The Fifth Assassin (30 page)

“Chaplain Stoughton…?” the Knight called out, tugging open the stained glass door. As the smell of rose candles wafted past him, he lifted the Lincoln mask into place and couldn’t help but think that Nico was right. With each new lamb, he was definitely getting stronger. “Chaplain Stoughton, are you in there?”

Y
ou’re joking, right? The
Name of God
?” I ask.

“Most people don’t want to believe it,” Nico says.

I glance over at Clementine, who’s still digesting it herself. Even for Nico, it’s a new level on the tinfoil-hat scale.

“You asked about the Knight’s mission,” Nico adds, eyeing the two squirrels spiraling around the tree. “Now you won’t accept it?”

“So everything you told us… about the Knights and God’s Name…” Clementine interrupts. “Is that
true
?”

Nico turns slowly toward his daughter, his crooked smile crawling back in place. “Does it matter if it’s true? Or only that the Knight
believes
it’s true?”

“And that’s why he’s killing pastors?” I ask. “He thinks he’s on a holy mission?”

“He
knows
he’s on a holy mission. Why do you think he’ll only kill in temples? Look at his predecessors! Why did John Wilkes Booth pick Good Friday—the most solemn day in the Christian calendar—to take down the king? Why did Czolgosz say that he could’ve shot his king at Niagara Falls, but instead wanted to shoot him at the temple?”

“Time out. Lincoln wasn’t—”

“Lincoln
was
a king! Just as Garfield and McKinley—and JFK—all were at the height of their power!
Just as Wallace is today!
”

As Nico raises his voice, the perimeter guard, who’s still pretty far away, turns toward us. When it comes to Nico, they don’t take chances. The guard’s not just watching anymore. He heads toward the curving concrete path, coming our way.

Nico leans to his left, like someone’s whispering in his ear. I almost forgot. His imaginary friend.

“Benjamin, do you remember what I told you the first time we ever met?” he finally asks.

“You said I was the reincarnation of Benedict Arnold.”

“No. I told you about your
soul
. I told you we all have souls, and that our souls have missions. Missions that we repeat over and over, until we conquer them. That’s the battle you’re facing here.”

“So now this is
my
mission?” I ask skeptically.

“It’s
all
our mission. You, me, the President… Do you know what entanglement theory is, Benjamin?” Before I can answer, he’s already into it. “Scientists found that when two subatomic particles come in contact with one another, they’re forever entangled. Even when they leave each other’s presence, if you reverse the spin on one—no matter where they are—the other one automatically reverses its spin. It’s the same in life. The moment you meet someone, you cannot be unchained.”

Clementine is silent. I can’t tell if she’s horrified or mesmerized. But she can’t take her eyes off him.

“It’s why I’m chained to the Knight,” Nico adds. “He came to me thinking
I
was the Knight. That
I
was the chosen one. But don’t you see? The mission is
his
!”

“Nico, you need to lower your voice.”

“Look at the cards—think of the roles that Vignolles picked all those centuries ago: king, knight, knave. Always king, knight, knave. These roles exist forever, Benjamin. Always chained together. King Wallace
rules
. The Knight
slays
. And the Knave—Do you know what the Knave does?”

“The Knave serves. He’s the servant.”

“No. Look at the original meaning. The Knave is the Trickster—the one who
claims
to fight for good, but brings only darkness with him. That’s why the Knave always dies in battle, or causes others to die, Benjamin. So as you leave here—as you try to stop the Knight—don’t you see? That’s
your
role, Benjamin.
You’re the Knave.
You’re the one who’ll die in battle.”

On our left, one of the two fighting squirrels gets a piece of the
other, sending him skidding across the snow. But he rights himself so quickly, it’s like it never happened.

“Nico, I came here to save innocent lives.”

“You say that, but what were the first questions you asked? You wanted to know about your father. Then about the burned man, about Marshall. Which haunts you more, Benjamin? The victims, or your own childhood guilt?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m trying to catch a murderer.”

