The Fifth Assassin

by Brad Meltzer

  The monitor wasn’t Pastor Frick’s idea. It came from the church’s insurance company, which for every step he (or any of his employees) took gave a wellness discount (up to a total of twenty thousand steps per month). If he expected his staff to do it, the pastor had to lead the way.

  It was the same when he was a boy. He wasn’t from an overly religious family, yet Frick was the one who used to drag his mother to Sunday sermons, making him the only five-year-old in their poor Indiana town who could tie his own tie. Back then, Kenneth was drawn to the church because it was the only place his father wouldn’t lay hands on them. But as he got older, Frick was captivated by the mystery of the church—the way it could broaden life beyond what you can touch, feel, and grasp.

  “Anybody here besides God?” Frick called out with the same old joke he used every morning. He knew the answer. Except for the custodian, he was always the first one in. Right at nine, which was now his custom.

  It’d been barely four months since Frick—only an associate pastor in title—had been assigned to the church, taking over while the head pastor was traveling in New Zealand. Frick felt blessed to be selected, but it took him over a month to work up the courage to cancel the free fruit smoothies that brought in parishioners to the late Sunday service. This was still Lincoln’s Church. Wearing a digital monitor on your shoe for an insurance discount was one thing. Bribing people with fruit smoothies was another.

  Down the main hallway, with the bathroom behind him, Pastor Frick entered the main office suite, made his way through the maze of desks, and headed for his office in back. Through the frosted glass doors, he could tell the lights were off inside. The glass was too old and thick to see anything else.

  Every pastor has rituals. At 9:05, as he stepped into his office and the door closed behind him, Frick did what he did every morning: He hung his coat—always on the middle hook—grabbed his Bible off the bookshelf, and began his morning prayers. For nearly twenty minutes, he stood praying and looking out the wide glass window that was directly behind his antique maple desk. He could see the reflection of his round face and dimpled chin in the window.

  On his left was a door that led to his private bathroom. It was usually open. This morning, for some reason, it was shut.

  Frick didn’t give it a thought. In the midst of his prayers, he looked down at the digital counter on his shoe—not to count his steps, but to see what time it was.

  Onscreen, it clicked from 9:24…

  … to 9:25.

  On the floor, a needlepoint carpet covered with green and yellow leaves kept the office warm and mostly silent. The oak floor creaked from a nearly imperceptible shift in weight.

  Then the Knight pulled the trigger. Twice.

  The pastor’s body convulsed as one of the bullets entered his back.

  Another mission complete. For the second time, history had repeated itself.

  14

  Six days ago

  Ann Arbor, Michigan

  Sir, you ready to order?” the thin black woman with splotchy skin asked from behind the counter.

  “Not yet. I’m waiting for someone,” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti replied from the bright red booth as he again scanned the small fast-food restaurant located just inside the entrance of Target.

  He knew why she had picked it: It was well lit and safe, with plenty of people watching them. Plus, by doing it in Ann Arbor—Wallace’s alma mater—the message was clear. If the President didn’t deliver, she’d take apart every piece of his life.

  “You need to try the hot dogs,” a female voice eventually announced behind him. “They’re better than you think.”

  Before Palmiotti could turn, a woman in a stylish brown overcoat was standing over him, looking down. Her hair was short and dyed blonde. But he knew that grin: same as her father, the presidential assassin known as Nico.

  “Y’know, after your funeral, I read your obituary. They made you sound nicer than you really are,” Clementine said, sliding into the empty seat across from the President’s oldest friend and most trusted doctor. “By the way, I mean it about the hot dogs,” she added, pointing to the counter, where a dozen thick hot dogs twirled on the grill’s treadmill. She was enjoying herself now, which annoyed Palmiotti even more.

  Both A.J. and the President had warned him about this. Everyone thought that Nico was the monster, but it was his daughter who had tried to blackmail them, threatening to expose their secret unless she got the information about her father. And in the end, during her escape, it was Clementine who fired the shot that nearly killed Palmiotti.

  But Clementine was different from Beecher, and far more dangerous. If they had any hope of containing this, they needed to make peace, not war.

  “The blonde hair looks good,” Palmiotti offered. “Quite a change from the black.”

  “Same with yours,” Clementine said, pointing at his own dye job. “Though I also like the scar on your neck. Isn’t that where I shot you?”

  Palmiotti cupped his hands, intertwining his fingers, refusing to take the bait. “Y’know, I remember the last thing you said to us: about the cancer that was eating at your body. I lost a niece to brain cancer. She was four years old. When her hair fell out, she used to cry, ‘Why can’t I have pigtails?’ So you can talk as tough as you want, but I’m a doctor. From your skin alone… I’m guessing oral chemo, yes? I know what it does to you. I’m sorry for that.”

  Across the booth, Clementine studied him, her eyes narrowing. “Did you bring what I asked for or not?”

  “Of course I did.” From underneath his coat on the bench, Palmiotti pulled out a thick manila envelope.

  From the back of her pants, Clementine took out a similar envelope that looked slightly thinner, with a water stain on it.

