The Fifth Assassin (42 page)

“Nessie, I promise you—if we see any spiders, I’ll have A.J. shoot them,” the President said.

Not amused, Nessie let go of his hand. “Just FYI, Dad, one of the other chaperones… Emily Deutchman’s dad… she said her father didn’t vote for you either.”

Wallace grinned his presidential grin. “You saying I need to turn on the charm?”

“No, I’m—” Nessie caught herself, knowing her father too well. “Dad,
I’m serious
… If you—Don’t even talk to him, okay?” she threatened, following the lead agent and the mil aide up the room’s main aisle. Behind them, A.J. brought up the rear.

With the twisting pipes and enormous machinery, plus the natural darkness of the basement, the room was truly a metal maze. Making a sharp right at a giant water tank, the mil aide stood still, waiting for the President to pass as A.J. rotated forward. Now A.J. and the lead agent were in front, and the mil aide was in back. Upside-down triangle formation.

At each twist and turn, the triangle shifted again, so someone was always on watch as the President turned a dark corner. They still had no idea how soon the screaming would start.

“So this girl Emily’s father, is he the one I met at parent-teacher night… with the thin blond hair?” the President asked.

“Dad, I’m not joking. If you say something…”

“A.J., did you just hear that? Nessie was about to threaten me.”

Ignoring the joke and reaching the end of the room, A.J. and the lead agent climbed a set of cracked concrete steps toward a thick metal door that was marked
Plaza Level
. The President had come this way before during the concert for his Inauguration. Through here was the small museum exhibit and the elevator that would take them up to the statuary chamber. A.J. disappeared through the door, checking the hallway.

“Y’know, you really should be nice to me,” the President chided his daughter. “Today
is
Presidents’ Day.”

“That’s only for dead Presidents,” Nessie teased back. “And good Presidents… like Lincoln and Washington.”

“You’re joking, right? Do you have any idea how many people want me dead?”

At that, Nessie tucked her chin down, pulling away. “Dad, that’s
not
funny.”

“What’re you talking about? Didn’t you ever hear what Queen Victoria wrote to her daughter?” Putting on a quick British accent, he added, “
It is worth being shot at—to see how much one is loved.
”

“Sir, we’ve got the all-clear,” the lead agent called out from the top of the stairs, cracking the door slightly wider. Fluorescent light from the hallway lit the left side of his face. “Right this way.”

Heading up the concrete steps with the mil aide behind him, the President placed his hand on the small of his daughter’s back, ushering her in front of him. At the top of the steps, the open door led out into a short, perpendicular hallway. The Service had blocked it off, probably with something simple like a
Wet Floor
sign. But from the far left of the hallway, they could still hear the echoes of bustling tourists making their way back and forth toward the restrooms and the exhibit.

“We’ve got the elevator. Sharp right, sir,” the lead agent whispered to the President as he approached. Like before, at the open door, the lead agent held his position and let Wallace, Nessie, and the mil aide pass as the triangle once again shifted.

In a quick, almost balletic movement—while keeping his head down and using his baseball cap to hide his face—the President of the United States followed his daughter out into the hallway, holding her shoulders and steering her to the right. They pivoted quickly, leaving just enough room on their left—back where the tourists were—for the mil aide to follow them into the hallway, where he used his body to block any clear view of the President.

“You’re getting the hang of this, Nessie,” A.J. said as they joined him on the waiting elevator, followed by the mil aide and the lead agent. As the doors began to close, Wallace and his daughter were at the back of the elevator. Still, the President couldn’t help but stare
out at the empty hallway—and the perpendicular one at the far end of it. Just as Wallace lifted his cap, a black woman in a black winter coat turned his way. Their eyes locked as the doors chomped shut.

“She
saw
you.” Nessie laughed.

“She didn’t. Not with my awesome baseball cap on. This thing is satellite-proof.”

For a moment, the five of them smiled to themselves as the elevator silently rose toward the statuary chamber. In less than a minute, Nessie’s classmates would all stop and turn, making her the true center of attention and the envy of every kid there. Nessie would never have said it, but this was one of those moments where she was happy—truly happy—that her father was the most powerful man in the world.

