by Brad Meltzer
“Who’re you talking to? You know something about my boy?” Mrs. Young stutters, tears flooding her eyes.
“Beecher, if White Eyelashes is as smart as we think he is, he’s got someone watching his mom’s place!” Mac insists.
A loud buzzer shrieks through the room, punctuating the point.
“Don’t answer it,” I tell Mrs. Young.
Panicking, she lunges, pressing the button. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know me.
“Ma’am, my name is Leonard Riestra—from the United States Secret Service.”
As soon as I hear his deep voice, I fish through my coat pockets to see if they traced me here. Both are empty. I know they can’t track my phone. Mac takes care of that. That still leaves my car, though there’s nothing I can do about it right now.
“They don’t bring the director for house calls,” Mac warns as Mrs. Young buzzes him in.
For Riestra to be here, they’re not screwing around. Neither am I. For centuries, the Culper Ring has worked outside the system, safeguarding the United States against whatever abuses inevitably show their faces. For the past few hours, the face that keeps showing up is Riestra’s. Maybe he’s just trying to protect the commander in chief. Maybe he and White Eyelashes are in this together. Either way, here’s the one thing I can’t shake: Whatever message those body parts are sending, the only way to bury them that close to the President is to get help from someone inside.
“Why’s the Secret Service here? What’s going on?” Mrs. Young asks.
I glance out the window, toward the alley behind the building. Right now, I’m half a step ahead of the Service. I’ve done nothing wrong; it doesn’t matter if they find me here. But if they do, I’ll be sitting in this living room for the next three hours as they pump me with questions.
“Where’s your fire escape?” I ask Mrs. Young.
“There’s isn’t a—”
“Please. I know you have one. Is it off the bedroom or the living room?” I owe Marshall for that. He taught me never go in a place unless I know how to get out.
Mrs. Young doesn’t answer. Outside, a thundering herd echoes up the stairwell. Riestra’s not alone.
“You have nothing to hide,” I say to Mrs. Young. “You can tell them you spoke to me. They know who I am. Give them all the details. Tell every agent that’s here.”
I take off for the bedroom, a cramped little rectangle that sadly reminds me of my own room. Alarm clock on only one of the nightstands. Creased pillows on only half the bed. This is how I’ve lived for too long.
Through the window, I spot the rusty grating of the fire escape.
“You know what happened to my son, don’t you? You don’t think it was suicide,” Mrs. Young calls out behind me as I tug at the closed window. Years of old paint crack and fall as the window gives way and the cold twirls across my torso.
Back in the living room, there’s a loud knock on the door. Riestra’s here. Mrs. Young doesn’t move, staying with me.
“Ma’am, I promise you one thing,” I tell her, straddling the windowsill with one foot outside. “I want to catch the person who did this. I know what it means when you don’t know why your loved one is gone.”
She nods tearfully at me.
The knocking on the front door gets louder than ever. “Mrs. Young, please open up!”
I duck out onto the fire escape, scrambling quickly down the metal stairs, bits of rust biting at my hands. Third floor…second floor… I kick at the metal pin that frees the final ladder and sends it dropping to the ground. Rung by rung, fist below fist, I clamber down, leaping off the final perch as my soles smack the pavement.
Before I can even stand up, there’s a quiet click behind me.
“We’re the Secret Service,” A.J. says. “You think we don’t cover the back exit?”
59
The gun was an antique, releasing a small black musket ball that blew out the front of Marshall’s armpit, taking hunks of muscle, skin, and blood with it. Back during the Civil War, guns like this needed to be reloaded, and the gunpowder repacked, after each shot. Instead, this modified six-shooter gave Ezra multiple shots.
For a half-second, Marshall just stood, staring down at the shreds of skin of his blown-out armpit like he was staring at a bruise he didn’t remember getting. As training took over, he reached into the bloody hole, which swallowed his fingers up to the knuckle. If the bullet was there, he couldn’t find it. His heart took a long, aching beat. Then the burning pain arrived.
