Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

111

Three hours later, I’m staring at a set of closed doors with frosted glass squares cut into them.

“I’m sorry, visiting hours are done for the day,” the nurse tells me, her voice coming through the in-house phone that’s next to the doors.

“Is this Angelica? Angelica, my name is Beecher White. I was told to ask for you.”

There’s a pause. Without another word, the closed doors of the ICU swing open. It’s nearly midnight, but as I step inside, a chorus of pings and beeps swarm like a hornet attack.

At the nurses’ station, behind the main desk, Angelica doesn’t say a word. Like most nurses, she knows the emotional risk of eye contact; she also knows what happened here today. Two people were shot. Their hospital chaplain was killed. Keeping her head down, Angelica points me around to the left and I start reading room numbers.

There, midway down the hall: Room 214—home of the Knight’s final victim. And my best friend.

Still thinking of the President’s warning, I slow down, my stomach hollowing out from the terror that comes with most hospital visits. The room is sealed by sliding glass panes, frosted at the bottom and transparent up top.

As I look through the glass, the lights are dimmed and a mass of red and white dots glow inside. They warned me before I came that there’d be lots of machines… and that they had to shave his head for the surgery… but to finally see him… The lump in my throat makes it hard to catch my breath.

I slide the glass door open and the lump expands. His beard… They shaved his beard, trimming it so the accordion feeding tube could be inserted in his neck, where bits of dried blood mark the entry point. His eyes are closed and his color’s gray, like a corpse, which only makes the nasty black scar on his head stand out even more. The scar’s stitches and knots are thick and black, arcing down the side of his head like a jagged roller coaster that dead-ends at the pillow of gauze covering most of his ear.

But the worst part is the other half of his head, where his silver hair is still long. They only shaved half his head, making Tot look like a baseball that has patches of gray yarn sprouting from it. His mouth hangs open like a urinal. His palms are up, facing the ceiling, like he’s begging for death.

“I wish they hadn’t shaved his beard,” a soft female voice whispers.

I spin, following the sound. At the foot of the bed, in a wood and vinyl hospital recliner, sits an older woman with a wide nose, unpierced ears, and horn-rimmed glasses that weren’t stylish even in the 1950s. Her silver hair is in a bob that grazes her chin, and on her wrists are two carpal tunnel Velcro braces. Of course. She’s on the computer all day. Immaculate Deception.

“Grace,” I say, though it comes out as more of a question.

She nods, blinking enough that I can tell she’s been crying. And though she barely fills out the black sweater she’s wearing, there’s nothing frail about her.

“He doesn’t look good,” I say.

She tries to reply, but when nothing comes out, I’m hit with that feeling you get at a funeral, where the dread rises off the mourners, engulfing everyone nearby. But what I’m really seeing is relief.

“They said he’ll make it. They said he’s strong,” Grace says, nodding and trying to smile.

“So the doctors—?”

“They’re on it. They’ve mobilized half the hospital for this. Apparently, President Wallace called them personally,” she says as I picture him toasting me with that teacup. “They said when Tot was shot, the bullet hit him in the bone behind his ear. It kept the bullet from his brain. They called it a miracle. They said when the swelling goes down, they can check the rest of his functions.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

She nods, her whole body shaking. “They hope so… they think so.”

I close my eyes and whisper a quick thank-you. As I open them, I see Tot’s open mouth and the way he’s barely moving. I replay Grace’s words: He’ll make it.

“He’s tougher than they think,” I insist.

“You have no idea.”

Standing from her chair, she smooths her skirt and approaches the bed. She adjusts one of the Velcro straps at her wrists. “How long did the Service keep you locked up for questioning?” she asks.

“What’re you—?”

She motions to the red marks on my own wrists, from the handcuffs.

“They wanted me to see Wallace,” I tell her.

“And did you?”

I nod.

“He do anything but hit you with veiled threats?”

I shake my head.

“That’s his style. He’ll never change. That’s why, back at your house, I told you not to go with Palmiotti.”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

“I did. You stopped listening. Once he said the words Camp David , you were out the door and—”

“Grace, is that really the best use of our time right now? You gloating that you were right about Palmiotti?”

“I’m not gloating, Beecher. But I was right about Palmiotti.”

“And you were wrong about Marshall. So was Tot.” I look over at the bed. From this angle, the way Tot’s head is tipped back with his mouth agape, I see he has no teeth. They took out his dentures. But at least he’ll survive. “It doesn’t feel like much of a win,” I say, my voice catching.

“ Win? ” Grace shoots back. “You think this is a win ? Look around, Beecher: We lost! The Culper Ring lost! We didn’t stop the Knight, Nico escaped and is God knows where. And worst of all, the President, who we all know is a monster, is now taking a victory lap and is more beloved than ever, thanks to surviving this assassination attempt. The only good news is that Tot won’t be using diapers and bedpans for the rest of his life.”

“We still found out about Palmiotti. We can prove he’s alive.”

“And where does that get us?”

“It’ll show what a liar Wallace is. Isn’t that the real goal? Tot told me you’ve been trying for years to build a case against Wallace. Palmiotti’s the way to finally put it together.”

“And again, where does that get us? They’ll either deny it, and people will believe them, or they’ll make up some excuse and no one will care. Either way, Palmiotti only gets us so far. To topple a President, you need to get the President, not his childhood pal.”

“But if the rest of the Ring—”

“The Ring is decimated, Beecher. You’re looking at most of it right now.”

“But I’m not looking at all of it, am I? You said Tot was starting to rebuild.”

For once, Grace stays quiet. Reaching down, she takes Tot’s open hand, holding it between both of her own.

“Grace, Wallace is the one who’s been hunting and killing the Culper Ring, isn’t he?”

This woman’s been doing this since before Kennedy was President. She’s no novice. But as I watch her holding Tot’s hand, the way her thumb gently brushes circles into his palm… I don’t know how far it goes back, but something tells me that when Tot’s wife was alive, she wasn’t Grace’s number one fan.

“So that’s it? We just sit here and wait until Tot’s better?” I ask.

“Beecher, did you ever hear that Winston Churchill quote, the one where he says, Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense ?”

“What about it?”

“This is the moment of good sense .” Still holding on to Tot’s hand, Grace turns my way, her dark eyes looking even smaller through the thickness of her horn-rimmed glasses. “The Culper Ring didn’t last this long because we’re the toughest, Beecher. We lasted this long because we’re the smartest.”