The Fifth Assassin (11 page)

Okay, Marshall—an artist that sells for 22K? This item clearly isn’t from a flea market.

“You got a call?” his throaty voice asks.

I jump, spinning at the sound. Marshall’s standing right behind me.

He motions down at my phone, which is still in my hand. “You got a call?” he repeats with a verbal shove.

“Just checking messages,” I say, staying where I am.

His eyes narrow. “Most people can’t get cell phone reception here,” he says.

I look down at the phone Tot gave me two weeks ago. Souped up by Immaculate Deception. Built just for the Culper Ring.

“It’s a good phone,” I say, verbal shoving him right back.

Marshall licks his lips and I notice that the left side of his tongue is a lighter shade of pink than the right half. It almost looks like it’s plastic. His tongue was burned too.

“Do me a favor,” Marshall says. “Tell me why you’re here.”

I continue to look right at him. “I’m here to see what
you
wanted to talk to
me
about.”

“Pardon?”

“When you got arrested yesterday, you had my name in your pocket.”

He cocks his head, watching me. “I get it. The police called you.”

“Of course the police called me. They found my name and number in your pocket.”

His shoulders stay square. His grin’s back in place. I look down, noticing his perfectly shined shoes. “Why else would I have your number on me, Beecher? I wanted to talk to you.”

“Really.”

“Isn’t that what old friends do? I ran into Craig Rogers last week. Remember him?”

“I know who Craig Rogers is. I see him on Facebook.”

“Then you know he has your phone number. Which he gave to me and said I should call you. I didn’t even realize you lived here in Washington.”

I nod and take a look at that $22,000 painting. “Marshall, you know someone was killed in that church, right?”

“So I gathered. Apparently that’s why they arrested me.”

“What were you doing there, anyway?”

“What does anyone do at a church, Beecher? It’s nearing the anniversary of my mother’s death. You know how much prayers meant to her.”

“You were there
praying
?”

“I was there praying.”

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“The sanctuary is open till midnight. Apparently there are some very religious people who work across the street.”

It’s a perfect story. No holes in it. “They said you also had a pack of old playing cards on you. With a missing ace of spades.”

“I always have them on me. I travel a lot. They’re good for solitaire.”

“And the ace of spades?”

Without warning, he hits both his front pockets. From one, he pulls out the pack of playing cards and tosses it at me. From the other, he pulls out his phone. I didn’t hear it ring or vibrate, but as he looks down at it, this is clearly a call he can’t miss.

“Beecher, you’ll have to excuse me a moment. I need to take this.” Heading back toward the bedroom, he adds, “This is Marshall…”

He closes the door quietly, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I study the playing cards. The box is yellowed and severely worn. On the back of the pack is a classic hand-drawn American eagle with spread wings. But instead of its head raised high, the eagle ducks down, its head lowered, like it’s ready to bite something.

I glance back at his closed bedroom door. Underneath it, Marshall’s shadow paces back and forth. Whoever’s calling him, he’s caught up in it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I head for the nearest cabinets. When we were kids, I remember Marshall’s dad kept all his medication in the kitchen drawers, since he could reach them from his wheelchair. If I’m lucky, maybe Marshall does the same. But as I hunt through the drawers—silverware in one, spatulas and wooden spoons in another… nothing to speak of.

The overhead cabinets are the same. The first has dishes, bowls, cups, and glassware.

The next has wineglasses… coffee mugs… a few thermoses… but again, nothing revealing. The mugs are all plain, same as the thermoses. No school logos, team logos, work logos—nothing. And for the second time, I start wondering if this sterile place is really a safehouse.

But as I open the biggest cabinet—looks like the pantry—the first thing I spot are large boxes of breakfast cereal.

I scan quickly. Of course, there’s no Lucky Charms. It’s all healthy now: Raisin Bran… Special K… and one of those fancy oat ones you buy at Whole Foods. My brain flips back to the treehouse… and the hiding spot for every nudie pic we could find.

I grab the box of Raisin Bran, ripping it open. Nothing. Same with the Special K. And the fancy oat one. Nothing and more nothing.

Closing the cabinets, I turn back to the bedroom. Marshall’s still pacing. Time for one last attempt.

On my right, where the cabinets run in an L-shape around the corner, there’s a section of the counter that’s built like a desk, but with no drawers. It’s where Marshall threw his keys. There’s also a neat stack of mail and a few boxes from J.Crew.

Tossing his pack of cards on the counter, I flip through the mail. Electric bill… something from a wine-tasting organization… coupon circulars… His name’s on all of them. But the address—it’s not the same as the address here. They’re all addressed to the P.O. box that Immaculate Deception found earlier. It’s the same with the J.Crew packages. But as I lift the rest of the mail off the final box—

The flaps on the box pop upward. It’s already open. There’s no address on it. No return address either.

I look back at the bedroom. He’s still busy.

As I push back the flaps and peer into the box, staring back at me is a shiny white face, with no eyes.

I jump at the sight.

A mask.

It’s a plaster mask. White, like chalk. It looks like…

It’s Abraham Lincoln.

I pull out my phone and try to take a quick pic, but my hand’s shaking. I can’t steady it.

I look again over my shoulder. Marshall’s still pacing in the bedroom.

My phone makes the fake
cha-chick
as I snap the picture. Tot needs to see this. I forward the photo to him, with a note:
Found in Marshall’s place.

Quick as I can, I fold the box shut and put the stack of mail back on top.

I have no idea why Marshall would have his own Abraham Lincoln mask—but considering we’re looking for John Wilkes B—

Over my shoulder, there’s a low steady sound, like someone breathing.

I don’t even have to turn around.

Marshall’s right behind me.

Four days ago

Ann Arbor, Michigan

T
here are certain moments that change a person’s life. For some, it comes quickly and violently, in the form of a car crash. For others, it comes from bad news at a doctor’s office.

