The Fifth Assassin

78

Stepping 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.

79

Beecher, 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.”

I spin back to the benches and the sycamore tree. Nico’s right where I left him. The guard’s a few feet behind him. But as Nico looks down and flips through the leather book he’s been holding…

“My card — the bookmark,” Nico says. “I’m missing my playing card!”

“Beecher, get outta there,” Immaculate Deception says.

“He took it! Benjamin took it!” Nico insists, pointing at me. “He took my card!”

“What? I didn’t take anything,” I say, backing away from Nico, toward the front of the building. “I don’t know what card you’re talking about.”

“The playing card! You stole it! Wh-When I dropped my book… you picked it up and handed it back to me,” Nico growls, taking his first steps toward me.

“Nico, don’t move!” the guard shouts, pulling a high-tech walkie-talkie from his belt. He doesn’t talk into it. He just pushes a button.

On my right, through the glass windows that look back into the hospital’s main lobby, I see the guard who ran the X-ray rushing through the lobby. A male nurse is right behind him.

As Nico starts plowing at me, I back up even farther, glancing around for Clementine…

“I know you have my card!” Nico shouts.

I check the benches, the trees, even around the corner of the building.

Clementine’s nowhere to be seen.

80

Nico, if you don’t stop, you’re gonna lose ground privileges! Mail privileges too!” the guard yells from behind him.

On my right, the X-ray guard and a male nurse come racing out of the hospital’s front doors.

“Rupert, he stole my bookmark! He has my ace of clubs!” Nico yells at the nurse.

“I swear to you — I don’t know what he’s talking about,” I say.

The nurse takes one look at Nico, then turns back to me. “Empty your pockets,” the nurse tells me.

“Me? I didn’t—?”

“Empty them. Now.”

Frozen at the front of the building, I reach into my pockets, pulling out my wallet, keys, and a small thumb drive that carries a backup of my computer. I do the same with my coat pockets. There’s chapstick, a set of gloves, and an old taxi receipt, but otherwise…

“Nothing, see? Check them yourself,” I say, stepping toward the nurse.

“Stay where you are,” the nurse warns, motioning me back.

“He’s a liar!” Nico shouts.

“Nico, I need you to get control,” the nurse says.

“He has my card! Check his pockets!”

“Please — check them again!” I insist.

“Kid, I need you out of here. Nico, get control,” the nurse says, throwing a look to the nearby guard.

Backing away, I’m already past the main doors, toward the concrete path that’ll take me to the parking lot. But as Nico starts to follow, the nurse and the guard grab him by the biceps…

“He’s the Knave!” Nico growls. “Don’t you see!? You’re letting the Knave get away!”

Breaking free from the nurse, Nico tries to run, but the X-ray guard has a stronger grip.

I don’t care who wins this fight. I sprint toward the parking lot, fishing the car keys from my pocket.

“I know you’re the Trickster, Benjamin. I know you have my card!” Nico roars as another guard arrives and they fight to drag him down. I hear an unnerving thud. Someone cries out in pain. As I turn the corner, into the gravel parking lot, I don’t even bother looking back.

“Nico—!” the male nurse shouts.

Skidding across the gravel and cutting between two parked cars, I dart for the small silver car I drove here. Clementine’s rental.

I glance around, searching for Clementine. Still no sign of her, but I take an odd relief from the fact that if Tot was shot at the hospital at the exact same time that Clementine was here with me… that means she can’t be the Knight. She can’t. But at just the thought of it… Tot was shot!

Inside my skin, I feel another, smaller version of me shrinking within myself. Please God, don’t let him die.

With a pop of the locks, I rip the door open and slide inside as momentum sends my phone tumbling out of my grip and into the small gap between the seats.

Stabbing the key into the ignition, I try to start the car, but my hands… my whole body… I can’t stop shaking or thinking of Tot.

On my left, a hollow thud hits the driver’s-side window. I jump so high, my head smacks into the lowered sun visor.

Tuuuump.

I turn just as Nico’s fist collides with the glass. It hits at full speed, his knuckles flattening at the impact. He’s trying to punch his way in, though the car doesn’t budge. From the sound alone, it has to hurt — like punching concrete. Nico doesn’t feel it. But as he winds up for another punch, he’s pulled backward, off balance.

The hospital guards grab him from behind, clutching his neck, his shoulders… anything to bring him down.

Nico howls like a captured bear, still trying to stay on his feet.

I slam the gas and a wave of loose gravel somersaults into the air.

“You’re letting him go! Don’t let him go!” Nico pleads, still screaming as I take off and watch him slowly shrink in the rearview mirror.

Skidding out of the parking lot and back onto the unpaved dirt road that runs toward the sign-in gate, I’m still searching bushes… trees… anywhere for Clementine. I know I won’t find her.

As I approach the small guardhouse, I slow down and add a friendly wave, praying that the guards who’re fighting Nico are still too busy to have put the word out.

From the guardhouse, a uniformed guard waves back, but I still don’t take a breath until I reach the end of the dirt road, out of the hospital grounds, and turn back onto the main city street.

Halfway up the block, I hit a red light and the car bucks to a stop. As I clutch the steering wheel, my heartbeat pumps in my fingertips. In the rearview, no one’s coming. No one’s following. I’m clear.

“Beecher…! Beecher… you there!?” Immaculate Deception’s voice squawks from below the seat. My phone’s still on. “Beecher, you okay!?”

I’m not okay.

Tot was hit in the brain.

Clementine’s missing.

And the Knight — if I’m right — is about to try and kill the President of the United States.

But as the traffic light blinks green, I keep hearing Nico’s words in my head: I know you’re the Trickster, Benjamin. I know you have my card!

He’s wrong about me being the Trickster. But he is right about one thing.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, inside one of my gloves, I pull out the single playing card with the familiar black club at the center of it. The one I palmed as I handed Nico his book.

The ace of clubs.

You were right, Nico — I’ve got your stupid card.

And if I’m right about what’s hidden on it — and the fact that he was using it to communicate with the Knight — I may not be able to stop destiny…

But I’ll be able to find out where the Knight is headed next.

81

Change of plans — everyone into your gear!” the shift leader called out as half a dozen suit-and-tied Secret Service agents poured into the command post that was just below the Oval Office.

Sitting on one of the benches in the corner of the locker room, A.J. watched as his fellow agents scrambled around him, undoing their ties and kicking off their shoes. For any President, the schedule was set weeks in advance. To make even a minor change meant moving staff, security, press, advance teams, communication systems, and for off-site events — like today’s at the Lincoln Memorial — aerial and ground protection. So for the Service to be making all these last-minute changes on Presidents’ Day, something big was definitely going on.

“He fighting with his wife again?” an agent with black hair and a chunky gold class ring from Ohio State asked.

“No, this one came from headquarters,” another agent replied, pulling off his tie and hanging it in his locker.

At this point, A.J. knew that word hadn’t trickled down to the field guys yet. But no question, the emergency cord had been pulled. It had to be. When the higher-ups heard that a third pastor had been killed — plus an old man who was shot in the back of the head like JFK — action had to be taken. The target needed to be moved.

Naturally, Wallace again insisted on keeping to his schedule. He wanted to stick to the Lincoln Memorial event and the early meal that would precede it at Café Milano. But as the director of the Secret Service explained, there’s a reason the President isn’t in charge of his own protection.

“I heard it’s a Class 3,” another agent called out, referring to the Service’s code name for a mentally unstable attacker.

Another agent nodded. Based on where they were headed — to one of the few places more secure than the White House — someone was definitely trying to knock down the old man.

Even so, as the agents approached their individual lockers, they weren’t panicking, yelling, or rushing around. They weren’t grabbing for guns or weapons or bulletproof vests. There’d be plenty of weapons waiting for them at their destination. In fact, at this moment, as the metal lockers clanged open, the only thing the agents were grabbing was a change of clothes. Suits and ties were being replaced by khakis and casual dress shirts, to match the attire of where they were going — the safest place to hide the leader of the free world, the same place they hid George W. Bush during the days after 9/11 and countless other Presidents during times of possible attacks: the private presidential compound known as Camp David.

One by one, A.J. watched as the casually dressed team bolted from the room. The Secret Service was doing their part. And now A.J. — still wearing his suit and tie as he headed upstairs to the Oval — was ready to do his.

82

Nico thinks he’s smart.

And he is.

He’s smart enough to fool the doctors at St. Elizabeths, and the nurses, and to somehow pass secret messages — and clearly some advice — to the Knight who’s been killing pastors and imitating past assassins. And he’s smart enough to know that if he wants to keep those secret messages secret, he should hide them in something that no one would look at twice, like a playing card that he uses as a bookmark.

But as I sit at my kitchen table, squinting down at the slightly beat-up ace of clubs and examining the front and back of it, I do everything I can to put Tot out of my mind. Mac said he’s still in surgery. He said I shouldn’t come to the hospital, that the best way for me to help was this—with the card — especially as I think about the leather book that Nico was hiding it in.

I saw it when he first put it down on the glass table in the public meeting area. It wasn’t a history book. It was a novel from the early 1900s — a bestseller called Looking Backward. In it, a young Bostonian named Julian West goes to sleep in 1887 and wakes up in the utopia of the year 2000. But the only reason I know the book — or why anyone still remembers it — is because, as I learned last night when I looked up the third attack, it was the favorite novel of assassin Leon Czolgosz. Looking Backward was the book he read and reread for eight years, right up until it inspired him to kill President McKinley.

Yet as I study the nicked and slightly bent ace of clubs, the only thing I really care about is whatever message I have to believe is hidden in it somewhere. When I first met Nico, he told me he was the reincarnation of George Washington. That was his way of telling me how special he is. But it’s also my way of knowing how Nico thinks.

Back during the Revolutionary War, no one was better at sending secret correspondence than George Washington. As the leader of the Culper Ring, he helped invent numbered codes that were so uncrackable, versions of them are still in use by the CIA to this day. He used hourglass-shaped masks that, when placed on top of a handwritten letter, would block out certain sections of the letter to reveal a hidden message.

But George Washington’s favorite magic trick was always the same: invisible ink. As I learned when I first joined the Culper Ring, invisible ink dates back thousands of years, from Egypt to China, using organic liquids like the juice from leeks or limes. Indeed, as every kid in a science fair knows, all you need to do is heat the paper, and voilà—you’ll see the hidden writing. But as Washington understood, it’s not much of a secret when all you need to crack it is a nearby candle.

As a result, Washington and the first members of the Culper Ring got rid of the heating process and changed it to a chemical one. Washington would write in an invisible ink, called the agent. And when the recipient applied a different chemical, called the reagent, it’d reveal the hidden message. As long as the British didn’t have the reagent, they’d never crack the code.

As I raced back home, Immaculate Deception said that I should pour lime juice, lemon juice, any juice I could find across the front of the ace of clubs. But he’s missing the point.

No question, Nico’s not doing this alone. Whether Marshall is the Knight or not, Nico must be getting help from someone in the hospital. Someone is sneaking these cards to him, or at least sneaking him books with new cards tucked inside them. But that doesn’t mean Nico can get whatever liquid or juice he needs at the exact moment he needs it. No, for Nico to really communicate with the Knight, he needs a reagent that’s always available. And that’s when it hits me. Forget lime juice, lemon juice, or even apple juice — even in an insane asylum — there’s only one liquid that Nico always has access to.

Grabbing a nearby piece of Tupperware, I race to the bathroom and unzip my pants. One short but incredibly satisfying pee later, the Tupperware is filled with warm urine that sloshes in a mini-tide as I carefully make my way back to the kitchen.

Standing over the sink, I lower the ace of clubs into the Tupperware. Nothing happens. Nothing at all. And then…

Pale purple letters bloom upward, like alphabet soup letters rising from the broth.

There’s no cryptic warning. No special instructions. Just two words that make me feel like someone’s using a hole-punch on my stomach.

I read them again, and again. I don’t know if Nico was sending them to the Knight or, more likely, that the Knight is somehow bragging to Nico, but I do know this: These two words were intended for only Nico and the Knight to see — the location where the Knight plans to make his final stand.

Camp David.

83

A.J. watched the entire argument.

Of course, the President didn’t participate in the argument. He was at his desk, signing letters with his head down. No, when it came to the big arguments with the Secret Service, Wallace had staff wade into the mud.

Within seconds, those staffers were livid. The heads of the Service weren’t surprised. Staff was always annoyed when they heard POTUS wouldn’t be where they wanted him.

