by Brad Meltzer
But as Palmiotti knew, whether he was alive or dead, his kids didn’t want to speak to him. He hadn’t even seen them in over a decade. Not since the divorce. Not after what he put them all through.
It was the same with his ex-wife. That’s why she was an ex.
Of course, it was different with his girlfriend, Lydia, which is why, on that one night a few weeks back, he (with aid from a far too expensive bottle of scotch) dialed her home number just to hear her voice. When she picked up, he hung up. That was all he needed.
After that, Palmiotti was strong. Committed.
Just like he was when it came to dealing with Beecher. After his conversation with A.J., he knew what the next steps were. He knew how to make it happen. And he knew it would only work if he made it work. But still… as A.J. disappeared around the corner and Palmiotti looked down at his eelskin wallet and the phone number scribbled on the paper fortune…
Orson Wallace wasn’t just his best friend. They were brothers. How can you separate brothers? Hesitating, Palmiotti told himself to wait. That he’d be seeing Wallace soon—like A.J. said, at the Presidents’ Day event…
Still.
With everything Palmiotti had sacrificed, would one phone call—just a few seconds… a few sentences to say hello—really hurt?
Studying the phone number, Palmiotti replayed his mentor’s words: The bleeding always stops—one way or another. That was absolutely right.
But as he also learned in med school, there was actually a faster way to stop the bleeding: when you take matters into your own hands.
Pulling out the cheap disposable phone that he’d switch every few weeks, Palmiotti looked down at the fortune cookie and dialed the ten-digit number.
As it rang, he knew, on some level, that the President would be pissed. But once he and his friend started talking, it’d all go back to normal. That’s what friends do.
In Palmiotti’s ear, the phone rang once… twice…
His shoulders lifted at the sheer excitement of reconnecting. Sure, Wallace would be mad, but he’d also—
“We’re sorry,” a female mechanical voice eventually answered. “The number you dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
Palmiotti felt a hot, sudden throb in the wound that was healing in his neck. For a moment, he thought he must’ve dialed the wrong number.
But as the mechanical woman repeated herself… even before he checked the paper fortune… before he redialed… Stewart Palmiotti knew he’d dialed exactly right.
32
Marshall doesn’t say anything.
He holds tight to my throat, still clutching my Adam’s apple.
I fight to break free, but my eyes feel like they’re about to pop.
Without a word, he loosens his grip, though not by much. My lungs refill with air and I unleash a hacking cough. But Marshall doesn’t let go. Not completely.
He looks me dead in the eye. His bumpy, burned hand is still on my throat, holding me in place. “If you’re not careful who you follow, you will get hurt,” he says, making sure I hear every syllable.
He finally lets go, letting me catch my breath. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He doesn’t answer.
As I look around—at the silver pots and pans hanging from the ceiling… the industrial stoves and ovens on my left… plus the stainless steel prep areas with the chefs and waiters…
“Why’re we in a restaurant kitchen?” I blurt as I finally place the smell in the air. Fresh pasta.
Marshall looks over his shoulder. At first, I assume he’s worried about being heard. He’s not.
“What’re you guys doing?” a heavy chef with a thin gray beard blurts, looking up from a tray of pastries he’s filling.
“Mind your business,” Marshall barks back, marching through the kitchen, past the rolling prep carts, and heading for the swinging doors at the far end. His tone is so commanding, the chef doesn’t even push back at the intrusion. But I see how quickly the chef looks away. It’s hard to stare at Marshall’s burned face.
With a shove of the swinging door, the fluorescent lights and stainless steel of the kitchen give way to the muted yellow walls, French doors, and plush décor of a fine Italian restaurant.
A few stragglers from the lunch crowd—all of them in suit and tie—turn and stare. It happens in every posh restaurant in D.C.—people checking to see if we’re anyone famous. But again, after one look at Marshall’s face, they all turn away. What I’m starting to notice, though, is I think that’s how Marshall prefers it.
Sticking to the corner, by the bar, he scans the restaurant. On my right, a stack of menus finally tells me where we are. Café Milano.
I know Café Milano. Everyone in D.C. knows Café Milano. From Bill and Hillary, to Joe and Jill Biden, to Julia Roberts, Kobe Bryant, and every honcho in the last decade—in a town that tires quickly of trendy restaurants—Café Milano has managed to feed pols and celebs, while extending its trend. Which is why I’ve never been here. “Why are we at Café Milano?”
“I’m meeting someone,” he insists, still scanning the restaurant. It doesn’t take long; most of the lunch crowd is gone. Nearly every table is empty. Yet there Marshall is, his eyes flicking back and forth, like he’s memorizing and cataloging the room’s every detail. Unlike in his apartment, his entire stance has changed. His back is straight, his chin is up. He’s working.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that from where we’re standing, we have a perfect view of every entrance and exit.
“Marshall, I know Presidents eat here. And I know what your job is. The penetration testing… Is that what you’re doing? You looking for flaws in their security?”
