Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

The Knights of the Golden Eagle.

And so, the question remains: What did Czolgosz write in this final letter, in red ink?

“Brother Grinder, will you send my book to me?”

To this day, no one knows what book Czolgosz was referring to.

But Czolgosz knew.

It was a novel called Looking Backward , and it would never be forgotten. Especially by the current Knight and a man named Nico Hadrian.

70

Today

Washington, D.C.

Today was a perfect day to kill a President.

The Knight knew it as he pushed open the door marked Employees Only . Entering the dark storage closet and purposely not putting on the light, he smelled the tubs of cleaning supplies and cans of fresh paint that were stacked throughout.

After so much planning, today was finally the day. And such an appropriate day. Presidents’ Day.

To be honest, the Knight was hoping he could’ve moved things a bit faster. But after yesterday, to have A.J. show up so quickly at the hospital… to have him asking all those questions of the previous lamb, plus just keeping track of Beecher…

Adjustments needed to be made.

In many ways, it was no different for his third predecessor. Three days before he killed President McKinley, Leon Czolgosz purchased a .32 caliber revolver and was there as McKinley exited from his arriving train at the Pan-American Expo. Two days earlier, gun in hand, Czolgosz stood right near the President during a speech, but got jostled by the crowd. And one day earlier, Czolgosz couldn’t get close enough for a clear shot. Over and over, roadblocks were put in Czolgosz’s way. But the Knight of Clubs never lost faith. Indeed, by shifting his plans, Czolgosz found the Temple of Music.

Czolgosz took it as a sign.

And on that day, God’s will was done.

Just as it would be today.

Flicking on the light switch in the storage closet, the Knight noticed that so many of the janitorial supplies were labeled Poison . Yet the far deadlier object rested in the corner. Pushing aside an empty mop bucket, he revealed a medical rolling cart—marked Bookmobile —that was stocked with magazines and used paperbacks.

Kneeling down, he slid open a small compartment and pulled out a brown paper bag labeled For Pediatric Unit—Do Not Touch.

Inside the bag was the white plaster Abraham Lincoln mask that he had put there last night.

The Knight checked his watch. Nearly 9 a.m. The same time Czolgosz first entered the Temple of Music. Tucking the Lincoln mask under his jacket and feeling the weight of the .32 caliber Iver Johnson revolver and the specially designed sound suppressor in his coat pocket, the Knight was well aware that Czolgosz had not used a suppressor. But again, like the timing of it all, adjustments had to be made. Tugging open the closet door, he stepped out into the polished hallway that was lined with hospital gurneys.

Keeping his head down to avoid the morning arrival of doctors and nurses, the Knight didn’t even register the automated grand piano on his far left that played a slowed-down Musak version of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” Heading right, he stayed focused on his destination at the end of the long corridor: the door with blue-and-gold stained glass in it. The Interfaith Chapel, which was the best place to find Chaplain Elizabeth Stoughton.

The Knight had spotted her yesterday. A chaplain. Like a pastor. And one who had prayed directly with President Wallace.

Like his predecessor, the Knight knew a sign when he saw it. Pastor Frick had served his purpose. There was a new lamb now. A fresh lamb.

With fresh blood.

Taking one last glance at his watch, the Knight wasn’t moving quickly. Like Czolgosz, he was calm and focused. But it was for that exact reason that, as he passed the grand staircase that overlooked the main atrium downstairs, he never glanced over the railing or saw who had just stepped inside, one flight below.

“Beecher, if anything happens… anything at all,” Tot whispered into his phone as he stepped through the hospital’s sliding doors and approached the visitor check-in desk, “you call Mac to put the word out.”

“I understand. And I appreciate you worrying, Tot,” Beecher replied.

Tot went to say something else, but as the greeter at the check-in desk waved him forward, Tot raised a fake grin and handed over his driver’s license.

There was still so much Beecher didn’t know—about the Culper Ring, about what was really going on with the President, and even about Tot himself. But Tot had been at this long enough to know that you don’t get to treat the minor wounds until you deal with the big ones.

“I’m here to see Pastor Frick. He’s on the fourth floor,” Tot told the greeter.

The computer clicked as the ID camera took Tot’s picture.

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

Tot nodded, scanning the grand staircase. One flight above, there was no one in sight. An automated grand piano played a Musak version of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.”

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

Heading for Pastor Frick’s room, Tot had no idea how right he was.

71

I like the new building,” I say, glancing around the sterile visitors’ room.

“You’re trying to look relaxed, Benjamin. It’s not working,” Nico says, sitting directly across from me at the round see-through table. His hands are clasped—prayer-style—on the Plexiglas. In his lap, he’s got an old book with a leather cover. I try to read the spine, but the print is too small.

“We can speak back there if you like,” Nico adds, motioning toward the few private rooms in the corner. The signs on them read Lawyer’s Room . They’re for patients to talk privately with their attorneys. But right now, as I look over my shoulder and spy the guard at the X-ray who’s staring at us through the bulletproof glass, plus the wide window behind him that looks out onto the sunlit front of the building, I’m happy for the lack of privacy.

“You’re afraid of being alone with me,” Nico says.

“Not at all,” I say, keeping my voice upbeat. “Why would I come here if I didn’t want to see you?”

Staring uncomfortably at me, Nico doesn’t answer.

“So they still letting you feed the cats?” I add, remembering how much easier he is when he’s saying yes .

“No. No more cats,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. He’s gloating. Like he’s already won. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really here for, Benjamin?”

I’m supposed to ask him about the killings… and the Knights of the Golden Circle, but instead…

“Did you know my father, Nico? Back in Wisconsin… did you know Albert White?”

I wait for him to react. But like Marshall when I asked if he knew Clementine, Nico doesn’t move. His hands stay clasped prayer-style.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Benjamin.”

“You never knew Albert White? You weren’t stationed together as plankholders?”

He smiles at that—the same creepy, crooked smile that was on his face when the Secret Service dragged him to the ground after he took his famous shots at the President. “Sorry, Benjamin. I’ve never heard of Albert White. Or any plankholders.”

“What about a man named Marshall Lusk? Do you know anything about him?”

From my back pocket, I pull out a color copy of Marshall’s mugshot and place it on the table between us. Nico hovers over it, staring down at Marshall’s burned face and never touching the copy.

“His burns are terrible,” Nico says.