The Fifth Assassin (21 page)

With a final tug, Marshall was out—literally pulled onto the worn yellow carpet with the daisy edges. The girls didn’t have to say a word. The circle formed instantly around him.

“You fat little shit!” Beecher’s sister shouted. “I should tell Pastor Riis what you did!”

“Y’know the pastor’s screwing your mom!” the girl with the gold cross added.

“That’s not true!” Marshall said.

“I heard he’s screwing her because your dad’s penis is even more broken than his legs,” the blonde with braces added.

“That’s why you’re an only child!” another girl said.

“I bet your penis is broken too!” Rita chimed in as the group let out their collective giggles and laugh.

“Broken penis!”

“Little penis!”

“No penis!”

The laughter grew louder as Marshall lay there, curled on the carpet, covering his head like he was in one of those 1950s Cold War instructional videos trying to protect himself from an atomic bomb.

In the back corner of the closet, as Beecher jammed himself against a row of once neatly hanging sweatshirts, he felt the empty clothes hug him, like cotton ghosts.

“They call you
Marshmallow
because you’ve got those boy boobs too, don’t you, fatty?” one of the girls called out.

“His dad has man-boobs too. Bigger than his mom’s!”

“Maybe the pastor’s screwing your dad too!”

The circle tightened around Marshall, like a gang when they start kicking their victim.

“
Don’t cry, fatty!
” Rita threatened as Marshall’s body started to shake.

Of course, Beecher wanted to stop them. Wanted to race out and help his friend and scream to stop them all. But he didn’t. He
couldn’t
, he thought. They were older. And bigger. How could he take on a roomful of—?

“
That’s enough
,” a girl’s voice interrupted. Calmly. Confidently.

The room turned.

Still embraced by the ghost-sweatshirts, Beecher peered out from the closet. He knew who it was.

Clementine.

“What’d you just say?” Beecher’s sister challenged.

“Listen, if it was my little brother, I’d kill him too,” Clementine said. “So go kill your brother. But don’t think you’re all-powerful just because you can pick on the fat kid who can’t fight back.”

The room went silent.

“Listen, bitch—you weren’t even really invited to this party,” the short bossy girl named Rita jumped in.

“You think I wanna be here? I’d rather gouge my eyes out than look at some Napoleon-teenbitch who’s so insecure she can’t remember how much the same thing hurt two minutes ago.” Turning to Marshall, Clementine added, “C’mon, get up.”

Jamming his fingers underneath his glasses to wipe his eyes, Marshmallow slowly rose to his feet. He didn’t say anything. He simply followed Clementine to the door.

Beecher watched it all from the closet. Clementine was incredible. Even more incredible than he had thought before.

But as she disappeared and Marshall trailed behind her, Beecher was still waiting for Marshall to turn back to him. He waited for Marshall to take one last glance over his shoulder.

Beecher kept waiting for his friend to look.

Marshall never did. He didn’t need to.

Beecher knew what had happened—he knew he was the cause of this.

And the sad truth was, it wouldn’t be the worst pain that Beecher would cause for Marshall Lusk.

Today

G
et out of my house!” I shout.

“Benjy, listen to me…” Clementine pleads, using the old nickname my mom used to call me.

“Get out!”

“Beecher, before you—”

“
Get the hell out of my house!
” I insist, rushing forward and swinging my briefcase at her.

She hops from the chair but doesn’t take a single step away from me.

Her smell—a mix of caramel and a pinch of peach from her lip gloss—washes over me, reminding me of our kiss two months ago. She’s wearing the same tight black sweater from that first day we reconnected. It’s not nearly enough to make me forget what happened after that.

“Beecher, just listen.”

“
Listen!?
You’re a liar. You’re a manipulator. And the last time we were together, you—oh yeah—
you murdered someone
!” I yell the words so loud, they burn my throat. “I’m calling the cops. They’re going to arrest you,” I tell her coldly as I reach for my phone.