His legs wouldn’t work. Crumpling to the ground and gripping his own armpit, Marshall clenched his teeth, refusing to let himself scream. A sound still came out of him, a guttural wail that sounded like the howl of a dying dog.
“Y’know, another inch over and I would’ve collapsed your lung,” Ezra said, standing over him. “Don’t worry, though. In that part of your armpit, there’re no major vessels, no critical organs. Though eventually, the blood loss will certainly be a problem.”
“Y-You should’ve put that bullet in my head,” Marshall growled.
Ezra smiled at that. “You think I came to kill you? I did my homework, Marshall. I know who you are.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“That’s not true. There’s a reason I want you on my team. So here’s your chance,” Ezra said, squatting down next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to join the Knights of the Golden Circle?”
60
Twenty-nine years ago
Devil’s Island
It was just another breakfast. And since it was Friday, the cooks had put little bits of bacon into the eggs as a treat. Ever since Julian died, the Plankholders had been tossed a few extra indulgences.
For most of the troops, it was an appreciated gesture. For Alby, it would’ve been too. But as he sat there at his cafeteria table, replaying that moment last night when he saw Julian—alive and doing just fine—Alby didn’t care much about breakfast, much less bacon-infused eggs.
“You eating your biscuit?” the kid from Arkansas asked, sitting across from him.
“Not really,” Alby replied, sliding Arkansas his tray and working hard to keep everything looking normal.
“You look like hell,” Arkansas added. “What’s wrong with you anyway?”
“Wha? No, I’m fine. I just— Crappy night’s sleep.”
Arkansas nodded. So many of them had been fighting diarrhea. “That mean you’re not eating your eggs?” Arkansas asked.
Alby spun his cafeteria tray, sliding the eggs across the table. “By the way, you seen Nico?” Alby asked.
“Right behind you.”
Alby turned, just in time to spot Nico standing there, silent as could be, with his own tray of bacony eggs.
“Mind if I sit?” Nico asked, sounding congested.
“Sure. Yeah. Of course,” Alby stuttered, pointing next to him. He hadn’t seen Nico come in, much less get in line or get his food. It was almost as if he’d appeared from nowhere. But what unnerved Alby more than anything else was the simple fact that Nico was now sitting at Alby’s table. Except for Arkansas Ovalface and…well, Julian…almost no one ever sat at Alby’s table.
Otherwise, like any morning, everyone was in his usual place. Timothy and the meatheads were at their regular table. The marine guards were at their regular table. And at the front of the room, Colonel Doggett sat alone at the head of his own regular table.
“You eating your biscuit?” Arkansas asked Nico.
“Leave me alone, Ovalface,” Nico threatened, putting a hand on his biscuit and pulling out a familiar paperback book. The same book that had been on Nico’s bed last night. Julian’s old book. The Diary of Dr. Mudd, one of Abraham Lincoln’s killers.
When Alby woke up twenty minutes ago, of course he’d wanted to tell someone—to tell anyone—what he’d seen last night. But as he watched Nico sit there, hunched over and lost in the pages of the last book Julian was seen reading, something told Alby to kee
p his mouth shut. At least until he had more info.
For a while, Alby sat there, eyeing Colonel Doggett at the head table. Doggett didn’t look at Alby, didn’t even glance in his direction. If Doggett knew that Alby had been there last night, ducking behind the date palm tree, Alby wouldn’t even be here this morning, right?
For sure, Alby decided. Had to be.
Ten minutes later, the colonel wiped his mouth and bused his tray. Leaving his table, Doggett nodded a hello to the marine guards, and another to Dr. Moorcraft. But as the colonel slid his dirty cafeteria tray into the rolling rack, Alby realized that Doggett was doing the one thing he never did on any morning: He was headed for the Plankholders’ tables.
“Everybody get a good night’s sleep?” Colonel Doggett asked, stopping midway between the meatheads’ table and Alby’s.
