The Fifth Assassin (17 page)

Tot’s not stupid. He knew about the Lincoln mask and the Booth part long before we got here. But for him to keep the Booth part from me… to hold it back… I’ve known Tot since my very first day at the Archives. In the Culper Ring, I put my life in his hands. Why would he lie about—?

He shoots me a look and I get the rest.

Marshall.

Back at the restaurant, he was worried I’d tell Marshall.

You’re wrong
, I say to him with just a dirty look.

Doesn’t matter
, he replies with his own look.

But it does. Trust always matters.

“Can we see it?” Tot asks, motioning for Dale to lead the way.

“Absolutely,” she says, her Def Leppard lanyard twirling as she leads us to the last remaining body parts of John Wilkes Booth.

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

N
ico knew all about steganography, which was Greek for
hidden writing
.

He knew of its history in ancient Greece, where they wrote messages on wooden tablets, then covered the tablet in wax, which made it look blank. It wasn’t until the tablet was delivered and the wax was scraped away that the hidden message was revealed.

Nico knew that’s what made it different from cryptography, which was all about secret codes. Steganography had nothing to do with codes. In steganography, the message isn’t scrambled. It’s simply hidden so no one knows you’re sending a message at all.

“You’re joking, right?” Nurse Karina asked as she stood behind Nico.

Nurse Rupert didn’t bother to answer, standing right next to her.

Ignoring them both with his back to them, Nico sat at a blond wooden desk, staring blankly at a computer screen, both of his palms flat on the desk. Along the left wall of the room was a working stove, a microwave, a washer/dryer, and a toilet, each item right next to the other.

The room was used for ADL skills—Activities for Daily Living—which meant that patients came in here to learn how to survive in the actual world. Staff taught them how to turn on a stove, wash their clothes, and even the most basic of tasks, like keeping a clean toilet.

For a few patients, including Nico, it also included minor computer privileges.

“And that’s what he likes?” Karina whispered.

“That’s it. It’s his favorite,” Rupert replied.

From the angle they were at, they had a clear view of Nico’s monitor, which held a YouTube video called “Cutey Cute Lester.”

Onscreen, a fluffy and adorable tabby kitten named Lester rolled back and forth across a plush gray carpet, like he had an itch he couldn’t reach. In the background, the cat’s owner tapped his foot, laughing along with him.

“So the man who shot the President also likes cat videos?” Karina asked.

“Sometimes he prefers one called ‘I’m Just a Cat and I’m Doing Cat Stuff.’ Though personally, I prefer Lester. Look at that
range
…”

Onscreen, Lester the kitten was stretched out on his back, his front left paw looking like it was waving right at the viewer.

Nico stared at the screen, thinking of ancient Greece, where Herodotus told the story of a secret message that was tattooed onto the shaved head of a slave and concealed by his grown-back hair. The message stayed hidden until the slave arrived at his destination and shaved his head again. Perfect steganography.

Almost as perfect as George Washington using invisible ink and writing between the lines of his own handwritten letters.

Almost as perfect as what Nico—and the dead First Lady—were staring at today. The video uploaded by a user named LedParadis27.

“That’s all he does? He sits here and watches cat videos?” Karina asked.

“We call it his
kitty porn
. But yeah—ever since they stopped letting him feed the cats next door, you wanna keep Nico calm, this is how you do it.”

“So how long does he—?”

Before Karina could finish, Nico stood from his seat, picked up his book, and headed past them.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced, the dead First Lady right behind him.

“I think it’s on the left… down the hall,” Rupert said, pointing him out into the main section of the clinic. The building was still new to them all. “Oh, and Nico—y’know you can leave the book here if you want.”

Nico looked at him blankly. Then he looked at the female nurse.

Saying nothing, Nico headed for the restroom that was just down the hall. Onscreen, the kitty named Lester was still rolling and wriggling wildly, fighting to scratch the itch on his back. All the while, the cat’s owner tapped his foot, presumably laughing.

Yes, Nico knew all about steganography. And now, thanks to the Knight, he finally had the newest message.

Flicking his ten of spades bookmark, all he had to do was write back.

A
s the lock clicks and the metal door slowly yawns open, the smell hits me first.

