Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Off balance, Marshall tumbled on his ass, crashing to the concrete, which, in the dark, felt like it was covered with a thin membrane of fine dirt, the last remnants of all the filth washed up by the dishwasher flood.

Two weeks ago, this room was filled with water. Today, it was dry but smelled of wet books… and something else. Something old.

Climbing to his feet and readjusting his glasses, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small penlight, trying hard not to think of Pastor Riis entertaining young Bobby McNamera down here. By now, Marshall was sweating, though he didn’t think too much of it. Marshall was always sweating.

“Get in, get out,” he whispered to himself, remembering Beecher’s rules and heading for the bookcase. As the penlight cut through the dark, spider-bugs hopped in every direction. Last time, there were three or four. Now there were dozens, pinging from the floor to the walls and back again. But in the half an eyeblink that it took for Marshall’s eyes to adjust, all he cared about was the built-in bookcase, where he saw…

Nothing.

The books were gone. The case was picked clean. Forget the porn, even the shelves were taken out.

It was the same with the rest of the room. The file boxes, the folding chairs, the luggage, the brooms, the mops, the milk crates—every single thing that had been stacked up around the room—with that much water damage, it was all removed. That’s why the drop from the window was so—Oh jeez.

The window.

Spinning back, Marshall looked up at the small rectangular window that he’d just snuck through. Not only was it shut. It was high. Way above his head.

Panicking, he looked for something to stand on. The room was empty. He reached up, but the way the window was perched just below the basement ceiling, it was too far. As he added a quick jump, his fingers skittered at the ledge, but not enough to take hold. He even tried running at the wall, jumping up and—“ Uff. ”

His chest crashed into the concrete, and the result was the same. The window was too high.

“ Beecher…! ” he whisper-hissed. He gave it a moment.

“ Beecher, I’m stuck! ” he whispered again.

But even as he said the words, as he looked up at the closed window like he was praying to God Himself, he knew there’d be no answer.

Sweating hard now, and finally starting to notice, Marshall spun back around. On his left was the doorway that led into the basement’s main room. In there. Maybe there’d be something to stand on.

Wasting no time, he darted next door, looking for a stepladder, a mop bucket, for anything to boost himself up with. But as he skidded to a stop and another swarm of spider-bugs pounced toward the walls, it was more of the same. Except for the boiler and water heater, the place was picked clean. Even the stairs—He stopped again, doing a double take.

The stairs.

There it was. His way out.

No, don’t be stupid , Marshall told himself, knowing better than to take that kind of risk. The last thing he needed was the pastor grabbing him in the kitchen.

Darting back into the other room, Marshall again headed for the high window.

“ Beecher, please! ” he called out, up on his tiptoes and waving his penlight back and forth like a lighter at a rock concert.

The only response was a skittering noise down by his feet.

The shadow moved fast, disappearing in the corner. Marshall jumped at the sound, spinning with the penlight and barely spotting it. But there was no mistaking the tkk-tkk-tkk of tiny claws clicking and scratching against the concrete. Whatever it was, it was way larger than a spider-bug. One thing was clear: Marshall wasn’t the only one in the basement.

And that was it.

“ Gaaah! ” Marshall whisper-yelled, scrubbing at his own skin and racing for the stairs as fast as he could.

He didn’t go up. He just stood on the first step, anxious to get on a different plane from whatever it was that had just run through the room. But as he looked up—as the shine from his penlight ricocheted off the stairs’ metal treads—he saw that at the top of the stairs, underneath the door to the kitchen, the lights were off. No one was there.

Doesn’t matter. Stay where you are , he told himself, shutting the light so the pastor wouldn’t see him either.

But the longer Marshall stood there in the dark, reality was sinking in. Beecher wasn’t coming. Neither was Paglinni. Plus, it wouldn’t be long until his mom started panicking, wondering why he wasn’t home. Unless he planned on sleeping with the spider-bugs and whatever animal was running around down here, he was running out of options.

Glancing toward the top of the steps, he could hear the rise and fall of his own breathing. The sweat was pouring down his chest, making his shirt stick to his stomach.

He wished there was another way. But there wasn’t.

Slowly and carefully, he shifted his weight to the second step, whose old wood let out a loud creak. Marshall stopped in place, his eyes locked underneath the kitchen door. Still dark. No one there.

Taking a breath, he gently made his way to the third step, then the fourth.

Step by step, he climbed slowly in the dark, listening for even a hint of anyone upstairs. At the top, on the second-to-last step, his heart sank as he grabbed the wooden doorknob. What if it was locked? What if it was…?

Kllk.

The latch gave easily, pulling its tongue from the strikeplate and freeing the door to open. Gently… carefully… Marshall eased it open, pressing his face so close to the threshold, the corner of his glasses scratched against the doorframe.

The smell of fresh bread hit him first. At his feet, a lone spider-bug pounced out onto the worn linoleum.

Otherwise, the kitchen was dark and empty. The only sound was—

“Oh, God… Oh, Lord…”

It was a woman’s voice—faint—coming from one of the front rooms. At first, Marshall thought it was a prayer… someone was hurt.

To be honest, Marshall didn’t care. He was moving too fast, already eyeing the back door, ready to shove it open and escape through the yard. But as he took his first steps, he couldn’t help but turn. That voice…

He knew that voice.

Stopping on the linoleum, he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the living room.

That sounded just like his mother.

106

Six minutes ago

Washington, D.C.

You okay? the President asked his daughter with just a look.

Nessie nodded, but was still holding tight to the railing of the scissor-lift. As the platform descended underground, below the Lincoln Memorial, a dark shadow rose up, enveloping them.

“What is this place?” Nessie asked, her eyes squinting and adjusting as the white brightness of the snowy day was replaced by a damp, poorly lit basement that smelled of mud, rainwater, and oil. With a final thunk , the platform locked into place and the cellar doors in the ceiling clamped shut, stealing the gray sky with it.

“Mechanical room,” A.J. explained, pointing around at the roomful of huge industrial equipment. “These are the generators that light up Lincoln and his famous columns. Plus you need a boiler, chiller, and a water supply in case there’s a fire or other emergency. Every tourist attraction in the world—from the Eiffel Tower to the Pyramids in Egypt—they’ve all got one of these below it,” he added, trying to be reassuring.

Nessie still didn’t release her grip on the railing.

“Don’t worry, there’re no spiders,” her father finally said. Turning to A.J., he added, “She’s not worried about the dark. She hates spiders. Always has.”