“Yes, sir,” Timothy shot back along with a few others. Nico didn’t react at all, didn’t even look up from his book.
For a half-second—no more than that—the colonel’s dirt brown eyes turned to Nico, then to Alby. Nico still didn’t look up. It was just a half-second. It felt like an eternity.
“I like the bacon in the eggs. Makes it good, right?” the colonel asked to another round of Yes, sirs.
That was it.
Doggett didn’t look at Nico again. Didn’t look at Alby either. But Alby was looking at him, studying the colonel’s face, his exclamation point stance, and the only thing he was carrying: a manila file folder tucked under his arm.
No big deal. Every colonel has files. But as Doggett nodded goodbye and pivoted toward the door, Alby couldn’t help but think that somewhere on this island there had to be other files. Records that could explain what was really going on.
“Mind if I eat the hash browns too?” Arkansas asked Alby.
Without a word, Alby got up from his seat.
As the colonel shoved the screen door open and left the cafeteria, Alby followed directly behind him.
Alby knew what he had to do, and where to find what he was looking for.
61
Today
Arlington, Virginia
G-Go screw yourself,” Marshall said, fighting to take a breath and feeling like there was a thorn in his lungs.
“Before you say no—” Ezra began.
“I already said no. If you want to keep fighting…I-I told you where to put your next bullet,” he said, crawling away from Ezra, away from the barely conscious Clementine. Marshall’s body was in shock. His armpit was burning. He cupped the bullet wound with one hand as blood seeped between his fingers, leaving a trail of droplets behind him. Based on his breathing, the bullet hadn’t gone clean through his armpit. Something internal was hit.
“Where you going? To your car?” Ezra asked. “Don’t be such a martyr. You know you’re not leaving Clementine behind. And you’re certainly in no shape to move her. It’s really a teachable moment: At times like this, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone you can call for help?”
“Eff you. You shot me.”
“Would you’ve talked to me otherwise? Should I have just texted you a quick note instead: Wanna hear about the Knights? Smiley face!?”
Crawling on his belly, Marshall looked down at his shirt, where a small spot of blood was growing next to his nipple. The bullet had ricocheted off his ribs. “You’re a sick person, and you don’t even know how sick you are,” Marshall said, coughing the words as his lungs tightened. “Your so-called Knights—”
“You have no idea what the Knights are!”
“I know exactly what the Knights are! You think we don’t know about the buried arms? Or that Clementine didn’t tell me about the maudlin little photo you carry around of you and your grandfather meeting Ronald Reagan? Y’know how many grip-and-grin photos a U.S. President takes? Reagan probably took—ahuh—he probably took eighty just that day! It doesn’t mean you’re special! And it certainly doesn’t mean you’re on some holy mission! You’re a child who’s chasing the Culper Ring for nothing more than imagined revenge.”
Ezra stood there, posture square as ever, licking his own busted lip from the car crash. “You put a lot of faith in the Culper Ring considering how little you know about them.”
“Whatever you’re about to say, you’re a liar,” Marshall insisted, still belly-crawling to the car, each new breath bringing new pain.
“Ask this: Do you have any idea who’s in charge of the Culper Ring, or what they really stand for? Or are you just as naïve as Beecher?”
Marshall stopped, glancing back over his shoulder. Ezra’s clothes were brand-new. Herringbone coat. Polo shirt. Overpriced dark jeans. But the way his jeans were bunched at the waist, held in place by his belt… They didn’t quite fit. Like he was wearing someone else’s clothes. It was the same with his belt. The prong of the belt pointed left, like you see with someone left-handed. But Ezra was holding his gun with his right. Something was off. Why would someone dress like someone else?
“Unsettling thought, right?” Ezra asked. “You think you’re playing for the Culper Ring angels, but what if you picked the wrong side?”
“Tell me why you put that coin in the buried arm.”
“You really are lost, aren’t you? When someone sends a message—”
“Tell me about my father.”