“No. You won’t,” she challenges. “That doesn’t help either of us.”

I dial 911 and hit—

Her hand whips out, slapping the phone from my grip. It rockets
against the armrest of the sofa and ricochets off the floor, skittering under the coffee table.

“Are you insane!?” I ask. Then I remember who her father is. Of course she’s insane.

I dart for the phone. She grabs my wrist.

I try to pull away. She’s holding so tight, her nails dig into the underside of my wrist.

“
Get… off!
” I shout, fighting to pull free and giving her a hard shove that slams her in the shoulder, catching her off balance and sending her stumbling backward.

Her feet hook on the carpet and she falls like a cut tree. The back of her head hits the edge of one of the lower shelves on a nearby bookcase, and her head snaps forward. A few picture frames sky-dive from the higher shelves, crashing next to her.

Heading for the coffee table, I reach for my phone.

“Beecher, can you please calm down a second?”

Thankfully, my cell’s not broken.

“I’m serious, Beecher! You need to listen!”

Again, I dial 911.

“You really think I came here without a good reason?” Clementine pleads. Her voice is desperate now.

I hit
send
and wait as it rings.

“I didn’t come here empty-handed!” she says, struggling to sit up. She reaches behind her back like she’s pulling something from her waistband.

If she has a gun—

“You need to pay attention,” Clementine says, pulling out a…

… folded-up sheet of paper.

No gun. In my ear, 911 rings for the second time.

“Beecher, you need to see this. It’s written by your father.”

“Everything you say is a lie, Clementine.”

“Not this time, Beecher. It’s a letter he
wrote
.”

“And that’s how you planned to hook me in? That’s as low as you could go? By using a letter that my dead father supposedly wrote to me?”

“He didn’t write it to
you
. He wrote it to your mother.”

On the third ring, I hear a click as the operator picks up. “Emergency Assistance. What is your location?”

“What’re you talking about?” I ask. “It’s a love letter?”

“No,” Clementine says. “It’s his suicide note.”

M
ost people made small talk with Julie Lyons. She knew why. It’s not that they liked her. They knew where she sat, and what she was in charge of.

Back during the President’s term as governor in Ohio, Julie—a fifty-four-year-old, square-faced woman who, around her neck, wore gold charms with her kids’ names on them—did all of Wallace’s scheduling. Today, her job was exactly the same, making her the only person who sat in the small room that connected to the Oval Office—and more important, the official gatekeeper for anyone who wanted to see the President.

“
Hey, Julie—how’s it going?
” most staffers asked.

“
You do something new with your hair?
” the real suck-ups would add.

“
How’s your daughter doing at Dartmouth?
” the smart ones said.

But as A.J. stepped into the cramped office and approached Julie’s desk, the last thing on his mind was small talk.

“Ma’am, we need to speak with him,” A.J. announced, using the word “we” even though he was alone.
So Secret Service.

“Sorry. He’s on the phone,” Julie said, pointing A.J. to the wingback chairs across from her desk.

A.J. didn’t move. At all. “Ma’am, we need to speak with him. Right now.”

Julie stared up at A.J. It was easy saying no to staffers, and interns, and even to Secretary of Education Prebish, who brought his new wife and stepkids to the White House. But that’s different from saying no to the Service.

Squeezing around her desk, she headed for the curved door that
connected to the Oval. A.J. couldn’t help but notice the blown-up photograph that filled the wall behind her desk. It was a shot—a private one—of the President (in profile and in full suit) pitching a whiffle ball to his eight-year-old son as the two of them played on the South Lawn. Even in profile, it was easy to see the joy on Wallace’s face. Yet like any Secret Service agent, A.J. knew his protectee. He could also see that deep wrinkle that ran from his nose to his chin and burrowed a dark parenthesis around the President’s smile. It was a worried wrinkle—the kind of wrinkle that came with knowing the peace wouldn’t last. As A.J. was well aware, that crease was only getting deeper.

