The Fifth Assassin (24 page)

“Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s all silly folklore,” the Diamond continued. “But when you look at a deck of cards, make no mistake, those cards still tell a story. And it’s a story that always ends the same way…”

“With a knight murdering the church.”

“There you go. Now you see Vignolles’s warning—and why he wanted to change that story. When his signal was given…”

“His knights would murder the king,” Tot whispered.

“Or murder whatever leader was in charge when there was no king,” the Diamond countered.

Confused, Tot asked, “What’re you talking about?”

“You think I just keep a stash of antique aces for no good reason?” the Diamond asked, motioning to the ace of spades with the ancient eagle. “Those cards you brought in here—they’re the same ones that belonged to George Washington.”

M
arshall.
You remember him?” Clementine asks, sounding energized as she grips her wig.

“Of course I remember him,” I reply weakly. “Marshall was my friend.”

“He was? I forgot that,” she admits, still not putting her wig on. “According to Dr. Yoo, before Marshall’s dad was in the wheelchair, he was a plankholder too. They were young back then, before any of us came along or—”

“Clementine, when was the last time you saw Marshall?”

“I dunno, when did he move away? I think I was… maybe thirteen or fourteen?”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“Where would I see him?”

“What about speaking to him? Have you spoken to him?”

“Beecher, you okay?”

“Please just answer the question.”

“Y-You’re acting like—”

“Just answer the question, Clementine! Have you spoken to Marshall or not!?”

Clementine’s eyes go wide, then quickly narrow and tighten, clicking back and forth like she’s frisking me for information.

“You spoke to him, didn’t you?” she blurts. “You know something about Marshall.”

“I don’t—”

“You
do
, Beecher. I know you do. Your left eyebrow goes up when you lie.”

“Clementine, I barely saw the guy…”

“Hold on. You
saw
him!? I told you! I knew it!” Rushing forward, she grabs me by the front of my shirt, like she’s about to attack. “What’d he say to you!? You need to tell me!”

“Are you
high
? Let go of me!”

“Tell me what he said, Beecher!”

“I said,
let go
!”

“
Then tell me what the hell is going on!
” she demands, tugging harder on my shirt and still clutching her wig. It’s so close to my nose it smells like wet fur. “
Tell me what Marshall said about Nico!
”

I pull back, confused.
Nico? This has nothing to do with Nico.

Before I say a word, her eyes flood with tears and her shoulders fall. “I told you everything about your dad, everything I knew,” she says, steeling her jaw and refusing to let herself cry. “How can you not tell me what you know about mine?”

“I don’t know anything, Clemmi. I swear to you.”

“But you saw Marshall, didn’t you? You spoke to him?”

“Yes, but when I spoke to him, it wasn’t about
Nico
. It had nothing to do with Nico. Or the plankholders.”

She looks left, then right, like she can’t get her bearings. I’ve never seen her so rattled. In fact, I’ve never seen her rattled.

With her hands shaking, she touches her ear, brushing an imaginary curl of hair behind her bare earlobe. At this point, some things are pure instinct. “If this isn’t about Nico, then why were you talking to Marshall?”

“Because we’re trying to figure out if… it sounds crazy when I say it out loud.”

“My father lives in a mental institution and tried to shoot a President. I’m used to
crazy
. Just say it, Beecher.”

“I’m trying to figure out if Marshall killed someone while pretending to be John Wilkes Booth. There. That looney-tunes enough for you?”

Clementine takes two steps away from me, clutching her wig at her chest. “What’d you just say?”

“I know. And if we’re right about what’s going on, it’s not just Booth. There’s also Charles Guiteau, who—”

“I need to go,” Clementine insists, finding the tag on the inside of her wig and sliding it back on her head.

“What? Where’re you going?”

“I need to go, Beecher.” She’s patting her blonde locks back into place. Even with the hair, she looks paler than I’ve ever seen her.

“Clementine, please… What’re you not telling me?”

“What you said—about Booth… and Guiteau… Is that true?
Marshall’s
copying old killers?”

“I have no idea. Maybe it’s Marshall. I pray it’s not. But we know that pastors are dying, and whoever’s doing it, they’re copying old presidential assassins.”

“No, Beecher. They’re not.”

“What’re you talking about?”

She covers her eyes with her hand. “Oh, God, it’s happening again!”

“
What’s
happening again?”

“You need to listen to me, Beecher. Please,” she begs, clearly terrified. “When I spoke to Dr. Yoo, he told me. There was someone else. Someone who did this, who copied John Wilkes Booth… and Guiteau… and all the rest. He did it years ago. And now, this killer you’re looking for… He’s not just copying the original assassins.” She takes a breath, barely able to get the words out. “The killer is copying my father. He’s copying Nico.”

G
eorge Washington?” Tot asked. “You’re telling me these are George Washington’s personal playing cards?”

“Washington was a big card player—always playing whist,” the Diamond explained. “When it came to these particular cards—with the so-called eagle on them—Washington was, without question, their biggest purchaser. Every few months, he’d order the same deck from the same printer and cardmaker.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t either—until I had to fill an entire exhibit on the historical significance of playing cards. And what was most interesting—at least to me—was what else was going on as George Washington was buying all these playing cards. Don’t forget, we may see the Revolution as this idealized American victory, but not everyone was thrilled with changing the power structure.