But as the chief of staff pointed out, this wasn’t just about Wallace’s safety. It was about the entire country. As they all knew, the President’s schedule was published every day for the world to see. So when the press suddenly spots members of the White House Military Office out on the South Lawn, rolling out three giant circles with huge Xs on them… and then a Black Hawk helicopter armed with missiles and countermeasures swoops in, takes the President and his family out of there, and upends said schedule with no notice… there’s not a person on this planet who won’t know something is intensely wrong.

“But something is wrong,” the head of the Service pointed out. “We’ve got an active threat — that’s why we need the EA movement,” he explained, referring to the Emergency Action that came with the Black Hawk.

“That’s fine, but you go running to Camp David with an unannounced EA movement and you know what the press will scream? Terrorist attack,” the chief of staff argued back. “From there, financial markets plunge, people panic, and investors start buying stock in ammunition companies and businesses that make body bags.”

“If you want, I can leak the details about the assassination threat.”

“Oh, that’s far better. So the whole world thinks that the President is running like a scared kid?”

At that moment, President Wallace looked up from whatever letter he was signing. Without a word, the argument was over.

Twenty minutes later, A.J. stood outside on the South Lawn of the White House, watching as the First Lady and the President’s son climbed aboard the waiting helicopter. As a compromise, it was their standard copter, instead of the armed Black Hawk, which meant the press would see this as a regular administrative lift instead of an emergency one.

And the stated reason for the trip? That was the far more subtle compromise. The press was told that Wallace’s son was feeling pressure at school, and they begged reporters to keep it quiet to protect the son’s privacy. Of course, reporters wouldn’t keep anything quiet. Not anymore. But now Wallace looked like the perfect dad — taking the family to Camp David so he could help his kid through a hard time. As the chief of staff knew, when everything went sideways, there was no better cover than family.

With a muffled whup-whup-whup, the blades of the helicopter began to twirl, and the wheels leapt off the South Lawn. On most days, reporters would be watching from a roped-off press area. Today, by the time the first member of the press even realized what was happening, the President’s copter had everyone on board.

Craning his head back and squinting against the sudden gust of wind, A.J. watched as Marine One rose into the gray sky. Through the window in the back of the helicopter, he could see Wallace’s young son pressing his forehead against the bulletproof glass, looking down at the fire truck that always pulled onto the South Grounds when the helicopter took off.

A.J. knew why the fire truck was there: It was filled with foam in case of a sudden crash.

There could always be a crash.

A.J. couldn’t disagree.

And he knew, so soon, that the real crash was about to begin.

84

Mac, he’s gonna kill Wallace at Camp David!”

“Beecher, you need to listen to me,” Immaculate Deception’s robotic voice demands through my phone.

“No, you don’t understand,” I say, using my cell to snap a photo of the ace of clubs as it floats there in the Tupperware. “The Knight—”

“You mean Marshall.”

“Stop saying that… you don’t know that.”

“I do know that. Just like Tot knew that. In fact, the only person who doesn’t seem to know it is you.”

My hand shakes as the camera makes a ka-chick sound, blurring the photograph of the playing card. Just the mention of Tot’s name makes my whole body shrink. My God, if he’s not okay…

“I get it, Beecher — whatever you did to Marshall all those years ago… whatever happened… you don’t want it to be your old friend. But it’s time to be realistic. After all that’s happened—”

“Tot’s what happened! And Camp David is what happened! I found the message!”

“I did too,” Mac shoots back. “They’re pulling the trigger at noon.”

My camera phone makes another ka-chick sound as I snap another photo. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“That’s the kill time. Twelve p.m.”

“I don’t understand. How do you—?”

“His medical reports. I’ve been tracking these YouTube cat videos Nico’s been watching. The nurses do patient reports every shift, and those reports get filed online, which means…”

“You hacked the reports.”

“They’re using steganography. Do you know what that is?”

“Hidden writing.”

“Exactly. But in today’s world, y’know what’s even harder to track than hidden writing? Hidden videos. Think about it — when it comes to stopping terrorists from sending each other emails, our government tracks certain words across the Internet: Bomb. Bomb materials. How to make a bomb. The NSA has the best word-tracking software in the world. But when it comes to videos, there’re no words for them to track.”

“Can’t they see what’s in the video?”

“Ah, now you’re getting closer. Y’know who Mike McConnell is?”

“He ran the NSA. Then director of national intelligence.”

“Exactly. And back during Desert Storm, McConnell was so busy, his daughter kept saying, ‘I only see you on national TV — you need to tell me you love me during one of your press conferences.’ McConnell said he couldn’t. So his daughter told him to do it like Carol Burnett: Tug your earlobe, which was Burnett’s secret way of saying I love you to her grandmother. So that’s what McConnell started doing. During press conferences… on 60 Minutes… all throughout Desert Storm and his entire career, he’d tug his ear, and his daughter would get the secret message. The one message not even the best NSA software can crack.”

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

“I checked the other videos that Nico’s been watching, and if the time logs are right, before the second pastor was killed, Nico watched a video of a cat named Cutey Cute Lester—”

“Cutey Cute Lester?”

“I know it’s a stupid name, Beecher. But as the cat rolls back and forth, in the background of the video, the cat’s owner taps the front of his foot against the carpet exactly nine times… then he taps his heel a quick twenty-five times…”

“The second pastor was shot at exactly 9:25.”

“Then in yesterday’s video, his foot taps just nine times.”

“Nine o’clock,” I say, noting the time of the shooting at the hospital this morning. As another pang hits my stomach, I look down at the ace of clubs with the words Camp David on it. “Mac, you found another video, didn’t you?”

“Uploaded twenty minutes ago. This time, the cat owner taps his foot twelve times, Beecher. Noon today. And when I looked back at the President’s official schedule — which yes, they just changed after the shooting — that’s the same time that Wallace was scheduled to be leaving with his daughter from…”

“Café Milano,” I say, referring to the restaurant that I caught Marshall casing yesterday. The one where he said he’d carve out the President’s larynx with a steak knife.

“I know you see it, Beecher. That’s why Marshall was at the restaurant. He was looking for the best angle to put a bullet in the President’s brain. The only question now is, with the schedule being changed, if the President’s not going to the restaurant—”

“Camp David,” I blurt. “They’re taking the President to Camp David.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” I say, reading from the playing card and still picturing that thin grin on Marshall’s face. That knowing grin. The kind of grin that makes me wonder if, from the moment everything started, this is where Marshall always planned for it to end. Create a big enough emergency, and they’ll always send the President to Camp David.

I glance down at my phone to check the time. It’s almost ten. Barely two hours. “Mac, if this is right — we need to let people know!”

“Let who know? Tot’s in the hospital.”

“Then call the other agents! Call every Culper Ring member you can find!”

At that, Immaculate Deception goes quiet.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Beecher, how many members do you think are in the Culper Ring?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“Define a lot.”

“Fifty…?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Less than fifty?” I ask.

Again, he doesn’t respond.

“Less then forty?” I add.

“What did Tot tell you?” Mac asks, his robot voice slower than ever.

“Mac, this isn’t funny. How many members are there?”

Through the phone, there’s a loud click, like a radio being turned off. Instead of Mac’s robot voice, a female voice — an older woman — says, “Beecher, my name is Grace Bentham. You need to get out of your house.”

“W-What’re you—? Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Mac,” the old woman replies as I realize I’m hearing Immaculate Deception’s real voice. “My name is Grace. I’m trying to save your life.”

85

Nico didn’t realize the guards were there until they grabbed him from behind, clutching his neck and dragging him down toward the gravel parking lot.

“You’re letting him go! Don’t let him go!” Nico screamed, still kicking wildly.

Beecher punched the gas, his tires spun, and a windmill of loose gravel flew through the air.

“He’s the monster! Not me!” Nico howled as the car sped off, fishtailing out of the parking lot.

“Nico, catch your breath!” Nurse Rupert yelled. Between him and the guard, their weight was too much. Like a cleaved tree, Nico tumbled backward.

With a crunch and a thud, his shoulders slammed down into the frozen gravel. Bits of rocks and dust coughed into the air. It didn’t stop him from thrashing, trying to free his arms, his legs, anything to break free.

“Guys! Some help!” Rupert shouted.

Within seconds, two more guards caught up to them, joining the fray. Trained in a variety of restraining holds, they weren’t punching or hitting Nico. They grabbed at his wrists, going for pressure points.

Nearly blind from the spray of dust, Nico only saw a muddy blur, but in the distance he heard a new voice… a voice he knew… running toward him.

“Don’t hurt him!” Dr. Gosling yelled in his familiar southern accent. “He’s not fighting you!”

Gosling was right. The fight was over. Even for Nico, four against one was too much.

“Nico, listen to me — he’s gone,” Rupert said, down on his knees, holding on to Nico’s shoulder and working hard to keep his voice calm. It was the only way to talk to Nico. “Whoever that was… whoever you’re chasing… he’s gone. Look…” Grabbing Nico by the ear and lifting his head, Rupert pointed him to the main road. Nico blinked hard to see. There was no missing it. Beecher’s car blew past the guard gate and out from the hospital grounds.

With a final snort, Nico let his head collapse back into the gravel. His body went limp.

So did the rest of the group.

“Action’s over! Let’s get him inside!” Rupert called out.

In a mess of murmurs and curse words, the guards slowly and angrily peeled themselves off the pile.

“Nico, you’re a real pimple on my ass,” one of them said as he accidentally stepped on Nico’s fingertips.

Nico didn’t yell or complain. Behind him, as he lay there in the gravel still buzzing from adrenaline, he heard the sound of Velcro straps. They were bringing the stretcher. The one with the restraints. Nico knew the consequences of fighting, just like he knew what else was coming.

A mosquito bite of pain pricked him in the thigh. At the nurses’ station, they called it a “B-52,” a mix of Haldol, Ativan, and a few other antipsychotics that put you to sleep for the next eighteen hours.

“Find out who that was!” a guard shouted on one side of him.

“I don’t care how dangerous the job is!” Dr. Gosling shouted on the other, more pissed than ever. “You know our regs — there’s no manhandling the patients!” From the proximity of his voice, Nico knew Gosling was the one administering the shot.

“You got the other arm secure?” Rupert asked, still kneeling next to him.

The Velcro bit hard against Nico’s wrist. He stared up at the gray sky, waiting for the foggy light-headedness that came with the sedation.

It never came.

“Nico, close your eyes,” Dr. Gosling said, warmly patting the chest of his most famous patient.

Nico did what he was told. He closed his eyes. Yet as the stretcher tipped forward, then back, then was lifted in the air — as the nurses carried him back toward the building — Nico was surprised that instead of feeling groggy he felt wide awake. And better than ever.

86

But how’re you—? How can—?” I stop myself, pressing my phone to my ear and looking around my kitchen like I’m seeing it for the first time. “You’re a woman?”

“The front door, Beecher. Grab your stuff and get outside,” says the woman who, for two months now, has been calling herself Immaculate Deception. From the way she says my name—Beech-ah—she’s got a hint of an old Boston accent. The fancy private school kind.

Rushing to the kitchen table, I hunch over my laptop and enter her name into Google. Grace Bentham. I add the words computer expert to narrow it down.

“Don’t Google me, Beecher.”

“Wait… are you…? You hacked my computer too?”

“No — I hear the clicking of your keyboard. I’m not deaf,” she tells me.

She says something else, but I’m too lost in an online profile from the Boston Herald. According to this, Grace Bentham is…

“I’m seventy-two years old,” she adds. “I met Tot during my navy days.”

I continue reading. A seventy-two-year-old former navy officer. Rear admiral. Bigshot back in the day. As I skim through the article, it says she was a pioneer in the computer field… one of the first programmers of the Harvard Mark I computer, whatever that is. Earned her the nickname Amazing Grace. In fact, according to this, she’s the one who actually invented the term debugging when she found an actual moth in a Harvard Mark II computer and then pulled it out. But if that’s who’s looking out for me — a bunch of seventy- and eighty-year-olds…

“How many people are in the Culper Ring?” I ask her.

“Beecher, this is a conversation that’s better saved for—”

“How many!?” I insist.

She goes silent. But not for long. “Seven.”

“Seven!?”

“Seven. Including you. That’s all that’s left.”

That means there were more. “Did something happen to the rest of them?”

Like before, Amazing Grace doesn’t answer.

“What happened to them, Grace?”

Again, no answer.

“Grace, is someone hunting the members of the Culper Ring? Is that what this is about?”