  “And this is everything you found?” Palmiotti asked, lifting the flap, where he saw a familiar name typed on the file folder that was tucked inside. Wallace, Orson.

  True to her word, this was everything: the complete file that, two months ago, Beecher had tracked down in the Archives. As far as they knew, this was the only proof of what he and the future President did all those years ago, when they attacked and eventually took the life of that man with the eight-ball tattoo.

  “How do we know you won’t say anything, or that you didn’t make copies for yourself?” Palmiotti asked.

  “You don’t,” Clementine said as she reached for the envelope that Palmiotti had brought in return. Undoing the figure-eight loop, she added, “How do I know this is his real military file?”

  She waited for an answer. Palmiotti didn’t give her one. But he didn’t deny it was.

  Back by the counter, one of the hot dogs sizzled and popped, spitting a fleck of grease against the protective glass. Clementine smiled. With enough pressure, everything pops. Even a President.

  Freeing the brown accordion file from its envelope, she read the name that was typed on the peeling blue-and-white sticker in the corner. Hadrian, Nicholas. Her father.

  “You know Beecher’s been looking for you,” Palmiotti warned as she started flipping through the file.

  Clementine nodded, licking her finger and flicking to a new page. She’d waited too long not to take a peek. But what caught her eye was the logo at the top of the page: an eagle gripping a metal anchor. The logo of the U.S. Navy. It made no sense. Nico wasn’t in the navy.

  “Beecher’s not searching alone,” Palmiotti added. “He’s got help.”

  “Who? Tot?”

  “And some others,” Palmiotti said, resealing his envelope.

  Across from him, Clementine was flipping faster than ever, skimming through the pages—letters of recommendation… physical profile… record of induction—glancing through details of her father’s lost life. But as she read the date of Nico’s induction into the military, three years before she was born, Palmiotti saw the way her hands started shaking.

  For so long now, Clementine had waited for this moment: to have details… documentation… the proof of
what they did to him, and by extension, to her. Whatever they put in Nico’s body, it was the only way to explain the unknown cancer that she had today. Her doctors said they’d never seen anything like it. That her type of cancer… that it didn’t exist… it was a new mutation. But as Clementine thumbed to the pages labeled Psychological & Medical Records, she felt a swell of tears that surprised even her.

  “You okay?” Palmiotti asked.

  Clementine looked up, caught off guard by the question. He already had what he wanted.

  “What does he have on you?” she blurted.

  “Excuse me?” Palmiotti asked.

  “I meant it before. I read your obituary. To do what you did, to let the world think you’re dead… You had to leave your wife—”

  “Ex-wife.”

  “—and two kids—”

  “My kids haven’t spoken to me in years.”

  “But your life,” Clementine said, her eyes back down on the file. “You left your entire life behind, and for what? For a President? For one man? What the hell does Wallace have over you?”

  “You’re questioning me? What about your own life? You’re hiding in Michigan. You have no home. And for what, Clementine? To get Nico’s files?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “Don’t play the wounded child. We all know that’s not why you did this,” Palmiotti challenged. “All the hurt you caused… that wasn’t for your father. That was for you, Clementine. You did all that for you. And now that you got the files and everything you wanted, you really think it matters how we got here? You wanted something so you did what you had to do to get it. The only thing you have to ask is, was it worth it?”

  Clementine stared down at the file folder, rereading the peeling blue-and-white sticker with her father’s name. She thought about how she still had two more days in her chemo cycle, which meant the tingling in her toes, the hideous nausea, and the loose diarrhea would only be getting worse. So. Was it worth it?

  “Depends what I find,” she shot back, slapping the file shut and sliding out of the booth. As she was about to leave, she turned back and added, “No matter how much of a piece of garbage your boss is, I’m sorry you lost your life over this.”

  “Yeah…” he whispered as Clementine headed for the stable of red shopping carts and disappeared out the front door. “Me too.”

  For a full two minutes, he sat there, alone in the bright red booth. And then, in that moment, Dr. Stewart Palmiotti had a brand-new idea.

  From there, he made one call. Directly to A.J., who would take it directly to the President. “I know what to do about Beecher,” he said.

  15

  Today

  Crystal City, Virginia

  A little over an hour later, I’m outside Marshall’s apartment building out in Virginia. Standing halfway down the block, I stare down at my phone, pretending to text. It makes me disappear just enough so that passing drivers—including the pasty-faced lawyer in the black Acura—don’t bother to look my way. That’s the lawyer’s first mistake. Actually, I take that back. His first mistake is the personalized license plate that says L8 4 CRT. His second mistake comes as he turns into the driveway at the back of Marshall’s building.

  Of course, I tried going in the front door first. But as I approached the double glass doors of the modern apartment building, I saw what was waiting inside: a miserable-looking doorman at the front desk, plus one of those high-tech intercom systems where a well-placed camera lets residents see who’s there before they buzz you in.

  If I want Marshall’s real reaction, better that he doesn’t see me coming.

  Which brings me to the Acura driver’s third mistake: thinking that just because his building has an underground garage with a code to keep strangers out, it’ll stop me from sneaking in.