“George Washington may’ve picked a fight with the British, but suddenly there were all these other groups pointing guns at his head: locals who preferred the old way of doing things, Indians who were forced to pick a side, even wealthy families who just didn’t want to lose what they had. It affected everyone who had a vested interest in the status quo—including small selfish groups who won’t even reveal themselves until their power is threatened,” the Diamond said, motioning back at the ace of spades with the eagle symbol.

“You’re talking about the Knights?”

“I’m talking about the
church
—or at least a small subset that these sacred Knights were a part of. Even with all the colonials’ Puritan values, territories dedicated to self-determination aren’t always good for church business.”

“So what’s that have to do with playing cards?”

“According to the curator at Mount Vernon, Washington knew how many of these factions were working against him. And when it came to that faction within the church, he even knew how they communicated—hiding secret messages in the same way Washington hid his own… in books and in letters… But one of the great tricks of the church was also hiding things in…”

“Playing cards,” Tot said, his knees suddenly aching far more than usual.

“In 1777, y’know how many decks of these cards George Washington ordered for himself?” the Diamond asked, his finger hovering above the ace of spades, but never touching it. “Six dozen. That’s seventy-two packs! Just for himself!”

“You think he was looking for something?”

“Or that he
found
something—or at least found the way these so-called sacred Knights communicated. Look at how it played out: Right as Washington’s big order for cards was placed in 1777, the church suddenly asserted itself, coming to Morristown and asking Washington to issue an order to all his troops. You know what it said?”

Tot nodded. Of course he knew what it said. “It forbade all his officers and soldiers to play cards and other games.”

“They said it led to moral indecency—but that’s a pretty particular request, don’t you think:
no more playing cards?
It’s like they didn’t want Washington to see what they were doing. Washington had no choice. It was still the church. But have you seen George Washington’s diaries at the time? He never stops playing cards. Never. Instead, he keeps writing about
these specific playing cards
. Over and over. Like there was something special about them.”

“You think he knew that this faction of the church, that these Knights, were using the cards to send messages?”

“George Washington was not a stupid man. He knew who he was fighting. And he knew how they were communicating. Some say that’s when he started to smoke them out. That he even put together his own little spy ring…”

“The Culper Ring.”

“Exactly. Some say that’s why the Culper Ring was born. To protect Washington and hunt the Knights.”

“That’s not true,” Tot insisted, surprised by his own reaction. “That’s not why the Culper Ring was founded.”

“It doesn’t matter why they were founded. All that matters is that the mission of the Knights never changed. They were watching. And when it came to protecting the church from any perceived ‘king,’ the Knights knew one thing: George Washington was wielding the power of the state in a brand-new way. And he wasn’t going anywhere.”

As the Diamond said the words, Tot couldn’t help but think of the current President, and of Beecher and Marshall. But he was also thinking of his own mentor, Kermit, and all the stories that Tot only heard in whispers: the stories no one would talk about—of the horrors unleashed by the so-called Knights of the Golden Circle.

“Can I ask you a question, Daniel? Even assuming this whole thing isn’t some old campfire tale, assuming that these original Knights, or some variation of them, somehow continued to exist all the way to George Washington’s time—you think there’s a chance, or more important, any proof, that they could’ve lasted even longer than that?”

“Define
longer
.”

“You said the battle between church and state was the ultimate civil war, so let’s say, to our Civil War. To Lincoln’s time. Or maybe even to, I don’t know… 1963.”

The Diamond stared across the art table, studying his old friend. “Tot, I’m going to ask you this only one time: This killer you’re chasing that you can’t tell me about…? Is he trying to kill the President of the United States?”

“Daniel…”

“You’re mentioning Lincoln, and then the year JFK gets assassinated. How am I not supposed to ask?”

“You
are
supposed to ask. But if I thought that was about to happen, you’d have fifty Secret Service agents in here asking you this
question instead of me. All I care about is: Could these Knights, whoever they are, whatever they stand for, could they possibly survive long enough to exist today?”

“Isn’t that the point? That’s why they picked the symbol.”

“What symbol?”

“This one!” the Diamond said, pointing down to the ace of spades.

“Y’mean the eagle?”

“You keep calling it an eagle, but have you actually looked at it?” He taps a finger against the head of the bird. “The tuft of feathers on an eagle’s head goes
down
, flat against the neck. The feathers here curve
up
. This isn’t an eagle, Tot. It’s a phoenix.”

“A phoenix,” Tot whispered, rolling his finger into his beard and still remembering Kermit’s words: that the Knights were gone, completely defeated.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Tot. Whoever you’re chasing here, it doesn’t matter if they were around for Lincoln, or JFK,
or anyone else. What matters is they
think they were
. So if these Knights are now trying to take a shot at the current President—and start a new civil war—now you know who you’re facing. This isn’t a
fight
to them. This is their destiny. In their eyes, like the phoenix and their church predecessors, they’re holy warriors who can never be killed.”

N
o. That’s impossible,” I say.

“It’s not. It happened,” she shoots back.

“But how can—? The killer we’re chasing—How could he possibly be copying Nico?”

“Because that’s what Nico
did
.”

“I don’t understand. All those years ago, when Nico shot at the President… It was during a NASCAR race. What does John Wilkes Booth have to do with NASCAR?”

“You’re missing what I said, Beecher. When Nico took those shots at the President, that was the
end
of Nico’s journey. What I’m talking about is his
beginning
.”

Watching me digest the statement, and everything else she’s said, Clementine stands by the front door, once again taking off her jacket.

“Was this in the file Palmiotti gave you?” I ask.

“You think they’d give me something like that? No. This was from the doctor.”