Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“Like Abraham Lincoln.”

88

Beecher,” Palmiotti pleads, “before you say anything—”

I hit him as hard as I can.

It’s a quick punch. And a brutal one. A total sucker punch that catches the President’s former doctor just above the eyebrow and sends a shock of pain ricocheting through my fist and down my elbow.

The corner of my phone nicks Palmiotti’s cheek as the impact knocks it from my hands and sends it crashing to the ground.

Palmiotti stumbles backward, holding his face.

“Ow! That’s— Ow! ” he yells, more annoyed than hurt. But as he blinks away the pain, he starts nodding. Slowly at first, then faster. “Okay, I deserved that, Beecher. I did.”

“Stay the hell away from me,” I warn him.

“I know you hate me, Beecher. I don’t blame you for it. But if you just listen—”

“Listen to what ? Another trainload of lies and bullshit!? You’re a killer, Palmiotti! We both know you’re a killer! In fact, you’re so full of crap, you can’t even die honestly!”

“That’s clever, Beecher. But I thought you’d be a bit more surprised to see that I’m still alive.”

“You think Clementine didn’t tell me? She trusts you even less than I do. I figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up with some new threat. So what’s it gonna be? You still mad that Clementine shot you in the caves? Or now that your pal the President brought you back from the dead, you got some new message for us?”

Before he can answer, I step out onto the porch, reaching down to pick up my phone. From what I can tell, it’s still connected to Amazing Grace. I angle it so Palmiotti can’t see what’s onscreen. Better to have someone listening in than to be here alone.

“Beecher, despite what you think, Orson Wallace isn’t my friend. Not anymore.”

I look up, tightening my glare.

“In all your anger, have you really thought about why I’m standing here? It wasn’t to threaten you, Beecher. After what happened… after what I’ve seen… I understand the benefits of seeing the President dead.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You think Wallace doesn’t know about the pastors’ deaths—or your friend Tot? He may not know who, but he knows someone’s trying to kill him.”

“But what you just said—”

“No, it’s what you said, Beecher. That Wallace brought me back from the dead. And he did. But that doesn’t mean he gave me my life back. In fact, he’s still holding it, letting it dangle in front of me while trying to use me for his own benefit. I understand now. I know what kind of man he is.”

My skin turns brittle, like it’s made of eggshells. “So now I’m supposed to believe you’re the one trying to kill him?”

“ Me? No. I don’t want Wallace dead. But after what he did—what he took from me—” For a moment, Palmiotti lowers his chin, which pinches the scar on his neck. “I don’t care what his title is. Orson Wallace needs to answer for his actions.”

I cock a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, so even though I think you’re a lying piece of garbage, I’m supposed to believe this sudden conversion and the fact that you want to go after the Presi—”

“ He took my life from me, Beecher! Not just my family! Not just my love! He took my life! ” Palmiotti explodes, his voice booming down the block.

“Only because you let him.”

He grits his teeth. His chest rises and falls from the outburst. “You’re right. There’s plenty I let him do,” he finally says. “But there’s so much more you have no idea about, Beecher. Beyond what happened years ago… beyond the attacks and everything we did with Eightball. Whatever you think of me—whatever you want to believe—let me show you the proof. I have everything we need.”

“Everything for what ? I’m still not even sure why you’re here. If you have the proof, and you know what he’s done… why not just take him down yourself?”

Palmiotti shakes his head, forcing a nervous laugh that freezes like cotton balls in the cold morning air. “I know you’re not stupid, Beecher. People love to point at Woodward and Bernstein, but they were just lucky that Nixon was such a cocky, lazy ass. These days, only a fool tries to take on the President of the United States—especially this President—by himself.”

“And assuming I even believe all this, you think I’m the solution?”

“No. I think your group is.” He pauses again, just to make sure I hear him. “I know about the Culper Ring, Beecher. The President told me. So if I help you with this, if I tell you what I know about Wallace and let you put the truth out there, I need the kind of help that only the Ring can muster.”

“Palmiotti, you do realize we live in the twenty-first century, right? If you want to put the truth out there, all you need is an Internet connection.”

“You misunderstand. I don’t need help hitting the send button. But once I hit that button,” he explains, his voice slowing down, “I need someone protecting me.”

I look down at my phone and see that I’m still connected to Amazing Grace. Her words continue to echo in my brain. Seven members. With Tot shot, we’re down to six.

“Doc, I’m not sure the Ring is the solution you think it is.”

“I know you can’t talk about them, Beecher. I know how it works. But I’ve seen their work firsthand. I know what they’re capable of.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“No, Beecher, you’re not hearing me . I’m offering to help you. With what I’ve seen… I can get you into Camp David.”

I look up, but don’t say a word.

“That is where you’re trying to go, isn’t it?” he challenges. “That’s where you think your friend Marshall is striking next. You think we didn’t know about him either? Or that Clementine’s still unaccounted for? Wasn’t she with you, Beecher? Why’s she not by your side? For all you know, she’s there right now.”

He points down at my closed laptop. No. Not at my laptop. At the playing card that, as I grip the laptop, is still held in place by the palm of my hand. On the ace of clubs, the light purple words are easy to read: Camp David .

I look over his shoulder, still instinctively searching the empty street for Clementine. Even Nico asked her if she was the Knight. Of course she denied it. But Palmiotti is right about one thing: I have no idea where she is.

“Don’t overthink it, Beecher. I was there last Christmas, and on those recovery days after the President’s surgery, and even on the night Wallace had that surprise party for the First Lady. It’s a simple choice, really. You can either stay here and let the President get gunned down, or try to save his life and make sure he’s properly punished for everything he’s done. This is where you find out who you are, Beecher. No one can get you closer. Now do you want to get into Camp David or not?”

89

Nico kept his eyes closed. For nearly an hour.

He kept them closed as they carried him from the parking lot, back into the new building.

He kept them closed as they patted him down, pulled out his shoelaces, and even as they checked his mouth, rectum, and under his fingernails.

He listened carefully as they talked about him. “… recent increase in antisocial behavior…” “… broke Cary’s finger…” “… should put him down once and for all…” And he kept his eyes closed as they undid the Velcro restraints and rolled him off the stretcher, onto the thin mattress.

From there, as the nurses left the room and bolted the door, he couldn’t hear anything. Not even an echo as they disappeared up the hallway.