On his left, Julie popped open the curved door. President Wallace was at his desk, on the phone. But as he glanced over at Julie, he could see who was standing right behind her.

A.J. didn’t have to say a word.

“Conrad, let me call you back,” the President said, hanging up the telephone.

With that, A.J. stepped into the Oval and the curved door closed behind him.

I
know you’re lying,” I insist.

“I can’t always be lying, Beecher. Not about everything.”

From my phone, I hear the 911 operator asking what my emergency is. I tell her I dialed wrong—that there’s no emergency—even though I see one standing right in front of me.

“Just read the letter,” Clementine pleads, holding it out and trying to hand it over.

I don’t reach for it. I can’t.

“Just read it, Beecher. Judge for yourself.”

I still don’t move. Across from me, Clementine waves the letter like a white flag. She can soften herself all she wants with the blonde wig and all; it’s still the same person living in that body. But the most compelling part of Clementine’s argument has nothing to do with her.

“It’s your
father
,” Clementine says, still offering me the white flag. “How could you not at least read it?”

I glance down at the inside of my wrist. Her nails left crescent indentations. They’ll fade soon. My questions won’t.

“You’ll only regret it if you
don’t
read it, Beecher.”

I snatch the sheet from her hand. From the poor quality of the photocopy, it looks like a fax. I try to read it immediately, scanning it once, then again—but the words don’t make sense. My hands start to shake, and I feel like a teenager trying to read the directions for a home pregnancy kit.

Dear Teresa,

My mother’s name. But what makes my body numb—what makes it feel like there’s a thin plastic sheet between my outer layer
of skin and my inner layer of skin—is when I see the starkly printed “T” in front of the scribbly cursive “eresa.”

My father died when I was three years old. He wasn’t around long enough for me to know his handwriting. But to this day, my mother keeps the last card he sent her—a Valentine’s card with Snoopy on it—in the giant hat box that she has in the corner of her bedroom and stores all of our loose photos and Polaroids in.

My mom didn’t believe in photo albums. She wanted the photos out, so you could sift through them at any time. As an archivist, the disorganization still kills me. But as a son, I appreciated the opportunity to study the old Valentine.

It didn’t say much. My dad wrote
To My Valentine Teresa
at the top, then let the card do the talking. But the way he wrote
Teresa
—printed “T,” cursive “eresa”—I studied that card for hours, down to the UPC barcode on the back and the price that was ninety-nine cents. I know that card. And I know my father’s handwriting when I see it. Blinking hard, I fight to read it.

My entire life, I was told my father died in a car accident on a bridge in Wisconsin. The plastic sheet that feels like it’s between my layers of skin now seems like it’s expanding, cleaving me in half. My hand starts to shake even harder.

Clementine, standing now, reaches out to comfort me.

“Don’t touch me,” I warn her. “Where did you get this?”

“Beecher, before you—”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Beecher, please. I know it’s hard. When you helped me find Nico—”

“I didn’t help you find Nico! You found him yourself and then came to me, pretending you were clueless! Now what the hell is going on!?”

She takes a half step back. “Did you look at the date?” she asks.

I stare down at the note. My father died on July 20th. But this suicide note, or whatever it is, it’s dated July 27th. One week after he supposedly died.

My tongue swells in my mouth. I try to breathe but nothing comes out. I know it’s a lie. Everything she says is a lie. “My father didn’t commit suicide,” I insist.

“I’m not saying he did, Beecher. But don’t you—?”

“He didn’t commit suicide! He wouldn’t do that!”

“Beecher, I know this is a wrecking ball for you, but you have to—”

“Don’t tell me what I
have to do
! You didn’t know my father! You never met him! He wouldn’t leave us like that!”

“Beecher—”

“
He wouldn’t leave us!
” I explode. “It wasn’t his choice! So for you to come here—to… to… to make a fake letter like that… I knew you were a monster, Clementine! But to use my dead father to manipulate me like that.”