“Then if that’s the case, why haven’t you asked me one question about the
next
murder? We all know it’s coming; we all know who the Knight is building toward. So why haven’t you asked one question about how he’s going to kill King Wallace?” Nico asks, his voice grinding louder than ever. Clementine swallows hard, glancing at the guard walking toward us. “I’ll tell you the answer, Benjamin. It’s because, in your heart, you’d be happy to see the President dead. You’re the Knave, the bringer of evil. That’s why the Knave dies—and causes others to die with him.”

In my pocket, I feel my phone vibrate. I don’t bother to look.

“Nico, do you really know when the next murder will take place?” I ask.

“I told you: This is destiny, Benjamin. The Knight can’t be stopped.”

My phone continues to vibrate. I still don’t answer. On our left, the guard’s getting closer, approaching the curving concrete path. He pulls out a walkie-talkie, but we can’t hear what he says.

“Nico, if you know something,” Clementine pleads. “Please… Dad… Tell Beecher. He can help you. He can get stuff for you.”

Nico turns at the words. He kicks his shoulders back and stands up straight.

“That’s not true,” I say.

“Nico, everything okay?” the guard calls out.

Nico pretends not to hear. “What can you get me, Benjamin?”

“Tell us what you want,” Clementine says.

Nico doesn’t even have to think about it. He looks at me, but
points at Clementine. “I want to talk to
her
. Without
you
. I want to know why she’s wearing a wig.”

Clementine stutters. “It’s not a—”

“I know it’s a wig. I need to know why you’re sick,” he demands, his voice cracking. Eyeing the guard in the distance, he’s fighting to hold it together. At his chest, he clutches his book tighter than ever.

My phone vibrates again, but goes silent when I don’t pick up. “We didn’t come here to make deals,” I say.

“Beecher, it’s okay.” She turns to her father. “If I stay, you’ll tell us when the next murder is?”

I wait for Nico’s eyes to narrow. They don’t. They go wide. Like a child. “You’ll really stay? You’ll talk to me about your sickness?”

“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want to talk to you.”

Two days ago, I would’ve said she’s working him. But last night, I saw the tears in her eyes. And those freckles along her bald head. It’s still her father.

“Nico, you hear what I said?” the guard calls out from about half a block away. “Everything okay?”

Once again, Nico leans back and to the side. Final advice from his imaginary friend. This time, he disagrees with her.

“Please, Nico,” Clementine pleads. “Tell us when the next murder is.”

Holding his wrist out, Nico glances at his watch like a proper butler checking teatime. “The murder already happened. Ten minutes ago.”

My phone again starts to vibrate. My throat goes so dry, I can’t feel my tongue. As I pull my phone out, caller ID shows me a randomly generated number from an area code that doesn’t exist. Only one person has that.

“Beecher, you need to get out of there,” Immaculate Deception demands in his computerized voice.

“What’re you talking about? What’s wrong?”

“You haven’t heard, have you?”

“Heard what?”

He pauses, leaving me with the high-pitched squeal that leaks from my phone. “Beecher, when was the last time you heard from Tot?”

Ten minutes earlier

S
tepping out of the elevator, Tot was thinking about coffee.

Not the taste of it. The smell of it.

He didn’t smell it now; hospitals smelled of ammonia and bleach, not fresh-roasted coffee grinds.

But as Tot speed-limped up the first-floor hallway, trying to move as quickly as he could to the chapel in back, he couldn’t help but think about the smell of coffee from all those years ago—after his wife’s brain aneurism—when she was the one in the hospital. Back when she was first admitted, the doctors said it wasn’t that bad, that she’d recover. But when her liver and kidneys began to fail and the paralysis started causing bedsores, Tot didn’t need a medical degree to know what was coming.

The doctors wanted her transferred to hospice, but one of the senior nurses in the unit knew Tot from the Archives. Tot helped the nurse find the documents that proved her great-great-grandfather—a slave at the time—fought during the Civil War. She made sure Tot’s wife stayed in that private room in the ICU.