It’s bitter, like vinegar mixed with mothballs and the smell of rain. I know it immediately. Formaldehyde.

The sign on the door reads
Wet Tissue Room
. I don’t know what
wet tissues
are, but I’m sure this is what they smell like.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” Dale says, reading our expressions. “I don’t even smell it anymore.”

Before I can reply, the motion sensor lights pop on, and the worst part hits: I see where the smell is coming from.

There are jelly jars of all shapes and sizes—each filled with pale yellow fluid and stacked on shelf after shelf, from floor to ceiling. This is an archive. Just like the one Tot and I work in. But instead of books, these shelves… this whole room… it’s filled with—

From inside the jelly jar, a mucusy gray ear is listening to our every word.

“Now you know why we moved all the Booth stuff back here,” Dale explains as we reach the back corner of the room. “After the break-in—” She cuts herself off, stopping at a metal map cabinet. Like the ones we have at the Archives, it has a half dozen wide drawers that are only a few inches tall. “We figured,
who’d be sick enough to break into here
?”

I keep my eyes locked on Dale, refusing to see the hundreds of pale yellow body parts that’re floating in the jelly jars all around us.

“So you were saying about John Wilkes Booth?” I nudge.

“Yeah. No. Sorry, we had two parts of him,” Dale says, pulling open the middle drawer of the map cabinet, which is lined with a
thin sheet of white foam board. On it is a clear plastic cube with a brownish-white piece of bone preserved inside. Running diagonally through the bone is a bright, sky blue plastic probe.

“Booth’s spinal cord,” Tot says as if he’s asking a question. But like before, he knows the answer.

This time, though, so do I. After Booth was shot at Garrett’s Barn, they did a quick autopsy, then buried him secretly so he wouldn’t become a martyr. What I didn’t know was that they kept some of his body parts.

“The blue probe shows the actual path of the bullet,” Dale adds, handing me the cube. “Many think that’s the actual killshot that did him in.”

“So this is the prize of the collection,” Tot says.

“Exactly, and like before, instead of taking the priceless artifact, they instead stole
this
…” From her file folder, she pulls out a color copy of a dark gray vertebra that’s mounted on a round wooden stand.

“Booth’s cervical vertebra. He was hit there too,” I say, noticing where the bone is jagged and sharp.

“Were there any signs of a break-in?” Tot asks.

“That’s the thing,” Dale says. “No windows smashed, no doors kicked open, no fingerprints, no nothing. It’s like a ghost himself came in and walked off with everything.”

Tot glances my way. He doesn’t have to say Marshall’s name. In the last forty-eight hours, who else have we encountered who knows how to break into a military installation?

“Here’s what still doesn’t make sense, though,” Dale says. “Whoever it was that broke in, why’d they take a random Booth vertebra, but leave the far more priceless killshot?”

“And why’d they take a replica Lincoln mask, but not the actual bullet that killed him?” Tot asks.

“He wants them alive,” I blurt.

They both turn my way.

My eyes stare down at the plastic cube and the chunk of spine that’s locked within it.

“I’m not following,” Tot says.

“You said this was the killshot, right?” I ask, holding up the cube.

Dale nods, just as confused.

“And in your display case, the bullet that shot Lincoln. That was the killshot too, right? The bullet from Lincoln’s brain.”

“He left both of those here,” Tot says, starting to see where I’m going.

“But the plaster mask, even if it’s a replica… that was made when Lincoln was
alive
,” I point out. “And the same with this,” I add, motioning to the color photocopy of Booth’s stolen vertebra. “Booth was alive when he got hit here.”

“So you think whoever broke in is ignoring the pieces from when Lincoln and Booth were dead…” Tot says.

“… and stealing the pieces from when they were
alive
,” I point out.

Tot rolls his tongue inside his cheek. He’s not there yet. But he’s close. “Why, though?”

“Y’mean besides the fact that you have to be utterly insane to steal people’s body parts? Think of yesterday at the church,” I say, referring to all the work the killer put into re-creating Booth’s crime. “Maybe he’s not just copying Booth. Maybe… I don’t know… what if he wants Booth
alive
?”

“Or wants to
be like
him,” Tot points out.

“Or be like
all
of them.”

