by Brad Meltzer
I’m supposed to ask him about the killings… and the Knights of the Golden Circle, but instead…
“Did you know my father, Nico? Back in Wisconsin… did you know Albert White?”
I wait for him to react. But like Marshall when I asked if he knew Clementine, Nico doesn’t move. His hands stay clasped prayer-style.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, Benjamin.”
“You never knew Albert White? You weren’t stationed together as plankholders?”
He smiles at that—the same creepy, crooked smile that was on his face when the Secret Service dragged him to the ground after he took his famous shots at the President. “Sorry, Benjamin. I’ve never heard of Albert White. Or any plankholders.”
“What about a man named Marshall Lusk? Do you know anything about him?”
From my back pocket, I pull out a color copy of Marshall’s mugshot and place it on the table between us. Nico hovers over it, staring down at Marshall’s burned face and never touching the copy.
“His burns are terrible,” Nico says.
“Do you know him?”
“His lips are gone. Do you know if his tongue was burned as well?” Before I can answer, he adds, “When burn victims go in for tongue surgery, the night before, they usually record final messages so their loved ones can hear their voice—just in case the surgery goes bad and they never speak again. Have you ever thought what your final message would be?”
I stare down at the photocopy, thinking about the last message my father left me. His suicide note.
“Do you want to tell me what the man with the burns was arrested for?” Nico asks.
“Actually, that’s what I was hoping you could help with. Over the past few days, some pastors have been shot in local churches.”
“Pastors were shot?” he asks, his crooked smile growing wider. “Why would you think I know anything about that?”
I snatch the photocopy off the table and lean back in my chair, stretching both arms.
“Before, you were frustrated. Now you’re angry, aren’t you, Benjamin?”
“No. Not really.” I stretch my arms up again, like I’m caught mid-yawn. But this time, I’m the one locking eyes with him. “This isn’t for you, Nico. It’s for her.”
I extend my stretch all the way to my fingertips.
Nico tilts slightly, staring over my shoulder—through the bulletproof glass by the X-ray, and outside the glass window that overlooks the front of the building, where a woman with short blonde hair reads my signal and finally steps out from behind one of the building’s main pillars.
Nico thinks we’re playing the same game we played last time. He’s never been more wrong.
From the moment I arrived, I knew Nico wouldn’t help. But as Marshall pointed out, when it comes to breaking in somewhere, the key is finding a weakness. In Nico’s case, it’s always been…
“Clementine,” he whispers, watching the blonde woman turn down the pedestrian path that leads around the side of the building.
“I assume you’d like to speak to your daughter?” I ask.
Nico stands from his chair and holds tight to his book. To his credit, he’s absolutely calm as he marches toward the bulletproof glass. People forget—this isn’t a prison, it’s a hospital. And Nico still has grounds privileges. “We’d like to take a walk outside,” he says to the guard.
“Don’t you need a coat?” the guard challenges.
“I don’t get cold.”
The guard rolls his eyes. Nico’s always a pain.
With a quick notation in the system and the press of a button, the bulletproof glass doors open, and I gather my phone from the locker, leading Nico outside. To see his daughter.
72
Where is she?” Nico asks.
I don’t answer. We’re halfway around the building, on the pedestrian path that’s lined with benches and leads out toward a snow-covered garden. When we first left the lobby, the X-ray guard was watching, but out here, except for a roving guard who patrols the metal fence in the distance, there’s actual privacy. A few other patients take their morning walks. Nico barely notices.
“Tell me where she is,” he insists, his shoulders hunched forward. With no jacket, he’s definitely cold. But that’s not why he looks so uncomfortable.
Last time I was here—when he started talking about her—Nico was reduced to tears.
“I need to speak to her!” he hisses, spinning back to face me and clutching his leather book to his chest.
I don’t flinch. We both know who’s in control.
“She wants to speak to you too,” I reassure him as he scans the garden, the path, every nearby bench. They’re all empty. He checks the snow for footprints. There aren’t any. He’s not happy with that. Whether he likes it or not, he needs me.
“Nico, if you want to see her, I need you to tell me what you know.”
“About your father? I didn’t know your father.”
“What about Marshall?”
At least fifty yards in front of us, the path dead-ends at an empty bench beneath a sickly-looking sycamore tree that’s propped up by a few wooden stakes. Like before, Nico checks the snow for footprints. No way anyone can see that far.
His eyes narrow. He hugs his book even tighter. “I see you, Clementine,” he whispers.
“Nico, wait…!”
He’s already on his way.
“Clemmi…!” I call out.
She sticks her head out from behind the tree, well aware he’s coming.
Up ahead, Nico knows better than to run. He eyes the guard in the distance—who’s at least a football field away. I race right behind him.
From behind the sycamore tree, Clementine steps out to face him.
As Nico gets his first good look at her, he stops midstep. His mouth tips open and the leather book tumbles from his hands, landing in the snow with a wet thud.
“Why are you wearing a wig?” he asks.
“She didn’t want anyone to recognize her,” I tell him, picking up the book and offering it back to him.
Nico doesn’t take it. He won’t face me, won’t acknowledge me.
