The Fifth Assassin (39 page)

“Actually, I don’t think that’s a problem anymore.”

Following Beecher’s sightline, Marshall glanced diagonally upward toward the treehouse. From this angle, between the Plexiglas window and the open treehouse door, they could see inside. It was empty. Paglinni, Mackles, even Lee Rosenberg. All their newfound friends were gone.

Marshall’s eyes went wide and he started to sway, staring up at the treehouse and looking like he wanted to crawl out of his own body.

“Y’know what the saddest part is?” he finally said. “I didn’t even mind them using us for the porn. It was better than being by ourselves.”

“They’ll be back.”

“They won’t, Beecher.”

“They will. Especially if we—if we—” Beecher’s voice hung in the air, filled with a dangerous mix of promise and desperation. “What if we steal it back from him?”

“What?”

Beecher paused a moment as the pieces of the plan began to knot together. In a few hours, when he thought back on it, he’d tell himself that he just
reacted
… that he didn’t like seeing his friend so lonely and heartbroken. But even now, as the words left his lips, Beecher knew he wasn’t doing this just for Marshall. Beecher was doing this for
himself
.

“If Pastor Riis has the porn… You know where his hiding spot is, right? So what’s stopping us from grabbing it back?”

“How about him catching us? And throttling us? And telling our parents?”

“Marsh, he’s not telling anyone. You said it yourself—the last thing any pastor wants is to have his congregation find out he’s got a stash of porn in his basement. Even if he knows we snuck in and grabbed it, he can’t do anything. Weren’t those your words?
He can’t do anything.
”

Just from the look on Marshall’s face—and the way his swaying started to quicken—Beecher knew he was close.

“You really like porn, don’t you?” Marshall finally asked.

“C’mon, you know it’s not just about the porn. Over these past few weeks, you saw what those magazines did for us. They were—They were like airline tickets to the cooler versions of ourselves.”

“Now you’re overstating it.”

“I’m overstating nothing. We’re not popular, Marsh. We’re not good at sports. Face facts: Without those magazines, there’s no way Paglinni and the rest are coming back. So either we find our way to those magazines, or we go back to our old lives. And no offense, but I don’t want to go back.”

Standing there in his own backyard, Marshall kicked down at nothing in the dirt, making his double chin become a triple.

“You really think we can do this?” he finally asked.

“Do I look scared to you?” Beecher said, already getting excited.

“I’m serious, Beecher. Whatever James Bond theme song you’re now hearing, I’m not just going in there by myself.”

“Can you please not worry for once? I promise you, Marsh. I’ll be right there with you.”

Today

Camp David

Y
ou’re serious?” I ask. “You think
I’m
working with Nico?”

“Beecher, we saw him slip you the playing card!” Palmiotti says.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask as I climb to my feet, both arms still chained to the bed. “He didn’t slip me anything!”

“We have it on video,” Agent Reed interrupts, his tone always even. “You think with all these murders—and with the Knight copying Nico’s old kills—we wouldn’t be looking at St. Elizabeths’ security tapes? We saw you there this morning, Beecher. We saw you bring Clementine there and we saw Nico slip you that playing card in his old book.”

“No, you saw me
stealing
that playing card! I took it from Nico and—” I stop myself, replaying the moment. Nico dropped his book; I picked it up. I thought I was being so clever. But as I think about that ace of clubs… and the message hidden in it… That card was the only reason I raced here, to Camp David. But if President Wallace is actually somewhere else…

Onscreen, on the small TV, Wallace and his daughter are still hand in hand, his daughter’s black hair dotted by a light mist of snow. They don’t walk up the main public steps. Because of the security threat, they stick to the back of the Memorial, to what I’m guessing is some hidden VIP entrance. As they disappear, the camera cuts to a close-up of their eventual destination: the enormous sculpture of Abraham Lincoln sitting in his—

Oh God.

“
Nico knew
,” I whisper.

“Beecher, don’t try to shift blame to—”

“What time is it? I need to know what time it is!” I ask, pulling again on the handcuffs and trying to get close to the TV. In the corner of the screen, it says 11:57. Barely three minutes…

“Beecher, I asked you for an answer,” Reed repeats. “Tell us where Clementine is! Tell us why you’re helping Nico!”

