by Brad Meltzer
“I brought him up,” he points out. “But Beecher, would I have told you about Pastor Riis if I was the one who killed him?”
“I’m just saying, I know he’s not just some guy who means nothing to you.”
“That’s why I started looking. First at Riis, and then at the other two.”
“Two? What two? There’s Riis—and there’s the rector who was killed at St. John’s…”
“And then there’s the one from this morning,” he says, watching me carefully. He was testing me, to see if I knew that one. The thing is, I’m not sure if I passed or failed. Was I supposed to know or not?
“Someone else was killed this morning?” I ask.
“Pastor Kenneth Frick. They found him shot in the back at Foundry Church… up on 16th Street. But from what the paramedics said, he’s gonna survive—”
“Hold on. Back up. You said shot in the back?”
“Yeah. Why? What’s special about the back?” Marsh asks. Unlike before, there’s no calculus in his question.
I stay silent, replaying the facts.
“Say what you’re thinking, Beecher.”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him, though I have a pretty good hunch. In 1881, President James Garfield became the second sitting President to be killed in office when he was assassinated by a bullet wound… in his back.
Last night it was Abraham Lincoln… now James Garfield… two lethal attacks that have now been re-created within twenty-four hours. I knew we had a copycat killer. But whoever’s doing this isn’t just trying to imitate John Wilkes Booth—he’s imitating, in intricate detail, the worst murderers in U.S. history. The only thing that doesn’t make sense…
“How does this tie back to Pastor Riis?” I demand.
“Three murders. All three of them clergy.”
I nod. Of course that’s how he sees it. He doesn’t spot the copycat assassin part. He just sees dead pastors. But as I replay the facts, St. John’s is known as the Church of the Presidents. Foundry Church, I’m pretty sure, is where FDR used to take Winston Churchill for services, and where Lincoln was also a member. That means both churches have ties to the commander in chief. “How about Riis?” I ask, trying to fill in my own sketch. “Where did he die?”
Marshall cocks his head at that, his sparse eyebrows fighting to knot together. “You see something in those two recent deaths, don’t you?” he says.
“You just told me about them. What can I possibly know?”
He looks back up at the windows across the street.
I wear a key around my neck. I found it back in Wisconsin when I used to work at Farris’s secondhand bookshop. It was hidden in an old dictionary, and good things happened on the day I found it—the kind of good things that helped me escape our little town. So, as whacky as it sounds, since that time, I’ve worn the magic key on a thin leather necklace. The only time I notice it is when I’m sweating bad and it sticks to my chest. Like now.
“Tell me more about Riis,” I add. “How’d you find out he was killed?”
“Jeremy Phillip’s dad called me,” he says. A name from our past.
“And did Riis—?”
“Riis didn’t work in Washington. Had nothing to do with D.C. churches, if that’s where you’re sniffing. He was living out in North Carolina. Retired years ago. As far as I can tell, the only thing these two pastors might’ve had in common was that Riis spent a few years in Tennessee, teaching at Vanderbilt Divinity School out in Nashville. And when I looked at the rector who was killed at St. John’s last night…”
“He graduated from Vanderbilt too, from the Divinity School. I saw the diploma when we were at his office yesterday.”
Marshall stops at that, still staring across the street. “You still have that amazing memory, don’t you, Beecher? No detail too obscure,” he says with a smile that actually feels kind.
“So when you were at the church last night,” I say, “it really was because you were doing your own investigation.”
“You know what I do for a living. It’s good government work. And important work. But this one—with Riis—whatever else you think happened with him all those years ago, no one deserves to die like that. So yes, I’m doing this one by myself. But if you have any extra resources, with whatever organization you said you were working with, please jump in.”
“And what happens when you catch him?”
He turns away from the street, his gold eyes hooded as he locks on me. “I told you: I’m taking a steak knife and slicing out his larynx.”
He doesn’t blink. But after a good ten seconds, his lips press into a thin grin.
“I’m joking, Beecher. Can’t you take a joke?”
I think about the Abraham Lincoln mask I found in his house, and how he already knows about this so-called “new” murder this morning. But more than anything else, I think about that night in the basement and the real reason Marshall has so much hate for pastors. And for me.
“I don’t like jokes like that.” I pause, searching his face. “Just answer me one thing: Clementine Kaye. You really don’t remember her?”
He taps what’s left of his pale tongue against the back of his teeth. “Short black hair. Always wore short skirts. You really think I’d forget who your first crush was, Beecher? I looked her up after you left my apartment. Nice job keeping it from going public—it took nearly every clearance I have to read the report, but… Nico Hadrian’s daughter? She screwed you up pretty good too, huh? You never had good taste in girls.”
I shake my head. “Why’d you lie?”
“For a smart guy, you know very little. So know this: Just because you had one devil from your past, doesn’t mean you now have two.”
Before I can reply, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I know who it is.
Tot starts talking before I can even say hello. “You still with Marshall?”
“I am. Everything okay?”
“Not sure,” he says, though I know that tone in his voice. “We’ve got another murder. Some priest got shot in the back. Like President Garfield.”
