Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“Do you know him?”

“His lips are gone. Do you know if his tongue was burned as well?” Before I can answer, he adds, “When burn victims go in for tongue surgery, the night before, they usually record final messages so their loved ones can hear their voice—just in case the surgery goes bad and they never speak again. Have you ever thought what your final message would be?”

I stare down at the photocopy, thinking about the last message my father left me. His suicide note.

“Do you want to tell me what the man with the burns was arrested for?” Nico asks.

“Actually, that’s what I was hoping you could help with. Over the past few days, some pastors have been shot in local churches.”

“Pastors were shot?” he asks, his crooked smile growing wider. “Why would you think I know anything about that?”

I snatch the photocopy off the table and lean back in my chair, stretching both arms.

“Before, you were frustrated. Now you’re angry, aren’t you, Benjamin?”

“No. Not really.” I stretch my arms up again, like I’m caught mid-yawn. But this time, I’m the one locking eyes with him. “This isn’t for you, Nico. It’s for her .”

I extend my stretch all the way to my fingertips.

Nico tilts slightly, staring over my shoulder—through the bulletproof glass by the X-ray, and outside the glass window that overlooks the front of the building, where a woman with short blonde hair reads my signal and finally steps out from behind one of the building’s main pillars.

Nico thinks we’re playing the same game we played last time. He’s never been more wrong.

From the moment I arrived, I knew Nico wouldn’t help. But as Marshall pointed out, when it comes to breaking in somewhere, the key is finding a weakness. In Nico’s case, it’s always been…

“Clementine,” he whispers, watching the blonde woman turn down the pedestrian path that leads around the side of the building.

“I assume you’d like to speak to your daughter?” I ask.

Nico stands from his chair and holds tight to his book. To his credit, he’s absolutely calm as he marches toward the bulletproof glass. People forget—this isn’t a prison, it’s a hospital. And Nico still has grounds privileges. “We’d like to take a walk outside,” he says to the guard.

“Don’t you need a coat?” the guard challenges.

“I don’t get cold.”

The guard rolls his eyes. Nico’s always a pain.

With a quick notation in the system and the press of a button, the bulletproof glass doors open, and I gather my phone from the locker, leading Nico outside. To see his daughter.

72

Where is she?” Nico asks.

I don’t answer. We’re halfway around the building, on the pedestrian path that’s lined with benches and leads out toward a snow-covered garden. When we first left the lobby, the X-ray guard was watching, but out here, except for a roving guard who patrols the metal fence in the distance, there’s actual privacy. A few other patients take their morning walks. Nico barely notices.

“Tell me where she is,” he insists, his shoulders hunched forward. With no jacket, he’s definitely cold. But that’s not why he looks so uncomfortable.

Last time I was here—when he started talking about her—Nico was reduced to tears.

“I need to speak to her!” he hisses, spinning back to face me and clutching his leather book to his chest.

I don’t flinch. We both know who’s in control.

“She wants to speak to you too,” I reassure him as he scans the garden, the path, every nearby bench. They’re all empty. He checks the snow for footprints. There aren’t any. He’s not happy with that. Whether he likes it or not, he needs me.

“Nico, if you want to see her, I need you to tell me what you know.”

“About your father? I didn’t know your father.”

“What about Marshall?”

At least fifty yards in front of us, the path dead-ends at an empty bench beneath a sickly-looking sycamore tree that’s propped up by a few wooden stakes. Like before, Nico checks the snow for footprints. No way anyone can see that far.

His eyes narrow. He hugs his book even tighter. “I see you, Clementine,” he whispers.

“Nico, wait…!”

He’s already on his way.

“ Clemmi…! ” I call out.

She sticks her head out from behind the tree, well aware he’s coming.

Up ahead, Nico knows better than to run. He eyes the guard in the distance—who’s at least a football field away. I race right behind him.

From behind the sycamore tree, Clementine steps out to face him.

As Nico gets his first good look at her, he stops midstep. His mouth tips open and the leather book tumbles from his hands, landing in the snow with a wet thud.

“Why are you wearing a wig?” he asks.

“She didn’t want anyone to recognize her,” I tell him, picking up the book and offering it back to him.

Nico doesn’t take it. He won’t face me, won’t acknowledge me.

“Is that true?” he asks, still locked on Clementine. “Or is Benjamin lying?”

“It’s true. It is,” Clementine insists, her voice surprisingly soft and reassuring, like she’s worried about him. I don’t know why I’m so shocked. It’s still her father.

“Here, you look cold. Wear this,” she adds, unwrapping her black wool scarf and holding it out for Nico.

When he doesn’t reach for it, Clementine steps even closer, draping it around his neck. I hand him back the book, tucking it under his armpit. For a moment, Nico just stands there, staring awkwardly at his daughter—like he’s searching her face or waiting for her to say something.

“So are you the one?” he finally blurts.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“The one . The one who’s… It is you , isn’t it?”

“I-I’m not sure I understand,” she says, clearly lost. “The one who what ?”

“The one who sent me this ,” he says, holding out the leather book. “Who sent me the messages.”

Clementine takes a half step back. Her father takes a half step forward.

“Tell me, Clementine,” Nico says. “Are you the Knight?”

73

Me? The Knight? ” Clementine asks, her fingertips pressed against her own chest. “How can I be the Knight?”

“That’s what you call him? The Knight? ” I ask, remembering what Tot told me about the playing cards.

“But what you did before… You’re not the one? ” Nico challenges.

“The one who what ? Who’s killing pastors? No, are you cr—!?” She catches herself, but it clearly hits home. “I’d never do that! How could you think I’d do that!? ”

Nico’s eyes flick back and forth, dissecting her. He holds tight to the leather book, but also to the black scarf she gave him. Like he’s choosing between the two. But what’s far more unusual is…

He looks happy.

“I knew it, Lord! I knew you wouldn’t do that to me!” he says, staring up at the winter sky as if he’s talking directly to God. “ Thank you for making her different from me! ”

“Nico, keep your voice down,” I insist, eyeing the guard, who’s still in the distance.

“You really thought I was a murderer?” Clementine asks.

Nico’s eyes are closed. He’s whispering, saying some sort of prayer.

“Nico, I’m serious,” Clementine adds. “How could I be the murderer?”

Nico’s eyes pop open. He turns to her. “You’re my daughter. Why should I think you were different ?”

The words crash into her chest as if they’re about to knock her over. But no matter how much they hurt, there’s no mistaking the raw concern in her eyes as she studies her father. I came here to find information. Clementine came for something far more personal.