The Fifth Assassin

65

Nico knew they were talking about him.

Even from his room, even with the door closed, as he knelt down and meticulously made his bed, tucking the sheets into crisp forty-five-degree military corners, he heard the morning shift of nurses — up the hallway, at the nurses’ station — saying his name and bitching about what happened yesterday.

“They’re worried about you,” the dead First Lady told him, standing behind Nico as he folded another corner of the bedsheet into place.

“They’re not worried. They’re annoyed.”

“You’re wrong. They’re worried. You didn’t eat your breakfast this morning.”

“The eggs are runny here.”

“They don’t care about the eggs. After your tantrum in the labyrinth yesterday, they’re concerned you may be taking a step backwards.”

Nico glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the First Lady. In his old room, she had always sat in the small alcove, just inside the window. Here, in his new room, she was always standing. She wasn’t comfortable yet.

Nico wasn’t comfortable either. Especially with what was coming. These next few hours—

He stopped himself from thinking about it, knowing the dangers of overexcitement. The Knight was close now. But there was still so much to be done… so much that could go wrong. Indeed, he’d warned the Knight about rushing. Especially with going back to that unfinished business at the hospital. But the Knight was proud. The Knight was determined. And the Knight saw it all as his personal destiny.

How could Nico possibly argue with—?

“Nico, you dressed?” a voice called out as a loud knock rapped against his door. A warning knock. “Nico… you hear me?” the nurse with the pointy breasts added.

Before he could answer, the door opened. The nurse stepped inside, doing her usual scan of the room. She smiled at the sight of Nico making his bed.

“See that?” the First Lady called out. “Now she thinks you’re accepting the new building as your home.”

Nico fought hard to ignore the First Lady, staying locked on the nurse. “I didn’t eat my eggs because they were runny,” he blurted.

The nurse just looked at him. “You’ve got a visitor downstairs.”

Still on his knees, Nico stopped making his bed. He didn’t get many visitors.

“Is it someone I know?”

“I think so. He’s on your list. Someone named Beecher White?”

Nico shot to his feet. At first he just stood there.

“Nico, you okay?”

He blinked three times, then three more times, searching the room for… There. He grabbed his leather book — with the playing card bookmark, the ace of clubs — from the nightstand and tucked it under his arm. “I’d like to see Beecher now,” he told the nurse as he followed her out into the hallway.

66

Marshall’s mother liked working at the church.

The job, especially when she got to read the early drafts of the pastor’s sermons, was interesting. And the pay, thanks to the generosity of a few anonymous donors, was slightly better than the supermarket. Most important, unlike her house, it was exceptionally quiet.

Though some days were less quiet than others.

“Heads up! Coming in! Everyone get their clothes on!” a female voice sang through the closed door that led to the back office.

As the door swung wide, a middle-aged woman with short dyed-black hair, bright coral lipstick, and a matching, far-too-short coral sundress strolled playfully toward Marshall’s mom’s desk. As she walked, a dozen cheap metal bangles banged like tambourines at her wrist. Penny Kaye. Clementine’s mother.

“Oh, c’mon, Cherise. That was funny,” Penny teased, smiling wide. Marshall’s mom didn’t smile back.

“What do you want, Penny?”

“Just dropping these off. Can you give them to Pastor Riis?” Penny asked, handing her a stack of photocopied flyers. “I have a gig next Saturday. In Madison. Ten-dollar cover, but you get two beers. Figured the pastor could give them out to the congregation.”

“I’ll put them right on his desk,” Marshall’s mom said dryly, dropping them next to her in-box. But not inside it.

Penny shifted her weight and started biting her coral nails. “You’re gonna put those straight in the trash the moment I leave here, aren’t you, Cherise?”

“And why would I do that?” Marshall’s mom asked, now the one smiling. On her left, Penny noticed, in one of the open offices, the pastor’s wife was eavesdropping. And smiling too.

“Cherise, what the hell…?”

“Don’t bring that language in here.”

“… happened to you? We used to be friends.”

“That was a long time ago. People change.”