For Clementine, as she sat Indian-style at the kitchen table in her small rental apartment, papers spread out in front of her, she assumed it would come with Nico’s file.

She finished reading the file days ago. She read every word. Every report. Every review.

She read the commendations—six in total. One called her father
sober, industrious, and of impeccable character
. Another commented on his attendance record, and noted that he had accumulated hundreds of hours of unused sick leave. Another said that Nico had
rendered invaluable assistance
when there was a fire on base.

She read the scolding letters of reprimand too—all of them coming in the later years, when whatever they did to him was already long done. Doctors warned of sudden
long periods of silence
, then of his
disregard for the safety of himself and others
, and finally of his
aggressiveness and inability to distinguish fantasy from reality
.

But as Clementine flipped through the file again and again, there wasn’t much more than that. Yes, the file showed that her father… that Nico… had been inducted into the military three years earlier than his public records say. And yes, if she was piecing
it together correctly, that some of that time was spent with the navy, despite the fact he was an army man. Aside from that, as she tried to rebuild the file in chronological order, there was no other paperwork from any of those first three years. They were gone. Three entire years—totally unaccounted for. No commendations, no letters of discipline, no nothing.

Until Clementine could unlock those years, she’d never know what really happened, never know what her father went through. Most important, assuming she was right that the experiments on
him
had been passed to
her
, she’d never be any closer to understanding the cancer that was currently eating through her own body.

She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. What’d she expect? That the President would hand her a smoking gun wrapped in a big bow?
Here you go… even though we’ve kept it hidden for two decades, here’s that top-secret info about your dad that you kept asking for.

The truth was, the file already told her the answer. Or part of the answer. Those three years—by the mere fact they were missing—that’s when the damage was done.

Unfolding herself from her Indian position and sliding one leg under her, Clementine continued flipping through the file. In front of her, on the table, she made four different piles—one for each of the “acknowledged” years that Nico served in the army.

Page by page, she distributed the papers, assigning each document to its appropriate year. Most of the commendations came in the early years, the reprimand letters in the later years. But for the most part, it was the same as before: nothing.

That is, until Clementine flipped through a set of paper-clipped documents and noticed a pale pink sheet that was stuck inside. Of course, the pink color stuck out. She’d seen these sheets before: immunization reports. The army took vaccinations seriously, and Nico had a form like this for all four of the years that he’d—

Wait.

Cocking an eyebrow, Clementine stared at the piles on the table and counted again. Nico already had four of these.

This was a fifth.

Staring down at the sheet, she double-checked the date. The page started shaking in her hand. This was from one of Nico’s missing three years.

She was reading fast now. There wasn’t much to it.
Request for… Nicholas Hadrian… to receive influenza vaccination…

It was a request for a flu shot. So easy to overlook. But unlike the other immunization reports, this one was…
Approved
.

For whatever reason, someone had to specifically approve this flu shot.

Her hand still shaking, Clementine looked at the bottom of the sheet. There it was, in thin black pen: a muddled signature. The signature of the doctor who approved it. Dr. Michael Yoo.

From there, the next half-hour was easy. An Internet search with the terms
Dr. Michael Yoo
and
army
brought back only two candidates. One died last year, at the age of forty-two. Too young.

The other lived in San Diego, California.

Ten digits later, Clementine had her cell phone to her ear, listening as it rang once… twice…

“Hello…?” a soft older man’s voice asked.

Clementine didn’t say a word.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“I’m looking for Dr. Michael Yoo,” Clementine blurted.

“Who’s this?” he countered.

For an instant, Clementine searched her brain for the best way to keep him talking. But all she came up with was, “I think you know my father. Nico Hadrian.”

There are certain moments that change a person’s life. For some, it comes in the form of a car crash. For others, it comes at a doctor’s office.

For Clementine—as she sat there, her hand now steady—it came from a stranger on the other end of a phone call.

“You must be Clementine.”

Today

Crystal City, Virginia

I
spin around. Marshall’s almost nose to nose with me.

“I hope your call wasn’t bad news,” I say.

“Now you’re wondering about the mask,” he says, calm as ever.

“Listen, Marsh—”

“
Marshall.
And I’m not mad, Beecher. You saw the mask. You should have some questions. Especially considering it came from the crime scene.”

“The mask did?”

He makes a mental note, tracking the fact that, at least for me, the mask is a new piece of the puzzle. “Where do you think I found it?” he asks.

“So now you
found
the mask?”

“Please don’t take that tone, Beecher. If my story didn’t check out, you think the detectives would’ve released me last night? I know how investigations go. I do them for a living. And I know how often they incorrectly grab the first suspect just because they’re the closest suspect.”

“Just tell me about the mask, Marshall.”

“I found it two blocks away. In a garbage can on the corner of 17th Street.”

“Why’d you even go looking for it?”

“You’re joking, right? If you really have friends who are D.C.
Police, you know how overwhelmed they are. If they’re accusing me of murder—which thankfully, they aren’t anymore—you better believe I wanted every piece of evidence that proves my innocence.”

“So why didn’t you tell the police about it?”

“I did. Called them last night. Then again this morning, which is when they finally assigned a detective to the case. Check their call log; you’ll see. They asked me to handle it only with gloves, pack it up in bubble wrap and bring it in today.”

I glance over my shoulder at the closed box that holds the mask and the bubble wrap. Another perfect story.

“What kind of investigations do you do?” I ask.

“I was about to ask you the same,” he counters, reaching for the deck of playing cards and sliding them back in his pocket. “I mean, for you to be looking into this… to track me here… Who you working with these days?”

“Uncle Sam,” I reply, watching him carefully.

“Funny. I have that exact same uncle,” he replies, watching me just as carefully.