Feeding off his daughter’s excitement, the President nodded a quick thank-you to A.J.—for taking care of everything with Beecher.

In thirty seconds, the screaming would begin.

“You know what you’re gonna say?” Nessie challenged.

“What kinda tour guide do you think I am? I did
research
,” Wallace said, patting his jacket pocket at the one-sheet his staff had prepared for him. “Did you know that Lincoln’s statue was carved from twenty-eight blocks of Georgia marble? Or that there’s a U.S. flag draped across the back of his chair? Or that his head is slanted down so that his eyes meet yours? Trust me, this President knows his Presidents’ Day facts,” he said as Nessie’s smile spread even wider.

The elevator slowed, bobbing to a stop. A.J. and the lead agent angled forward. They’d be the first ones out, vetting the crowd. With surprise visits like this, it took at least four minutes before strangers realized what was going on, and even then, they didn’t believe it. With the baseball hat and the crowd of kids around him, it might take even longer than that. No one looks twice at school field trips.

In that pregnant moment when the elevator had settled but the doors still hadn’t opened, Wallace lifted his smile into place. Through the doors, he could hear the crowd outside, their voices bouncing through the limestone chamber.

“Dad, just promise me… about Emily’s father,” Nessie said, tugging at his arm.

Looking down, he shot her a playful look, a look she knew well. He didn’t have to say it. He’d never do anything—in this entire world—to hurt his daughter.

With a clank, the elevator doors parted. The President lowered his cap and again put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, steering her behind A.J. As they stepped outside, the cold wind felt good against their faces, and they blew right past the few people waiting to get on the elevator. Not one of them noticed that the man with the lowered baseball cap was the President of the United States.

Across the chamber, an undercover Secret Service agent sat on one of the marble benches, pretending to read a newspaper. Another stood in the corner, and another on the right side of the statue, both carrying tennis bags. On the left side of the statue, but at least ten feet away from it, a crowd of ten- and eleven-year-olds bounced on their feet, in the exact spot where they had been told to wait.

On cue, a few kids started to turn. One of them—one of Nessie’s friends—began to point as she realized who was coming. “
Nessie!
” another girl yelled as Nessie’s smile bloomed wider than ever. They were yelling
her
name. Not her dad’s. One by one, the rest of the kids began to turn… began to look… began to smile.

Yet as Wallace made his way through the chamber, he wasn’t looking at the kids. Or the hidden agents. Or even at any of the dozens of tourists snapping photos in every direction. No, at this moment, with his head craned upward, with two agents in front of him and the mil aide behind him, the only thing the President of the United States was looking at was the towering 175-ton white marble statue of Abraham Lincoln clutching the armrests of his chair.

He didn’t even notice the bearded old man in the checkered newsboy cap who was standing to the side of the elevator.

As Wallace passed by him, the man leaned forward, like he was finishing a sneeze. But as the man stood up straight, what Wallace and his agents missed was that he was now wearing a plaster mask.

“Dad, lookit,” Nessie said, pointing back over her own shoulder. “That guy… he’s actually dressed like Abraha—”

President Orson Wallace turned. So did the mil aide.

Neither was fast enough.

The Knight reached into his pocket.

There was a soft
pffft
. Like a muffled gunshot.

Then a burst of blood.

Then there was nothing but screaming.

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

M
arshall should’ve never turned the corner.

He knew it too. He knew it from the moment he heard that noise coming from the living room. He knew it the moment he left the kitchen. Indeed, as he tiptoed down the hallway that was lined with vacation photos of the pastor and his wife, he felt the universe pushing him back, warning him away.

The problem was, he knew that voice.

Every child knows his mother’s voice. Just like they know their mother’s sneeze. And even the sound she was making right now—an indistinct moan that sounded like she was mumbling in her sleep, or twisting in pain.

Hours from now, as the tidal wave of gossip plowed through the town, everyone would say that Marshall knew… that he came here because he was angry and suspicious of his mom and Pastor Riis. But right now, as the chubby twelve-year-old reached the end of the hallway, about to step into the dimly lit living room with its flickering TV lights, anger was nowhere in Marshall’s makeup. No, as he swallowed hard, feeling like his tongue was stuck in his throat, Marshall was worried. He was confused. That noise his mom was making…

He just wanted to make sure she was okay.