Over the course of the next week, Tot would sit at her bedside, staring at the plastic accordion tube that ran down from his wife’s neck—the feeding and breathing tube—that was still spattered with blood from where it entered her throat. He watched his wife’s weight plummet to less than a hundred pounds, her skin sagging against her cheekbones. She didn’t even know Tot anymore. When
they could rouse her…
if
they could rouse her… the only question she could answer was,
What’s your sister’s name?

But for Tot, the very worst came in those final days, when the nurses began stocking the room with open coffee cans filled with freshly ground beans. At first, Tot didn’t understand. Then he realized… the coffee cans were there so he couldn’t smell what was happening to his wife’s body.

It was that lingering thought—of cheap Chock Full O’ Nuts French Roast—that nibbled through Tot’s brain as he reached the far end of the hallway and approached the stained glass door of the chapel.

Grabbing the door-pull of the chapel and determined to refocus on the task at hand, he let the memories of his wife dissipate. He tried thinking about what Immaculate Deception had said, that all of the Knight’s victims were clergy members who had spent at least some time with the President. As Tot just found out, the hospital pastor—Pastor Stoughton—had done the same when President Wallace was here last year. But as Tot gave the door-pull a tug, the smell of coffee still lingered.

“Pastor Stoughton?” Tot called out, stepping inside and smelling… he knew that smell too… that burnt smell like fireworks or…

Gunpowder.

“Pastor, are you—?”

Tot almost tripped on the coat-rack, a wooden one. It was lying diagonally across the carpet. Like someone had knocked it over.

As he stepped over it, he heard breathing. Heavy breathing. Like someone panting. Or crying.

Feeling time harden into slow motion, Tot headed deeper into the room. It was difficult to walk, as if he were moving underwater. As he looked around to his right, he saw the blood—small drips of it, like a barely spilled soda dotting the light beige carpet. Behind that was her body.

Tot saw her legs first. She wasn’t moving. Just from the awkward way her knees were bent, Tot knew Chaplain Elizabeth Stoughton was dead.

She was crumpled on her side—like she’d tried to curl into a fetal position, but never quite made it. At her stomach, a puddle of blood soaked her blouse, still blooming and growing up toward her chest and over toward her right breast.

Next to her body, an older man with sandy blond hair was down on his knees, like he was hit too. He was breathing hard, trying to say something. Tot knew the man—from the photo Immaculate Deception had sent: the pastor who was shot yesterday. Pastor Frick. Time was twirled so tight, Tot barely heard him. It was all still underwater.

Still, Tot saw his hands… they were up in the air. Like he was being robbed and someone was pointing a gun at him.

“B-Behind you…” Pastor Frick cried, pointing behind Tot.

Slowly turning, Tot looked over his own shoulder.

It was too late.

Pfft.

The silenced gunshot bit like a hornet, drilling into Tot’s head. Right behind the ear. Just like JFK.

A neat splat of blood spit against the nearby wall.

Tot tried to yell something, but no words came out. As his knees gave way, he saw the Knight’s eyes, and it all made sense.

The world blurred and tipped sideways. His bones felt like they were turned to salt. As Tot sank, deflated, onto the carpet, his last thoughts were still about the smell of coffee. And how good it’d be to finally see his wife.

Now

B
eecher, I need you out of there!” Immaculate Deception’s computerized voice barks through my phone.

“But if Tot’s—If he’s been shot—”

“You’re not listening to me, Beecher! Another pastor—the female one from the hospital—is dead! That’s the
third
victim! Tot’s the
fourth
!
Four
victims… If we’re right, you know who the Knight’s going after next!”

My mind leaps back to the President—and to Marshall—and to the restaurant he was casing in Georgetown. “You need to look at Café Milano—see when Wallace is going there,” I blurt. “I’ll go to the hospital. If Tot needs help—”

“
You can’t help Tot now!
” Mac explodes in full panic. “I spoke to the surgeon—the doctors just brought him in, but… the way the bullet entered his head—His heart’s beating, but his brain function… I don’t think they’re finding brain activity. You need to get out of there and—”

“Nico, stay where you are!” the guard yells behind me.

“S-Something’s wrong,” Nico whispers. “It was just here a moment ago. I saw it.”