“People don’t change… people never change! So you can act as prissy and super-religious as you want, but I know who you are. I remember you sneaking into your mom’s purse… and stealing money from her so you could buy silver wire and make all that jewelry you used to sell at my gigs. Wasn’t that your dream back then? I’d sing songs; you’d make jewelry? For chrissakes, when you were pregnant, we used to smoke pot at—”

“Enough!” Marshall’s mom exploded, jumping out of her seat and racing around the desk. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“There we go. There’s the spitfire I used to know.”

“I’m serious, Penny. For you, it’s simple to be the hippie chick who never grew up. Even your daughter doesn’t care if you’re out all night. But have you seen my life!? Do you know what it costs to put hand controls in a car so someone in a wheelchair can drive it? Or how much it is for massage therapists to come in three times a week so that whatever muscles are left in Tim’s legs don’t cramp?”

“That doesn’t mean you have to bury every dream you ever had! Your jewelry—”

“Stop talking about my jewelry! It’s been ten years since my—!”

Gripping Marshall’s mom by the shoulders, Penny pulled her close and planted a kiss — firmly — on her mouth. For a moment, the two women stood there, their lips pressed together as Penny slid her tongue…

With a shove, Cherise freed herself, pulling away. Penny began to laugh, but it didn’t last long. Cherise unleashed with an openhanded slap that slammed Penny across the face.

The room went silent.

On their left, the pastor’s wife disappeared, shrinking back into her office.

“What’s wrong with you!? How dare you!?” Cherise exploded, wiping lipstick from her mouth.

“C’mon, Cherise, I was just having fun… like the old—”

“You’re an abomination! Y’know that? An abomination!” Cherise screamed, shouting the words so loud the whole room shook.

Stepping backward at the outburst, Penny searched Cherise’s face, still looking for her old friend.

“I want you out of here,” Marshall’s mom insisted.

“Yeah, I got that part. But can I just say…? I’m sorry your life got jackknifed. I truly am. But Cherise, you can’t take everything you are and just shut it inside yourself. The more you bury it, the more the pressure starts to build, and the more that sucker’s gonna blow.”

“I appreciate that. Especially since in this town, you’re the expert on what blows.”

“Heh. A cheap blowjob joke. Good for you on that one,” Penny said with a laugh as she walked to the door. “But I’m not just talking about your life, Cherise. You’re not the only one under pressure. You teach your husband to live like that, and your son to live like that, that’s when it tightens. And then one day, when you least expect it, it’s your boy Marshall who’s gonna go boom.”

“I appreciate your insight, Penny. But you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

67

The man carried a clipboard as he walked up the street. The tail of his red scarf waved behind him.

There was nothing on the clipboard, just a few blank sheets. But in any suburban neighborhood, a clipboard meant neighbors wouldn’t look twice at a passing stranger, and even if they did, the bright red scarf hid his face.

Eyeing Beecher’s townhouse from across the street, he knew Beecher and Clementine were gone. He knew where they were going and the new car they were driving. And last night, as he watched them through the side window until nearly three in the morning, he even knew about Clementine’s clumsy attempt to get Beecher into bed, an attempt that most men would’ve fallen for.

Whoever was training Beecher, he was clearly learning something.

But that didn’t mean he’d learned everything.

Faking a quick look at the clipboard, the man stepped over a drift of blackened snow, crossed the street toward Beecher’s townhouse, and walked right past the front door. He didn’t care what was inside the house. Right now, he was here for what was outside.

Ducking into the narrow driveway, the man followed the tire tracks in the snow until he saw—

There.

Flat on the ground, its glass face shattered, was the cheap wristwatch he’d left there last night.

It was an old detective trick Jack Nicholson used in Chinatown: Buy an inexpensive, non-digital wristwatch — only $14.99 at Target — tuck it under the tire of the car you’re tracking, and when the car rolls over it… crack… the hands stop, telling you exactly what time they left.

“Eight-oh-four a.m.,” Marshall whispered to himself, staring down at the cracked watchface as he placed it on his clipboard. Beecher should just be arriving at St. Elizabeths.

Readjusting his red scarf, Marshall grinned to himself. He wished he could be there. But right now, now that he knew where Beecher was, there was so much more that needed to be done.

68

Beecher, if anything happens… anything at all,” Tot says through my phone, “you call Mac to put the word out.”

