by Brad Meltzer
“Tot said you’re a smart person—and a good person, Beecher. I have to believe he’s right. But since the moment this started—whether it’s from guilt or just regret—whatever happened with Marshall when you were little… whatever you built into his life, you can’t see what he’s been building around you: a spider web. And the more you tug, the more it’s going to strangle you.”
“So that’s it? I run to the safehouse, and we just give up?”
“Sometimes it’s like that oxygen mask on an airplane: You’ve got to put the mask over your own mouth first and save yourself before you can save anyone else.”
“What about you, though? You’re the computer whiz. Can’t you do something? Hack something? Alert the Secret Service anonymously?”
“Who do you think sent them the reports on the recent attacks? I sent them Marshall’s name and his photograph. We’re doing our job, Beecher. It’s time to let the Service do theirs.”
I think back to what Nico said when I was at St. Elizabeths: that I was the Knave. That when it came right down to it, I didn’t actually care about saving the President. But I also remember what I told Tot. We need to be the good guys. Always.
“We need to do more,” I insist, reaching for my winter coat.
“Beecher…”
“I mean it, Grace. You’re acting like our hands are tied. We need to tell them ourselves.”
“And how do you plan on doing that, Beecher? You think you can just drive to Camp David?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t—” I cut myself off, still thinking of what happened all those years ago to Marshall in the basement. There’s a cost to doing nothing. I’m not paying that cost again. “All I know is this: What doesn’t make sense is sitting here and doing nothing when we know exactly where and when he’s pulling that trigger,” I say, yanking the ace of clubs playing card from the Tupperware full of urine and running it under a quick blast of water. The words Camp David begin to fade, but you can still read them on the card. “You heard that story Tot told, about Marshall breaking into the army base. The Service has no chance against him. Not when they don’t know who they’re facing.”
“Then let me share this fact with you: If you get anywhere near the President or the White House or Camp David, they’re going to pull every gun they have and aim it at your head.”
“That’s fine, because you know what else’ll happen? They’ll grab the President, take him into whatever saferoom they have out there, and at least he’ll be safe. Think about it, Grace. If you could go back in time and you knew about Lee Harvey Oswald, would you be content with just sending the Secret Service a telegram—or would you drive down to the Book Depository and do everything in your power to make sure the assassination didn’t happen?”
Slapping my laptop shut and tucking it under my arm, I grab the car keys, fly through my living room, and race for the front door.
“Beecher,” she pleads, leaning hard on her Boston accent, “I don’t think you’re thinking this through. What if you’re doing exactly what Marshall wants you to do?”
“Then I guess I’m in—”
I yank the front door open and stop midstep. Blocking my way is a tall man with dyed black hair and the most exhausted eyes I’ve ever seen. He lowers his chin like he’s turning away, but all it does is call attention to the rose-colored scar on his neck. The one he got on the day I saw him die.
“Just hear me out,” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti says. “I have a proposition for you.”
87
They grabbed the chaplain first.
The paramedics, the nurses… they knew she was dead the moment they saw her. Chaplain Stoughton’s skin wasn’t pink anymore. It was ashen and dark gray. No one comes back from that. But they still scrambled, lifting her body, which hit like deadweight, onto the gurney.
Running and ripping away her blood-soaked shirt, they rushed her out of the hospital chapel and across the hall to the emergency room. Chaplain Stoughton was still a member of the hospital’s staff. How could they not grab her first?
It was a younger doctor—an Orthodox nephrologist who’d come down to say a prayer for his sick niece—who was the first on scene. Stepping into the chapel, he saw the puddle of blood pooling across the light cream carpet.
This was still a hospital. Within seconds, gurneys were rolling, IVs were flowing, and the emergency room staff mobilized, filling three side-by-side rooms and trying to bring one of their own back to life. They didn’t have a chance.
In the first room, a trauma nurse called the time of death for Chaplain Stoughton. In the second, an attending physician and a handful of nurses were literally holding Tot’s skull together. As the doctor looked into Tot’s wide-open eyes, only one of them was reacting to light. He’d blown a pupil and his brain was now herniating, shifting to the other side of his skull. They started prepping him for surgery, but already knew the outcome. And in the third room, Pastor Frick—the pastor who was shot yesterday, and who had just gone to say goodbye to Chaplain Stoughton—was still in shock, his eyes dancing back and forth as doctors and nurses shouted questions in his face.
“Sir, are you okay!? Can you hear me!?” someone yelled.
“He spared me… he said my time had come,” Pastor Frick kept whispering, over and over. As his foot tapped against the floor, the digital step counter on his shoe clicked upward.
“Did you get a good look at him? Did you see anything?”
Pastor Frick nodded, a thin splatter of blood running diagonally across his nose.
“You saw the shooter!? What’d he look like!?”
Frick glanced up, his chin quivering. He could barely get the words out.
“Like Abraham Lincoln.”
88
Beecher,” Palmiotti pleads, “before you say anything—”
I hit him as hard as I can.
It’s a quick punch. And a brutal one. A total sucker punch that catches the President’s former doctor just above the eyebrow and sends a shock of pain ricocheting through my fist and down my elbow.
