Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“But if we stop fighting now…”

“… then we’ll survive. And regroup. And try to figure out what the hell just hit us. That’s how we rebuild. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again. I’m sorry, Beecher, I know it’s not as satisfying as punching someone in the face and yelling a good catchphrase, but that’s how this chapter ends.”

Standing on the opposite side of the bed, I don’t say a word.

“Don’t look at me like that, Beecher. We don’t have a choice. The fight’s over. There’s no one left to send in the ring.”

“Maybe,” I say, glancing through the sliding glass door into the empty hallway. “But maybe not.”

“Beecher, wait—! Where’re you going?”

112

By the time I get home, all the adrenaline is gone.

It’s nearly 1 a.m., my wrists are even more sore, my toes are frozen, and my body temperature is plummeting from exhaustion and hunger.

Unlocking my front door, I flick on the lights and bathe in the calm, familiar smell of my townhouse. As I look around, the sofa’s still made up like a makeshift bed, and across the carpet, I spot a few remnant strands of Clementine’s blonde wig, but it’s all untouched. Not a single thing is out of place.

“Marshall, I know you’re here,” I call out.

As the kitchen door swings open, I spot my best friend from childhood.

“How’d you know?” Marshall asks in his raspy voice, joining me in the living room and still wearing his wool peacoat.

“I didn’t. But I know you.”

He goes to say something, but for some reason decides against it. As he gets closer, his posture stays perfect, but he keeps his head slightly down and turned away. He doesn’t like being looked at.

“Can I get you something to drink or—?”

“Sorry about your wrists,” he says, motioning to the red marks from the handcuffs. Forever the wolf, he doesn’t miss a detail.

“Why’d you come here, Marshall?”

“You called me three times in the last half hour.”

“You could’ve just called me back. Why’d you really come here?”

He takes a deep breath through his mangled nose, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just upset. “I wanted to know if they killed you.”

“What?”

Pretending to stare at the three framed black-and-white photo cards that hang over my sofa, he presses his lips together, his sagging skin shifting in one large chunk. “They are going to kill you, Beecher. I called a friend in the Service who’s stationed up at Camp David. They know who you are. From here, it’s just a matter of time.” Letting the statement sink in, he adds, “So tell me, Beecher: Why’d you call me three times in the last half hour?”

“Because we need your help.”

“We?”

“The group I work with.”

“The Culper Ring?”

I shoot him a look. Of course he knows their name.

“They’re the ones who gave you that tracker you put in my car,” he reasons.

“They’re good people, Marshall. Smart too. And I was thinking… with your skills… plus their resources…”

“Don’t ask me to be part of your group, Beecher.”

“But if we—”

“There is no we . I’m not for sale. And I’m not some cheap grenade you get to toss at your enemies.”

I stand there a moment. I expect him to leave, but instead he stays where he is, still staring at the framed photos.

“That’s Saggy, isn’t it?” he asks, referring to our hometown.

“From back in the 1920s,” I explain as he takes a step closer to the three side-by-side photo postcards showing men, women, and children waving American flags and marching down the street in front of Cannell Park. “They’re from an old firemen’s parade that the town used to have.”

“They’re nice,” he says.

“Yeah, when I put them up, I told myself they were my daily reminder that if I screwed things up here, that’s where I was going back to. But I think it’s finally time to admit, I just like them because they remind me of home.”

Marshall looks my way. “Home is terrifying for some people.”

“It can also be a reminder of where you came from. And how far you’ve traveled.”

He turns back to the photos. “You’re still a cornball, aren’t you, Beecher?”

I laugh at the comment, studying my old friend and once again trying to see the old chubby, glasses-wearing version of himself. Tot said that was my problem, that I can’t stop remembering. He may be right. But some things are worth holding on to.

“Marsh, I’m sorry for thinking you were the one who killed those pastors.”

Still staring at the images, he doesn’t respond.

“It’s just that when I saw you had that Lincoln mask and those old playing cards, plus your history with Pastor Riis…”

“You were investigating the case, Beecher. You did everything you were supposed to.”

“That’s not even true. I got fooled by Nico. I couldn’t save Tot. I fell into every trap the Knight left for me. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be watching the President’s funeral right now.”

“So you think you lost?”

“You telling me I didn’t?”

Turning away from the photos, Marshall stands there, eyeing me. “Beecher, how’d you know Pastor Frick was the Knight?”

“Excuse me?”

“My friend in the Service. He said you figured it out right before the shots were fired.”

I take a breath, staring down at the carpet and reliving the moment. “The real assassinations. When all this started, I told Tot that when President Garfield was shot, he should’ve lived. It was medical malpractice that killed him, not the bullet. I figured that’s why Pastor Frick was left alive. But when I started thinking about how meticulous the Knight was—always killing in temples, using the old guns—it reminded me that Garfield did die. So for Pastor Frick to still be alive and walking around… and for him to be at the same hospital for the third and fourth attempts… That was it. But it still didn’t make me fast enough to save the President. Without you, Wallace would be dead right now.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Marshall, I appreciate the pep talk, but—”

“Do you have any idea why I went to the Lincoln Memorial?” he challenges.

I shake my head.

“Because you sent me there, Beecher.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“From the very start, I was trying to find the person who killed Pastor Riis. So when that first rector was murdered at St. John’s, the only pattern I saw was someone killing pastors . That is, until you came in and found all those links to John Wilkes Booth: the peephole in the wall, and the piece of wood in the umbrella stand. Once I heard you and Tot talking about that—”

“Wait. You bugged me?”

“In your wallet. Right after you bugged my car,” Marshall shoots back. “But the fact remains, without you spotting that original Abraham Lincoln connection, I would’ve never found the pattern of dead Presidents. That’s when I started looking at Wallace, and his schedule, and all the places he was supposed to be.”

For thirty seconds I stand there, still digesting his words. “I still don’t understand how you knew the Knight would be at the Lincoln Memorial.”

“I didn’t. In fact, I thought it was A.J. who was doing the killing. So when it came to the Memorial, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance. And even if I was wrong, I had you at Camp David,” he says, his voice warming up as much as his voice can ever warm up. “You understand what I’m saying, Beecher? I may’ve grabbed the gun and shot the Knight, but when it comes right down to it, you’re the one who actually saved President Wallace. That was the job, right? You did everything the Culper Ring couldn’t. That’s why they picked you.”