“Is that true?” he asks, still locked on Clementine. “Or is Benjamin lying?”
“It’s true. It is,” Clementine insists, her voice surprisingly soft and reassuring, like she’s worried about him. I don’t know why I’m so shocked. It’s still her father.
“Here, you look cold. Wear this,” she adds, unwrapping her black wool scarf and holding it out for Nico.
When he doesn’t reach for it, Clementine steps even closer, draping it around his neck. I hand him back the book, tucking it under his armpit. For a moment, Nico just stands there, staring awkwardly at his daughter—like he’s searching her face or waiting for her to say something.
“So are you the one?” he finally blurts.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“The one. The one who’s… It is you, isn’t it?”
“I-I’m not sure I understand,” she says, clearly lost. “The one who what?”
“The one who sent me this,” he says, holding out the leather book. “Who sent me the messages.”
Clementine takes a half step back. Her father takes a half step forward.
“Tell me, Clementine,” Nico says. “Are you the Knight?”
73
Me? The Knight?” Clementine asks, her fingertips pressed against her own chest. “How can I be the Knight?”
“That’s what you call him? The Knight?” I ask, remembering what Tot told me about the playing cards.
“But what you did before… You’re not the one?” Nico challenges.
“The one who what? Who’s killing pastors? No, are you cr—!?” She catches herself, but it clearly hits home. “I’d never do that! How could you think I’d do that!?”
Nico’s eyes flick back and forth, dissecting her. He holds tight to the leather book, but also to the black scarf she gave him. Like he’s choosing between the
two. But what’s far more unusual is…
He looks happy.
“I knew it, Lord! I knew you wouldn’t do that to me!” he says, staring up at the winter sky as if he’s talking directly to God. “Thank you for making her different from me!”
“Nico, keep your voice down,” I insist, eyeing the guard, who’s still in the distance.
“You really thought I was a murderer?” Clementine asks.
Nico’s eyes are closed. He’s whispering, saying some sort of prayer.
“Nico, I’m serious,” Clementine adds. “How could I be the murderer?”
Nico’s eyes pop open. He turns to her. “You’re my daughter. Why should I think you were different?”
The words crash into her chest as if they’re about to knock her over. But no matter how much they hurt, there’s no mistaking the raw concern in her eyes as she studies her father. I came here to find information. Clementine came for something far more personal.
“Nico, you’re not a monster,” she tells him.
He shakes his head. “I have a sickness. That’s what put the evil in me.”
“You’re wrong. I know where the evil comes from. I know about the other killings. I spoke to Dr. Yoo…”
At the mention of Yoo’s name, Nico loosens his grip on the black scarf, his hand sliding down it like a fireman on a pole.
“He told me what they put in you—what they did to you,” she adds. “All these years… all the things they blamed on you. But it was them, Nico. They’re the ones who caused this.”
Nico’s hand slides down to the end of the scarf, dangling at the tip. He won’t let go, shaking his head over and over and over. “But the doctors… the nurses… they told me… my sickness… God chose me for this. God made me this way.”
“No, God made you like me,” she insists. “God made you good.”
Nico blinks hard, a swell of tears taking his eyes. Clementine’s too. She needs to hear it just as much as he does.
“Nico, listen to what she’s saying,” I jump in. “When we first met, you told me that God chooses each of us—that He tests us. Maybe this is your test. If you know what’s happening with the Knight—this is your chance to make it right.”
Like before, he won’t face me. Won’t hear me. He stays locked on his daughter.
“Are you helping the Knight?” Clementine asks.
“He doesn’t need my help. He wants my blessing.”
“Your blessing for what? For more murders?”
Nico doesn’t answer.
“You can still help us stop him,” I say.
At that, Nico freezes. For the first time, he looks away from Clementine, his close-set eyes sliding toward me. His voice sounds like crushed bits of glass. “You think you can stop this?” he asks. “This can’t be stopped. This is fate. It’s his destiny.”
“His destiny is killing people while copying John Wilkes Booth?”
Once again, he turns away, back to his daughter.
I shoot a look at Clementine. He’ll only answer you.
“So this is the Knight’s destiny?” Clementine repeats. “Killing people while copying John Wilkes Booth?”
Nico licks his lips, then licks them again, like he’s hearing the question for the first time. “You misunderstand. He knows he’s not Booth. Not Guiteau. Not any of them. But he understands the power of walking their path… building on their success.”
“Is that why he approached you? So you can guide him on the path?” I ask.
He glances at Clementine, who nods that he should answer me.
“I know you doubt me, Benjamin. But you know the history. Booth. Guiteau. Czolgosz. Even Lee Harvey Oswald. Each murdered a President. But what else do they have in common?”
At first, I stay silent.
“Don’t hide it from her, Benjamin. Tell her,” he says, though he still won’t face me. “We label my predecessors as outcasts and lunatics. But when you look at their lives—truly look—what’s the one thing they all share?”
“All four of them believed they were chosen by God,” I say.
“Exactly. They all thought they were chosen by God,” Nico says. “But here’s the real question: What if they were right?”