“I understand. And I appreciate you worrying, Tot,” I say as I head through the lobby for the small bank of metal lockers in the corner.

Tot goes to say something else, but instead just offers silence. He knows there’s no choice. If we want to know if Marshall’s our killer — or worse, whether he’s reaching out to Nico — this is the only way to find out.

“Phone and all sharp objects…” the guard says into his intercom, his voice echoing out from behind the thick ballistics glass. Above him, hanging on the bombproof black granite wall, bright silver letters spell out Saint Elizabeths.

“Listen, Tot, I gotta go. But when it comes to being safe, I know where you are. You do the same.”

“Just do me one favor, Beecher: Keep an eye out for Marshall. You never know where he’ll show up.”

Refusing to argue, I hang up and follow the guard’s instructions.

Last time I was at St. Elizabeths, at the sign-in desk they had a pen with some scotch tape at the back of it that chained it to the counter.

Today, they have me leave my phone and any sharp objects in this bank of shoebox-size lead lockers. Then I’m guided through an X-ray and metal detector, and scanned by whatever chemical sniffer that they think I can’t see is hidden and built into the doorframe. By the time I step through the glass doors and into the shiny, well-lit room that serves as the visiting area, it’s clear that when it came to this new building, most of their money has been spent on security.

I don’t blame them.

John Hinckley, who shot President Reagan, lives here. So does a man who killed his wife and three children, then put them back in their beds, living with their rotting bodies for weeks. But when it comes to their most famous patient…

“He’s on his way,” a uniformed guard tells me as he closes the glass door behind me, locking me alone in the wide meeting area that has all the charm of a workplace cafeteria. There’re no pictures on the beige walls. No decorations. It’s all brand-new, including the dozen or so empty round tables — all of them built of clear, unbreakable Plexiglas, so that nothing can be snuck underneath.

Last time I saw him, Nico would only call me by my middle name, Benjamin. He told me he was the reincarnation of George Washington, that I was Benedict Arnold, and that God Himself had brought us on this mission together.

I know. It’s nonsense. But I can’t help but think of what Tot told me this morning about the Knights, the playing cards, and the attacks on the pastors. No question, the killer we’re looking for — whether he’s part of the Knights of the Golden Circle or not — he’s treating this as his holy mission. And right now I’m seconds away from being face-to-face with the chessmaster of holy missions.

On the far side of the room, there’s a krrk and a tunk as a magnetic lock unclenches.

My stomach twists as the heavy door opens.

There’s no guard with him. Just a nurse, who sticks her head in and gives a quick glance, making sure all is calm.

“Nico, if you need anything…” she begins.

“I won’t,” he insists, his too-close-together eyes seizing me. He makes a beeline through the minefield of Plexiglas tables. His lips are flat, but there’s no mistaking the smile underneath.

“Happy Presidents’ Day, Benjamin. I’m so glad you came to celebrate.”

69

This was the day — at the Pan-American Expo — that should’ve been the greatest day of President McKinley’s life.

First, the President loved World’s Fairs.

Second, McKinley was at the height of his power. Months earlier, he’d started his second term. And just a day earlier, he’d used the Expo to give the speech of his life, calling for “concord, not conflict” and proclaiming, “God and man have linked the nations together”—evoking what many described as the hope and scope of George Washington’s Farewell Address.

So after a breathtaking morning visiting the natural miracle of Niagara Falls, the President was having a perfect day… until his secretary — a wise man and Culper Ring member named George B. Cortelyou — said that he had a bad feeling about the afternoon’s big public event at the Music Pavilion. When Cortelyou suggested that the President skip the reception and enjoy some quiet time, McKinley would have none of it.

“Why should I?” the President asked. “No one would wish to hurt me.”

Of course, the President didn’t know about Leon Czolgosz, the pale-skinned, blue-eyed twenty-eight-year-old who was now waiting for him inside the wide Temple of Music Pavilion.

Like Guiteau, Czolgosz was short and slightly built.

Like John Wilkes Booth, he wore a mustache.

And like both of them, he was prepared, arriving so early for the event that he had a prime spot right by the stage.

Czolgosz knew this was God’s will. Especially when he saw the venue. The Temple of Music. How perfect. A temple.

