The Fifth Assassin (20 page)

Now the Secret Service was definitely involved. They knew the pattern. And most important, they were well aware of the Knight’s final target: the President of the United States.

Nico would not be happy about this.

St. Elizabeths Hospital

Washington, D.C.

A
pple or orange, Jerome?” Rupert called out nearly an hour later as he pushed the juice cart into the room of the old man who, in almost two years, hadn’t once said hello back, much less answered apple
or
orange. Tonight was Jerome’s first night in the new building.

“I hear the orange is better tonight. No pulp, no ice,” Rupert added.

But as was always the case, Jerome didn’t even look up. He simply stared at the only section of the newspaper he ever read: the colorful advertising circulars.

“Sleep tight, Jerome. And remember: Your sister loves you,” Rupert said, keeping the promise he had made to Jerome’s family.

Naturally, every family made special requests, and Rupert couldn’t keep all of them, or even most of them. But in Rupert’s eyes, sisters were different.

His own sister was the only person who got him through their tough childhood in Baltimore. And to this day, his sister was the only reason Rupert always asked to be staffed on the NGI floors. With the extra pay that came from working with Nico and the other NGIs, Rupert ensured that his nephew—his sister’s son—could keep going to the private school for the deaf that his recently divorced sister would never be able to afford without him.

Was it worth it?

His nephew just got a recruiting letter from North Carolina. For chess. A silent game.

Even Nico couldn’t ruin news like that.

“Almost done?” the nurse with the sad eyes called out from the nurses’ station at the end of the hall.

Rupert put one finger up, pivoting the juice cart in the short, bright new hallway. On his right was his final delivery, to the room marked
Nico H
.

He paused a moment, thinking whether he should dock Nico his juice for giving Karina such a hard time. But Rupert knew, when it came to Nico, no matter how annoying he was, it was never personal.

Nico had a sickness. Nico was confused. Sure, they’d gotten him to the point where he was no longer talking to the dead First Lady anymore. But that didn’t mean he was cured.

Most important, Rupert knew that if he held back the juice tonight, that’s a whole different headache they’d be dealing with tomorrow.

“Knock-knock. Apple- and orange-type drinks coming!” Rupert announced, shoving the juice cart into the door and forcing it to swing open. “Who wants sugary—!?”

“—ust thought you’d want it back,” Dr. Gosling said, standing by the head of the bed and handing something to Nico.

Dr. Gosling turned at the sound. Nico just sat there, in bed. Already staring at the door. Like he knew Rupert was coming.

“I-I’m sorry,” Rupert said. “I didn’t realize you were—”

“It’s fine… it’s fine… it’s fine…” Dr. Gosling said as he put on a wide smile and flashed his crooked ultra-white teeth. “Was just checking up on our favorite resident. Had to make sure he has a good first night, yes?”

Rupert nodded, taking an involuntary step backward. In Nico’s hands, he saw what Dr. Gosling had given him. A leather book. Nico’s book.

“He left it in TLC, in the restroom,” Gosling said, his smile still in place. “I just thought he’d want it back.”

“That’s nice of you,” Rupert said, looking at the leather book. The brown leather was the same, and the title was the same:
Looking Backward
. But when Rupert saw it earlier, the bookmark sticking out of it was a ten of spades. He remembered thinking that spades were sort of sinister. But now, the bookmark was a ten of diamonds.

“You bring my apple juice?” Nico demanded.

Rupert nodded, handing it to Nico.

“Apple is better than orange,” Nico added. Rupert continued nodding and Dr. Gosling laughed.

“We should really let him get his rest,” Dr. Gosling said, putting a stiff hand on the juice cart and motioning Rupert backward toward the door.

Rupert tugged the juice cart back into the hallway, and Dr. Gosling pulled the door closed behind them. As it was about to shut, Rupert saw Nico looking down at his lap. He couldn’t tell if Nico was staring at the book or the juice. But there was no mistaking this: that dark, haunting smile. Nico was definitely happy about something.

“He’s doing well, don’t you think?” Dr. Gosling asked as they both walked back toward the nurses’ station.

As the door shut behind the two men, Nico kept his head down, focusing on the quiet that returned to his room.