“Beecher, don’t forget that one of the key strengths of the Ring used to be its small size. George Washington barely had half a dozen members. Then over time, there were dozens of us, nearly a hundred at our height. But don’t you see? That’s why Tot picked you. As they hunted us down, Tot was determined to rebuild.”

A needle of pain pierces my throat at just the mention of Tot’s name and everything he’s done for me. No way will his work stop here.

“There’s four of you: Tot, you, the Surgeon, the one you called Santa… plus me is five. Who are the others?” I demand.

“Listen, I know you’re upset.”

“No, upset is what happens when you get a speeding ticket, or your girlfriend dumps you. I risked my life here! I risked my life thinking I was being protected by the team from Mission: Impossible! Instead, I got invited to an AARP meeting!”

“Beecher, don’t underestimate us. You have no concept of the battles we’ve fought. And won. So I hear every word you’re saying, but please… What matters right now is getting you to safety. If you want to have this argument, grab your stuff, run out the front door, and head for the safehouse that Tot showed you. At the post office. Let’s have this fight from the safety of your car.”

“But you just said… at noon today… That’s when the Knight—”

“Marshall. The Knight is Marshall.”

“… that’s when Marshall is going to kill President Wallace,” I add, saying the words for the very first time. And finally believing them.

“So what do you propose we do?” Grace asks.

“Me? I have no idea. But at the very least, we need to report this. Call the Secret Service. Tell them what’s going on.”

“And you think that’ll help?” she challenges. “Beecher, if you call the Secret Service and tell them you know about an impending attack, there’s only one thing I can guarantee: By the time you hang up, a set of Secret Service agents will be driving to your house and you’ll be the number one suspect. And in two hours, when the Knight finally pulls that trigger and your prediction comes true, you—Beecher White — will be the very first name linked to that attack.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. And y’know what’ll make it even more true? When they find the security footage — which you know exists — of you sniffing around that restaurant in Georgetown yesterday. I told Tot not to let you near Marshall — but you couldn’t see it, could you? When you trailed Marshall to Café Milano, that was exactly what he wanted. He had you — on camera — right at the potential murder scene the day before the President was scheduled to be there. And he had you there for the same reason he let you into his apartment… and let you put your fingerprints all over that Abraham Lincoln mask that you so conveniently thought you ‘found.’ And then, when you put that all together — the video, the fingerprints, the Lincoln mask, plus this phone call you’re about to make — you know what they call that in court? Exhibit A. Exhibit B. Exhibit C. Exhibit D.”

I start to say something, but as we both know, there’s nothing left to say.

“Tot said you’re a smart person — and a good person, Beecher. I have to believe he’s right. But since the moment this started — whether it’s from guilt or just regret — whatever happened with Marshall when you were little… whatever you built into his life, you can’t see what he’s been building around you: a spider web. And the more you tug, the more it’s going to strangle you.”

“So that’s it? I run to the safehouse, and we just give up?”

“Sometimes it’s like that oxygen mask on an airplane: You’ve got to put the mask over your own mouth first and save yourself before you can save anyone else.”

“What about you, though? You’re the computer whiz. Can’t you do something? Hack something? Alert the Secret Service anonymously?”

“Who do you think sent them the reports on the recent attacks? I sent them Marshall’s name and his photograph. We’re doing our job, Beecher. It’s time to let the Service do theirs.”

I think back to what Nico said when I was at St. Elizabeths: that I was the Knave. That when it came right down to it, I didn’t actually care about saving the President. But I also remember what I told Tot. We need to be the good guys. Always.

“We need to do more,” I insist, reaching for my winter coat.

“Beecher…”

“I mean it, Grace. You’re acting like our hands are tied. We need to tell them ourselves.”

“And how do you plan on doing that, Beecher? You think you can just drive to Camp David?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t—” I cut myself off, still thinking of what happened all those years ago to Marshall in the basement. There’s a cost to doing nothing. I’m not paying that cost again. “All I know is this: What doesn’t make sense is sitting here and doing nothing when we know exactly where and when he’s pulling that trigger,” I say, yanking the ace of clubs playing card from the Tupperware full of urine and running it under a quick blast of water. The words Camp David begin to fade, but you can still read them on the card. “You heard that story Tot told, about Marshall breaking into the army base. The Service has no chance against him. Not when they don’t know who they’re facing.”

“Then let me share this fact with you: If you get anywhere near the President or the White House or Camp David, they’re going to pull every gun they have and aim it at your head.”

“That’s fine, because you know what else’ll happen? They’ll grab the President, take him into whatever saferoom they have out there, and at least he’ll be safe. Think about it, Grace. If you could go back in time and you knew about Lee Harvey Oswald, would you be content with just sending the Secret Service a telegram — or would you drive down to the Book Depository and do everything in your power to make sure the assassination didn’t happen?”

Slapping my laptop shut and tucking it under my arm, I grab the car keys, fly through my living room, and race for the front door.

“Beecher,” she pleads, leaning hard on her Boston accent, “I don’t think you’re thinking this through. What if you’re doing exactly what Marshall wants you to do?”

“Then I guess I’m in—”

I yank the front door open and stop midstep. Blocking my way is a tall man with dyed black hair and the most exhausted eyes I’ve ever seen. He lowers his chin like he’s turning away, but all it does is call attention to the rose-colored scar on his neck. The one he got on the day I saw him die.

“Just hear me out,” Dr. Stewart Palmiotti says. “I have a proposition for you.”

87

They grabbed the chaplain first.

The paramedics, the nurses… they knew she was dead the moment they saw her. Chaplain Stoughton’s skin wasn’t pink anymore. It was ashen and dark gray. No one comes back from that. But they still scrambled, lifting her body, which hit like deadweight, onto the gurney.

Running and ripping away her blood-soaked shirt, they rushed her out of the hospital chapel and across the hall to the emergency room. Chaplain Stoughton was still a member of the hospital’s staff. How could they not grab her first?

It was a younger doctor — an Orthodox nephrologist who’d come down to say a prayer for his sick niece — who was the first on scene. Stepping into the chapel, he saw the puddle of blood pooling across the light cream carpet.

This was still a hospital. Within seconds, gurneys were rolling, IVs were flowing, and the emergency room staff mobilized, filling three side-by-side rooms and trying to bring one of their own back to life. They didn’t have a chance.

In the first room, a trauma nurse called the time of death for Chaplain Stoughton. In the second, an attending physician and a handful of nurses were literally holding Tot’s skull together. As the doctor looked into Tot’s wide-open eyes, only one of them was reacting to light. He’d blown a pupil and his brain was now herniating, shifting to the other side of his skull. They started prepping him for surgery, but already knew the outcome. And in the third room, Pastor Frick — the pastor who was shot yesterday, and who had just gone to say goodbye to Chaplain Stoughton — was still in shock, his eyes dancing back and forth as doctors and nurses shouted questions in his face.

“Sir, are you okay!? Can you hear me!?” someone yelled.

“He spared me… he said my time had come,” Pastor Frick kept whispering, over and over. As his foot tapped against the floor, the digital step counter on his shoe clicked upward.

“Did you get a good look at him? Did you see anything?”

Pastor Frick nodded, a thin splatter of blood running diagonally across his nose.

“You saw the shooter!? What’d he look like!?”

Frick glanced up, his chin quivering. He could barely get the words out.

“Like Abraham Lincoln.”

88

Beecher,” Palmiotti pleads, “before you say anything—”

I hit him as hard as I can.

It’s a quick punch. And a brutal one. A total sucker punch that catches the President’s former doctor just above the eyebrow and sends a shock of pain ricocheting through my fist and down my elbow.

The corner of my phone nicks Palmiotti’s cheek as the impact knocks it from my hands and sends it crashing to the ground.

Palmiotti stumbles backward, holding his face.

“Ow! That’s—Ow!” he yells, more annoyed than hurt. But as he blinks away the pain, he starts nodding. Slowly at first, then faster. “Okay, I deserved that, Beecher. I did.”

“Stay the hell away from me,” I warn him.

“I know you hate me, Beecher. I don’t blame you for it. But if you just listen—”

“Listen to what? Another trainload of lies and bullshit!? You’re a killer, Palmiotti! We both know you’re a killer! In fact, you’re so full of crap, you can’t even die honestly!”

“That’s clever, Beecher. But I thought you’d be a bit more surprised to see that I’m still alive.”

“You think Clementine didn’t tell me? She trusts you even less than I do. I figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up with some new threat. So what’s it gonna be? You still mad that Clementine shot you in the caves? Or now that your pal the President brought you back from the dead, you got some new message for us?”

Before he can answer, I step out onto the porch, reaching down to pick up my phone. From what I can tell, it’s still connected to Amazing Grace. I angle it so Palmiotti can’t see what’s onscreen. Better to have someone listening in than to be here alone.

“Beecher, despite what you think, Orson Wallace isn’t my friend. Not anymore.”

I look up, tightening my glare.

“In all your anger, have you really thought about why I’m standing here? It wasn’t to threaten you, Beecher. After what happened… after what I’ve seen… I understand the benefits of seeing the President dead.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You think Wallace doesn’t know about the pastors’ deaths — or your friend Tot? He may not know who, but he knows someone’s trying to kill him.”

“But what you just said—”

“No, it’s what you said, Beecher. That Wallace brought me back from the dead. And he did. But that doesn’t mean he gave me my life back. In fact, he’s still holding it, letting it dangle in front of me while trying to use me for his own benefit. I understand now. I know what kind of man he is.”

My skin turns brittle, like it’s made of eggshells. “So now I’m supposed to believe you’re the one trying to kill him?”

“Me? No. I don’t want Wallace dead. But after what he did — what he took from me—” For a moment, Palmiotti lowers his chin, which pinches the scar on his neck. “I don’t care what his title is. Orson Wallace needs to answer for his actions.”

I cock a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, so even though I think you’re a lying piece of garbage, I’m supposed to believe this sudden conversion and the fact that you want to go after the Presi—”

“He took my life from me, Beecher! Not just my family! Not just my love! He took my life!” Palmiotti explodes, his voice booming down the block.

“Only because you let him.”

He grits his teeth. His chest rises and falls from the outburst. “You’re right. There’s plenty I let him do,” he finally says. “But there’s so much more you have no idea about, Beecher. Beyond what happened years ago… beyond the attacks and everything we did with Eightball. Whatever you think of me — whatever you want to believe — let me show you the proof. I have everything we need.”

“Everything for what? I’m still not even sure why you’re here. If you have the proof, and you know what he’s done… why not just take him down yourself?”

Palmiotti shakes his head, forcing a nervous laugh that freezes like cotton balls in the cold morning air. “I know you’re not stupid, Beecher. People love to point at Woodward and Bernstein, but they were just lucky that Nixon was such a cocky, lazy ass. These days, only a fool tries to take on the President of the United States — especially this President — by himself.”

“And assuming I even believe all this, you think I’m the solution?”

“No. I think your group is.” He pauses again, just to make sure I hear him. “I know about the Culper Ring, Beecher. The President told me. So if I help you with this, if I tell you what I know about Wallace and let you put the truth out there, I need the kind of help that only the Ring can muster.”

“Palmiotti, you do realize we live in the twenty-first century, right? If you want to put the truth out there, all you need is an Internet connection.”

“You misunderstand. I don’t need help hitting the send button. But once I hit that button,” he explains, his voice slowing down, “I need someone protecting me.”

I look down at my phone and see that I’m still connected to Amazing Grace. Her words continue to echo in my brain. Seven members. With Tot shot, we’re down to six.

“Doc, I’m not sure the Ring is the solution you think it is.”

“I know you can’t talk about them, Beecher. I know how it works. But I’ve seen their work firsthand. I know what they’re capable of.”

“You’re not hearing me.”

“No, Beecher, you’re not hearing me. I’m offering to help you. With what I’ve seen… I can get you into Camp David.”

I look up, but don’t say a word.

“That is where you’re trying to go, isn’t it?” he challenges. “That’s where you think your friend Marshall is striking next. You think we didn’t know about him either? Or that Clementine’s still unaccounted for? Wasn’t she with you, Beecher? Why’s she not by your side? For all you know, she’s there right now.”

He points down at my closed laptop. No. Not at my laptop. At the playing card that, as I grip the laptop, is still held in place by the palm of my hand. On the ace of clubs, the light purple words are easy to read: Camp David.

I look over his shoulder, still instinctively searching the empty street for Clementine. Even Nico asked her if she was the Knight. Of course she denied it. But Palmiotti is right about one thing: I have no idea where she is.

