The Fifth Assassin (8 page)

“And this is everything you found?” Palmiotti asked, lifting the flap, where he saw a familiar name typed on the file folder that was tucked inside.
Wallace, Orson.

True to her word, this was everything: the complete file that, two months ago, Beecher had tracked down in the Archives. As far as they knew, this was the only proof of what he and the future President did all those years ago, when they attacked and eventually took the life of that man with the eight-ball tattoo.

“How do we know you won’t say anything, or that you didn’t make copies for yourself?” Palmiotti asked.

“You don’t,” Clementine said as she reached for the envelope that Palmiotti had brought in return. Undoing the figure-eight loop, she added, “How do I know this is his real military file?”

She waited for an answer. Palmiotti didn’t give her one. But he didn’t deny it was.

Back by the counter, one of the hot dogs sizzled and popped, spitting a fleck of grease against the protective glass. Clementine smiled. With enough pressure, everything pops. Even a President.

Freeing the brown accordion file from its envelope, she read the name that was typed on the peeling blue-and-white sticker in the corner.
Hadrian, Nicholas.
Her father.

“You know Beecher’s been looking for you,” Palmiotti warned as she started flipping through the file.

Clementine nodded, licking her finger and flicking to a new page. She’d waited too long not to take a peek. But what caught her eye was the logo at the top of the page: an eagle gripping a metal anchor. The logo of the U.S. Navy. It made no sense. Nico wasn’t in the navy.

“Beecher’s not searching alone,” Palmiotti added. “He’s got help.”

“Who? Tot?”

“And some others,” Palmiotti said, resealing his envelope.

Across from him, Clementine was flipping faster than ever, skimming through the pages—letters of recommendation… physical profile… record of induction—glancing through details of her father’s lost life. But as she read the date of Nico’s induction into the military, three years before she was born, Palmiotti saw the way her hands started shaking.

For so long now, Clementine had waited for this moment: to have details… documentation… the proof of what they did to him, and by extension, to her. Whatever they put in Nico’s body, it was the only way to explain the unknown cancer that she had today. Her doctors said they’d never seen anything like it. That her type of cancer… that it didn’t exist… it was a new mutation. But as
Clementine thumbed to the pages labeled
Psychological & Medical Records
, she felt a swell of tears that surprised even her.

“You okay?” Palmiotti asked.

Clementine looked up, caught off guard by the question. He already had what he wanted.

“What does he have on you?” she blurted.

“Excuse me?” Palmiotti asked.

“I meant it before. I read your obituary. To do what you did, to let the world think you’re dead… You had to leave your wife—”

“Ex-wife.”

“—and two kids—”

“My kids haven’t spoken to me in years.”

“But your
life
,” Clementine said, her eyes back down on the file. “You left your entire life behind, and for what? For a President? For one man? What the hell does Wallace have over you?”

“You’re questioning
me
? What about your own life? You’re hiding in Michigan. You have no home. And for what, Clementine? To get Nico’s files?”

“He’s my
father
.”

“Don’t play the wounded child. We all know that’s not why you did this,” Palmiotti challenged. “All the hurt you caused… that wasn’t for your
father
. That was for
you
, Clementine. You did all that for
you
. And now that you got the files and everything you wanted, you really think it matters how we got here? You wanted something so you did what you had to do to get it. The only thing you have to ask is,
was it worth it?
”

Clementine stared down at the file folder, rereading the peeling blue-and-white sticker with her father’s name. She thought about how she still had two more days in her chemo cycle, which meant the tingling in her toes, the hideous nausea, and the loose diarrhea would only be getting worse. So. Was it worth it?

“Depends what I find,” she shot back, slapping the file shut and sliding out of the booth. As she was about to leave, she turned back and added, “No matter how much of a piece of garbage your boss is, I’m sorry you lost your life over this.”

“Yeah…” he whispered as Clementine headed for the stable of red shopping carts and disappeared out the front door. “Me too.”