“
He’s doing well, don’t you think?
” Dr. Gosling asked out in the hallway.

To anyone else, it’d be too hard to hear. But Nico’s hearing was more acute than the average person’s. He could hear what others couldn’t. And see too.

“
You don’t like it when they ignore me, do you?
” the dead First Lady asked, standing in the corner of the room.

“Shhh,” Nico whispered, still focusing on Rupert and Dr. Gosling.

“
Nico, do you even know how lucky you got?
” the First Lady asked. “
With all the money they spent on this building, the doors still aren’t thick enough to mask the sound.
”

Nico nodded. That’d be useful. “It’s good to know when someone’s coming.”

“
Sure is
,” the First Lady said. “
And it’s even better to know about the bang before the bang happens.
”

Refusing to take a sip of his apple juice, Nico looked down at the leather book that he’d intentionally left in the downstairs restroom. Thumbing through it, he stopped on the playing-card bookmark: the ten of diamonds on
here
. Behind it was another card. A new card. The ace of clubs.

Message received. The third Knight was on his way.

T
ot was tired as he followed the checkerboard floor down the long basement hallway. He wanted to go home. He needed the rest. But right now, in the basement of the National Archives, he needed something else even more. If the Knights of the Golden Circle were truly back…

He picked up his pace. He’d have the answer soon enough.

Checking one last time over his shoulder, he stopped at the room with no room numbers on it—the thick glass door with beige horizontal blinds.

He knew the glass was bulletproof. He knew the treasures that were stored inside. And he knew better than to knock. The hidden camera above the doorjamb already announced his arrival.

Underneath the door, the lights were off. Tot didn’t budge.

Sure enough, within seconds, there was a muffled click and the heavy door opened.

“You really are a pain in my ass,” a man in a crisp white lab coat said, running a manicured hand over his perfect, brushed-back blond hair. Daniel “the Diamond” Boeckman. The head of Preservation, and a master of ancient documents. “This better be life-or-death,” the Diamond added.

From his jacket pocket, Tot unfolded a color photocopy of a mottled and worn ace of spades.

“It is,” Tot said as he eased the bulletproof door shut. “Now, how much do you know about playing cards?”

Eighteen years ago

Sagamore, Wisconsin

M
arshmallow loved sleeping at Beecher’s house.

And not because of the food, which, when you’re twelve years old, is one of the greatest benefits of a sleepover at a friend’s house. Back then, as everyone knew,
Marshall’s
house was the one with the best food. Cap’n Crunch… Lucky Charms… Fruity
and
Cocoa Pebbles, plus two different flavors of Pringles
and
you could drink Yoo-Hoo at dinner, not just as a treat. Forever compensating for having a husband in a wheelchair, Marshall’s mom made sure her son had it all.

When Marshall slept at Beecher’s, he had to slum his way through Honey Nut Cheerios and regular Cheerios.

But as Marshall was all too aware, Beecher’s house had the one thing his house would never have.

A teenage sister.

Two weeks ago, right before bed, Marshmallow was coming out of the bathroom just as Beecher’s sister Lesley stepped into the hallway. She was wearing a sky blue nightgown that came well below her knees. But Marshall could still see her ankles. He pushed his glasses up on his nose.
Galactic
, he thought to himself.

“If you even say a word to me, I promise your penis will fall off,” Lesley threatened.

Keeping his head down and rushing around her, back to Beecher’s bedroom, the chubby Marshmallow kept quiet.

He was mortified. And already making plans for the next sleepover.

“Beecher, maybe this isn’t smart,” Marshmallow whispered, two weeks later, now regretting that decision. “We don’t even know if they’re coming up here.”

“They’re coming. They have to,” Beecher insisted as the two of them knelt in the dark, peeking out from inside Beecher’s sister’s closet. “Don’t be such a coward.”

They heard the rumbling, like thunder, of half a dozen teenage girls racing up the stairs, and then saw the crowd of them burst into the pale pink bedroom, scattering and gossiping as they stole seats on the bed, at the desk, across the carpet with the daisy edges.

Marshall saw her immediately. At the back of the crowd, walking hesitantly. The last girl to enter the room. The girl who had just moved back to town. Clementine.

Now it all made sense.