“Don’t overthink it, Beecher. I was there last Christmas, and on those recovery days after the President’s surgery, and even on the night Wallace had that surprise party for the First Lady. It’s a simple choice, really. You can either stay here and let the President get gunned down, or try to save his life and make sure he’s properly punished for everything he’s done. This is where you find out who you are, Beecher. No one can get you closer. Now do you want to get into Camp David or not?”

89

Nico kept his eyes closed. For nearly an hour.

He kept them closed as they carried him from the parking lot, back into the new building.

He kept them closed as they patted him down, pulled out his shoelaces, and even as they checked his mouth, rectum, and under his fingernails.

He listened carefully as they talked about him. “… recent increase in antisocial behavior…” “… broke Cary’s finger…” “… should put him down once and for all…” And he kept his eyes closed as they undid the Velcro restraints and rolled him off the stretcher, onto the thin mattress.

From there, as the nurses left the room and bolted the door, he couldn’t hear anything. Not even an echo as they disappeared up the hallway.

Nico didn’t like that. With his hearing, he wasn’t used to such intense silence. But at least now he knew where he was. Whatever room they put him in, it was soundproof.

Still, just to be safe, Nico kept his eyes shut.

“I think you’re clear,” the dead First Lady finally said.

Squinting carefully, Nico looked around. The room was narrow but tastefully painted in the same calming celadon green color as the check-in area that they entered through yesterday. He was on a thin blue mattress that was on the floor. There was no furniture, no TV, nothing he could hurt himself with. On his right, one of the walls — the one with the door on it — was made of solid, thick glass that looked out into an empty hallway and allowed the doctors and nurses to look in. And for Nico to look out.

Decades ago, they’d have put Nico in a straitjacket and tossed him in a rubber room. But in today’s modern institutions, restraints were frowned upon and rubber rooms didn’t exist anymore. Now they were called “Seclusion Rooms” or “Quiet Rooms”—places where the patients could find their own calm and “help themselves.”

“So the drugs they gave you… They didn’t work?” the First Lady asked.

Nico shook his head, slowly sitting up. His fingers were stiff and his body was sore from the fighting. As he peered into the empty hallway, no one was there. He wasn’t surprised.

For weeks now, he knew someone had to be looking out for him. The Knight had shown up once, months ago. But after that, he was too smart to return to St. Elizabeths. Indeed, as Nico thought about it, with all the messages that the Knight was able to send — with the invisible ink playing cards that had been tucked into the old books — those messages didn’t just deliver themselves. Someone inside the hospital was helping the Knight communicate with Nico. Someone was on his side.

“You think that’s who gave you the injection, don’t you?” the First Lady asked.

“The Knight told me… He told me he would provide — that we wouldn’t be alone,” Nico said as he replayed the past few days and thought about the one person who always seemed to be showing up, again and again.

“I know who you’re thinking about,” the First Lady said. “But you still need to be careful.”

Nico was being careful. That’s why he was staring at the back corner of the room, where a surveillance camera sat inside an octagonal-shaped metal wedge with scratchproof glass. No question, the camera watched every part of the room. It watched Nico. But to Nico’s surprise, unlike every other camera in the new building, the little red light on top of the camera wasn’t glowing.

“Is it possible to shut off just one camera?” the First Lady asked.

“The Knight said he’d take care of us. That he’d provide,” Nico said, slowly climbing to his feet. He was still wary — but he was getting excited. Everything the Knight had said… it was all coming true. Destiny.

Pressing his face and fingertips against the glass, Nico checked the dark hallway. The lights were off, and there were no nurses. No orderlies. No one.

“Looks like God’s looking out for you, Nico.”

“Not just God,” Nico said as he reached for the door. “The Knight looks out for us too. The Knight provides.”

With a tug on the doorknob, Nico waited for the standard metal tunk that came with a deadbolt. Instead, the door swung toward him, not making a sound.

Unlocked.

For an instant, Nico hesitated. But not for long. The Knight was definitely looking out for him. Plus, someone else was too.

Stepping out into the hallway, Nico was on his way.

90

So who do you think’s helping him?” Palmiotti asks, glancing over at me from the passenger seat.

“Helping Nico? Not sure,” I reply, holding tight to the steering wheel.

“Actually, I wasn’t talking about Nico. I was—” Palmiotti stops himself. “You think this goes back to Nico?”

I go silent, my eyes locked on the small two-lane road known as MD 77. For most of the first hour, the game has been the same — he brings up small details, trying to pump me for information. But he’s not the only one playing it.

“Who were you talking about then? You think the President’s getting help?” I ask.

Now Palmiotti’s the one who’s silent. On both sides of us, the suburban strip plazas that lined I-270 have given way to huge swaths of snowed-over northern Maryland farmland and the rising Catoctin Mountain that’s directly ahead. There’s no one around — no one anywhere — but Palmiotti’s still focused on our rearview mirror.

“How can someone be helping the President?” I add. “I thought Wallace was the victim here.”

“He is the victim. But you have to understand, when you’re President — just to communicate with the outside world… That doesn’t happen without help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Help from someone close.”

“Like your old high school friend who happens to be the White House doctor.”

“Or a trusted Secret Service agent,” Palmiotti explains. “When we get there, that’s who we need to be looking for. A.J. Ennis. Find him and you’ll find the President.”

“So why not just call A.J?”

Palmiotti turns from the rearview and shoots me a look. “I told you, Beecher. My direct line isn’t as direct as it used to be.” He pauses for a moment, like he wants to say something else, but it never comes. I see the loss in his eyes. All it does is make me think of Tot and everything I owe him, everything he’s done. Grace said he picked me to help rebuild the Culper Ring… to help him do what’s right. For that alone, it’s enough to keep me going.

“So this guy A.J. That’s who Wallace replaced you with?”

Palmiotti doesn’t answer.

“You think A.J. might be a part of this?” I add. “I mean, if he is that close to Wallace, he’d be in the perfect spot to take a shot.”

Before he can answer, I spot a yellow, diamond-shaped highway sign: Watch for Ice on Bridge.

It’s the only warning I get. My chest flattens, pressing against my organs. Up ahead, there’s no missing it: the small two-lane arched bridge that runs across a shallow ravine.

The metal bridge is old — bits of ice shine on the rusted archway — but it looks safe as can be. Still, at just the sight of it, my fists tighten around the steering wheel.

“Beecher, you okay?” Palmiotti asks.

I nod and hold my breath.

I don’t like bridges. My father died on a bridge. But as we get closer and the tires thump across its threshold…

I’m not sure that that version of my father’s death is true anymore.

Next to me, Palmiotti says something about President Wallace and how much he doesn’t trust A.J.

I barely hear it.

Indeed, as the car’s tires choom-choom-choom across the bridge’s metal grated roadbed, the only thing going through my head is the letter from last night…

The letter Clementine showed me. My father’s suicide note.

I fight hard to stare straight ahead — but in my peripheral vision, I still see the snow-covered rocks that lead down toward the frozen stream below us.

For as long as I can remember, I was told my father died on a bridge just like this one. Small bridge. Small town. Small death, so easily forgotten.

But like any son, of course I never forgot. For decades now, I’ve pictured every version of my father’s death: his car plummeting because of an oncoming truck, his car plummeting because he had a heart attack, his car plummeting because he swerved to save a special old dog. I’ve seen my father die in every different permutation. But to read that note — to see his handwriting — and especially to see the date on that letter: one week after he supposedly perished…

Halfway across the bridge, Palmiotti’s still talking, and I’m still holding my breath. My lungs tighten from the lack of oxygen. Blood rushes to my face, which feels like it’s about to burst. But as we pass the midway point and the bridge’s curved metal arches begin their angled descent, I–I—

I look around cautiously. The wheels continue to choom-choom-choom across the bridge’s metal grating. And I still hold tight to the steering wheel. But not as tight as before.

“Beecher, you hear what I just said?”

“Yeah… no… you were talking about the President. That… that he’s not the man you thought he was.”

“You weren’t even listening, were you? What I said was… when we were in seventh grade, Wallace ran for student government treasurer. Not even president. Treasurer. And he got beat. Miserably. The kids hated him back then. Do you understand what that means?”

“It means everyone’s beatable.”

“No. It means people can change, Beecher. Perceptions can change. For bad — or even good — not everyone is who they used to be. Just because something happens in your past, doesn’t mean it defines your future.”

He lets the words sink in as I think about my father, and Clementine, and of course about the President and Palmiotti. But I’m also thinking about Marshall and everything I did to him. So much that can never be undone.

With a final ca-chunk, the wheels of the car leave the metal bridge and I watch it fade behind us.

“But you are right,” Palmiotti says, still staring in the rearview. “Everyone is beatable. Especially when you know where their weak spot is.”

As the road weaves us through the small town of Thurmont, Maryland, and out onto the open road, a slight incline tells me we’re beginning our ascent into the mountain. The next sign we see is a wooden one from the National Park Service.

If we head right, to the eastern side, we’ll find public camping grounds, hiking trails, and scenic mountain vistas. Instead, I turn left, toward the western side, where the road narrows even further — down to two thin lanes.

There’s no more open farmland. No more small town. As we weave upward, slowly climbing the mountain, we’re surrounded by steep slopes, rocky terrain, and thick swaths of towering oak, poplar, hickory, and maple trees. We can’t see more than a few feet in any direction.

Still, we both know what’s up ahead, hidden deep within the park. I glance at the car’s digital clock. We still have a half hour.

“We’ll make it,” Palmiotti says. “But whatever happens from here on out, no more blaming yourself. What matters is you tried, right?”

Of course he’s right. But that’s exactly why I can’t stop thinking about that night in the basement. I know who Marshall used to be. I know what I did to him. And in less than a half hour, I’m about to come face-to-face with exactly what I turned him into.

91

It’s dark down there.”

“He’ll be fine,” Timothy Lusk said from his wheelchair, rolling to the edge of the steps and looking down, down, down into the dim basement. “You’ll be good, right, Marsh?”

Holding the pushbars of his father’s wheelchair and peeking over his father’s shoulder, young Marshall took his own look down the unfinished stairs with the rusted metal treads. The black basement floor seemed to sway and move with a life of its own.

“I can get you a flashlight,” Pastor Riis’s wife — a woman everyone called Cricket — said.

“If you want, I can go,” Pastor Riis added.

“He’ll be fine,” Marshall’s father said. “It’s just water.”

Pushing his glasses up on his face, Marshall stepped backward, which sent a small, inch-high tidal wave flowing back through the kitchen. It was just water. And thanks to a cracked drainpipe that kept the pastor’s dishwasher running during the entire weekend they were gone, it was everywhere: in the kitchen… in the living room… and, with some help from gravity, in the basement, which now looked like a dark black cesspool. When Marshall and his dad first arrived, Pastor Riis said it was knee-high down there. That meant even deeper for Marshall.

“Here… here’s a flashlight,” the pastor’s wife said, handing the light to Marshall, who shined its beams down the steps, though it barely penetrated the dark.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be right here,” his father said, pivoting his wheelchair and motioning Marshall forward.

Before Marshall could argue, a flashbulb went off, and his father’s Polaroid vrrred, spitting out an instant image.

“Don’t forget — you need this,” his father said, handing Marshall the camera. “Get pics of everything.”

Marshall nodded. For six months now, since his dad had been hired as an insurance adjuster, that was the job: take photos, document the damage, write up the report.

Of course, Marshall knew his dad got the job as a favor — even insurance companies feel bad for an unemployed guy in a wheelchair. But as the company quickly found out, so did claimants, who had a tough time complaining about how bad their damage was when they were talking to a double amputee who would never walk again.

“I told him not to run the dishwasher before we left. Didn’t I tell you that, dear?” the pastor’s wife asked, putting a hand on Riis’s shoulder. Quickly catching herself, she glanced at her guests and added, “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to snap at my husband like that.”

“You call that snapping?” Timothy laughed, motioning his son to the edge of the steps. “They should come to our house, right, Marsh?”

Staring down into the darkness, Marshall didn’t even hear the question. Over the past six months, he didn’t mind being dragged along with his dad. In fact, he liked it. There was something nice about being alone in the car with your father as the radio played and the wind whipped through your hair. Plus, when there were places his dad couldn’t go — when the accident happened on the second floor of a house and there was no stair-lift, for instance — Marshall was the perfect assistant, grabbing the Polaroid and using the climbing skills he got from the treehouse to scurry up into attics or even out onto roofs. It didn’t just make him feel good. It made him feel useful. Special.

