by Brad Meltzer
“You’re wrong.”
“Marshall, I appreciate the pep talk, but—”
“Do you have any idea why I went to the Lincoln Memorial?” he challenges.
I shake my head.
“Because you sent me there, Beecher.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“From the very start, I was trying to find the person who killed Pastor Riis. So when that first rector was murdered at St. John’s, the only pattern I saw was someone killing pastors. That is, until you came in and found all those links to John Wilkes Booth: the peephole in the wall, and the piece of wood in the umbrella stand. Once I heard you and Tot talking about that—”
“Wait. You bugged me?”
“In your wallet. Right after you bugged my car,” Marshall shoots back. “But the fact remains, without you spotting that original Abraham Lincoln connection, I would’ve never found the pattern of dead Presidents. That’s when I started looking at Wallace, and his schedule, and all the places he was supposed to be.”
For thirty seconds I stand there, still digesting his words. “I still don’t understand how you knew the Knight would be at the Lincoln Memorial.”
“I didn’t. In fact, I thought it was A.J. who was doing the killing. So when it came to the Memorial, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance. And even if I was wrong, I had you at Camp David,” he says, his voice warming up as much as his voice can ever warm up. “You understand what I’m saying, Beecher? I may’ve grabbed the gun and shot the Knight, but when it comes right down to it, you’re the one who actually saved President Wallace. That was the job, right? You did everything the Culper Ring couldn’t. That’s why they picked you.”
I look straight at Marshall, who, for once, doesn’t look away. Though I try to fight it, I feel a grin lifting my cheeks.
“Beecher, you truly don’t make any sense, y’know that?” Marshall adds, sounding mad. “I thought you hated Wallace.”
“I do hate him.”
“So you’d rather save his life now, and then hope to take him down fair and square later?”
“There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Marshall.”
“You sure about that? Because when I was up by that big Lincoln statue and the Knight started reaching for his gun… God, I took joy in pulling that trigger. Real joy.” Reading the look on my face, he adds, “Don’t look so shocked. You know how many people he might’ve killed if I didn’t take that shot? Y’know how many kids were up there?”
“But that’s not why you took the shot, is it?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You weren’t at the Lincoln Memorial to protect Wallace, or even to save a bunch of kids. You said it just now. You were after the Knight because he killed Pastor Riis.”
“What’s your point, Beecher?”
“I’m not—I just—” I cut myself off, still wondering whether to touch the subject we’ve both avoided for so long. “It always goes back to that night, doesn’t it? With Paglinni and the basement… when we… when I—” My voice cracks. I fight to catch my breath, still terrified that the words I’ve waited so long to say will never repair this pain. “Marsh, I’m sorry I sent you in there. I was a coward that night. I never should’ve let you go down there alone.”
“Beecher…”
“No. I need to say this, and you need to hear it. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.”
“Beecher, there’s nothing you could’ve stopped.”
“That’s not true. If you never went down there… if you never saw your mom with Pastor Riis—”
“Don’t blame Riis. It wasn’t him.”
“How can you say that?”
“It wasn’t him.”
“But he’s the one who—”
“Listen to what I’m saying, Beecher. It. Wasn’t. Him.”
Struggling to read Marshall, I replay the night. I can still see the yellow tint from the porch lights. Still see the view from the driveway. And still see the front door flying open as Marshall’s mom, holding her bra in her hand, shoved Marshmallow outside.
“Pastor Riis wasn’t even there,” Marshall insists.
I hear the words, but they don’t make sense. Marshall’s mom was half dressed. She was with someone. But if Pastor Riis wasn’t there—
Oh.
In front of me, the yellow porch lights fade, leaving me staring back at Marshall’s gold eyes, which drill at me in my living room.
“Mrs. Riis?” I blurt.
Marshall doesn’t move, but I feel him nod.
I nod back, my mind still processing. “But even so… if we—If I didn’t send you down there—”
“Beecher, do you know how I got into your house tonight? I picked all three of your locks. Easily. And back when I was in the military and finishing the training that taught me how to do it, for the final exam, my squad leader gave us one final lock that we’d have to pick. In the corner of the room, he’d lock you in one of those diver’s cages like you see during Shark Week. In your pocket, he’d give you a bent piece of metal, then he’d point at the rusted old lock and tell you it should take you three minutes or less to pick your way out. ‘Go,’ he said, slamming the cage shut and hitting the stopwatch.
“Within the first few minutes, the lock didn’t budge and I knew I was in trouble. As ten minutes went by, I started to sweat. By the thirty-minute mark, I’m flipping out and still can’t open the door. Finally, after an hour of trying to pick this lock… in total frustration, I collapse against the door, which swings open. The squad leader shoots me a grin.”
“The door was unlocked the entire time,” I say.
“Completely unlocked. But in my mind, it was locked—and that was enough to keep me from opening that door and getting out.”
“What’re you trying to say?”
“You didn’t put that gun in my mother’s mouth, Beecher. Or pull the trigger. It’s time to let yourself out of your cage.”
