The Fifth Assassin (10 page)

“I guess,” Marshall said, thinking it over. “But obituaries are weird.”

“You wish. Outer space is weird.”

The two boys looked at each other. For a moment, the treehouse was silent.

Hopping off the bed, Marshall raced for the treehouse door.

“Where you going?” Beecher asked.

“To fart. My mom said it’s rude t—”

“How old are you? Six? Fart here! No one cares!”

Standing there, Marshall kept his hands at his side and did exactly that.

It was a quiet one.

“You do realize,” Beecher said, leaning back in the beanbag chair, “it’s conversations like these that make people not wanna hang out with us.”

Marshall laughed at that. A real laugh.

“But with space, and the obits, it’s also why we
will
escape,” Beecher added. “From here… from Wisconsin. We’ll be the only ones who get out of here.”

“I’m not worried about getting out of here,” Marshall replied, sitting
on the edge of the foldout bed and glancing down at his house below them. “I’m just worried about who’ll take care of my dad.”

Beecher fell silent, but not for long. “I bet we can find someone to take care of him too.”

In that moment, as Marshall focused his attention back on the treehouse… as he scooched back on his foldout bed and thought about how many people had been packed in here just eight months ago… as he looked past the Plexiglas window and the super-cool bottle opener, Marshall Lusk realized that when it comes to treehouses, the only thing you really need… is a friend.

“I just farted again, Beecher.”

“I know. I can smell, dumbass.”

Six days ago

Ann Arbor, Michigan

S
ometimes, when the stress felt overwhelming, Clementine would imagine—would practically feel—her chubby ginger cat making figure-eight loops around her ankles.

She was doing it now as she drove back along the highway. In her lap, she had the file that Palmiotti had given her, propping it open and letting it lean against the steering wheel.

Clementine wanted to pull over, to just read it on the side of the highway. But the thought of Palmiotti, or anyone else, catching her by surprise… She knew she had to wait.

She couldn’t. She’d been waiting for so long—for her whole life, really. So as she focused on the calm that her cat brought, she stole quick glances at the file.

It was hard to read, especially at this speed—and there was so much to go through, from the physical and mental profiles to the documentation of her father’s service. As she kept glancing down to fish through the papers, she stopped on the very first thing that looked easy to skim.

It was a single, pink page, right at the front. The word
commendation
stood out.

It was just a letter. From the typewriter font, it looked like one of the oldest documents in there. Scanning the first paragraph, she kept glancing up at the road, then back to the text. According to the letter, her father—Nico Hadrian—
was instrumental in rendering
valuable assistance during battlefield operations modeling at Headquarters
.

There was a loud
tunk-tunk-tunk
as her car drifted left out of its lane, plowing over the reflective road studs along the highway. Looking up, Clementine tugged the wheel, bringing the car back on course.

She tried to breathe, but her chest… it felt like someone had reached underneath her ribcage and wedged their fist up into her throat.

It was a simple letter. A commendation. From Commanding Officer Bryan Burgess…
rendering valuable assistance
… It said he did something
good
.

In her lap, the file folder fell to the right, spraying paper across the seat.

The swirl of emotions caught her by surprise. Her eyes became watery. But what she was feeling wasn’t sadness. Or even relief. Holding tight to the steering wheel, Clementine felt the fist in her throat growing heavy, sinking down into her belly. This was anger.

With a jerk of her foot, the ghost of her ginger cat dissipated like a rolling cloud.

Palmiotti was right. The real reason she had searched for this file… and risked so much to get it… was so she could get answers about her cancer. About her health. About herself. Her future.

But to see this commendation… to see what they wrote about him…

They always said he was a creature with no redeeming attributes. But here, this was proof. Proof of what could’ve been. Of what should’ve been.

Proof that Nico—her father—wasn’t born a monster. They turned him into one.

Today

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

H
ere you go, Nico. Welcome home,” Nurse Rupert announced, throwing open the heavy wooden door to Nico’s new room, which wasn’t much different than the average college dorm room, right down to the institutional furniture and the thick concrete walls.