The corner of my phone nicks Palmiotti’s cheek as the impact knocks it from my hands and sends it crashing to the ground.
Palmiotti stumbles backward, holding his face.
“Ow! That’s—Ow!” he yells, more annoyed than hurt. But as he blinks away the pain, he starts nodding. Slowly at first, then faster. “Okay, I deserved that, Beecher. I did.”
“Stay the hell away from me,” I warn him.
“I know you hate me, Beecher. I don’t blame you for it. But if you just listen—”
“Listen to what? Another trainload of lies and bullshit!? You’re a killer, Palmiotti! We both know you’re a killer! In fact, you’re so full of crap, you can’t even die honestly!”
“That’s clever, Beecher. But I thought you’d be a bit more surprised to see that I’m still alive.”
“You think Clementine didn’t tell me? She trusts you even less than I do. I figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up with some new threat. So what’s it gonna be? You still mad that Clementine shot you in the caves? Or now that your pal the President brought you back from the dead, you got some new message for us?”
Before he can answer, I step out onto the porch, reaching down to pick up my phone. From what I can tell, it’s still connected to Amazing Grace. I angle it so Palmiotti can’t see what’s onscreen. Better to have someone listening in than to be here alone.
“Beecher, despite what you think, Orson Wallace isn’t my friend. Not anymore.”
I look up, tightening my glare.
“In all your anger, have you really thought about why I’m standing here? It wasn’t to threaten you, Beecher. After what happened… after what I’ve seen… I understand the benefits of seeing the President dead.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You think Wallace doesn’t know about the pastors’ deaths—or your friend Tot? He may not know who, but he knows someone’s trying to kill him.”
&nb
sp; “But what you just said—”
“No, it’s what you said, Beecher. That Wallace brought me back from the dead. And he did. But that doesn’t mean he gave me my life back. In fact, he’s still holding it, letting it dangle in front of me while trying to use me for his own benefit. I understand now. I know what kind of man he is.”
My skin turns brittle, like it’s made of eggshells. “So now I’m supposed to believe you’re the one trying to kill him?”
“Me? No. I don’t want Wallace dead. But after what he did—what he took from me—” For a moment, Palmiotti lowers his chin, which pinches the scar on his neck. “I don’t care what his title is. Orson Wallace needs to answer for his actions.”
I cock a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, so even though I think you’re a lying piece of garbage, I’m supposed to believe this sudden conversion and the fact that you want to go after the Presi—”
“He took my life from me, Beecher! Not just my family! Not just my love! He took my life!” Palmiotti explodes, his voice booming down the block.
“Only because you let him.”
He grits his teeth. His chest rises and falls from the outburst. “You’re right. There’s plenty I let him do,” he finally says. “But there’s so much more you have no idea about, Beecher. Beyond what happened years ago… beyond the attacks and everything we did with Eightball. Whatever you think of me—whatever you want to believe—let me show you the proof. I have everything we need.”
“Everything for what? I’m still not even sure why you’re here. If you have the proof, and you know what he’s done… why not just take him down yourself?”
Palmiotti shakes his head, forcing a nervous laugh that freezes like cotton balls in the cold morning air. “I know you’re not stupid, Beecher. People love to point at Woodward and Bernstein, but they were just lucky that Nixon was such a cocky, lazy ass. These days, only a fool tries to take on the President of the United States—especially this President—by himself.”
“And assuming I even believe all this, you think I’m the solution?”
“No. I think your group is.” He pauses again, just to make sure I hear him. “I know about the Culper Ring, Beecher. The President told me. So if I help you with this, if I tell you what I know about Wallace and let you put the truth out there, I need the kind of help that only the Ring can muster.”
“Palmiotti, you do realize we live in the twenty-first century, right? If you want to put the truth out there, all you need is an Internet connection.”
“You misunderstand. I don’t need help hitting the send button. But once I hit that button,” he explains, his voice slowing down, “I need someone protecting me.”
I look down at my phone and see that I’m still connected to Amazing Grace. Her words continue to echo in my brain. Seven members. With Tot shot, we’re down to six.
“Doc, I’m not sure the Ring is the solution you think it is.”
“I know you can’t talk about them, Beecher. I know how it works. But I’ve seen their work firsthand. I know what they’re capable of.”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“No, Beecher, you’re not hearing me. I’m offering to help you. With what I’ve seen… I can get you into Camp David.”
I look up, but don’t say a word.
“That is where you’re trying to go, isn’t it?” he challenges. “That’s where you think your friend Marshall is striking next. You think we didn’t know about him either? Or that Clementine’s still unaccounted for? Wasn’t she with you, Beecher? Why’s she not by your side? For all you know, she’s there right now.”
He points down at my closed laptop. No. Not at my laptop. At the playing card that, as I grip the laptop, is still held in place by the palm of my hand. On the ace of clubs, the light purple words are easy to read: Camp David.
I look over his shoulder, still instinctively searching the empty street for Clementine. Even Nico asked her if she was the Knight. Of course she denied it. But Palmiotti is right about one thing: I have no idea where she is.