For a full two minutes, he sat there, alone in the bright red booth. And then, in that moment, Dr. Stewart Palmiotti had a brand-new idea.

From there, he made one call. Directly to A.J., who would take it directly to the President. “I know what to do about Beecher,” he said.

Today

Crystal City, Virginia

A
little over an hour later, I’m outside Marshall’s apartment building out in Virginia. Standing halfway down the block, I stare down at my phone, pretending to text. It makes me disappear just enough so that passing drivers—including the pasty-faced lawyer in the black Acura—don’t bother to look my way. That’s the lawyer’s first mistake. Actually, I take that back. His first mistake is the personalized license plate that says
L8 4 CRT
. His second mistake comes as he turns into the driveway at the back of Marshall’s building.

Of course, I tried going in the front door first. But as I approached the double glass doors of the modern apartment building, I saw what was waiting inside: a miserable-looking doorman at the front desk, plus one of those high-tech intercom systems where a well-placed camera lets residents see who’s there before they buzz you in.

If I want Marshall’s real reaction, better that he doesn’t see me coming.

Which brings me to the Acura driver’s third mistake: thinking that just because his building has an underground garage with a code to keep strangers out, it’ll stop me from sneaking in.

Still fake-texting on my phone, I walk casually down the block, timing it so I’m crossing right behind the Acura as Pasty Lawyer leans out the window and enters his six-digit PIN code on the garage’s keypad.

151916.

I keep walking as the garage door rolls open, then closes. When he’s gone, I double back to the keypad, tapping in
151916
.

There’s a loud metal
rr-rr-rr
as the garage door again rolls up, saluting me with a dark black entryway. Bits of dust, lit by the sun, hang in the air. But as I take my first step down the slight decline that leads inside, I notice two shiny black shoes and perfectly pressed slacks standing in my way. Even before the garage door fully opens, I know who it is.

“Do I look blind?” the guard from the front desk challenges. “I saw you checking out the front of the building!” His ID badge says Lance Peterzell. From his beefy build and his tight buzz cut, military for sure. “You really think we wouldn’t have cameras back here?”

In the corner of the garage, I spot the camera—miniature, like a voice recorder. I’ve seen cameras like those, when you check into the White House.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” he shouts.

I try to make an excuse, but he plows forward. I stumble backward up the driveway.

“I-I was just trying t—” I trip on my own feet, nearly falling backward.

“I can have you arrested for trespa—!”

Standing over me, he cuts himself off, suddenly silent. He’s not focused on me anymore. He sees something…

Behind me.

I turn just as a navy blue SUV pulls up, perpendicular to the driveway. As the passenger-side window rolls down, I spot the driver: a man with a strict part in his black hair, and a face that sags. His drooping eyes are the color of white wine. I recognize him from the mugshot. But I’ve known him for a long time.

Without a word, Marshall shoves open the passenger door, motioning for me to come inside.

I hesitate.

“Isn’t that why you came here, Beecher? To find me?” Marshall calls out in a raspy voice that sounds as burned as his face.

Tot would tell me to walk away. That nothing good can come from getting in Marshall’s car. But when it comes to Marshall, that’s the thing Tot will never understand. In life, there are many reasons why we become who we are. Marshall played a minor but memorable role in my childhood. But what I did to him… on that night in the basement… I altered Marshall forever.

“So you came all this way, and now you’re just going to stand there?” Marshall challenges. He takes a deep breath through his nose, like a bull. If I thought he had forgiven me after all these years, I was wrong.

From inside the SUV, his gold eyes lock on me with an odd calm that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world. Even from here, I can see how meticulous he is—how he holds the steering wheel with just the tips of his fingers.

But as his stare drills down, I realize he’s not
talking
to me. He’s observing me. He’s not impatient, though. He’s waiting for me to make my decision.

Once again, I can hear Tot screaming for me to stay away. And I should.