Stepping inside, Nico noticed that instead of doorknobs, there was a metal latch that you push, like you see in hospital rooms. But unlike hospital rooms, next to the latch was a small metal switch. Nico knew what that was. If a nurse flipped the switch, instead of opening
inward
, the door would open
outward
, ensuring that as a patient you can’t barricade the door.

“
They put your calendar up
,” the dead First Lady pointed out as Nico turned toward the only item on the otherwise bare walls: his Washington Redskins calendar that was already hanging above his nightstand, just like in his old room.

“
The light switches are new too
,” the dead First Lady added.

Of course Nico noticed that. In the old building, patients used to unbend paper clips, jam them into the light switch, and use the live wire to light their cigarettes. But now the light switch in Nico’s room was covered with a bulky porcelain switchplate that was snug around the switch and didn’t allow anything inside.

“It’s childproofing for really
big
kids,” Rupert joked. “So whattyathink?
Does your unbridled happiness make you committed to stop being such a pain in my keister?”

“Where’s my book?” Nico blurted. “They brought my calendar, but where’s my book?”

“I dunno. Check the dresser… or one of the drawers…”

Slowly opening the drawers on his nightstand, Nico saw a copy of his Bible, his red glass rosary, and a few other knickknacks from his drawers in his old room. But not the—

“My book isn’t here,” Nico insisted.

Before Rupert could argue back, the door opened behind them. “Just checking in to make sure everyone’s—” Dr. Gosling took one look at his star patient and could read the stress on his face. “Nico, what’s wrong?”

“They didn’t send my book,” Nico growled.

“I’m sure they sent it. We’ll find it,” Rupert insisted, frantically yanking open the drawers of the dresser.

“You mean this book here?” Dr. Gosling called out, pulling a book from the top of the wardrobe that was bolted to the wall.

“There!” Nico said. “My
book
.”

“Where’d you find that?” Rupert challenged.

“Right here. It was sitting on top of the wardrobe,” Dr. Gosling replied, his King Kong tie swaying just slightly.

“I-I must’ve missed it,” Rupert apologized.

“I didn’t see it up there either,” Nico blurted as Rupert looked over at the top of the wardrobe. As Rupert knew, Nico never missed anything.

“Maybe now you can take him down to TLC,” Dr. Gosling said, referring to the therapy center downstairs.

“Yeah… that’s what I was thinking,” Rupert said, motioning Nico out into the hallway.

Following a few steps behind the oversized nurse, Nico was already flipping through the pages of the leather-bound book with gold writing on the cover. It was an old book, a novel called
Looking Backward
. He stopped on page 122, where his bookmark was.

“C’mon, Nico, they’re waiting for you,” Rupert called out.

Nico stayed silent, his head down. He was already lost in his book, which he cradled in his left hand. In his right, he pulled out his makeshift bookmark: a shiny new playing card.

The dead First Lady smiled as she saw it.

“I’m right behind you,” Nico said, rubbing his thumb against the ten of spades and knowing that after the spades came the diamonds.

T
ell me what I’m looking at,” Tot said, staring as the browser on his computer screen loaded its video image. “These security cams?”

“Traffic cams,” Immaculate Deception’s computerized voice said through Tot’s phone, which sat on the desk of his cubicle in the Archives.

Sure enough, onscreen, the video came to life. The images weren’t perfect, but they were clear—and in color—showing an intersection that Tot recognized as 16th and H Streets in downtown D.C., not far from the White House. “I’m surprised Homeland Security lets you get this close.”

“They don’t. You never get a clear shot of the White House. But
one block from it
, the Department of Transportation runs feeds over the Internet so commuters can avoid the traffic snares that come with motorcades and other delays.”

“God bless America.”

“No. God bless paranoid people,” Mac said. “See the site you’re on?”

“
EyesOnWhiteHouse.com
?” Tot asked, reading the URL.