He turns my way, gripping the edge of the bar with a scarred hand. “You figured me out, Beecher. Just before noon tomorrow, as he heads out to lead his daughter’s class trip to the Lincoln Memorial, President Orson Wallace will be leaving this dining room, which is when I’ll sneak up behind him and use his own steak knife to slit his throat and pull his larynx into his lap.” As he says the words, his lips press into a thin smile.
“That’s not funny, Marsh. How can you say something like that?”
“Isn’t that what you want me to say, Beecher?” he asks, still calm as can be. “Isn’t that why you came here—to prove I’m a heartless murderer?”
On our right, the bartender finally takes notice of us. So does the maître d’. Waving them both back with nothing but a dark stare, Marshall walks—slowly, like he owns the place—through the restaurant and out the front door as I walk behind him. No one approaches. They know a wolf when they see one.
Outside, the front patio of the restaurant has a few wrought-iron tables that’re covered with snow. There’s no place to sit. But at least no one’s listening.
“If you want to know something, Beecher, ask me to my face.”
“How’s your dad doing these days?” I ask.
“He died. Three years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Marsh. I had no—”
“He was sick a long time,” he says in the sort of elegant calm that comes from someone who’s grown accustomed to tragedy.
No surprise, all it does is make me miss my own dad, who died when I was just three. Two months ago, Clementine said she knew the real story of my father’s death. I know it was just another manipulation, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t leave its own scar.
As we linger in front of the restaurant, I wait for Marshall to say something else, but he’s still scanning our surroundings, checking the building across the street and every window in it that looks down on us.
“You want to tell me what really happened at that church?” I say.
“I told you what happened.”
“So you just coincidentally were there? You were just saying some prayers?”
“What’s wrong with saying prayers? When we were little, your mom made us say that morning prayer, for what we were thankful for. You’re telling m
e you still don’t do that?”
My shoulder brushes against one of the metal poles that holds up the restaurant’s blue awning, sending a sprinkling of snow toward the earth and once again making me think of my own father. “I really did look you up, Marshall. This stuff at GAO—I know how good you are at getting into places you shouldn’t be. So stop insulting me. Why were you really in St. John’s Church last night?”
His stance is still all business. He keeps staring across the street, dissecting every window across from us.
“Marshall, if you’re in trouble—”
“I don’t need your help, Beecher.”
“That’s not true. A man was murdered. You were the one arrested for it!” I hiss, fighting to keep my voice down. “This group I work with… instead of being so stubborn and pushing us away…” I swallow my words, amazed at my own rush of anger.
I take a deep breath. “I know I haven’t been part of your life for over a decade. But for years, I was part of your life. Y’know how many hours I spent with you in that treehouse?”
Marshall is still facing the building across the street. He won’t turn my way. But he’s no longer checking windows.
His voice is still. He never gets upset. “You know that rector who died at the church last night,” he finally says. “The one who got his throat slit?”
“Yeah?”
“He wasn’t the first rector who was killed. There was another. One before him.”
“What’re you talking about?” I ask.
“Two and a half weeks ago. Another pastor died. That’s what I was looking into. That’s what led me to St. John’s.”
Kicking at the ground, Marshall pivots his foot like he’s putting out a cigarette. But the force he puts behind it, it’s like he’s trying to dig through the concrete itself. Last time I saw that look, urine was running down his father’s wheelchair.
“Why were you looking at that first pastor?”
He kicks again at the ground. The snow is almost gone. “He was someone I knew. From Saggy.”
“Wait. You knew him from home?”
Marshall nods. “You knew him too.”
33
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
How long’s he been like that?” Nurse Rupert asked.
“Almost twenty minutes,” Nurse Karina replied, eyeing the beige brick labyrinth, where Nico was still standing directly at the center, his hands flat at his sides. Like a military man.
“Twenty minutes? You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
“Karina, you’re telling me you’ve watched Nico stand there—right there—at the center of that stupid maze—”
“It’s a labyrinth. Mazes have dead ends.”
“You’re telling me that for twenty minutes—” Rupert cut himself off. “If Gosling sees this—” He cut himself off again. “Why didn’t you call for help?”
“I am calling for help. That’s why I called you,” she said with Nico’s leather book still tucked under her arm. “Tina said he likes you.”
“Nico doesn’t like me. He just does better with male nurses. Always has.”
“I don’t care if he does better with transvestites. Last time he shut down like this, Tina said he put a mechanical pencil in Dr. Herthel’s leg.”
Remembering the incident, and the blood that went with it, Rupert snatched the old book from Nurse Karina. Every few months, Nico would find an object of obsession. For a while it was his Redskins wall calendar. Before that, it was his red glass rosary, preceded by a pair of reading glasses that reminded him of a truck driver whose throat he punctured. Today, Rupert knew Nico’s current obsession.
Turning back to the labyrinth, he waved the book in the air. “Nico, I got your book.”
Nico didn’t answer.
“I know you heard me,” Rupert called again, refusing to get close until he was sure it was safe.