“Don’t you see? Nico doesn’t need my help. He doesn’t need
any
help. He knew all along,” I insist. “Look at the video. He didn’t drop the book by accident—he dropped it on purpose. He knew I’d steal the card and that I’d—” The room starts to spin, but then stops just as fast.

“Don’t you see? He wanted us to come here so we wouldn’t be
there
!” I add, tugging even harder on the handcuffs as I point to the TV. Onscreen, the camera cuts to the tall pillars in front of the monument. If Marshall’s there… “You need to get Wallace out of there.”

“There’s nothing safer than an off-the-record movement.”

“You’re telling me Marshall and Nico couldn’t predict that Wallace would insist on keeping his noon Presidents’ Day event with his daughter and her class? Reed, this is his life on the line. Can’t you just—?”

“We’re done, Beecher. And you’re done,” Reed says. “The President’s safe where he is. We’ve got him covered.”

“What if you’re wrong?” I challenge, turning solely to Palmiotti. “He’s your
friend
. Isn’t it worth holding Wallace in some back room until you know the truth?”

On TV, the camera shows Wallace’s daughter’s fifth-grade classmates gathering at the foot of the Lincoln statue.

“Is A.J. here at Camp David, or with the President?” I ask.

Palmiotti stares at the TV. A.J.’s with the President.

“Stewie, you know Beecher’s trying to manipulate you,” Reed warns Palmiotti.

“That’s not true. This is—” I cut myself off as I see what’s
onscreen. Slowly, the camera pulls out on the eleven-year-olds, revealing a wider shot of the Abraham Lincoln statue. My mouth gapes open. “No. Nono…”

“What? What is it?” Palmiotti asks.

“Listen to me, you need to get the President out of there,” I insist.

“Beecher, this isn’t—”

“I’m telling you: Marshall isn’t coming to Camp David. He’s waiting for the President right now inside the Lincoln Memorial!”

“What’re you talking about?” Palmiotti asks.

“Look at the murders. Look where they took place. St. John’s Church… Foundry Church… even the chapel at the hospital…”

“I get it,” Reed says. “They’re all places of worship.”

“Exactly. And do you know what
that
building is?” I ask, pointing back to the TV and the wide shot of the Lincoln statue. The fifth graders are getting excited, bouncing on their heels. Wallace is close. I’ve got less than a minute to go.

“People don’t worship Abraham Lincoln,” Reed says.

“No—forget Lincoln! Look at the building! When the Lincoln Memorial was first designed, do you know what it was built as?” I ask as the camera jerks left. Along the bottom of the screen it says,
POTUS Arriving
. “A temple!” I tell him. “It was modeled on a giant Greek—”

I stand up straight as a frozen calm presses against my face.

I know who did this. “I know who the Knight is,” I blurt.

Next to me, Reed cocks his head, holding his finger to his ear. So does the Irish agent and the one with the small ears. Something just came through their earpieces, but from the way they’re looking at each other…

“What? What’s wrong?” Palmiotti asks.

“Shots fired,” Reed says. “At the Lincoln Memorial.”

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

T
hey waited until dark. Not midnight dark. They were still twelve-year-olds; there was a limit to how late they could be out before their parents started making phone calls. But at a quarter to nine, as Beecher and Marshall hid behind the narrow dogwood tree in Darlene Signorelli’s front yard and squinted diagonally across the street at the modest arts-and-crafts-style house with the low-pitched roof, it was dark enough.

At the front door, hammered copper porch lights were filled with yellow bulbs, giving the 1930s house a golden glow. In the distance, there was a steady
rrrrrr
of a faint lawn mower. Everyone in town knew Tom Sable only mowed his lawn at night, thinking it was better for the grass. But all that mattered now was that house across the street. The home of Pastor Riis.

“You sure you can fit in there?” Beecher asked, staring up the driveway at the small rectangular basement window that sat just above the grade of the lawn.

“It’s bigger than it looks,” Marshall said, hunched just behind Beecher and looking over his shoulder.

“You homos humping back there or what?” a familiar voice called out.

Beecher jumped, the back of his head slamming into Marshall’s jaw. On their right, halfway up the block, Vincent Paglinni pumped
his bushy eyebrows, laughing that laugh that stabbed like a blunt screwdriver.