“Mom, are you—?”

As Marshall turned the corner, his mouth was still open, mid-syllable. The first thing his brain registered were two candles, side
by side, their flames flickering as they burned on the end table, next to the floral-print sofa. That’s why the room was so dim.

But as Marshall entered the room, he saw more than the end table. He saw the sofa. And who was on it.

Marshall froze. He saw her bare back first… and the beauty mark just below her left shoulder blade. She had no top on. But what made him completely confused were the two arms wrapped around his mother’s neck. Someone was hugging her. Someone with freshly painted pink nails. And pale breasts.

“
Mrs. Riis…?
” Marshall stuttered, staring at the woman everyone called Cricket.

“Cherise,
move
…!” the pastor’s wife exclaimed, pushing Marshall’s mother aside.

“Mom… what’re you—? What’s happening?”

His mom twisted to face him as she struggled to cover her bare breasts with her hands. Their gazes locked—mother and son—both their eyes wide with terror that slowly shifted to—

“
What’re you doing here!? Get out!
” his mom exploded, stumbling, spinning, grabbing clothes to cover herself. She was naked. Naked with Pastor Riis’s wife.

“
You didn’t see this! You hear me!? You didn’t see this!
” his mom shouted in a tone Marshall had never heard before.

“Get him out of here!” the pastor’s wife screamed, grabbing sofa pillows to cover herself.

Marshall tried to turn and run. But his feet were locked, like they were bolted to the carpet. His eyes swelled with tears.

“Oh, Lord, we’re dead…” the pastor’s wife whispered, now starting to cry.

“
You didn’t see this!
” his mother kept yelling, racing toward him. She pressed her shirt against her chest with one hand. With her other, she clumsily pulled on her skirt.

Across the room, Marshall just stood there, horrified by the shadowy glimpse of his mom’s pubic hair.

“They’ll call us abominations. We’re abominations,” the pastor’s wife sobbed.

“
Did your father send you here!?
” his mother shouted as she threw on her blouse and snatched her bra and lemon yellow blazer off the floor.

“No, I—”

“It’s okay. It’ll be fine,” his mom insisted, her voice softening but still racing. “We’ll go home and it’ll be fine.”

She grabbed Marshall by the back of the neck, twisting him around and shoving him back up the main hallway, toward the front door.

“You didn’t see this,” she added, still holding her bra against her chest. “If you didn’t see this—if your father doesn’t know—we’re okay.”

“Dad didn’t do nothing!” Marshall pleaded, crying, stumbling, barely able to stay on his feet. His mom’s blazer fell to the floor. She didn’t stop to get it.

As they reached the front door, his mother let go of her son for the three seconds it took to fight with the doorknob. “Don’t run away. Come back,” she said, gripping him again. “It’ll be fine—”

She was still yelling as the door flew open, bathing them in yellow porchlight. But as they crashed down the front steps and into the warm night, Marshall’s mom was moving so fast… and holding Marshall’s fat neck so tight… and still clutching her bra in her hand…

… she didn’t even notice that Beecher and Paglinni were standing right there, watching everything from the driveway.

Two minutes ago

Washington, D.C.

T
he Knight didn’t rush.

He was patient, with his head down, pretending to look at his watch as the elevator doors slowly opened.

The President exited calmly, without a fuss, stepping off the elevator and making his way through the small crowd waiting to take it down. Well past the crowd, midway through the chamber, the Knight still didn’t look up. He saw it all out of the corner of his eyes, counting three agents plus Wallace’s daughter.

The Knight’s skin tingled. He didn’t have to approach the President. From where he was standing, Wallace was approaching him.

The Knight had practiced for this moment. Prayed for it. Like his predecessors, he had run through every detail.
Every
detail, including putting on the mask. For hours, for days now, the Knight had taken out the mask and slipped it on, taken it out and slipped it on, over and over, until he had it down to one quick movement.