Y’know that? An abomination! ” Cherise screamed, shouting the words so loud the whole room shook.

Stepping backward at the outburst, Penny searched Cherise’s face, still looking for her old friend.

“I want you out of here,” Marshall’s mom insisted.

“Yeah, I got that part. But can I just say…? I’m sorry your life got jackknifed. I truly am. But Cherise, you can’t take everything you are and just shut it inside yourself. The more you bury it, the more the pressure starts to build, and the more that sucker’s gonna blow.”

“I appreciate that. Especially since in this town, you’re the expert on what blows.”

“Heh. A cheap blowjob joke. Good for you on that one,” Penny said with a laugh as she walked to the door. “But I’m not just talking about your life, Cherise. You’re not the only one under pressure. You teach your husband to live like that, and your son to live like that, that’s when it tightens. And then one day, when you least expect it, it’s your boy Marshall who’s gonna go boom.”

“I appreciate your insight, Penny. But you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

67

Today

The man carried a clipboard as he walked up the street. The tail of his red scarf waved behind him.

There was nothing on the clipboard, just a few blank sheets. But in any suburban neighborhood, a clipboard meant neighbors wouldn’t look twice at a passing stranger, and even if they did, the bright red scarf hid his face.

Eyeing Beecher’s townhouse from across the street, he knew Beecher and Clementine were gone. He knew where they were going and the new car they were driving. And last night, as he watched them through the side window until nearly three in the morning, he even knew about Clementine’s clumsy attempt to get Beecher into bed, an attempt that most men would’ve fallen for.

Whoever was training Beecher, he was clearly learning something.

But that didn’t mean he’d learned everything.

Faking a quick look at the clipboard, the man stepped over a drift of blackened snow, crossed the street toward Beecher’s townhouse, and walked right past the front door. He didn’t care what was inside the house. Right now, he was here for what was outside .

Ducking into the narrow driveway, the man followed the tire tracks in the snow until he saw—

There.

Flat on the ground, its glass face shattered, was the cheap wristwatch he’d left there last night.

It was an old detective trick Jack Nicholson used in Chinatown : Buy an inexpensive, non-digital wristwatch—only $14.99 at Target—tuck it under the tire of the car you’re tracking, and when the car rolls over it… crack … the hands stop, telling you exactly what time they left.

“Eight-oh-four a.m.,” Marshall whispered to himself, staring down at the cracked watchface as he placed it on his clipboard. Beecher should just be arriving at St. Elizabeths.

Readjusting his red scarf, Marshall grinned to himself. He wished he could be there. But right now, now that he knew where Beecher was, there was so much more that needed to be done.

68

Twenty minutes later

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

Beecher, if anything happens… anything at all,” Tot says through my phone, “you call Mac to put the word out.”

“I understand. And I appreciate you worrying, Tot,” I say as I head through the lobby for the small bank of metal lockers in the corner.

Tot goes to say something else, but instead just offers silence. He knows there’s no choice. If we want to know if Marshall’s our killer—or worse, whether he’s reaching out to Nico—this is the only way to find out.

“Phone and all sharp objects…” the guard says into his intercom, his voice echoing out from behind the thick ballistics glass. Above him, hanging on the bombproof black granite wall, bright silver letters spell out Saint Elizabeths .

“Listen, Tot, I gotta go. But when it comes to being safe, I know where you are. You do the same.”

“Just do me one favor, Beecher: Keep an eye out for Marshall. You never know where he’ll show up.”

Refusing to argue, I hang up and follow the guard’s instructions.

Last time I was at St. Elizabeths, at the sign-in desk they had a pen with some scotch tape at the back of it that chained it to the counter.

Today, they have me leave my phone and any sharp objects in this bank of shoebox-size lead lockers. Then I’m guided through an X-ray and metal detector, and scanned by whatever chemical sniffer that they think I can’t see is hidden and built into the doorframe. By the time I step through the glass doors and into the shiny, well-lit room that serves as the visiting area, it’s clear that when it came to this new building, most of their money has been spent on security.

I don’t blame them.

John Hinckley, who shot President Reagan, lives here. So does a man who killed his wife and three children, then put them back in their beds, living with their rotting bodies for weeks. But when it comes to their most famous patient…

“He’s on his way,” a uniformed guard tells me as he closes the glass door behind me, locking me alone in the wide meeting area that has all the charm of a workplace cafeteria. There’re no pictures on the beige walls. No decorations. It’s all brand-new, including the dozen or so empty round tables—all of them built of clear, unbreakable Plexiglas, so that nothing can be snuck underneath.

Last time I saw him, Nico would only call me by my middle name, Benjamin. He told me he was the reincarnation of George Washington, that I was Benedict Arnold, and that God Himself had brought us on this mission together.

I know. It’s nonsense. But I can’t help but think of what Tot told me this morning about the Knights, the playing cards, and the attacks on the pastors. No question, the killer we’re looking for—whether he’s part of the Knights of the Golden Circle or not—he’s treating this as his holy mission. And right now I’m seconds away from being face-to-face with the chessmaster of holy missions.

On the far side of the room, there’s a krrk and a tunk as a magnetic lock unclenches.

My stomach twists as the heavy door opens.

There’s no guard with him. Just a nurse, who sticks her head in and gives a quick glance, making sure all is calm.

“Nico, if you need anything…” she begins.

“I won’t,” he insists, his too-close-together eyes seizing me. He makes a beeline through the minefield of Plexiglas tables. His lips are flat, but there’s no mistaking the smile underneath.

“Happy Presidents’ Day, Benjamin. I’m so glad you came to celebrate.”

69

September 6, 1901

Buffalo, New York

This was the day—at the Pan-American Expo—that should’ve been the greatest day of President McKinley’s life.