“I heard,” I say, eyeing Marshall, who, as he walks back to his car, is still staring at the empty building across the street.
“Here’s the kicker, though,” Tot says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “We did some homework on that photo you emailed,” he adds, referring to the plaster Abraham Lincoln mask that I found in Marshall’s apartment. “I know where Marshall stole it from.”
36
Diagonally across the block on H Street, Secret Service agent A.J. Ennis kept his head down as he stood under the awning at the greeting card store and watched Stewart Palmiotti press the buttons on his phone.
It wasn’t hard to double back around the block after they ate at Wok ’n Roll. Maybe A.J. was just being paranoid. But as he learned a few years ago when he was paranoid enough to check his fiancée’s text messages, sometimes paranoia pays off.
Across the street, from what A.J. could tell, Palmiotti was clearly worked up as he dialed a phone number. A.J. had no idea who Palmiotti was calling. But when you have a guy who’s not supposed to be interacting with any parts of his old life, nothing good is going to happen when he’s punching at a cell phone.
From his pocket, A.J. pulled out his own phone and dialed a ten-digit number that didn’t ring. It clicked.
Click-click-click… Click-click-click…
“You saw him?” the President of the United States answered.
“I saw him.”
“He doing okay?”
“Actually,” A.J. said, “that’s what I’m starting to worry about.”
37
You agree something’s wrong with him?” Tot asks as we fight through traffic in the pale blue Mustang.
“I don’t know about wrong,” I say from the passenger seat, still picturing the scars on Marshall’s face, and the way his tongue looked like it was rebuilt with lighter skin. “Something definitely happened to him. He’s different.”
“No, he’s not just different, Beecher. That job he has… to do what he does… he’s missing the part of his brain that tells him to stay away from danger. And in my experience, when you’re missing that, your problems are just beginning,” Tot says, jerking the wheel and cutting off a muted green Range Rover that wasn’t doing anything but going the speed limit. Since the moment I picked him up at the Archives, he’s been in a mood.
“Tot, did I do something wrong?”
“Just answer me this: Do you know what the worst part was of what happened with Clementine?”
“I told you, this isn’t Clementine.”
“I’m not trying to scold you, Beecher. I’m asking you to take a look at who you are. Because to me, of all the things Clementine did, the very worst was this: She showed them your weakness. When she reentered your life, she showed the President and everyone else that when it comes to an old friend or someone you’re emotionally involved with, you’ll ignore all logic and reason, even in the face of facts that’re telling you otherwise.”
“That’s not true,” I say, stealing a quick glance in the rearview just to make sure we’re alone.
“Beecher, we’re looking for someone who’s been killing pastors while wearing an Abraham Lincoln mask and, for some reason, carrying nineteenth-century playing cards. Earlier today, in your friend Marshall’s apartment, you found a Lincoln mask that—oh yeah—perfectly covers the scars on his face, plus those same cards with the missing ace of spades. Do you really need the smoke to be twirling out of the barrel of his gun before you’ll realize what he’s doing?”
“I hear what you’re saying, Tot, but aren’t you the one who also taught me that even when the whole world is telling you one thing, sometimes you need to follow your gut?”
“Hhhh,” he says, turning the small grunt into a full sentence. In the distance, even though it’s getting dark, I spot the tall black metal gates on my right. “Beecher, have you ever really looked at the men who’ve tried to kill our country’s leaders? Experts put them into two categories: howlers and hunters. The howlers threaten us by sending scary notes and calling in bomb threats, but the good news is, they rarely follow through. They just want attention, so for them, howling and making noise is enough. It’s different with hunters. Hunters act on it. They research, prepare, plot—and follow that path to a goal. But what’s most interesting is that howlers aren’t interested in hunting. And hunters aren’t interested in howling. So now that you spent that time with Marshall, which do you think he is?”
I stay silent, staring at the red taillights of the cars in front of us. But all I see is the hollow smile on Marshall’s face as he made his joke about killing the President with a steak knife.
“He had your name in his pocket for a reason, Beecher. And he wears those gloves for a reason. Now your prints are the ones all over that Lincoln mask. So in case you hadn’t realized it, when it comes to any murder, even the worst hunters know the benefits of bringing along a fall guy.”
“I hear you, Tot. And I appreciate the warning.”
“Can I ask you a different question?” Tot interrupts. “I know I know the answer to this, but if Marshall was trying to kill the President, you sure you’re ready to stop him?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, we all know how you feel about President Wallace. So with this second pastor that was shot at Foundry Church… First we had John Wilkes Booth… now Charles Guiteau… This isn’t just a single act anymore. It’s a pattern of dead Presidents. So tell me, Beecher: If that pattern kept going toward our current President—”
“Who said that’s where it’s going?”
“You telling me it’s not? Someone just meticulously re-created two assassinations,” he says, his voice getting slower. “And there are only two more presidential assassinations to imitate. So. If this is going where we both think it’s going, and it led to President Wallace having a steak knife at his throat, would you really want to stop it?”
“Would you’ve really picked me if you didn’t know the answer?”