From there, his plan was simple. He’d stand in line like the hundreds of others who were waiting to shake the President’s hand. And when it was Czolgosz’s turn, well… His right hand was covered by a handkerchief so it looked bandaged. But underneath the handkerchief, Czolgosz held the.32 caliber Iver Johnson revolver that would end the President’s life.

All he had to do was wait.

As McKinley entered the room, the grand organ played the national anthem, and the crowd let out a huge cheer.

The Secret Service weren’t nearly as thrilled. One year earlier, an assassination plot to kill the top rulers in the world had been discovered. The first two on the list were already dead. President McKinley was number five.

“Watch every man approaching the President,” one of them warned.

They did. But as the long line of strangers and admirers snaked toward the President — as McKinley shook every hand and literally kissed every baby — none of them noticed the man with the slight mustache who was waiting in line so patiently. Dressed in shirt and tie, he looked like everyone else — except for the handkerchief that was covering his hand.

Watching from the crowd, Leon Czolgosz took another step forward. He was almost at the front.

Across the room, the massive organ began playing Schumann’s Traumerei.

Looking at his pocket watch, the President’s secretary asked that the doors be closed — the line needed to be cut off.

Czolgosz never panicked. He took another calm step forward, so close that he could see the carnation that President McKinley always wore in his lapel.

As for the Secret Service, they were focused on the man directly behind Czolgosz — a large black waiter named James Parker. He was the suspicious one. The Negro.

With only one person in front of him, Czolgosz took a breath, knowing this was it.

The President smiled at Czolgosz, reaching for a handshake.

Czolgosz never smiled back. Facing the President, he extended his hand, pressed the handkerchief-covered gun against McKinley’s chest, and fired two quick shots.

McKinley stumbled backward, crashing into a potted plant as blood poured out through his shirt.

The handkerchief that held the gun burst into fire from the gunshots.

Fairgoers screamed. People in the room scattered.

Czolgosz tried to fire again, but James Parker, the large black man behind him, smashed the assassin with one hand and grabbed the gun with the other. Within seconds, the Secret Service and other fairgoers tackled him to the ground.

“I done my duty!” Czolgosz shouted.

It was the same thing he’d later say to the police. “I done my duty.” But when the police asked him to write it as a confession, Czolgosz’s hands were shaking too much. So they brought in a stenographer, who typed what Czolgosz repeated over and over: I done my duty. I done my duty. I done my duty!

He had.

Behind him, the President collapsed to the floor, blood now soaking his shirt. The first bullet had hit McKinley in the chest, right between his second and third ribs — but it never penetrated the skin, deflecting off a button.

The second bullet did the real damage, hitting the President in the stomach, entering down the front of his abdomen, and burrowing toward his back.

As the pavilion was cleared, the Secret Service agents were still beating on Czolgosz.

“Be easy with him, boys,” McKinley called out, trying to protect his attacker even as he fought to stay conscious.

As Czolgosz was taken into custody, he initially told a policeman that his name was Fred Nieman, an alias that came from the word Niemand, which in German meant Nobody. He was Nobody.

As for the President, a group of hastily assembled doctors, headed by a gynecological surgeon, rushed him into surgery to find the second bullet. Thomas Edison sent an early version of an X-ray machine, though it wasn’t used. As heads of state flooded into Buffalo, including Robert Todd Lincoln, who now had the distinction of being near all three assassinations, the nation held its collective breath.

The doctors never found the bullet. The technology at the time couldn’t see the extent of the damage. Eight days later, President McKinley was dying from infection.

After singing his favorite hymn (“Nearer, My God, to Thee”) and saying his favorite prayers, McKinley’s final words were simple: “Oh, dear.”

Yet for the Knight of Clubs, the battle had just begun.

Unlike his predecessor, who had murdered President Garfield, Leon Czolgosz wasn’t a raving nut. He was calm. Unafraid. In his jail cell, he combed his hair methodically, and asked for a handkerchief, which he would fold and refold over and over on his gun hand.

From the moment he was arrested, Czolgosz insisted on only one thing: He was working alone.

Few believed it.

Government officials pointed to his ties to various anarchist groups.