But even twelve-year-olds know… attics and roofs are very different than a dark basement.

“If he’s scared, I really don’t mind going,” Pastor Riis said for the fourth time.

“He’s not scared. He loves the dark, right, Marsh?” his dad insisted, rolling his wheelchair forward, using the empty footplate to give Marshall one last shove.

Aiming the flashlight at the stairs, Marshall took his first step down.

“There you go. Toldja he liked the dark,” his dad added.

For Marshall, this was about far more than just the dark. For years now, he’d heard the gossip about Pastor Riis. Two years ago, Bobby McNamera used to take a private Bible class that Riis used to teach in this basement. Soon after, Bobby abruptly moved away without saying goodbye, never to be heard from again. Every kid in seventh grade knew: Don’t go down into the pastor’s basement.

“Just be careful,” the pastor’s wife called out as Marshall took a few more steps down, the damp air clogging his nose. No doubt, the water was high, covering at least five steps from the bottom. Tucking the flashlight under his armpit and holding the camera over his head, he aimed and shot. A flashbulb popped and a quick photo popped out. He didn’t even bother looking at it.

As he took another step down, his foot was swallowed by icy water, which filled his sneakers and made a sponge of his socks. With another step, the water was over his ankles, then up to his calf, his knee, his thigh. By the time he reached the final step, holding the camera even higher above his head like an army grunt trudging through a river, the water covered his thighs, skimming the edge of his testicles. It was freezing, but Marshall was sweating.

“Make sure you shoot it all! They need to see how bad it is!” his dad called out, though all Marshall was thinking of was Bobby McNamera, who he heard was put in a mental institution, though no one could confirm it.

Wading through the water, which tugged at his thighs and slowed him down, it wasn’t as if Marshall expected to find human bones, or chains that hung from the wall. But as he glanced around he couldn’t help but wonder what else was buried under all this water.

In every direction, loose papers, the lids to cardboard storage boxes, a plastic garbage can, even an old piece of luggage floated through the room, which had less than three feet of headroom because of the basement’s low ceiling and a maze of high piping. Barely ten seconds had passed, and Marshall was breathing heavily. He knew the main water line was turned off, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about what would happen if the water got any higher. Looking up at the ceiling, with the camera still over his head and the flashlight jerking back and forth in its own crazed light show, he could feel his sweat spreading, his glasses sliding down his nose.

On his left, from the banister, a thick black bug with the body of a spider and the legs of a cricket hopped through the air, landing in the water. Spider-bugs, Marshall called them, knowing them from every local basement, including his own.

From what he could tell as he looked around, the basement was divided into two rooms. This first was all mechanical. A flashbulb exploded as he took a picture of the half-submerged water heater on his left. Another bulb exploded as he snapped one of the nearby boiler, an old 1920s metal beast that barely broke the surface of the water.

“And get the boiler and water heater!” his father added as Marshall waded through the doorway that had no door on it, into the next room, which for some reason was better lit. On his right, he saw why: There was a narrow basement window, no bigger than an air-conditioning vent, that looked out into the backyard, but was covered in so much dust, the light barely got in. As for the room, it didn’t look much different — lots of floating papers and debris — but instead of machinery and pipes, it had a chest-high built-in bookcase along the back wall.

The water had already risen to ruin half the books. But as Marshall snapped a photo and another Polaroid spit out, he saw that on the top shelf a large framed picture leaned diagonally against the wall.

“Marsh, how you doing!?” his father called out.

“Almost done!” Marshall called back, still holding the camera over his head as his glasses slid even farther down his nose. “I found this big picture frame down here…!”

“That’s from my parents’ wedding! Please don’t tell me it’s underwater!” the pastor’s wife called back.

“No, it’s good! I’ll bring it up!” Marshall said, slogging forward toward the bookcase as the cold water nipped at his testicles. As he placed the camera and the flashlight on the top shelf, a trio of spider-bugs hopped through the air, skimming across the water and leaving a faint wake behind them.

Stepping up on his tiptoes, Marshall reached for the gilded frame that held the old black-and-white photo of a young man in a tux posed so elegantly with his new bride. Like in most old photos, neither was smiling, just staring, lips pressed together in that way that made them look like grandparents even when they were newlyweds. But as Marshall grabbed the bottom corners of the frame, unwedging it from its place, his fingers hit… something.

There was something behind it.

As he pushed the frame aside, he saw a neat stack of magazines, though he didn’t even give them a second look. That is, until he saw…

Breasts. There were breasts. Big ones, cupped by a long-legged brunette with teased-out, tousled hair and a red headband. Kneeling on a pool table, she leaned toward the camera, but looked over her own shoulder, where a muscular, bare-chested man held her hips like he was — Oh jeez.

Marshall looked at the title. Leg Show. As he flipped through the photos inside, they revealed far more than legs. Lots more, including some wildly graphic shots of the woman on the cover and what she and this guy were doing on that pool table.

Marshall stood up straight, feeling something rise in his pants. Porn. Pastor Riis had porn. Lots of it.

Quickly thumbing through the stack, he found a half dozen more magazines, with titles like Score, High Society, and even one called Bitchcraft. Marshall laughed at that. If Beecher saw this—

“C’mon, Marsh, what’s taking so long!?” his father called out.

Scrambling and still thinking of Beecher’s reaction, he grabbed the stack of magazines and stuffed them in the waist of his pants. He was sweating so hard, they stuck to his doughy stomach as he tried to shove them in place. “Almost done! Just grabbing the picture frame!” he called back to his dad. But as he lowered his shirt over the magazines—

“Maybe I should help you with that,” a voice asked behind him.

His body jolted wildly, his glasses almost flying from his face. He reached for the large gilded picture frame and spun around to find Pastor Riis standing there, knee deep in the water.

A single spider-bug leapt through the air.

“I–I was just coming up,” Marshall said, holding the large frame.

“What about the flashlight? And your camera?” Riis asked, motioning over Marshall’s shoulder. Both were still lying on the top shelf.

For a frozen moment, Marshall stood there. He could hand the frame to the pastor. But right now, that was the only thing preventing Pastor Riis from getting a good look at the outline of the magazines under Marshall’s shirt.

“Sure. Of course. Here you go,” Marshall said, tilting the picture frame toward the pastor, who grabbed it quickly, keeping it out of the water. With a quick pivot, Marshall spun toward the bookshelf, keeping his back to the pastor as he gathered the Polaroid and the flashlight.

“Y’know, some of the things down here,” Pastor Riis began, “some of them have been here for years.”

“That’s what basements are for, right?”

“Of course. But in church… You wouldn’t believe what people have given me over the years. And what I’ve had to confiscate.”

A decade from now, a grown-up Marshall would’ve had the perfect retort. But right here, in this flooded, mildewed basement, with a glob of muddied light coming through the narrow window, young Marshall simply stared, frozen and terrified, at the pastor he’d known for his entire life.

“My dad’s waiting for me,” he blurted, pushing his glasses up on his nose and shining the light in the pastor’s face, not even realizing it meant Riis couldn’t see anything.

“Honey, the plumber’s here with the shop-vac!” the pastor’s wife called out. “C’mon up, I don’t want you getting sick down there!”

And that was it.

At the top of the stairs, the pastor put the picture frame down on the kitchen table just as the plumber and his assistant joined them in the kitchen. Behind him, the pastor’s wife wrapped a striped beach towel around Marshall, who used it to hide the rectangular bulge along his chest.

“Marsh, what the hell is this?” his father asked, flipping through the Polaroids and shifting angrily in his wheelchair. “You didn’t let them dry! All the photos are stuck together!”

On any other day, Marshall would’ve apologized and offered to go back down. But today, as he stood there shivering in the kitchen with half a dozen porn magazines stuck to his chest, a twisted smile crept up his cheeks and only one thought filled his mind.

Wait till Beecher sees this.

92

Nico, you’re not being smart,” the dead First Lady warned.

Nico blinked a few times, walking quickly up the shiny new hallway. Since the moment he got out of the Quiet Room, the First Lady had been nervous. She thought it was a trap.

Nico knew she was wrong. With all that had happened — for the injection to have no drugs in it… for the door to the Quiet Room to be unlocked… No, this wasn’t a trap. This was a message — a simple, well-planned message that stood out like a bright red thread and stretched out in front of him, down the stark hallway. Nico knew he had to follow the thread. Just like he knew that only someone in the hospital could’ve left it. Indeed, as he chased the thread up the hallway, he realized there was only one person who could’ve—

“Nico, you hear that?” the First Lady asked.

Up on his left, around the corner, two orderlies walked the main hall of the hospital, complaining about how slow the elevators were in the new building.

“Nico, if they see you—”

Nico never broke his pace, marching forward without a care. Sure, the orderlies were close. But Nico knew they’d never leave the main hallway. How could they? With everything that was now set in motion… Would God really have brought them this far to let them be stopped by something so mundane?

Sure enough, as quickly as the orderlies arrived, that’s how quickly they disappeared, their voices fading into distant echoes.

“We’re clear — hurry — go!” the First Lady said, motioning him toward the main hallway.

This time, though, Nico stopped.

“Nico, what’re you waiting for? You know where we are?”

Nico knew exactly where they were. For two days now, since the moment they arrived, he’d been studying the new building. Yesterday, as they headed down to the labyrinth, he made note of the roving cameras and the sally port doors that secured each nurses’ station. On his way back from the library, he’d memorized which entrances required just card swipes, and which required card swipes and keys. On his way out to see Beecher this morning, he counted three guards at the main check-in desk, but only two at the visitors’ entrance.

Nico even spent an extra twenty minutes in TLC, pretending to relearn how to use a washer and dryer so he could listen in as the nurses bragged about the triple layer of security that now encased the back of the building and all the patient units. The first layer — on the exterior fire doors — was a silent alarm so that none of the other patients would know anything was wrong. The second layer came from thin wire fencing that ran horizontal with the ground. Yes, it looked easy to climb, but the moment you touched it, a hidden fiber optic wire sensed the shift in weight and sent every nearby camera spinning your way. And if by chance you got past that, the third and final layer was a twenty-foot-tall non-climbable fine-mesh fence that was woven so tight, human fingers couldn’t fit in the holes. Back in the army, Nico had learned his way around that: Grab two screwdrivers, stab the fence, and scale your way to the top. But as he well knew, why risk going over a fence when you can walk right through the side door?

Up ahead, the hallway cut to the right, revealing the brand-new U-shaped desk and swinging double doors that led out to the loading dock. He had been here yesterday. But today one of the double doors was propped open with a wastepaper basket.

“Nico, what’re you waiting for?” the First Lady asked. “Here’s our way out!”

Like before, Nico just stood there.

“I hear you breathing,” Nico announced.

The First Lady looked around. “Nico, what’re you talking about?”

“I know you’re here,” Nico added. “I hear you. You know I hear everything.”

Across the hall, past the U-shaped desk, a shadow shifted in the threshold of what looked like a bathroom, but was really a shower stall for patient delousing. Nico knew who was hiding inside. The friend who had left the bright red thread… and who was always looking out for him.

“Dr. Gosling, I need you to come out now,” Nico said.

Without a word, the shadows shifted again and Nurse Rupert stepped out into the hallway.

Nico blinked quickly, then cocked his head, confused.

“You’re not Dr. Gosling,” Nico said.

“Nico, please don’t make this harder than it is,” Rupert pleaded. “Now do you want to escape or not?”

93

We need to hurry,” Rupert insisted.

“But how could—? It doesn’t even—” Nico tried to get the words out, still staring at Rupert. “Dr. Gosling was the one who handed me the books, and was in my room—”

“It’s time to go,” Rupert said.

“But I saw Gosling put the needle in my thigh. He gave me the shot!”

Rupert lowered his chin, offering a dark glare as the daylight reflected off the bridge of his plastic eyeglasses. “And who do you think mixed that shot, Nico?”

Nico’s thick caterpillar eyebrows merged together. “So you serve the Knight?”

“Please don’t talk like Lord of the Rings. And don’t call him some stupid name like the Knight. He—”

“Call him the Knight. You work for the Knight!”

“He paid me to do a job; I do the job. That’s all it is, Nico. Now please prove to me you made progress here. I know you’re not a killer. Not anymore. Don’t prove me wrong.”