“First things first. I want you to join us, Marshall. And I think you will…once you hear the real mission of the Knights of the Golden Circle.”
62
Baltimore, Maryland
A.J. studies me, arms crossed over his tie, not saying a word. He always plays pissed when he sees me, but as he stares down at me, his thick ribcage rising and falling, it’s like he’s breathing different.
“I figured you’d be with Francy and the big man,” I challenge.
Casually, he glances up at the tall brick building, studying the fire escape, but not answering.
“Riestra must be pretty invested to come here and do his own legwork,” I add.
A.J. glances around the L-shaped alley like I’m not there.
“A.J., did you hear what I—?”
His eyes slide sideways toward me. He chews on some imaginary gum in his cheek. “No sign of Beecher back here,” he says into his hand mic, eyes perfectly locked on me.
I take a step back, confused. The blue-jeweled lapel pin is gone from his chest. He’s no longer on Wallace duty.
Still in shock, I head toward the side of the alley that leads out to the street.
A.J. shakes his head, then catches himself. This isn’t easy for him. Before he can talk himself out of it, he points with his forehead to the other end of the alley, which cuts behind a neighboring building.
This way…? I ask with a glance.
He turns his back to me.
I take the hint, running slowly at first, then faster as I hear a window open four stories above us.
“She said Beecher came this way!” Riestra shouts from the fire escape.
“I’ll check again!” A.J. shouts back. “You sure he didn’t go up to the roof!?”
I’m running so fast, I don’t hear the answer.
Shooting out of the alley and reaching the street, I make a quick left, back toward Tot’s—
Screeeech.
The car appears from nowhere, bucking to a stop in front of me.
“Don’t look so surprised. C’mon, get in!” an older woman with a wide nose, outdated horn-rimmed glasses, and a silver bob calls out. Usually, her voice is in my ear, coming through a voice modulator: Amazing Grace aka Immaculate Deception.
“Mac, what’re you—?”
“The Service traced your car. That’s how they knew you were here.”
“Who told you that?” I ask, tugging open the door and sliding into the passenger seat.
She shoots me a look over the brow of her horn-rims. On her wrists are two carpal tunnel Velcro braces. She undoes the Velcro, then redoes it again. “What’s my job, Beecher? You think I don’t have someone in the Servi
ce?”
She hits the gas. I’m staring in the passenger rearview, watching the building shrink behind us.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” I ask.
“I just got word about the car on the way here. My hope was, you’d be out of there before they came.”
“You were wrong about that.”
“But you know what I’m right about?” she asks. “Riestra isn’t just looking for White Eyelashes anymore. He’s also looking for you.”
63
To understand the Knights,” Ezra began as he tucked his antique gun back in his coat, “you first need to understand the Culper Ring.”
“I already know about the Ring,” Marshall shot back, still down on his belly, gritting his teeth to get a deep breath. If he was lucky, the crash was loud enough that someone called an ambulance. He closed his eyes to listen. Nothing was coming.
“You know the story Beecher told you…and that Tot told him.”
“Just get to the point. If you think the Ring is evil—”
“Evil? You think this is some childhood game? What George Washington built with the Ring…I admire it more than you know. In fact, for those first few years, the Ring worked beautifully. But there are some things the Culper Ring can’t do. Ever hear of Thomas Hickey and William Tryon?”
Marshall shook his head, keeping his chin down. He was finally in position. He had a clear view under the gray car. During the crash, his gun had gone flying. It should be here somewhere.
“Back in 1776, Thomas Hickey was in charge of protecting one of the military’s biggest generals. Hickey’s friend Tryon was the governor of New York. Together, along with the mayor, they plotted to kill Hickey’s boss, a man named George Washington.” Ezra waited for Marshall to look up, but when he didn’t, he added, “Can you imagine where we’d be today if they succeeded? Forget Benedict Arnold. Thomas Hickey is the name we should remember. But lucky us, the Culper Ring did their job, rounding up Hickey and everyone involved. That’s their mission: to protect the President.”