Nico just stood there, hands flat at his sides.
Rupert took a deep breath, annoyed. Dammit. “Nico, you wanna go to the computer room?”
Nico turned. He knew they’d only offer the computer if they were desperate. That’s why he needed to make his stand in the labyrinth. This was what he was waiting for. It was time to get the Knight’s new message. “Is the computer room here the same as the old one?”
“Even better,” Rupert said, waving Nico out of the maze and steering him with a gentle back pat. “C’mon, you’ll love it.”
“Can I bring my book?” Nico asked, eyeing the book in Rupert’s hands. The book the Knight had sent him.
“Of course,” Rupert said, handing it to him. “Bring whatever you want.”
34
Still pinching the slip of paper from the fortune cookie between his fingertips, Dr. Stewart Palmiotti used his free hand to redial the President’s phone number. Again.
And again.
“We’re sorry. The number you dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again.”
He crumpled the fortune like a spitball but didn’t throw it away. He stuffed it in his pocket, not even noticing he was grinding his teeth.
On his left, a few blocks from Wok ’n Roll, a passing woman in a ratty red scarf seemed to be staring at him.
Dropping his head, Palmiotti walked in the opposite direction. With his head down.
The woman with the scarf definitely was no longer looking. No one’s looking, he told himself.
And that was the problem. No one was looking. No one was watching. Despite everything he’d been promised—all the reassurances that the President… that the Secret Service… that everyone would be looking out for him…
Stewart Palmiotti really was out here alone.
Or.
Maybe it was just a mistake.
At the thought of it, Palmiotti’s fists unclenched.
It wasn’t the craziest explanation. For over three years, President Wallace hadn’t cooked for himself… placed a call for himself… he didn’t even carry his own wallet anymore. So was it possible that maybe, just maybe, when Wallace wrote down the number, he wrote it down wrong?
Certainly possible.
Wasn’t it?
Besides, if it were a real emergency, he still knew how to get in touch with A.J. and the Secret Service. He did. It didn’t matter whether the number was right or wrong.
Palmiotti and the President had gone to elementary school together. They had traded snacks in the lunchroom together. They had buried Wallace’s mother. And Palmiotti’s father.
No question, the President would always look out for him. Always love him. But as his thumb skated across the keypad of the cheap disposable cell phone, Palmiotti knew there was one other person who loved him too.
Lydia. The woman he’d been seeing before all this.
She loved Palmiotti as well.
His cheeks lifted as he began dialing her number. He didn’t want to actually talk to her. No. Even he wasn’t that stupid. And even if he was, what would he say? Hey, hon! I’m not dead. I’m alive!
No. All Palmiotti wanted was to hear her voice on her answering machine. The little singsongy way she said Lydi-a, like it belonged in a musical. He knew she wouldn’t be there. It was a workday.
The phone rang once… twice… As it picked up, there was that hollow pause that tells you the answering machine message is about to begin.
For Palmiotti, that’s all he needed. Just to hear her voice.
“This is Lydia,” the message announced as the singsong made his heart balloon, pressing against his sternum. “You called. Leave a message.”
He hung up before the beep even sounded, soaking in the irrational rush of emotions that comes from any mention of an old lover.
Stuffing the phone back into his pocket, Palmiotti told himself that that was all he needed. Just to hear her voice. That was enough.
And as he felt that lump in his throat and that rise in his pants…
It was enough.
; But then… it wasn’t.
35
I knew who?” I ask, still lost.
“Riis,” Marshall says.
“Pastor Riis? From our hometown? Pastor Riis is dead?”
“Three weeks ago. Shot in the chest by an old obscure gun.”
He says something else, but I don’t hear it. My mind’s already tumbling back to Sunday school… to Riis’s sermons at church… to the fact that he always smelled like peppermint Tic Tacs and suntan lotion… and of course to that night in the basement when Pastor Riis and Marshall’s mom—
“Don’t look at me like that, Beecher. I didn’t kill him.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You think I don’t know that look? Get it out of your head, Beecher. When Pastor Riis left town—”
“He didn’t leave town. They ran him out of town! What he did with you… and your mom—”
“Don’t say those words,” he warns as I feel the rage rising off him. He keeps staring across the street, gripping the pole of the awning like he’s about to rip it from its mooring. Behind us, two patrons leave the restaurant and steer wide around us, sensing Marshall’s anger.
“You don’t know what happened back then, Beecher. To me… or my mom. You don’t know anything about what happened that night.”
“Your mom died, Marshall! She put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger! What else do we need to—?”
He whips my way, his fist cocked.
I jump back, holding my hands up to protect my face. But he drops his hands to his sides.
“You think I’d hit you?” he asks, annoyed.
“You did choke me.” When he doesn’t respond, I add, “I’m sorry for bringing up your mom like that.”
He forces a grin, but his skin is stiff and unpliable. Like he’s wearing a plastic mask of himself. Still, there’s something real in his eyes.
“And I’m sorry for saying that about Pastor Riis,” I add.