“But for you to risk your job like this—”

“Nico, two months ago, for a stupidly small amount of money that I thought would help my nephew, I snuck five hundred milligrams of methylphenidate out of the hospital’s pharmacy. Needless to say, the wrong people found out about it, including your so-called Knight. So this isn’t about my job anymore. This is about me staying out of jail.”

Nico blinked hard. He looked around, searching for the First Lady, but now… he couldn’t find her. Instead, all he saw was Clementine and the blonde wig that sat askew on her head. He closed his eyes, knowing that his fate, it was changing even now. Forget the Knight. Forget Wallace. Forget everything. After all these years, there was something else waiting for him on the other side of the hospital walls: his daughter. Clementine. For Nico, no other reward came close.

“Last chance, Nico. You want freedom or not?”

Nico turned toward the propped-open door that led out to the cement pad of the loading dock. Yes, the door was open, but through the doorway, past the cement pad, the exterior roll-top garage door was still closed. A high-tech keypad was embedded in the wall. To truly get outside — to open the garage door — he’d need an ID.

Nico glanced back at Rupert, noticing the ID badge that hung around Rupert’s neck.

“You do what you have to,” Rupert said, motioning down to the plastic-covered U-shaped desk. On top of the plastic was a single pencil. Freshly sharpened.

Nico hesitated. But not for long.

He reached down slowly for the pencil. Like a doctor choosing his favorite scalpel.

Rupert squinted, bracing himself. “Just do me one favor: Make it look like I gave you a good fight, okay?”

In one quick movement, Nico grabbed Rupert’s wrist and stabbed the pencil down toward Rupert’s forearm. There was a ftt as it bit through the hairy side of Rupert’s forearm, and a ttt as it burst out the bottom, looking like a trick arrow you find in a magic shop. A spray of blood hit Nico’s chest, the last few bits flicking two tiny dots on his chin.

“Nuuuhh!” Rupert screamed, thrashing wildly as his knees buckled.

Nico held tight to Rupert’s wrist, fighting to keep him in place and pulling the wound close to examine it. Maximum blood without hitting any major arteries, organs, or blood vessels.

“Don’t pull it out. It’ll make it bleed more,” Nico warned, lowering Rupert into a nearby desk chair.

“Th-That girl you were talking to this morning… that’s your daughter, isn’t it?” Rupert asked, his voice fading. “Is that what this’s really about?”

Nico looked down at Rupert, realizing he knew nothing about the President and what was coming. With a quick tug, Nico ripped the ID from Rupert’s neck and fished through his pockets, finding a set of keys. Now he had something to jam into the neck of the guard at the hospital’s main gate.

He headed for the open door of the loading dock.

Rupert clutched his own punctured arm, with the pencil still in it, toward his chest. “Y’know, Nico — even with all this, there’s only one thing I never lied to you about: You’re still a pain in my ass,” he called out, forcing a labored laugh.

Nico swiped the ID through the high-tech keypad. As the roll-top garage door slowly opened its mouth, a swirl of cold wind twirled through the loading dock. The sunlight was blinding as Nico strolled outside. Didn’t matter. Sliding one of the keys between his knuckles, he knew exactly where he was going.

94

Make a right here,” Palmiotti says.

“You sure?” I ask, squinting through the windshield at yet another unmarked turnoff.

“Yes. I’m sure. Here,” Palmiotti insists.

I turn the wheel as hard as I can, nearly missing it. But as I’m learning, everything in the park is easy to miss. Indeed, as we weave our way up the mountain, there’re no warning signs, no directional signs, not even one of those diamond-shaped ones that reads Authorized Personnel Only. In fact, when it comes to the secrets of Camp David, the clearest secret is simply that if you don’t know where Camp David is, you have no chance of finding it.

“And another right here,” Palmiotti says as we turn onto another narrow road that’s just as perfectly paved as the last one. In a clean, straight line, all the snow is meticulously pushed to the sides. No question, Palmiotti knows where he’s going.

Originally built back in 1938 as a summer camp for federal employees, Camp David first came on the presidential radar when FDR’s doctors said that the White House was too hot for Roosevelt — that the President needed a cool-weather retreat. As they looked around, they realized that the camp, because of its elevation in the mountain, was always ten degrees colder than downtown D.C. Right there, the employees lost their camp and FDR gained what he called “Shangri-La,” naming it after a mountain kingdom in one of his favorite novels.

To no one’s surprise, when Eisenhower took over the presidency, he loved the retreat. But he hated the name, rechristening it after his grandson David. By now, Camp David has become far more than a presidential weekend house. In today’s world, it’s one of the only places where the President of the United States can truly leave the chaos of his life behind.

When it was first opened, FDR made twenty-two trips to Camp David. Ronald Reagan made one hundred and eighty-seven — and it wasn’t just because travel got easier by helicopter, or because the place has its own golf green, driving range, movie theater, swimming pool, and bowling alley. For any President, Camp David’s best perk is simply this: There’s no press allowed.

When Bill Clinton took office, he said his allergies prevented him from visiting Camp David. But when he heard that the press was barred from the retreat, his allergies were cured. It was no different for Barack Obama or George W. Bush, who personally spent well over a full year up here with no one watching.

Well, almost no one.

Up ahead, the empty road straightens out. But as we approach a patch of particularly tall trees, the sun gets swallowed by the treetops and a long shadow crawls over us. Within seconds, my ears are so cold they start to ache. But it’s not until I glance to my left that I feel the real chill.

I spot it immediately — in the forest — just beyond the first line of trees: a tall metal fence. Chain-link. Coated brown so it blends in with the forest.

I hit the brakes just to get a good look. According to Palmiotti, there are three different fences that surround Camp David’s one hundred and eighty forested acres — plus marine guards, Park Service guards, and of course the Secret Service. So the fact we’re even seeing this first fence…

“We’re close, aren’t we?” I ask Palmiotti.

He doesn’t answer.

I look at the clock. Twenty-five minutes to go.

As I turn toward Palmiotti, he’s once again staring in the rearview. But the way his eyebrows dive… He definitely sees—

A loud knock on my driver’s-side window makes me jump in my seat. I catch sight of someone else in the rearview.

They’re behind us. And on the sides of us. Within seconds. Two men in dark green parkas and matching dark sunglasses. The logos on their chest say National Park Service, but I’ve never seen Park Service guys with guns on their belts.

“Can I help you?” the officer outside my window asks in that tone that feels like a punch. He pulls off his sunglasses, revealing a scattering of acne on the bridge of his nose.

“We’re here to see the President,” I tell him.

Now he’s even angrier. He shoots a look at his partner, then back at me. “I need to see some ID. Now.”

“Actually, Officer, I think all you need to see is him,” I say, pointing to the passenger seat.

Next to me, Palmiotti ducks down just enough so that the officer gets a good look at him. Acne-face goes white, taking a full step back. To work security at either Camp David or the White House, they make you memorize flash cards with photos of every VIP. Even the perimeter guards know the President’s dead best friend when they see him.

“This is the part where you call your boss,” Palmiotti says.

The officer nods and pulls out his walkie-talkie.

95

And this was his?” Beecher asked.

“It was his,” Marshall said, sitting on the edge of the treehouse’s foldout bed and flipping through the pages of a magazine called Escort. “Now it’s ours.”

“So you’re telling me Pastor Riis likes to look at that—at some fake-boobied woman who plays tennis without her top on?” Beecher asked, a deep crinkle in his forehead as he sat next to Marshall and pointed at the photo of a woman pressing her breasts against the strings of a tennis racket.

“Beecher, please don’t ruin this for me. We’re twelve-year-old boys and I found a stash of porn. I want to keep looking at this until I’m blind.”

“That’s fair, but—” Beecher leaned in slightly as Marshall turned the page… to a shot where the tennis player was now completely nude. “Y’know, I understand why you’d take your shirt off to play tennis — but there’s something that makes no sense about taking off your bottoms.”

“Maybe it’s hot out there.”

“Maybe. But your bottoms…? There’s something that — Maybe it’s me, but that doesn’t seem very hygienic.”

“No, I agree. Especially when… look… that’s a clay court.”

The two of them leaned in, squinting to see.

“Definitely clay,” Beecher agreed, though the crinkle still wouldn’t leave his forehead. “Marsh, can I just say: I love that you found us all these free nudie shots, but we need to be smart and get rid of it.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about if Pastor Riis realizes we have these—”

“Then what? What’s he gonna do? Come and take them? He can’t do anything, Beecher! At least not without letting everyone know that they were his in the first place, which I guarantee he doesn’t want!”

“Maybe. But I’m telling you right now: No good can come from having the pastor’s collection of porn.”

“Will you stop worrying? No one even knows we have it.”

A loud thud hit the treehouse as Vincent Paglinni shoved the plywood door open, barging inside. “Hey, Marshmallow, heard you got porn,” Paglinni barked, pumping his bushy eyebrows.

Behind him, he led three other kids — two of them a year older — into the treehouse. For a moment, Beecher thought Paglinni might’ve come to steal it.

“Y-You wanna look?” Marshall offered, handing him a copy of Leg Show.

Paglinni stood there for a moment, personally deciding whether he’d be friend or foe.

To Marshall and Beecher, it felt like an hour of silence.

“Aw, why the hell not?” Paglinni eventually replied, plopping into one of the flat beanbag chairs as his three friends grabbed their own copies.

Within twenty minutes, the treehouse was crowded again, crowded with more teenage boys than when it was first built almost a year ago. Good news traveled fast. But porn at puberty? That moved at light speed.

“Marshmallow, you are one righteous nutjob!” Paglinni’s best friend, a skinny redhead named Paul Mackles, announced as he flipped through a copy of High Society. In twelve years, that was the very first time Mackles ever spoke to him.

96

The agent with the small ears doesn’t say a word to us.

Instead, he motions for me to extend my arms outward, then waves a handheld metal detector up the back of my legs and along my back. He’s the second guard to wand me.

The first was at the front entrance to Camp David. Those guards didn’t say a word to us either, even when I told them that someone was going to try and kill the President in twenty minutes. They looked at Palmiotti, then over at each other. When problems got this big, the decisions were made elsewhere.

From there, the agent with small ears put us in a souped-up golf cart with all-terrain wheels and weaved us between trees and along a macadam hiking path to our current location: a modest ranch-style house with freshly painted shutters. At the front door, instead of house numbers, there’s a carved wooden sign that reads Elm.

I know where we are. Nearly every cabin in Camp David is named after a tree: Laurel, Hickory, Birch, Dogwood. Elm is home to the Secret Service command post. That means…

I glance over my shoulder. There are more ranch-style cabins in every direction. The whole place looks like Boy Scout camp. But directly across the snow-covered field, there’s a perfect view of one bigger cabin: a rustic but elegant California-style bungalow with a low-pitched gable roof, tall brick chimney, and wide bulletproof windows. Even without the four agents in winter coats standing along the front steps, there’s no doubt that I’m looking at the cabin known as Aspen. The President’s house.

“They’re gonna try and kill Wallace. In seventeen minutes,” I tell the agent in the sweater who’s watching Palmiotti.

“Stewie, tell him to keep his mouth shut,” the agent with small ears warns, running the metal detector up the front of my legs, toward my chest.

“Beecher, let them do their job. They’ll get us to who we need to see,” Palmiotti insists as Small Ears grips my shoulder and spins me back toward him, away from the President’s cabin.

At my chest, the detector beep-beep-beeps. The other agent, a tall Muslim man, pulls his gun, pointing it at my heart. In the distance, through the bare trees, two different snipers — one on another cabin’s roof… one in a tree — appear from nowhere.

“Whoa — no — it’s a key. Just a key,” I tell them as I pull out the old skeleton key that I wear around my neck. The Muslim agent lowers his gun. It doesn’t make anyone unclench. The snipers stay where they are.

There’s a loud zuu-zeee as the detector curves up my neck, to my chin. Wanding complete.

“You should wand him too,” I insist, pointing at Palmiotti. I’m done taking chances. He may’ve been helpful getting us here, but that doesn’t mean I trust him.

Palmiotti raises his hands, knowing the Service think the same. But it’s not until the agent steps toward Palmiotti and moves the buzzing wand away from my ears that I realize just how quiet it is here. And how alone we are.

I shift my weight, hearing the crunch of rocks below my feet. There’s a high-pitched hum that always lurks around campgrounds, and a far-off squawk of a distant bird. I glance around, but there are no staffers, no bigshots, not even a stray golf cart. This place feels like a ghost town. In fact, as I scan the compound and check each residence, every single cabin has its lights off… except for Wallace’s. A wisp of smoke twirls from his brick chimney. It’s just him and his family.