  Still fake-texting on my phone, I walk casually down the block, timing it so I’m crossing right behind the Acura as Pasty Lawyer leans out the window and enters his six-digit PIN code on the garage’s keypad.

  151916.

  I keep walking as the garage door rolls open, then closes. When he’s gone, I double back to the keypad, tapping in 151916.

  There’s a loud metal rr-rr-rr as the garage door again rolls up, saluting me with a dark black entryway. Bits of dust, lit by the sun, hang in the air. But as I take my first step down the slight decline that leads inside, I notice two shiny black shoes and perfectly pressed slacks standing in my way. Even before the garage door fully opens, I know who it is.

  “Do I look blind?” the guard from the front desk challenges. “I saw you checking out the front of the building!” His ID badge says Lance Peterzell. From his beefy build and his tight buzz cut, military for sure. “You really think we wouldn’t have cameras back here?”

  In the corner of the garage, I spot the camera—miniature, like a voice recorder. I’ve seen cameras like those, when you check into the White House.

  “What do you think you’re doing!?” he shouts.

  I try to make an excuse, but he plows forward. I stumble backward up the driveway.

  “I-I was just trying t—” I trip on my own feet, nearly falling backward.

  “I can have you arrested for trespa—!”

  Standing over me, he cuts himself off, suddenly silent. He’s not focused on me anymore. He sees something…

  Behind me.

  I turn just as a navy blue SUV pulls up, perpendicular to the driveway. As the passenger-side window rolls down, I spot the driver: a man with a strict part in his black hair, and a face that sags. His drooping eyes are the color of white wine. I recognize him from the mugshot. But I’ve known him for a long time.

  Without a word, Marshall shoves open the passenger door, motioning for me to come inside.

  I hesitate.

  “Isn’t that why you came here, Beecher? To find me?” Marshall calls out in a raspy voice that sounds as burned as his face.

  Tot would tell me to walk away. That nothing good can come from getting in Marshall’s car. But when it comes to Marshall, that’s the thing Tot will never understand. In life, there are many reasons why we become who we are. Marshall played a minor but memorable role in my childhood. But what I did to him… on that night in the basement… I altered Marshall forever.

  “So you came all this way, and now you’re just going to stand there?” Marshall challenges. He takes a deep breath through his nose, like a bull. If I thought he had forgiven me after all these years, I was wrong.

  From inside the SUV, his gold eyes lock on me with an odd calm that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world. Even from here, I can see how meticulous he is—how he holds the steering wheel with just the tips of his fingers.

  But as his stare drills down, I realize he’s not talking to me. He’s observing me. He’s not impatient, though. He’s waiting for me to make my decision.

  Once again, I can hear Tot screaming for me to stay away. And I should.

  In the road map of my life, Tot represents where I’m trying to go. Marshall represents where I used to be. But that’s the thing about the past: No matter how dangerous or disturbing or inconvenient it is, you don’t get to move forward until you deal with what’s behind you.

  Plus, if I want answers, there’s only one way to get them.

  I dart for the SUV, quickly climbing into the passenger seat.

  Still holding the steering wheel with just his fingertips, Marshall backs us into a sharp three-point turn, then hits the gas as we dive down the ramp and disappear inside the underground garage.

  I look behind us as the garage door lowers, locking me in the lion’s den. But as I spot that flat grin on Marshall’s face, I can’t help but think that whatever he’s really up to, he’s just getting started.

  16

  One hour earlier

  Foundry Church

  He’d read in some magazine that when you’re hit by a bullet—when it punctures and burns through your skin—you don’t feel it. That the shock overwhelms any pai
n.

  Facedown on the needlepoint carpet, Pastor Kenneth Frick now knew that wasn’t true.

  For a moment, he’d forgotten how he got here. He looked around, blinking hard. His heartbeat pumped all the way to his ears. He must’ve blacked out. In his mouth, his tongue—ptt, ptt—it was covered with lint from the carpet.

  Turning on his side, he heard a squish. The carpet was soaked. He couldn’t see it yet… but down by his hips, a dark puddle was growing, blooming beneath him and slowly engulfing the carpet’s green and yellow leaves.

  Feeling a sudden blast of cold air, the pastor looked up, spotting the wide-open window that led out toward the street. The room swirled. He couldn’t ignore the sharp burning pain in his stomach, like someone was using a hot poker to burrow out from inside him.

  He clenched his jaw so hard, he thought his teeth would crack. He’d been through worse… in the army… plus with his mother… to watch what happened to her…

  Through the frosted glass, a light went on outside, in the main part of the office. Mina Pfister. The youth director. Always right on time.

  The pastor struggled to get up on his knees, determined to crawl to the door. The heartbeat in his ears kept getting louder.

  He knew that smell… the smell of charred skin… it was coming from him.

  He didn’t care. He focused on his mother… what he’d seen…

  Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer—the prayer he came back to more than any other. Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

  “Mina…” he shouted, though he couldn’t tell if any words were coming out. “Please… somebody… someone help me…!”

  17

  Nineteen years ago

  Sagamore, Wisconsin