But those same groups, five days before the shooting, had issued a warning in their anarchist publications that Leon Czolgosz was actually a spy working for the government.

Accusations flew in every direction. But Leon Czolgosz remained as calm as he was when he stood in line to kill the President, never losing sight of the bigger mission.

“I don’t regret my act,” Czolgosz explained, “because I was doing what I could for the Great Cause.”

With McKinley cut down, the nation demanded vengeance. Czolgosz was rushed through a two-day trial and immediately sentenced to death. Indeed, the electricity from Niagara Falls, which literally lit the Pan-American Expo where the crime took place, also supplied the current that ran Czolgosz’s electric chair.

When he died, a death mask was made of Czolgosz’s face. After the autopsy, which found no evidence of delusion or craziness in his brain, his body was placed in a black casket and covered with sulfuric acid. The warden didn’t want Czolgosz to become a martyr.

His body disintegrated in twelve hours. His clothes and all his letters were burned.

Except one.

A man named John Grinder came forward with a letter that Czolgosz had written him a few weeks before the shooting. Both Czolgosz and Grinder were members of the Golden Eagle Lodge, which most history books fail to mention was also known as…

The Knights of the Golden Eagle.

And so, the question remains: What did Czolgosz write in this final letter, in red ink?

“Brother Grinder, will you send my book to me?”

To this day, no one knows what book Czolgosz was referring to.

But Czolgosz knew.

It was a novel called Looking Backward, and it would never be forgotten. Especially by the current Knight and a man named Nico Hadrian.

70

Today was a perfect day to kill a President.

The Knight knew it as he pushed open the door marked Employees Only. Entering the dark storage closet and purposely not putting on the light, he smelled the tubs of cleaning supplies and cans of fresh paint that were stacked throughout.

After so much planning, today was finally the day. And such an appropriate day. Presidents’ Day.

To be honest, the Knight was hoping he could’ve moved things a bit faster. But after yesterday, to have A.J. show up so quickly at the hospital… to have him asking all those questions of the previous lamb, plus just keeping track of Beecher…

Adjustments needed to be made.

In many ways, it was no different for his third predecessor. Three days before he killed President McKinley, Leon Czolgosz purchased a.32 caliber revolver and was there as McKinley exited from his arriving train at the Pan-American Expo. Two days earlier, gun in hand, Czolgosz stood right near the President during a speech, but got jostled by the crowd. And one day earlier, Czolgosz couldn’t get close enough for a clear shot. Over and over, roadblocks were put in Czolgosz’s way. But the Knight of Clubs never lost faith. Indeed, by shifting his plans, Czolgosz found the Temple of Music.

Czolgosz took it as a sign.

And on that day, God’s will was done.

Just as it would be today.

Flicking on the light switch in the storage closet, the Knight noticed that so many of the janitorial supplies were labeled Poison. Yet the far deadlier object rested in the corner. Pushing aside an empty mop bucket, he revealed a medical rolling cart — marked Bookmobile—that was stocked with magazines and used paperbacks.

Kneeling down, he slid open a small compartment and pulled out a brown paper bag labeled For Pediatric Unit — Do Not Touch.

Inside the bag was the white plaster Abraham Lincoln mask that he had put there last night.

The Knight checked his watch. Nearly 9 a.m. The same time Czolgosz first entered the Temple of Music. Tucking the Lincoln mask under his jacket and feeling the weight of the.32 caliber Iver Johnson revolver and the specially designed sound suppressor in his coat pocket, the Knight was well aware that Czolgosz had not used a suppressor. But again, like the timing of it all, adjustments had to be made. Tugging open the closet door, he stepped out into the polished hallway that was lined with hospital gurneys.

Keeping his head down to avoid the morning arrival of doctors and nurses, the Knight didn’t even register the automated grand piano on his far left that played a slowed-down Musak version of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” Heading right, he stayed focused on his destination at the end of the long corridor: the door with blue-and-gold stained glass in it. The Interfaith Chapel, which was the best place to find Chaplain Elizabeth Stoughton.

The Knight had spotted her yesterday. A chaplain. Like a pastor. And one who had prayed directly with President Wallace.