Across the snow-covered field, all four of the agents outside the President’s house are staring only at me.

One by one, I search each of their faces. They’re all wearing winter coats and khakis. None of them match A.J.’s description. That means A.J.’s inside, closest to the President. But for the first time, I wonder if that’s good or—

“He’s clear,” the agent with the small ears calls out behind me as he finishes wanding Palmiotti.

Up on our left, toward the porch, there’s a low metal thunk. Like a bank vault unlocking.

At the top of the concrete steps, the front door of the Secret Service’s Elm cabin swings open, revealing a Secret Service agent with thin curly hair that’s graying at the temples. He’s not in sweater and khakis. He’s suit-and-tied. We’re moving up the chain of command.

“Reed, before you say anything,” Palmiotti pleads.

Reed shoots him a look that’s usually saved for drunk relatives. “Get them inside,” he barks to his agents as they fall in behind us and usher us into the cabin. For a full thirty seconds, I think everything’s going perfectly.

97

Inside the Secret Service house, it’s no different from any rustic foyer. Hardwood floors. Wood-paneled walls. There’s even an iron umbrella stand in the corner. But as I look to my left, in what was designed to be the living room, there are two side-by-side desks. Both are covered with an array of high-tech radio consoles and TV monitors. From the bird’s-eye view of the cameras, these are the feeds from the hundreds of security cams throughout Camp David.

“This way,” Reed says, leading us away from the surveillance room.

There’s a Secret Service agent at the desk with more TVs. The other desk — the one with more radio equipment and views of the President’s helicopter — is manned by two uniformed marines, one of whom is wearing headphones and presumably scanning marine frequencies. Forget the three outdoor fences. This is why Palmiotti said Camp David was safer than the White House. Even assuming you get past the Park Service… even if you fight your way past the Secret Service… you still have to take on the marines.

“They ready for us?” Reed calls out as we follow him into the room on our right. I’ve read about rooms like this: a Secret Service down room. Filled with old couches, folding chairs, and a small TV, it’s where the agents rest and relax when they’re not on post. But what catches my eye is what’s at the back of the room: a heavy steel door with a high-tech card swipe, and next to it, an old gray phone built into the wall.

It reminds me of the SCIFs we have at the Archives — the bombproof saferooms where the most classified documents are read. Like ours, this one has redundancies built-in: In addition to swiping your card, you also have to be cleared in manually.

On cue, Agent Reed swipes his ID through the scanner and then looks up toward the ceiling. A thin security cam, like the ones in the White House, stares down at us. “Viv, coming down,” he announces.

Down?

There’s a pregnant poomp—my ears pop — and the airtight steel door opens toward us. The foul whiff of — I can’t place the smell, but it’s awful as it wafts through the room.

I look back toward Palmiotti, who nods that it’s okay.

Before I can change my mind, Agent Reed grips my shoulder and adds a not-so-subtle shove. As I near the threshold, I finally place the smell. Burnt hair.

With our first step through the doorway, automated lights blink awake. Another burst of foul cool air belches from below. Industrial metal stairs go at least two stories down.

This isn’t a saferoom. Or a SCIF. Or even a basement.

This is where they brought President Bush after 9/11. One of the safest places in the entire United States. The real hidden tunnel below Camp David.

98

By now, it ran like clockwork.

The school bell rang at 3 p.m., and most kids reached the schoolyard by 3:05. Of course, there was always some screwing around in the schoolyard… a quick game of boxball or off-the-wall… and then the extra lingering that weeded out anyone with after-school commitments, tutors or piano lessons.

By 3:20, the group was set. There were sometimes a few variations, but like any neighborhood bar, the regulars were the regulars: Marshall, Beecher, Paglinni, Lee Rosenberg, Paul Mackles, and the rest. Every day, they’d gather around Marshall, humming impatiently in place until they found the critical mass that sent them weaving back across the six-block, eight-minute trip to their final destination: Marshall’s treehouse. No two ways around it, the Watchtower was finally living up to its name.

“Dibs on the beanbag!” Paglinni called out.

“I get the other!” Paul Mackles added as the rest of the group spread out, taking seats on the foldout beds, on the floor, or, as Lee Rosenberg (in his Lee jeans) always did, alone on one of the milk crates.

Otherwise, as Marshall gathered the porn from the hiding spots — in the Lucky Charms box… under the mattresses in the foldout beds — there was no arguing. As he handed out copies, they all knew the math. There were seven magazines in total, so the group would peacefully, without fuss, silently pair off into seven smaller factions. Paglinni usually got his own. Same with Mackles and any of the other older ones. The rest would share.

At this point, after nearly two weeks with their X-rated contraband, every member of the group had been through the photos hundreds of times. But that didn’t mean they were finished. Like the pubescent vultures they were, they scoured every single page for something new, something unseen. They read the articles, the ads, the interviews, even the letters page, in the hopes it would contain some new piece of illicit information.

On this day, Eddie Williams realized that in Chic, at the bottom of every Letter to the Sexpert, they’d print the letter writer’s full name and address, prompting Paglinni to wonder what would happen if they wrote a letter to Coco Bean.

“We should tell her we’re tall. She likes tall men,” Paul Mackles said.

“Are you illiterate?” Paglinni asked with a laugh. “She likes big men. When she says big, she doesn’t mean tall.”

“Then what’s she—? Oh. Ew,” Mackles said as the group piled on, their laughter echoing through the treehouse. Then, at precisely 5:15 p.m., Marshall’s mom would get home from work at the church and yell up to the treehouse that it was time for everyone to go.

On this night, though, Marshall’s mom was working late. So whatever they were laughing at, it continued well into the dark. Beecher was laughing. Paglinni was laughing. Even Lee Rosenberg, still in his Lee jeans, still sitting alone on the milk crate in the corner, was laughing.

In twelve years, most of them had shared nothing in common, but tonight they were one unit. And at the center of it, finally the ringmaster, Marshall relished every second. Even Beecher couldn’t argue with the uncontainable joy that lit up his friend’s chubby face.

They had porn; they had friends; they had laughter.

By tomorrow night, it would all be gone.

99

The clanging is loud, like we’re in a submarine, as we descend the metal staircase.

Agent Reed leads the way, followed by me and Palmiotti. Behind us, there’s another loud pooomp as the agent with the small ears yanks the steel door shut, sealing all four of us down here as we head for the hidden tunnels below.

I’d heard rumors they existed. In the Archives, we have most of Camp David’s building plans. According to some, the tunnels are part of an underground shelter that connects with the President’s cabin and has its own secret entrance that’s built into the President’s bedroom closet. If there’s an emergency, the Service can burst out of his closet and grab him at a moment’s notice.

“So this’ll take us to Wallace?” I ask.

Reed doesn’t answer.

I don’t mind the silence. What I mind is the smell, which is stronger than ever. My stomach lurches with each whiff of it.

Burnt hair.

You okay? Palmiotti asks with a glance.

I nod, trying to keep pace, but I know something’s wrong.

From the industrial design of the staircase, the cinderblock walls, and the buzzy fluorescent lighting, the whole place feels like a 1960s bomb shelter. But there’s no missing the recent additions: motion detectors in the corner… a chemical sniffer that I spotted when we first walked in… and a thin plastic sheath — like flypaper — that coats the metal banister. I don’t even want to think what it’s for. What really matters is, if the world goes boom, this is where they’ll rebuild it from.

As we reach the first landing, an open door reveals a narrow hallway, like an old hospital, lined with doors on both sides. Agent Reed keeps going, down toward the lower level. My ears again tighten and pop. By my count, we’re at least two or three stories underground, and all I can think about is that when Richard Nixon’s secretary, Rose Mary Woods, transcribed the Nixon tapes and famously lost eighteen and a half minutes, it was at Camp David, where no one would see the crime.

With a final thump, Reed slams down on the final metal step, his feet slapping against the concrete. We’re at rock bottom, or at least the bottom of the stairwell.

Reed’s pace never diminishes. As I follow him through the threshold and into a hallway that’s lined with closed doors, the ceiling gets lower, but the fluorescent lighting stays bright.

“Here, we’re in here,” Reed says, leading us into the first room on our left. Like the stairwell, the walls are cinderblock and bare. There’s not much inside: an army barrack metal bed, a matching government-issue dresser, and in the corner, a new Secret Service agent — a pale Irish-looking man with a pointy nose — who sits at a wooden desk and is watching something on TV. This isn’t like the surveillance room, though. As far as I can tell, these are sleeping quarters.

“We’re all clear, sir,” the Irish agent calls out, standing up as we enter. “He’s on his way.”

I hesitate, staying back by the door, still unsure what’s really going on. But I know what he means. He is always the President.

“Relax. Take a breath, Beecher,” Reed says, his voice now warm and friendly. “You did good.”

He gives me a small smile and I can’t help but smile back, feeling strangely comfortable as I step into the room. “So Wallace is safe?” I ask. “You got him covered?”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Reed says. “The President has never been safer.”

Behind him, on the TV, I catch a glimpse of a waving American flag. But as the camera pulls out, I see that it’s one of the tiny flags on the front of the President’s private limo, the black Cadillac known as the Beast. The way the handheld camera’s shaking… this is the Service’s live surveillance footage.

As the door to the car opens, President Wallace steps out, followed by his young daughter. They don’t wave or look around. They head straight for their destination. But from the background, from the black pavement where they’re parked—

“President and his daughter on her school trip,” one of the agents announces.

School trip? But wasn’t that—? I squint at the TV, confused. I thought they canceled the school trip. Wallace took a helicopter here. So how’d—? I don’t understand. “Wallace brought the school trip here?”

Reed looks over at Palmiotti, then back to me. “I’m sorry, Beecher.”

From behind, the Irish agent grabs my arm, nearly pulling my shoulder from its socket. There’s a loud kk-kk-kk as something bites my wrist. A handcuff. Then another kk-kk-kk and a metal clang. I look down as — I’m handcuffed to the metal foot of the bed.

“What’re you—? Get these off me!” I shout, trying to tug myself free. The cuffs bite deeper into my wrist. The bed’s bolted to the floor.

“You’re not listening, Beecher. You can wait here until he’s done,” Reed says. “Our job’s to keep him safe.”

“Safe!? I just told you someone’s gonna try and kill him here in the next ten minutes! Why would you suddenly let him walk around Camp David!?”

“Camp David?” Reed asks, his lips curved in a thin smile. “You really think we’d let you through the gates if the President was still at Camp David?”

Onscreen, the camera cuts to a wide shot of familiar marble columns and the wide steps that run up to it. Everyone knows that building.

“Breaking news,” the agent at the TV teases. “President Wallace surprises daughter at Lincoln Memorial.”

I tighten my glance, making sure I’m seeing it right. Wallace holds his daughter’s hand as they make their way toward what looks like the back of the Lincoln Memorial. But this event… this tour of the Memorial… they said it was canceled. The press said he was coming to Camp David. I saw the footage of them all getting on board the helicopt—

No. I saw his wife get on board. And their son. Then the helicopter took off. Which means—

“President Wallace was never on that helicopter, was he?” I ask, trying to step toward him as the handcuffs tug me back. “You never had any intention of bringing the President here!”

“We’ve got four deaths mirroring four different assassinations,” Reed explains. “You really think we’re gonna sit on our thumbs and let there be a fifth?”

“But if you—”

“I told you, Beecher, our job is to keep the President safe. And do you know the best way to do that? You take him to a place where no one knows he’s coming. Or at least… well… where most people don’t know he’s coming,” he adds, tossing a quick thank-you look at Palmiotti, who grins back, gloating like a toad with newfound flies.

A flush of blood runs through my ears. My wrist swells from the bite of the handcuff. He knew. He knew all along. That’s why he took me here — he knew Wallace was somewhere else.

Palmiotti stares at the TV, refusing to look my way. “You protect your friends; I protect mine,” he tells me.

“You think Wallace is your friend? How many times can he chew you up and crap you out before you realize you don’t owe him anything?”

“Think whatever you want of me, Beecher. What Wallace and I have been through… When I buried my father and had to identify the body, he was the one standing next to me. In his will, I was the one named to take care of his kids in case he died. He was the same for mine. When that person leaves your life, you have any idea how bad you want him back?”

As he says the words, all I can see is my own mental image of Tot in the hospital, lying there with a bullet in his head. No brain activity. The anger hits so fast, I nearly bite through my tongue.