“After 9/11, everyone wanted to know who was walking the streets near the White House. So one site started recording
all
the traffic feeds, cataloging and stocking the footage so you can view it whenever you want—like your very own DVR. This shot is from 9 p.m. last night.”

In the left corner of the screen, Tot saw a clear shot of St. John’s Church.

The still image refreshed every three seconds, like he was
watching bad stop-motion animation. Cars appeared, frozen—then…
blink
… they were ten feet ahead and then…
blink
… they were gone.

Leaning in, Tot put on his reading glasses and studied the front steps of the church, waiting to see the killer.

“If you’re waiting for the killer to enter, he doesn’t,” Mac said. “Police report said he entered from the back. But here’s where the fuss is…”

Tot’s cursor, controlled remotely by Mac, clicked a button, and the video fast-forwarded to 9:30 p.m., then 10 p.m. There were still cars on the streets, but not many people.

Until 10:19 p.m.

Onscreen, a man’s shadow entered first, and then…
blink
… there he was: on the steps, leaving the church. Like a ghost. The church’s tall columns obstructed the view, so Tot could only see him from the waist down.

He had a glove on his left hand, and his other hand was stuffed into his coat pocket. Taking a step down and coming more into frame, he looked left…
blink
… then right, like he was worried he was being watched.

Blink.

He was down on the second-to-last step, by the curb. But as the light hit his face…

Blink.

Tot’s eyes went wide.

“You seeing that?” Mac asked, freezing it right there.

Tot didn’t answer. He stared at the screen—at the killer. There he was.

On his face was a white plaster mask.

Leaning toward the screen, Tot squinted. Even on a webcam, even under the bad light, even though he couldn’t see much else… some faces are unmistakable.

No question, it was Abraham Lincoln.

M
arshall keeps his hand on my shoulder and follows behind me as we enter his apartment. He’s unnervingly calm, as if he’s been expecting me for weeks.

In the living room is a dark gray starter sofa from IKEA with matching gray IKEA chairs. It’s the same with his glass-and-metal coffee table, which match his glass-and-metal end tables, which match his glass-and-metal entertainment center. Everything’s from a set—and not the expensive set either, which makes me wonder if he’s on a government salary like me.

But as I scan the room, what really stands out is just how little this so-called living room looks lived in. The chairs are untouched. The sofa doesn’t have a crease in it. On the tables, there’re no books, or framed pictures, or any of the other knickknacks that are proof of life. I feel like I’m in a play, and this is the furniture for the “living room scene.” Or even worse. I look around.

Please tell me this isn’t a safehouse.

I think about the safehouse I was in a few months ago—used by the government to hide diplomats, witnesses… or even for a private conversation with the President of the United States.

I look around again. Except for a neat stack of mail on a nearby desk, and a bowl of blueberries on the kitchen island, the only personal touch in this whole place is on the long wall behind the sofa. A simple white frame holds an elegant… at first I thought it was a photo… but it’s a canvas. A painted canvas slightly bigger than an iPad. I walk closer to see it.

It’s a painting of a woman, though her features are blurred. Her eyes aren’t really there. Her mouth either. And as she enters this
soothing, turquoise body of water, her legs… her arms… her whole body seems to dissipate, spreading outward from her waist as if she’s becoming part of the water.

“Nice painting,” I tell Marshall to break the silence.

“Flea market,” he says, blowing past me and beelining toward his bedroom. “I need to use the restroom,” he adds, thinking I don’t notice that as he cuts through his bedroom, he’s still wearing gloves.

He zigzags quickly around his bed, crossing into the bathroom. I pretend to keep staring at the painting, but I can see him back there. He takes his gloves off. And throws them… did he just throw them in the trash?

As he closes the door to the bathroom, I look back at the painting. I work with enough priceless documents to know archive-quality matting when I see it.

Reading the signature at the bottom—
Nuelo Blanca
—I type it quickly into my phone, adding the words
painting for sale
. The first hit that comes up is a gallery in Los Angeles. For a painting called
WaterFall 5
. Price tag? $22,000.