“Don’t overthink it, Beecher. I was there last Christmas, and on those recovery days after the President’s surgery, and even on the night Wallace had that surprise party for the First Lady. It’s a simple choice, really. You can either stay here and let the President get gunned down, or try to save his life and make sure he’s properly punished for everything he’s done. This is where you find out who you are, Beecher. No one can get you closer. Now do you want to get into Camp David or not?”
89
Nico kept his eyes closed. For nearly an hour.
He kept them closed as they carried him from the parking lot, back into the new building.
He kept them closed as they patted him down, pulled out his shoelaces, and even as they checked his mouth, rectum, and under his fingernails.
He listened carefully as they talked about him. “… recent increase in antisocial behavior…” “… broke Cary’s finger…” “… should put him down once and for all…” And he kept his eyes closed as they undid the Velcro restraints and rolled him off the stretcher, onto the thin mattress.
From there, as the nurses left the room and bolted the door, he couldn’t hear anything. Not even an echo as they disappeared up the hallway.
Nico didn’t like that. With his hearing, he wasn’t used to such intense silence. But at least now he knew where he was. Whatever room they put him in, it was soundproof.
Still, just to be safe, Nico kept his eyes shut.
“I think you’re clear,” the dead First Lady finally said.
Squinting carefully, Nico looked around. The room was narrow but tastefully painted in the same calming celadon green color as the check-in area that they entered through yesterday. He was on a thin blue mattress that was on the floor. There was no furniture, no TV, nothing he could hurt himself with. On his right, one of the walls—the one with the door on it—was made of solid, thick glass that looked out into an empty hallway and allowed the doctors and nurses to look in. And for Nico to look out.
Decades ago, they’d have put Nico in a straitjacket and tossed him in a rubber room. But in today’s modern institutions, restraints were frowned upon and rubber rooms didn’t exist anymore. Now they were called “Seclusion Rooms” or “Quiet Rooms”—places where the patients could find their own calm and “help themselves.”
“So the drugs they gave you… They didn’t work?” the First Lady asked.
Nico shook his head, slowly sitting up. His fingers were stiff and his body was sore from the fighting. As he peered into the empty hallway, no one was there. He wasn’t surprised.
For weeks now, he knew someone had to be looking out for him. The Knight had shown up once, months ago. But after that, he was too smart to return to St. Elizabeths. Indeed, as Nico thought about it, with all the messages that the Knight was able to send—with the invisible ink playing cards that had been tucked into the old books—those messages didn’t just deliver themselves. Someone inside the hospital was helping the Knight communicate with Nico. Someone was on his side.
“You think that’s who gave you the injection, don’t you?” the First Lady asked.
“The Knight told me… He told me he would provide—that we wouldn’t be alone,” Nico said as he replayed the past few days and thought about the one person who always seemed to be showing up, again and again.
“I know who you’re thinking about,” the First Lady said. “But you still need to be careful.”
Nico was being careful. That’s why he was staring at the back corner of the room, where a surveillance camera sat inside an octagonal-shaped metal wedge with scratchproof glass. No question, the camera watched every part of the room. It watched Nico. But to Nico’s surprise, unlike every other camera in the new building, the little red light on top of the camera wasn’t glowing.
“Is it possible to shut off just one camera?” the First Lady asked.
“The Knight said he’d take care of us. That he’d provide,” Nic
o said, slowly climbing to his feet. He was still wary—but he was getting excited. Everything the Knight had said… it was all coming true. Destiny.
Pressing his face and fingertips against the glass, Nico checked the dark hallway. The lights were off, and there were no nurses. No orderlies. No one.
“Looks like God’s looking out for you, Nico.”
“Not just God,” Nico said as he reached for the door. “The Knight looks out for us too. The Knight provides.”
With a tug on the doorknob, Nico waited for the standard metal tunk that came with a deadbolt. Instead, the door swung toward him, not making a sound.
Unlocked.
For an instant, Nico hesitated. But not for long. The Knight was definitely looking out for him. Plus, someone else was too.
Stepping out into the hallway, Nico was on his way.
90
So who do you think’s helping him?” Palmiotti asks, glancing over at me from the passenger seat.
“Helping Nico? Not sure,” I reply, holding tight to the steering wheel.
“Actually, I wasn’t talking about Nico. I was—” Palmiotti stops himself. “You think this goes back to Nico?”
I go silent, my eyes locked on the small two-lane road known as MD 77. For most of the first hour, the game has been the same—he brings up small details, trying to pump me for information. But he’s not the only one playing it.
“Who were you talking about then? You think the President’s getting help?” I ask.
Now Palmiotti’s the one who’s silent. On both sides of us, the suburban strip plazas that lined I-270 have given way to huge swaths of snowed-over northern Maryland farmland and the rising Catoctin Mountain that’s directly ahead. There’s no one around—no one anywhere—but Palmiotti’s still focused on our rearview mirror.
“How can someone be helping the President?” I add. “I thought Wallace was the victim here.”
“He is the victim. But you have to understand, when you’re President—just to communicate with the outside world… That doesn’t happen without help.”