“Not funny!” Beecher yelled. “What’re you even doing here?”

“Y’mean besides
living
here?” Paglinni shot back, tugging on a retractable leash and revealing a small fluffy dog—a brown bichon—that let out a defiant yip.

“Murphy,
no
!
Sit!
” Paglinni commanded, though the dog hopped frantically, letting out another yip. “She’s just excited—she hates everyone,” Paglinni explained, scooping the dog up and letting Murphy lick his face and lips, adding his own machine gun of puckered kisses.

For a moment, Beecher forgot. Paglinni’s family lived around the corner.

“So that’s your dog?” Marshall asked.

“No, I stole it. Of course it’s my dog, dumbass. Now who you two watching undress?” Paglinni asked, still cradling his dog.

Beecher looked down at the pavement. But Marshall was still glancing diagonally across the street.

“
Nooo
,” Paglinni gasped. “Pastor Riis’s
wife
? You know how nasty-brained you gotta be to see her naked?”

“Can you please keep your voice down?” Beecher pleaded. “We’re not trying to see her naked.”

“We’re here to get our magazines back,” Marshall said.

Marsh, don’t!
Beecher said with a scolding look. Too late. Paglinni already had that smile that came with feathers in his mouth. “
Our magazines…?
” He looked across the street. The house was mostly dark, with one light on in the back room, by the kitchen.

“
That’s
who took your porn?
Pastor Riis?
” Laughing out loud, Paglinni added, “Lemme guess: Marshmallow’s mom gave it to him.”

In his head, Marshall wanted to race at Paglinni. He wanted to scream,
Don’t talk about my mom!
And he wanted to shove Paglinni in the chest, knocking him back on his ass.

Instead, Marshall just stood there in the dark, his gold eyes locked on the ground.

“Do you even realize how out of your league you are?” Paglinni laughed.

“You’re wrong,” Beecher blurted. “Marsh already broke in there once before.”

Paglinni wheeled around, excited by the challenge. “What’d you say?”

“In Riis’s basement. Mallow was there. Ask him.”

Paglinni looked at Marshall.

“I
was
,” Marshall said.

“And when exactly did this fantasy take place?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Same day you started visiting our treehouse,” Beecher added, now the one wearing the smile that came with feathers.

Even for Paglinni, it didn’t take long to do the math. “Wait… so that was…” Paglinni’s eyes went round. “
Leg Show
! Sonuva—! Don’t tell me
that’s
where you got all the porn!”

“Fine, I won’t tell you,” Beecher teased.

“I’m serious, Beech Ball. You expect me to believe Pastor Riis really keeps a secret smut stash?”

“Not only does he keep it; Marsh
stole
it. And unless you want to keep wasting our time with dumb questions, you’re gonna miss him stealing it again, because he’s about to sneak back in for round two. Isn’t that right, Mallow?”

Marshall nodded hesitantly, even as he shot Beecher a look.
I thought we were
both
going in. You’re not coming?

You don’t need me. You’ll be great
, Beecher replied with his own quick look, meaning every word.

Across the street, the light in Pastor Riis’s kitchen went dark, while the one in the living room blinked on, dim and flickering behind the lowered vinyl shades. The upstairs was still black. As was the small basement window.

“I think he’s watching TV. C’mon…” Beecher whispered, tugging Marshall by the shirt, leading him across the dark street. “Let’s get you in there. If he goes to bed, it’ll be too quiet.”

“You’re serious? You’re really doing this?” Paglinni asked as they
took off without him. For a few long seconds, he stood there, alone in the dark, still cradling his dog. A chorus of crickets sang out, harmonizing with the
rrrrrr
of Tom Sable’s distant lawn mower. Paglinni looked around. No way was he missing this.

Catching up with them at the curb, Paglinni’s dog let out another loud yip. “Marshmallow, I gotta say, you even pretend to pull this off and you’re officially fifty times more whacked in the head than I ever thought you were,” Paglinni added, patting Marshall on the back with one hand and still holding his dog with the other.

For Marshall, though, it wasn’t the thundering back pat that kick-started a sudden flush of confidence. Sure, peer pressure was a potent social lubricant. But as any seventh grader knew—especially when it came from Paglinni—nothing emboldened a teenager more than simple admiration.