“I said I knew the answer. I’m just trying to get you ready,” he says, his voice more serious than I’ve ever heard him. “I know the President is a piece of garbage, and I hate him just as much as you do, but this is what we do in the Culper Ring, Beecher. Whatever our feelings, we protect the Presidency.”
“I’m not a killer, Tot.”
“And I’m not saying you are. But you have to admit: If Marshall did have his hand on that steak knife—if you just stood there and watched—boy, that would really kill a few birds with one knife.”
For a moment I sit there, my eyes still on the red taillights in front of us. “That’s what you really think of me?” I finally ask.
“Doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is, based on the direction these murders are headed, this will happen, Beecher. And when it does, you need to be ready with your decision.”
I’m still silent as he slows the car and veers right, into the wide driveway filled with flagpoles that hold both U.S. and military flags. The black metal gates are already open, revealing a bulletproof security shack that, a year ago, used to be swarming with armed guards. These days, there’s just one, dressed in full army camouflage and armed with nothing more than a clipboard. In the grass, on our right, is a sign welcoming us to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, home to one of the country’s most famous and respected veterans’ hospitals.
“They still haven’t shut it down?” I ask as Tot rolls down his window.
“The hospital’s closed. They moved most of it to Bethesda. But that’s not all they had here.” Tossing a smile at the guard, he adds, “We’re here to see Dale Castronovo. We should be on the list.”
I don’t like it here, I think to myself as we drive through the dead-empty streets that snake across what looks more like a college campus than a military base: lots of brick buildings with pillars in front, lots of open green spaces. But no one’s in sight. Truly no one. “You sure it’s even safe here?”
Tot doesn’t answer, and I get the picture. Doesn’t matter if it’s safe. We need what they have.
Up ahead, there’s a five-story 1970s-era gray concrete building with a U-shaped front driveway. As we turn into the U, a light outside the building flicks on, revealing a tall and severely skinny woman. Dale.
Unlocking the front door, she’s wearing a preppy plaid sweater, stone-washed jeans from the late 1980s, thick glasses, and three pens clipped in her pants pockets. I know an archivist when I see one. Who better to run the army’s private medical museum?
“You got a real ghost town up here, Dale,” Tot says as we get out of the car.
“Okeeyeah, you have no idea,” Dale replies with a rat-a-tat-tat laugh that sends puffs of her frozen breath through the air. “You ready to see the body of Abraham Lincoln?”
38
Out in the cold and speedwalking up 23rd Street, Secret Service agent A.J. Ennis remembered that when Clementine first reached out and demanded Nico’s files, the President told him to schedule a doctor’s appointment, which A.J. knew meant have Palmiotti handle it.
When Clementine wanted the meet-up out in Michigan, the President said, “schedule another doctor’s appointment.”
And this morning, when everything first went wrong—with Marshall… with Beecher… with everything at St. John’s Church—the President kept his same refrain: “Schedule a doctor’s appointment.”
In A.J.’s mind, President Wallace was being safe. But he wasn’t being smart. Sure, to Wallace, Palmiotti was like a brother. But as A.J. learned all too well when his mother died and the fighting started with his siblings, no one can disappoint you more deeply than family.
More important, as A.J. reported back to the President after lunching with Palmiotti at Wok ’n Roll, the doctor wasn’t the man he used to be.
Maybe it was the shooting, maybe it was from one too many personal sacrifices, or maybe—as A.J. had seen on so many staffers when they left the
White House—Palmiotti’s ego simply couldn’t handle the fact that the President was moving on without him.
Whatever the case, reassurances from Palmiotti were no longer that reassuring. So when the call came in about another pastor being shot—this time at Foundry Church—A.J. of course brought it to the President. If this was what he thought… if the snowball was already moving this fast… it had to be dealt with. Immediately.
“Sir, just tell me what to do,” A.J. had asked in the side room off the Oval Office, where President Wallace kept a small refrigerator and his stash of frozen Snickers bars. “Should I schedule another doctor’s appointment?”
Unwrapping a Snickers, the President didn’t say anything. Not one word.
A.J. heard him loud and clear.
Twenty minutes later, A.J. marched toward the monstrous beige brick building that took up most of the block. He didn’t bother slowing down, even as the automatic doors slid open and a puff of indoor heat warmed his face.
Letting his training take over, he scanned each sector left to right, then up and down: A black granite reception desk up ahead. A single security guard on the right. Back in Beltsville, the very first lessons of Secret Service training had taught him to look for the person who wasn’t acting like the other members of the crowd. Find the person who was fidgety, or sweaty, or who was patting his own chest, a well-recognized tip-off that he was carrying a weapon. But right now, the few men and women who were pacing and waiting by the leather sofas all had similar looks of anxiety, even desperation.
He expected as much. Especially here.
“Welcome to the George Washington University Hospital,” the woman at the front desk announced. “Are you looking for a doctor or a patient?”
“Patient,” A.J. said. “A pastor.”
39
Marshall didn’t go to the front gate.
The front gate meant a guard, which meant being seen, which meant being remembered. Worst of all, if the guard made a phone call, it would let them know he was coming.