Like his predecessor, the Knight knew a sign when he saw it. Pastor Frick had served his purpose. There was a new lamb now. A fresh lamb.

With fresh blood.

Taking one last glance at his watch, the Knight wasn’t moving quickly. Like Czolgosz, he was calm and focused. But it was for that exact reason that, as he passed the grand staircase that overlooked the main atrium downstairs, he never glanced over the railing or saw who had just stepped inside, one flight below.

“Beecher, if anything happens… anything at all,” Tot whispered into his phone as he stepped through the hospital’s sliding doors and approached the visitor check-in desk, “you call Mac to put the word out.”

“I understand. And I appreciate you worrying, Tot,” Beecher replied.

Tot went to say something else, but as the greeter at the check-in desk waved him forward, Tot raised a fake grin and handed over his driver’s license.

There was still so much Beecher didn’t know — about the Culper Ring, about what was really going on with the President, and even about Tot himself. But Tot had been at this long enough to know that you don’t get to treat the minor wounds until you deal with the big ones.

“I’m here to see Pastor Frick. He’s on the fourth floor,” Tot told the greeter.

The computer clicked as the ID camera took Tot’s picture.

“Listen, Tot, I gotta go,” Beecher said through the phone. “But when it comes to being safe, I know where you are. You do the same.”

Tot nodded, scanning the grand staircase. One flight above, there was no one in sight. An automated grand piano played a Musak version of Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.”

“Just do me one favor, Beecher: Keep an eye out for Marshall. You never know where he’ll show up.”

Heading for Pastor Frick’s room, Tot had no idea how right he was.

71

I like the new building,” I say, glancing around the sterile visitors’ room.

“You’re trying to look relaxed, Benjamin. It’s not working,” Nico says, sitting directly across from me at the round see-through table. His hands are clasped — prayer-style — on the Plexiglas. In his lap, he’s got an old book with a leather cover. I try to read the spine, but the print is too small.

“We can speak back there if you like,” Nico adds, motioning toward the few private rooms in the corner. The signs on them read Lawyer’s Room. They’re for patients to talk privately with their attorneys. But right now, as I look over my shoulder and spy the guard at the X-ray who’s staring at us through the bulletproof glass, plus the wide window behind him that looks out onto the sunlit front of the building, I’m happy for the lack of privacy.

“You’re afraid of being alone with me,” Nico says.

“Not at all,” I say, keeping my voice upbeat. “Why would I come here if I didn’t want to see you?”

Staring uncomfortably at me, Nico doesn’t answer.

“So they still letting you feed the cats?” I add, remembering how much easier he is when he’s saying yes.

“No. No more cats,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. He’s gloating. Like he’s already won. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really here for, Benjamin?”

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. If 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?”

Without a word, Nico lowers his chin and drills me with a dark glare.

From behind us, a determined wind shoves against my back. “You asked the Knight to kill Pastor Riis, didn’t you? You pointed him to the first victim.”

Staying silent, Nico stares straight at me. “In my experience, Benjamin, you can’t make a man do what he doesn’t already want to.”

As I turn away, my brain tries to fill in the rest. Riis was practice. Then when the copycat murders started… first the rector from St. John’s… then Pastor Frick from Foundry Church. Both of them spent time with the President — but both also studied under Riis. For it all to be tied together… “Nico, is that how the Knight found his other victims? What started with Riis then led to—”

“You keep focusing on the lambs. But look at their locations too: Look at the temples — look what he’s working toward. His is an act of God.”

“Why? Because he thinks he’s protecting the church?”

“You keep saying that. You keep insisting that in the playing cards, they’re protecting the church. But you’re forgetting the real mission of Vignolles and his sacred Knights. From the start, the Knights weren’t just protecting the church. They were protecting the church’s greatest secret.”

“And what secret is that?”

Nico tilts his head, looking at me like I’m still arguing that the world is flat. “Isn’t it obvious, Benjamin? They protect the real Name of God.

76

In the beginning, the Knight had doubts too. How could he not?

Even now, as he walked slowly down the hospital hallway, toward the chapel at the far end, he thought back to those moments when he first heard the story, about the true Name of God. There was no arguing with what really happened. Or that it happened over and over throughout history.