In the road map of my life, Tot represents where I’m trying to go. Marshall represents where I used to be. But that’s the thing about the past: No matter how dangerous or disturbing or inconvenient it is, you don’t get to move forward until you deal with what’s behind you.

Plus, if I want answers, there’s only one way to get them.

I dart for the SUV, quickly climbing into the passenger seat.

Still holding the steering wheel with just his fingertips, Marshall backs us into a sharp three-point turn, then hits the gas as we dive down the ramp and disappear inside the underground garage.

I look behind us as the garage door lowers, locking me in the lion’s den. But as I spot that flat grin on Marshall’s face, I can’t help but think that whatever he’s really up to, he’s just getting started.

One hour earlier

Foundry Church

H
e’d read in some magazine that when you’re hit by a bullet—when it punctures and burns through your skin—you don’t feel it. That the shock overwhelms any pain.

Facedown on the needlepoint carpet, Pastor Kenneth Frick now knew that wasn’t true.

For a moment, he’d forgotten how he got here. He looked around, blinking hard. His heartbeat pumped all the way to his ears. He must’ve blacked out. In his mouth, his tongue—
ptt, ptt
—it was covered with lint from the carpet.

Turning on his side, he heard a squish. The carpet was soaked. He couldn’t see it yet… but down by his hips, a dark puddle was growing, blooming beneath him and slowly engulfing the carpet’s green and yellow leaves.

Feeling a sudden blast of cold air, the pastor looked up, spotting the wide-open window that led out toward the street. The room swirled. He couldn’t ignore the sharp burning pain in his stomach, like someone was using a hot poker to burrow out from inside him.

He clenched his jaw so hard, he thought his teeth would crack. He’d been through worse… in the army… plus with his mother… to watch what happened to her…

Through the frosted glass, a light went on outside, in the main part of the office. Mina Pfister. The youth director. Always right on time.

The pastor struggled to get up on his knees, determined to crawl to the door. The heartbeat in his ears kept getting louder.

He knew that smell… the smell of charred skin… it was coming from him.

He didn’t care. He focused on his mother… what he’d seen…

Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer—the prayer he came back to more than any other.
Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

“Mina…” he shouted, though he couldn’t tell if any words were coming out. “Please… somebody…
someone help me
…!”

Nineteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

J
ust a few more steps,” his mother said, giggling.

She was actually giggling as she cupped her hands over her young son’s eyes and walked him into the snow-covered backyard.

Of course, even at eleven years old, Marshall had known they were about to surprise him. He knew it earlier in the week when he caught his mom on the phone, whispering, “
He’s here… gotta go…”

Kids aren’t stupid. Christmas was only a week away. And after eleven years of being the only kid in their small town with an unemployed father who also happened to be in a wheelchair, well… Marshall was accustomed to the extra thoughtfulness that came this time of year.

Five years ago, the town pitched in to redo the rotted wood wheelchair ramp that led up to their front door.

Three years ago, when his mom lost her job, they bought new clothes and a new backpack for Marshall to wear to school.

Two years ago, they bought Marshall a new bike to replace the one he’d outgrown.

This year? Had to be a dog, Marshall decided. He’d mentioned a dog a few weeks back. But the fact that they kept him at church… stalling him so long—and that he was now blindfolded and being led into the backyard—?

With each step, the icy snow snapped like fresh popcorn under his feet.

He could hear the buzz of dozens of imperceptible whispers. He could feel their… their
energy
?… their
presence
?… whatever it was, he could feel it against his chest. There was definitely a crowd here. But it was coming from…

Above.

“On C…” his father called out. “A… B…”

“
SURPRISE!
” the crowd yelled as his mom removed her hands.

Following the sound and readjusting his glasses, Marshall craned his neck up at the giant mulberry tree, where at least a dozen kids, plus a few parents, were out on the porch of the—In his head, he was about to use the word
treehouse
. But this—It looked like a real house, with a pitched roof and a
porch
. This wasn’t a treehouse. It was a—