“You knew she’d be here, didn’t you?” Marshall whispered.

Beecher didn’t answer, his eyes stuck on Clementine.

“Beecher, can I break the news to you now? She doesn’t like you.”

“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Beecher whispered.

“Doesn’t matter. You oogle.”

“I’m in puberty. I’m allowed to oogle. Besides, you oogle my sister.”

Marshmallow pushed his glasses up on his nose, still focused on Clementine. “How’d she get invited anyway? She’s not friends with your sister,” he whispered, leaning his nose toward the crack of the door.

“My mom felt bad for her—new girl, new school—she told my sister that Clementine
had
to be invited.”

“And she came? If Andy Levey invited me to his house, I wouldn’t—”

“Shhhh,” Beecher hissed as one of the girls—a short and bossy one named Rita—called out…

“Okay, who’s
playing
?”

Within seconds, a small circle formed at the center of the room. Girls scooched in, then out, to make more room. In the best childhood games, no one had to discuss the rules.

Beecher’s sister reached under her bed and pulled out an empty glass Diet Coke bottle.

“Please, God in heaven, I’ll go to church every day if these girls start making out with each other,” Marshmallow whispered.

Beecher flicked Marshmallow’s ear. He took the hint. Be quiet.

With a sharp twist, Beecher’s sister gave the bottle its first spin. A few girls smiled. A few looked terrified. But every girl in the circle shifted with a nearly imperceptible flinch as the bottle twirled past them. Everyone but Clementine, who—as Beecher noticed—was still standing awkwardly, her hands behind her back, by the door.

“
And the winnah is…!
” Beecher’s sister announced.

The girls began laughing, clapping, squealing as the bottle stopped and pointed at the short, bossy girl who just a minute ago had called the game to order. Her wavy brown hair was tied in a messy braid that was slowly coming undone. Rita.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Beecher’s sister sang as Rita got on her knees and crawled into the center of the circle.

From the closet, Beecher saw the forced smile on Rita’s face, and the terror in her eyes.

“Who wants to start?” Lesley asked as Rita sat Indian-style in the center of the circle. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Your house smells like pickles,” one of the girls, a blonde with braces, called out as everyone laughed.

“Your mom drives that dumpy old Mercury Capri,” a girl in a unicorn sweatshirt added as Rita pretended to laugh with the group.

“You look better from far away,” another called out.

The group giggled at that one, but it caused a pause in the action.

Watching from the closet, Beecher assumed that they were now feeling bad—that they had taken the game
What’s Wrong With You
too far. Until…

“You st-st-stutter when you read out loud,” a girl with a gold cross around her neck blurted.

“I know you stuffed your bra for Reina Pizzuti’s birthday at the bowling alley!”

“You stuffed it for my birthday too!” another girl yelled.

“
Stovetop stuffing!
” the girl with the gold cross added.

“
Stovetop stuffing!
” Lesley repeated.

“St-st-stovetop!” the blonde with braces added, getting the biggest laughs of all.

At the center of the circle, Rita tried to hold her smile in place, but it wobbled. A swell of tears built just behind her eyes.

From the closet, Marshall looked back at Beecher. “Girls are like… evil bitches.”

“What was
that
!?” someone shouted.

“From over there!” another yelled.

The crowd went quiet.

Beecher froze, hiding his eyes by staring down at the closet’s wood floor, which was a mess of shoes. He held his breath. Marshmallow did the same. No one was pointing at them. Maybe they didn’t—

The door to the closet flew open as the burst of bright lights attacked their retinas. “You little rat
fink
!” Beecher’s sister screamed. “
You’re dead for this!
”

Beecher scrambled backward, deeper into the closet. But with nowhere to go, he was tripping, tumbling, stumbling over the mess of shoes.

“Grab him!” a girl yelled.

Before he knew what was happening, the group of girls were grunting and pulling…

But not at Beecher.

“Get the fat one!” someone shouted.

“Nonono… please…!” Marshmallow pleaded as they dragged him from the closet. The girls were bigger—and two years older. Marshall didn’t have a chance. He tried grabbing Beecher’s shirt, then the cuffs of his jeans, but at the back of the closet, Beecher was tucked down, curled into his own self-preserving ball.