For Jews, the true Name of God was said only once each year, by the high priest in the Temple. To protect it, the Hebrews used YHWH—the four consonants of the Hebrew name for God—saying that the vowels should be hidden and the real Name should never be pronounced. To protect it even further, they later replaced it with Adonai, which meant Lord. In the Christian Bible, God gave Jesus the “Name above all Names,” which began as The Anointed One, then The Christ, then Jesus Christ, then Lord and YHWH. And in the Muslim religion, where God is known as Allah, God is said to have ninety-nine names, and that those who know all of God’s Names will enter Paradise.

Indeed, the issue remained such a potent one throughout history that as recently as 2008, the Vatican issued a directive that said, when it came to the Name of God, the name Yahweh could no longer be “used or pronounced” in any songs or prayers.

It was this essential question that the Knight could not let go of: What power could the Name of God really hold that all three religions still treat it with such reverence, even to this day?

Over the centuries, dozens of theories developed. Ancient healers supposedly used God’s real Name to cure the sick. Early grimoires said that the Name of God unlocked untold power. And exorcists and mystics insisted that those who controlled the Name of God could control God Himself.

Even the Knight knew that was crazy. Just as his predecessor in the fifteenth century—Étienne de Vignolles… the Chosen Knight… the Sacred Knight — knew that the true Name of God had nothing to do with magic powers or mystical exaggerations.

Still, century after century, religion after religion, there were always those who sought power by claiming to know God’s real Name. But as Vignolles found out when he was trusted by both church and king, great power didn’t come from knowing the Name of God.

Great power came from hiding it.

Over the course of centuries, so many religious answers have been lost. But as for the true Name of God, those answers were purposely hidden.

For thousands of years, so much good has been done in the Name of God. But also, the First Knight was asked, how much harm has been done — by Christians, by Jews, by Muslims alike — because of their assumption of exclusiveness? How many throats have been slit? How many innocents slaughtered? Religions have built empires, launched crusades, and fought some of the world’s bloodiest wars based on the differences in how they viewed God.

But what if there was no difference? How would the followers of Jesus, or Allah, or Adonai react if the real secret of secrets — the greatest secret of all — was simply this: that for every religion, the true Name of God was exactly the same? Forget Christian God, Muslim God, or Hebrew God. Think of the power that would be lost if there were just…

One God.

Vignolles was shaken too when he first heard the story. He didn’t want to believe it. No one would believe it. But to hear the rumblings from the king’s court… from someone so respected… how could it be ignored? Unsure of what to do, Vignolles did the only thing he always did before a battle.

He prayed.

In no time, he had his answer. The story of One God was a blasphemy — a lie! — and if the king were to ever bring it to light…

Luckily, Vignolles didn’t have to pull his sword. King Charles VII never reached the heights of power that would let him challenge the church.

Still, Vignolles knew this was a problem that would rise again. When it did, a new Knight would be needed. From there, the secret army took shape. Preparations were made. Instructions written. And the symbols — of hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs — were incorporated into the one place no one would ever think to notice.

For centuries, Vignolles’s playing cards would carry his warning of how the king could destroy the church. And for centuries, the chosen Knights would lie in wait, taking on chancellors, emperors, monarchs, tsars, and anyone else whose growing influence and claim of unity might interfere with the primacy of church power. Including, even, a President.

Six centuries later, the current Knight — the Knight of the fifth and final symbol — reached the end of the hospital’s long hallway and approached the Interfaith Chapel. A place that treated every religion the same. How perfect.

The plaster Abraham Lincoln mask was hidden inside his jacket. So was his Iver Johnson revolver. Behind him, the slowed-down version of “Little Red Corvette” still echoed on the piano.

From his pants pocket, the Knight pulled out a white linen handkerchief and, like Czolgosz, the third assassin, folded the handkerchief, then unfolded it again, then folded it, and unfolded it again, finally using it to hide the revolver as he tugged it — so carefully — from his jacket pocket.

He checked the hallway one last time. It was quiet back by the chapel. Grabbing the door-pull with his left hand, he held his right hand out, like he was offering a handshake, just like Czolgosz did over a hundred years ago.

Every generation has its Knight. And every Knight knows his sacred mission.

“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?”

77

You’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?”