Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

Yet as Wallace made his way through the chamber, he wasn’t looking at the kids. Or the hidden agents. Or even at any of the dozens of tourists snapping photos in every direction. No, at this moment, with his head craned upward, with two agents in front of him and the mil aide behind him, the only thing the President of the United States was looking at was the towering 175-ton white marble statue of Abraham Lincoln clutching the armrests of his chair.

He didn’t even notice the bearded old man in the checkered newsboy cap who was standing to the side of the elevator.

As Wallace passed by him, the man leaned forward, like he was finishing a sneeze. But as the man stood up straight, what Wallace and his agents missed was that he was now wearing a plaster mask.

“Dad, lookit,” Nessie said, pointing back over her own shoulder. “That guy… he’s actually dressed like Abraha—”

President Orson Wallace turned. So did the mil aide.

Neither was fast enough.

The Knight reached into his pocket.

There was a soft pffft . Like a muffled gunshot.

Then a burst of blood.

Then there was nothing but screaming.

107

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

Marshall should’ve never turned the corner.

He knew it too. He knew it from the moment he heard that noise coming from the living room. He knew it the moment he left the kitchen. Indeed, as he tiptoed down the hallway that was lined with vacation photos of the pastor and his wife, he felt the universe pushing him back, warning him away.

The problem was, he knew that voice.

Every child knows his mother’s voice. Just like they know their mother’s sneeze. And even the sound she was making right now—an indistinct moan that sounded like she was mumbling in her sleep, or twisting in pain.

Hours from now, as the tidal wave of gossip plowed through the town, everyone would say that Marshall knew… that he came here because he was angry and suspicious of his mom and Pastor Riis. But right now, as the chubby twelve-year-old reached the end of the hallway, about to step into the dimly lit living room with its flickering TV lights, anger was nowhere in Marshall’s makeup. No, as he swallowed hard, feeling like his tongue was stuck in his throat, Marshall was worried. He was confused. That noise his mom was making…

He just wanted to make sure she was okay.

“Mom, are you—?”

As Marshall turned the corner, his mouth was still open, mid-syllable. The first thing his brain registered were two candles, side by side, their flames flickering as they burned on the end table, next to the floral-print sofa. That’s why the room was so dim.

But as Marshall entered the room, he saw more than the end table. He saw the sofa. And who was on it.

Marshall froze. He saw her bare back first… and the beauty mark just below her left shoulder blade. She had no top on. But what made him completely confused were the two arms wrapped around his mother’s neck. Someone was hugging her. Someone with freshly painted pink nails. And pale breasts.

“ Mrs. Riis…? ” Marshall stuttered, staring at the woman everyone called Cricket.

“Cherise, move …!” the pastor’s wife exclaimed, pushing Marshall’s mother aside.

“Mom… what’re you—? What’s happening?”

His mom twisted to face him as she struggled to cover her bare breasts with her hands. Their gazes locked—mother and son—both their eyes wide with terror that slowly shifted to—

“ What’re you doing here!? Get out! ” his mom exploded, stumbling, spinning, grabbing clothes to cover herself. She was naked. Naked with Pastor Riis’s wife.

“ You didn’t see this! You hear me!? You didn’t see this! ” his mom shouted in a tone Marshall had never heard before.

“Get him out of here!” the pastor’s wife screamed, grabbing sofa pillows to cover herself.

Marshall tried to turn and run. But his feet were locked, like they were bolted to the carpet. His eyes swelled with tears.

“Oh, Lord, we’re dead…” the pastor’s wife whispered, now starting to cry.

“ You didn’t see this! ” his mother kept yelling, racing toward him. She pressed her shirt against her chest with one hand. With her other, she clumsily pulled on her skirt.

Across the room, Marshall just stood there, horrified by the shadowy glimpse of his mom’s pubic hair.

“They’ll call us abominations. We’re abominations,” the pastor’s wife sobbed.

“ Did your father send you here!? ” his mother shouted as she threw on her blouse and snatched her bra and lemon yellow blazer off the floor.

“No, I—”

“It’s okay. It’ll be fine,” his mom insisted, her voice softening but still racing. “We’ll go home and it’ll be fine.”

She grabbed Marshall by the back of the neck, twisting him around and shoving him back up the main hallway, toward the front door.

“You didn’t see this,” she added, still holding her bra against her chest. “If you didn’t see this—if your father doesn’t know—we’re okay.”

“Dad didn’t do nothing!” Marshall pleaded, crying, stumbling, barely able to stay on his feet. His mom’s blazer fell to the floor. She didn’t stop to get it.

As they reached the front door, his mother let go of her son for the three seconds it took to fight with the doorknob. “Don’t run away. Come back,” she said, gripping him again. “It’ll be fine—”

She was still yelling as the door flew open, bathing them in yellow porchlight. But as they crashed down the front steps and into the warm night, Marshall’s mom was moving so fast… and holding Marshall’s fat neck so tight… and still clutching her bra in her hand…

… she didn’t even notice that Beecher and Paglinni were standing right there, watching everything from the driveway.

108

Two minutes ago

Washington, D.C.

The Knight didn’t rush.

He was patient, with his head down, pretending to look at his watch as the elevator doors slowly opened.

The President exited calmly, without a fuss, stepping off the elevator and making his way through the small crowd waiting to take it down. Well past the crowd, midway through the chamber, the Knight still didn’t look up. He saw it all out of the corner of his eyes, counting three agents plus Wallace’s daughter.

The Knight’s skin tingled. He didn’t have to approach the President. From where he was standing, Wallace was approaching him.

The Knight had practiced for this moment. Prayed for it. Like his predecessors, he had run through every detail. Every detail, including putting on the mask. For hours, for days now, the Knight had taken out the mask and slipped it on, taken it out and slipped it on, over and over, until he had it down to one quick movement.

Seeing President Wallace delivered to him like this, the Knight knew his prayers were about to be answered.

The President was about to pass him. Leaning forward, the Knight reached into his pocket, palming the front of his plaster mask. At just the touch of it, as his fingers scraped against its chalkiness, muscle memory took over. Time froze. Life moved frame by frame as the two agents in front of the President seemed to float by like life-size parade floats. Two steps behind them, as the Knight pulled the mask from his pocket, the President and his daughter floated by too. Same with the mil aide in back of them. As they passed, the Knight couldn’t help but grin. He was diagonally behind them all now. None of them had even noticed him.

They were all locked on their destination—on the group of kids across the chamber. As the President got closer, a few kids began to turn. One of them, a girl with big cheeks and brutal-looking braces, lifted her hand, beginning to point as she realized who was coming. Another began to mouth the President’s daughter’s name. One by one, the rest of the kids began to turn… began to look… began to smile. The Knight’s plaster Lincoln mask was firmly in place.