As the words leave my lips, there’s a faint noise from outside the closet.

I stand up straight, turning at the sound.

Tot shoots me a look. He heard it too.

“That’s just our air conditioner,” Dale reassures us, adding a laugh. “It does that every time someone tells an old spooky story.”

It’s an easy joke designed to calm us down, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like there’s a snake coiled around my spine, slowly winding and climbing up my own vertebrae. It’s one thing to copy John Wilkes Booth, but to actually want to
be
that monster, or
mimic
him. I’m not sure what bothers me more: the thought of someone
sick enough to even imagine such a thing… or the thought that that person might be Marshall.

“It’s the same with Guiteau,” Dale adds, referring to the assassin who shot President Garfield.

“Pardon?” Tot asks.

“What you said, about stealing pieces from when Booth and Lincoln were alive… Whoever stole it, they did the same with Guiteau.”

On my left, Tot again rolls his tongue inside his cheek. “You have Charles Guiteau’s body too.” He’s trying to act unsurprised. But I see the way he’s running his fingers down his bolo tie. He may’ve known about Lincoln—and Booth—but Tot had no clue that the body of President Garfield’s killer was also here.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Tot asks.

“You asked about Lincoln and Booth. You didn’t ask about Guiteau,” Dale explains without a hint of apology. Though the truth is, we didn’t figure out Guiteau until Marshall mentioned the second murder.

Turning back toward the map cabinet, Dale reaches down toward the lowest drawer. As she tugs it open, it’s filled with assassin Charles Guiteau.

Literally.

A
.J. tried the pastor’s hospital room first.

A nurse told him the pastor was downstairs. In the chapel.

A.J. nodded a quick thanks but didn’t bother to ask directions. Like most Secret Service agents, he knew the hospital well. George Washington University Hospital was where they operated on Dick Cheney while he was Vice President—and where President Wallace had his gallbladder out.

As for the chapel, A.J. knew it best of all, since it was there that Wallace—right before going under the anesthetic for his gallbladder surgery—signed away his power as leader of the free world and said a teary, just-in-case goodbye to his wife and kids. For the agents and few staffers there, it was a terrifying moment.

But as A.J. looked back on it, what he was doing now was far more dangerous.

Avoiding the elevators and sticking to the stairs, A.J. stayed out of sight until he reached the first floor. As always, he checked each sector of the long hallway, left to right, then up and down. A nurse with a rolling cart… a gift shop to buy flowers… and at the far end of the corridor: the only door in the whole hospital with blue-and-gold stained glass in it.
Interfaith Chapel.

As he opened the door and craned his neck inside, there were two voices talking.

“… forget going to the games—just give me one good reason why anyone would root for the Orioles.”

Straight ahead, underneath a wide window that was covered
with broad wooden horizontal blinds, a man and a woman faced each other, talking casually.

The woman sat on one of the room’s three cherry benches that was covered with beige padding. The man was in a wheelchair, dressed in a hospital gown, but wearing socks and slippers. He had a round face and a dimpled chin that reminded A.J. of an elf. And a nose that reminded him of a boxer. Pastor Frick.

“May I help you?” the woman asked in a calm voice tinged with a British accent. “I’m Chaplain Stoughton,” she said, though A.J. remembered her from the President’s surgery.

“I’m here for Pastor…” A.J. looked at the man in the wheelchair. “You must be Pastor Frick.”

“I am,” he said, surprising A.J. by standing up from the wheelchair. A.J. expected a quiet old man. This guy was a show-off, but in the warmest of ways.

“Pastor,
please
…” the female chaplain begged. “The doctors told you to take it easy.”

“I’m fine—they all know I’m fine. If I weren’t a man of God, they would’ve sent me home hours ago instead of making me stay overnight. They just don’t want God sending a lightning bolt through their windows.” He wasn’t old—maybe in his fifties—but his voice was lush, like a grandfather’s. As he grinned, A.J. again spotted the elfish twinkle in his pale blue eyes. But he also saw those old dents in his nose. A.J. knew: Dents like that can come from sports, or a car accident, or from people who fight—but they can also come from a dad who used to put a beating on someone’s mother. No doubt, this was a guy who liked righting wrongs.