74
Pastor Frick, you there?” Tot called out, adding a quick knock against the hospital room door.
There was no answer. Shoving the door open, Tot peeked inside.
The hospital room was no different than any other hospital room—but from what Tot saw: no lights… no flowers… no writing on the wipe-off board. Even the bed was perfectly made. Whoever used to be here was long gone.
“You from the church?” a female voice called out.
Tot turned, tracing the voice back to the hallway, to a nurse with a gold cross around her neck, pushing a rolling blood pressure cart. “If you’re looking for Pastor Frick, they released him.”
“Released him?”
“Beautiful news, right? In fact…” She pointed toward the elevators. “If you hurry, they just wheeled him downstairs. He said he was stopping by the chapel first—to say goodbye to the chaplain.”
“Do you know if he’s headed home after that?” Tot asked, still determined to ask the pastor about yesterday’s attack.
“No idea. But if you want, ask Chaplain Stoughton…”
“Only if you think it wouldn’t be a bother.”
“Don’t be silly. She loves everyone. Even the President was impressed when he was here.”
Tot froze at the words. “What’d you just say?”
“The President. President Wallace.”
Sonuvabitch. “President Wallace was in this hospital?”
“Don’t you remember? Back when he had his gallbladder out.”
“And he met with your chaplain?”
“Even said prayers with her—right before they put him under. Why? Is that—?” The nurse stopped, staring at Tot. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s just—” Tot spun around, rushing and limping back toward the elevators. “What floor’d you say the chaplain’s office is on again?”
75
So that’s what this killer thinks?” I ask. “That he’s been chosen by God?”
“Not just him. He said the same of me. He told me,” Nico says, his voice starting to pick up speed. “He told me that what I began—all those years ago… He said it was a revelation for him. That was his word. Revelation.”
“And that makes you what? His inspiration?”
“I see the way you look at me, Benjamin. You want to insist that I’m the cause of this. But what the Knight is doing… the path he’s on… This isn’t my creation. It’s existed for centuries.”
“I agree,” I say, nodding along with him. Nico isn’t just the grand poobah of kooky conspiracies and alternative history. He once shot the President to save the world from evil Freemasons. It’s not tough to figure out how to keep him talking. “We know about the Knights of the Golden Circle,” I tell him. “And we know how the first Knights—the sacred Knights—used the symbolism of playing cards to hide their commitment to the church.”
“Then you know how powerful their legacy is,” he says, his voice now at full gallop. “Back in 1994, a man named Francisco Martin Duran tried to kill President Bill Clinton by firing twenty-nine shots at the White House. But on his drive from Colorado to Washington, did you know he stopped in Dallas, Texas, passing the Book Depository… and that when he got to D.C., he even stayed at the Hilton Hotel where John Hinckley shot Reagan? The path is clear to those who see it,” he adds, still staring at Clementine and blinking faster than ever. “And when you see the map… Have you seen the map?”
She shakes her head and takes a small step backward. She knows what happens when Nico gets too excited.
“Look at a map… any map,” he continues, clutching the scarf on his neck. “John Wilkes Booth was born in Bel Air, Maryland. Guiteau in Freeport, Illinois. Czolgosz in Detroit, Michigan. And Oswald in New Orleans, Louisiana. I
f the next assassin were born in northern Florida, those five birthplaces—if you draw straight lines between them…”
From his back pocket, he pulls out… it’s not a wallet. It’s a fat stack of folded papers, all bound with a rubber band. Unwrapping the rubber band, Nico flips through the pile and holds up… “Those birthplaces form this!”
“You see it, Benjamin!? A pentagram—a pentagram!—across America!”
Next to me, Clementine takes another step back. Something’s wrong. Something I’m missing.
“Nico, were you born in Florida?” I ask.
Gritting his teeth to catch his breath, he looks in the distance, at the guard, then over at two squirrels chasing each other at the base of a nearby tree. They’re moving so fast, they don’t even leave paw prints in the snow.
“It doesn’t matter where I was born,” Nico growls. “It’s the Knight’s turn now. He knew all that I’d done. But to see what he’s shown me… With the maps alone… I only had the tip of it.”
“I’m confused,” Clementine jumps in. “If it’s the Knight who’s doing this—Is his mission different from yours?”
“Now you’re seeing it, aren’t you? Now you know why he can’t be stopped. Mine was a selfish mission—everything for my own purpose. But what the Knight is doing here—Did you see his first slain? To let Pastor Riis be the first lamb…”
My heart clenches as he says the name of our old pastor in Wisconsin. Marshall told me he was looking into Riis’s death. But back when we were little, I remember that night in the pastor’s basement. Within weeks, Riis was run out of town. And Marshall’s mother put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.
“Nico, if you know that Marshall’s doing this…”
Nico wraps up his homemade map, stuffing it back into his pocket.
“If you’re protecting Marshall, or covering for him,” I add.
“I told you, Benjamin, I’ve never seen the Knight before. He knows better than to come in person. But I do know this: In the case of Pastor Riis, the Knight understands the value of doing for others. And proving one’s loyalty.”
“Loyalty to who?”