Staring across at my old friend, I try to swallow, but my throat expands with a ball the size of a grapefruit. I had no idea until this exact moment, but I’ve been waiting eighteen years to hear those words. “Marsh…”
“Don’t thank me, Beecher. And don’t cry either,” he says, serious as ever. “If you cry, I’ll stab you.”
“Yeah… no… I’m not crying,” I say, fighting hard not to laugh. “But y’know what’s funny? I think I remember Pastor Riis telling a story just like that during one of his sermons. But when he told it, it was Harry Houdini who was in the cage.”
Staring back at me, Marshall presses his lips together, unreadable as ever. “It’s still a good story,” he says.
“I agree.” Nodding to myself, I’m amazed how much it makes me think about the still missing Clementine.
Stealing one last look at the black-and-white photos, Marshall turns toward the door and reaches into his pocket. “By the way, here you go…” he says, tossing me a small black object.
“What’s this?” I ask as I catch the outdated, flip-style cell phone.
“It’s a phone.”
“I can see it’s a phone.”
“It’s a clone of the one Palmiotti uses to call A.J. When Palmiotti’s phone rings, so will that one.”
“Where’d you get this?”
“I told you. My friend in the Service. Not everyone there is a scumbag. Anyway, you listen to it long enough, you might hear something interesting.”
I glance at the phone, then at Marshall, who’s nearly out the door. “But you’d never join the Culper Ring, right?” I call out to him.
“I don’t like bullies, Beecher. Especially presidential ones.”
“I’m taking that as a yes!”
Stepping out into the night with his head ducked down, Marshall doesn’t answer.
113
Three hours earlier
Washington, D.C.
At first, the dark blue car just circled the block,
around and around, slowing down as it cruised along Pennsylvania Avenue, then speeding up again as it approached the corner and made a sharp right on 6th Street.
Over and over, the driver retraced the circle, but not for too long. There was nothing suspicious about pretending to look for a parking space. But this close to the White House, which was barely ten blocks away, only a fool thinks he can circle the block too often without being noticed.
Quietly settling into an open spot on 6th Street, the driver shut the engine, looked around, and eyed the two or three nearby pedestrians.
Nothing so far. It was almost time, but the driver still knew it was best to be patient.
The only problem was, the driver hated Washington, D.C.—especially this part of D.C., diagonally across from the National Archives. Too many bad memories.
After a half hour, the car pulled out of the spot and started circling again: looping around the block, slowly rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, and speeding up on the corner of 6th Street.
These days, the northeast corner of 6th and Pennsylvania held a modern glass-fronted building that was home to the Newseum, a museum dedicated to news and media. But what the driver really cared about—aside from the two uniformed guards who stood just inside the glass doors of the museum—was what used to be here. Years ago. Nearly a hundred and fifty years, to be precise, which is when the National Hotel used to occupy this exact corner.
Founded in 1827, the National was so popular that sitting Presidents from Andrew Jackson to Abraham Lincoln used to leave the White House and spend a night there, enjoying terrapin dinners and rare old wines. Indeed, Lincoln even had his post-Inauguration banquet there. In 1852, Henry Clay died in Room 116. But of all the great secrets contained in its halls, none was greater than the one that was hatched on the second floor—in Room 228—where John Wilkes Booth stayed while he plotted to assassinate President Lincoln.
Glancing down at the car’s digital clock, the driver pumped the brakes and again searched the sidewalk as the car rolled slowly along Pennsylvania Avenue. A young woman with a forceful gait and a Justice Department ID leaned forward as she plowed against the wind tunnel created by the canyon of tall buildings that lined the block. In the opposite direction, a middle-aged couple held hands as they headed for the Metro.
But as the car reached the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, what caught the driver’s eye was a homeless man approaching the corner of 6th Street.
He was no different from most of the homeless people on the street tonight. His knit cap was tattered and old, he wouldn’t make eye contact, and his crumpled jacket and torn pants looked like they were fished from the garbage. But as he reached the northeast corner of 6th and Pennsylvania—just as his foot touched the edge of the curb where the National Hotel used to exist—the driver couldn’t help but notice the time: 10:11 p.m.
The exact moment John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger on Lincoln.
Hitting the brakes on the corner of 6th Street, the driver lurched forward as her car bucked to a stop. The homeless man didn’t look up.
“You’re not alone,” the driver of the car called out as she lowered the passenger-side window.
“Clementine?” the homeless man asked, staring at the woman behind the steering wheel.
Clementine nodded, staring back at the so-called homeless man. At Nico, her father.
“Nico, you need to get inside,” Clementine added, popping the locks.
Turning to the side, Nico muttered something as if he were talking to someone next to him. His imaginary friend.
“Nico…”
Adding a quick prayer, he pointed a thank-you up to God and mouthed a silent Amen. Pulling open the car door, he slid into the front passenger seat, smelling of fish and wet garbage.
As her fingers curled around the steering wheel, Clementine couldn’t take her eyes off him, overwhelmed at how simultaneously old and young she felt every time she was in her father’s orbit.
“How did you know I’d be here?” Nico blurted, drilling her with a look that felt like he was trying to break her down to a chemical level.
“I’m your daughter,” Clementine offered.
Nico almost turned away. But he didn’t.
“I thought you’d be with Beecher,” he finally said.
“I’m not.”
“He’ll be looking for me. They’ll all be looking for me.”
“I understand,” she insisted. “I’m still your daughter.”
Clicking his front teeth together, Nico felt his cheeks rise into a crooked grin. “I need a razor,” he insisted.
“We can get it later,” she replied, kicking the gas and twisting the wheel as the car took off up 6th Street.
“I need it now. I need a razor right now,” he told her, staring up at the passing storefronts and streetlights. It’d been so long since he’d been outside the hospital.
Ten minutes later, after a quick stop at a nearby CVS while Nico waited in the car, Clementine handed her father a can of shaving cream, a set of disposable plastic razors, and a bottle of water.
“You don’t have to do this now,” she said, sending the car racing up the street. Next to her, Nico popped open the shaving cream and sprayed it into his hand.
With a quick smudge, he spread the cream into his black hair and tore open the bag of razors with his teeth.
“You need to use the water,” she told him.
Nico didn’t care. Starting at the back of his own neck, he pressed the blade to his skin and tugged upward, taking out a square of black hair and leaving a tiny nick of…
“You’re bleeding,” Clementine said, turning quickly and pulling onto a quiet side street where they’d be better hidden. “Please… can’t this wait?”
But it couldn’t. If Nico was in pain, he didn’t show it. Rinsing the blade with a dump of bottled water, he started again, working his way upward.
Shutting the car and watching him, horrified, Clementine assumed he was worried about being seen or recognized. By now, his picture was all over the news. But as the clumps of hair fell away, she noticed there was something else besides stripes of shaving cream and streaks of blood on the back of his head. At first, she could only see the edge of it: a thin line. It was muddy and pale green.
“Is that a tattoo?” Clementine asked, mesmerized as she studied its curved lines. Slowly, Nico worked the razor upward, shaving his own head.
“No,” Nico said. “It’s a symbol.”
With a sharp tug, the metal blade swallowed a final chunk of black hair from his nearly bald skull, which was shaved down the center like a lawn mower plowing a jagged line through a black forest. But it wasn’t until Nico lowered the razor and turned toward the passenger window that Clementine got a good look at what—for decades now—he’d kept hidden underneath. The final secret Nico Hadrian had kept from them all, even the Knight: a small tattoo that dated back to the Renaissance, where it was the fifth and final suit in certain decks of cards: a crescent moon.
The final suit of the final Knight. And the clear sign that—dear Lord, he had no choice but to admit it now—this mission had always been his.
His body shook, fighting to contain the tears he was keeping inside. In that moment, his entire life made sense. This was why he was chosen. Fate had led him to so many places—and now, once again, it had led him back here. Back to the original mission. Like his predecessors, like his fellow Knights, it was his destiny to kill the President of the United States.
The Knights of the Golden Circle would live again.
Facing the back of her father’s head, Clementine studied his reflection in the passenger-side window. “You know you don’t have to do this,” she told him.
Nico raised his close-set eyes, staring back at her. “That’s what you’ve never understood. I don’t have a choice.”
Knowing better than to argue, and wondering if he might actually be right, Clementine continued to study her father’s reflection. The more hair he took off his head, the more
he looked like Clementine without her wig.
“Were you being honest before?” Nico asked, running the razor up the side of his head. “Do you have my cancer in your body?”
Clementine nodded, feeling her blonde wig clamped against her skull. But as she started the car, she didn’t want to talk about cancer, or killing, or anything else. For the first time in her life, Clementine just wanted to enjoy a quiet night with her father.
114
One week later
Camp David
What about meatballs. You like meatballs?” the President asked.
“You know I like meatballs,” eight-year-old Andrew replied, trailing behind his father through the cabin’s rustic living room.
“And do you like hamburgers?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t say maybe,” Wallace told his young son, heading into the bedroom, toward his closet, where he pulled out a fleece pullover with the presidential seal on it. “That’s a rule for life. When someone asks you a question, say yes or say no. Stand for something. Now, do you like hamburgers?”
“Yes,” Andrew said assertively.
“And do you like taco meat?”
“May—Usually,” the boy said.
“Usually counts as a yes,” the President pointed out, sliding his arms into the fleece and pulling it on. As his head popped through the neckhole, Wallace’s hair was still perfectly in place. “Then you should like steak. Meatballs, hamburgers, taco meat… that’s all steak is, just in a different form.”
“But it’s harder to chew,” the boy countered.
Making his way back to the front door of the cabin, the President of the United States stopped and looked back over his shoulder at his son. “You really are going to be a politician when you grow up, aren’t you?”
“I don’t like what I don’t like,” Andrew said.
“That’s fine. Tell Suzanne to make you some spaghetti instead. And tell your mother we’re not having any more children.”