“YOU SPINELESS TOADY! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PAIN YOU CAUSED!?” I scream, lashing out with my free hand and grabbing his neck. I dig my fingers into his scar. I don’t let go. My fingers burrow down. His scar goes purple as I press even harder. No question, his skin’s about to split—

Puuum.

The punch clips me in the back of the head, knocking me to the ground. The Secret Service are all over me.

“Get off me!” I scream, thrashing and kicking wildly as flecks of spit fly from my mouth.

The Irish agent grabs my free arm; Small Ears grabs my legs. I fight hard, refusing to let them take hold, but…

I have no chance. They’re the Secret Service. They train for this every day. Without a single word uttered — without even a grunt — the Irish agent presses his thick forearm across my neck. As I gasp for air, they pin me to the cold concrete ground, my handcuffed arm still hooked to the bed and raised, like a kid in junior high asking a question of the teacher.

“You done yet, Beecher?” Reed asks, standing over me as they cuff my other hand to the bed.

My chest rises and falls, but no words come out. I show enough calm that Agent Irish lets go of my throat and the air returns to my lungs. “Huuuh huuuh,” I pant, fighting to catch my breath.

Palmiotti holds his neck, annoyed at the pain.

“It’s time to stop lying, Beecher,” Agent Reed adds, still standing over me. “We know who sent you. Just like we know who gave you the ace of clubs with Camp David written on it. Enough bullshit, son. Tell us why you’re helping the Knight and working with Nico.”

100

Maybe you misplaced it. Did you misplace it?” Beecher whispered, careful to keep his voice down.

Kneeling in the treehouse, Marshall replied with an anxious look as he shook the box of Lucky Charms cereal. There was nothing inside. Even the bra advertisements were gone.

“Maybe someone took it,” Paglinni scolded.

“No one took it,” Marshall insisted, pushing his glasses up on his face as he scrambled toward the foldout bed and ran his hand underneath the mattress. Nothing there either.

“Someone definitely took it,” Paglinni said as an infection of moans spread throughout the treehouse.

On this lazy Saturday morning, they were all here for the same reason. Now, that reason was gone.

“I told you you should’ve put a lock on this place. I bet Claudio snuck in and took it,” Paglinni said, referring to a seventh grader even he didn’t mess with.

Marshall shot a look at Beecher. Claudio didn’t take it.

“Guys, just give us a sec,” Beecher said to the group. Pulling Marshall aside and cornering him by the treehouse’s Plexiglas window, he whispered, “What’re you talking about?”

“I don’t hide the magazines up here,” Marshall whispered back. “At night, once everyone’s gone, the porn goes back to my room.”

“Your room? Why would you—?” Beecher stopped himself. “Don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know.”

“Will you stop? It’s me being smart. Those magazines are gold. How stupid would I be if I left them unprotected up here? In my room, at least they’re safe.”

“And they’re not in your room?”

“I thought they were. I could swear I brought them there, but when I checked…”

“You think your mom took them?”

“My mom?”

“No offense, but you’ve seen how she’s been since she started working at the church. She’s like a second pastor. If she found your porn, you really think she’d let you keep it?”

Looking over Marshall’s shoulder, Beecher saw how restless Paglinni and the rest were getting.

“Guys, give us two minutes — I think I know where it is,” Beecher added, heading for the treehouse door and down the ladder rungs that were nailed into the tree.

Hopping down from the final rung, Marshall chased behind Beecher. “What’re you—?”

“Double-check your room,” Beecher said as they tugged open the screen door, ran inside the house, and raced upstairs.

Like any kid’s room, there wasn’t much to tear through. Desk, bed, dresser…

“Toldja, it’s not here,” Marshall said, approaching the set of encyclopedias that filled two rows of a bookshelf in the corner. Pulling a chunk of encyclopedias out from the top shelf, he pointed to what was hidden behind the volumes. Nothing. “See? All gone.”

“And that’s where you hid them all? Behind the encyclopedias?”

“Don’t judge. At least I’m putting my encyclopedias to use.”

“Yeah, as a hiding spot.”

“And a good one at that. They were tucked behind F. Get it? For Finally. And Friends.”

“I get it,” Beecher said, following Marshall out of the room and into the hallway. “But for someone to break into your roo—”

“You boys doing okay?” a female voice called out.

On their left, halfway down the worn carpeted hallway that had two matching grooves from wheelchair traffic, Marshall’s mother was dressed in a freshly pressed black skirt, white gloves, and her favorite lemon yellow blazer. Church clothes, or more recently, work clothes.

“You said you’d be home today. It’s Saturday,” Marshall said.

“Just a few hours. Just to get everything set for tomorrow,” she explained. “Oh, and sweetie, I’m supposed to tell you: When your father gets back, he wants you to go with him to Dr. Pollack’s house. There’s a nest of dead rats in the attic and he needs you to climb up and take pictures.”

Marshall nodded as Beecher nudged him from behind.

“Mom, before you go: Has anyone been in my room?”

“In your room?” she asked, clearly confused.

“Or even at the house? I don’t know, maybe last night… or even this morning… Did any friends come over to visit?”

Marshall’s mother did that thing where she tapped her pointer-finger against her nose, lost in thought. “I don’t think so. I mean, except for Pastor Riis.”

Marshall stood up straight. “Pastor was here?”

“Just for two minutes. I think you were in the shower. He was dropping off a draft of his sermon he wanted me to look at.”

Beecher shot a look at his friend, who didn’t need to hear anything else.

“Did I say something wrong?” Marshall’s mom asked.

“No, that’s great. Thanks, Mrs. Lusk,” Beecher said, tugging Marshall by the front of his shirt and pulling him downstairs. Neither of them said a word until they reached the kitchen.

“That skeevy sonuva — He stole my stolen porn!” Marshall hissed.

“I’m more skeeved out that he went in your room.”

“Plus he went in my room! Plus he went through my stuff! Isn’t it bad enough he’s trying to screw my mom?”

“Marsh, whoa. That’s not even funny.”

“I’m not deaf, Beecher. I hear what people say. You see how she was dressed today? How many church secretaries get personal visits at home from the pastor?”

Shoving open the screen door and following Marshall back into the yard, Beecher didn’t argue. He’d heard the same rumors. But in all their time together, this was the first time he’d ever heard Marshall broach the subject.

“The real question is, without the porn, what do we tell them?” Marshall added, motioning up to Paglinni and everyone else in the treehouse.

“Actually, I don’t think that’s a problem anymore.”

Following Beecher’s sightline, Marshall glanced diagonally upward toward the treehouse. From this angle, between the Plexiglas window and the open treehouse door, they could see inside. It was empty. Paglinni, Mackles, even Lee Rosenberg. All their newfound friends were gone.

Marshall’s eyes went wide and he started to sway, staring up at the treehouse and looking like he wanted to crawl out of his own body.

“Y’know what the saddest part is?” he finally said. “I didn’t even mind them using us for the porn. It was better than being by ourselves.”

“They’ll be back.”

“They won’t, Beecher.”

“They will. Especially if we — if we—” Beecher’s voice hung in the air, filled with a dangerous mix of promise and desperation. “What if we steal it back from him?”

“What?”

Beecher paused a moment as the pieces of the plan began to knot together. In a few hours, when he thought back on it, he’d tell himself that he just reacted… that he didn’t like seeing his friend so lonely and heartbroken. But even now, as the words left his lips, Beecher knew he wasn’t doing this just for Marshall. Beecher was doing this for himself.

“If Pastor Riis has the porn… You know where his hiding spot is, right? So what’s stopping us from grabbing it back?”

“How about him catching us? And throttling us? And telling our parents?”

“Marsh, he’s not telling anyone. You said it yourself — the last thing any pastor wants is to have his congregation find out he’s got a stash of porn in his basement. Even if he knows we snuck in and grabbed it, he can’t do anything. Weren’t those your words? He can’t do anything.”

Just from the look on Marshall’s face — and the way his swaying started to quicken — Beecher knew he was close.

“You really like porn, don’t you?” Marshall finally asked.

“C’mon, you know it’s not just about the porn. Over these past few weeks, you saw what those magazines did for us. They were — They were like airline tickets to the cooler versions of ourselves.”

“Now you’re overstating it.”

“I’m overstating nothing. We’re not popular, Marsh. We’re not good at sports. Face facts: Without those magazines, there’s no way Paglinni and the rest are coming back. So either we find our way to those magazines, or we go back to our old lives. And no offense, but I don’t want to go back.”

Standing there in his own backyard, Marshall kicked down at nothing in the dirt, making his double chin become a triple.

“You really think we can do this?” he finally asked.

“Do I look scared to you?” Beecher said, already getting excited.

“I’m serious, Beecher. Whatever James Bond theme song you’re now hearing, I’m not just going in there by myself.”

“Can you please not worry for once? I promise you, Marsh. I’ll be right there with you.”

101

You’re serious?” I ask. “You think I’m working with Nico?”

“Beecher, we saw him slip you the playing card!” Palmiotti says.

“What’re you talking about?” I ask as I climb to my feet, both arms still chained to the bed. “He didn’t slip me anything!”

“We have it on video,” Agent Reed interrupts, his tone always even. “You think with all these murders — and with the Knight copying Nico’s old kills — we wouldn’t be looking at St. Elizabeths’ security tapes? We saw you there this morning, Beecher. We saw you bring Clementine there and we saw Nico slip you that playing card in his old book.”

“No, you saw me stealing that playing card! I took it from Nico and—” I stop myself, replaying the moment. Nico dropped his book; I picked it up. I thought I was being so clever. But as I think about that ace of clubs… and the message hidden in it… That card was the only reason I raced here, to Camp David. But if President Wallace is actually somewhere else…

Onscreen, on the small TV, Wallace and his daughter are still hand in hand, his daughter’s black hair dotted by a light mist of snow. They don’t walk up the main public steps. Because of the security threat, they stick to the back of the Memorial, to what I’m guessing is some hidden VIP entrance. As they disappear, the camera cuts to a close-up of their eventual destination: the enormous sculpture of Abraham Lincoln sitting in his—

Oh God.

“Nico knew,” I whisper.

“Beecher, don’t try to shift blame to—”

“What time is it? I need to know what time it is!” I ask, pulling again on the handcuffs and trying to get close to the TV. In the corner of the screen, it says 11:57. Barely three minutes…

“Beecher, I asked you for an answer,” Reed repeats. “Tell us where Clementine is! Tell us why you’re helping Nico!”

“Don’t you see? Nico doesn’t need my help. He doesn’t need any help. He knew all along,” I insist. “Look at the video. He didn’t drop the book by accident — he dropped it on purpose. He knew I’d steal the card and that I’d—” The room starts to spin, but then stops just as fast.

“Don’t you see? He wanted us to come here so we wouldn’t be there!” I add, tugging even harder on the handcuffs as I point to the TV. Onscreen, the camera cuts to the tall pillars in front of the monument. If Marshall’s there… “You need to get Wallace out of there.”

“There’s nothing safer than an off-the-record movement.”

“You’re telling me Marshall and Nico couldn’t predict that Wallace would insist on keeping his noon Presidents’ Day event with his daughter and her class? Reed, this is his life on the line. Can’t you just—?”

“We’re done, Beecher. And you’re done,” Reed says. “The President’s safe where he is. We’ve got him covered.”

“What if you’re wrong?” I challenge, turning solely to Palmiotti. “He’s your friend. Isn’t it worth holding Wallace in some back room until you know the truth?”

On TV, the camera shows Wallace’s daughter’s fifth-grade classmates gathering at the foot of the Lincoln statue.

“Is A.J. here at Camp David, or with the President?” I ask.

Palmiotti stares at the TV. A.J.’s with the President.

“Stewie, you know Beecher’s trying to manipulate you,” Reed warns Palmiotti.

“That’s not true. This is—” I cut myself off as I see what’s onscreen. Slowly, the camera pulls out on the eleven-year-olds, revealing a wider shot of the Abraham Lincoln statue. My mouth gapes open. “No. Nono…”

“What? What is it?” Palmiotti asks.

“Listen to me, you need to get the President out of there,” I insist.

“Beecher, this isn’t—”

“I’m telling you: Marshall isn’t coming to Camp David. He’s waiting for the President right now inside the Lincoln Memorial!”

“What’re you talking about?” Palmiotti asks.

“Look at the murders. Look where they took place. St. John’s Church… Foundry Church… even the chapel at the hospital…”

“I get it,” Reed says. “They’re all places of worship.”

“Exactly. And do you know what that building is?” I ask, pointing back to the TV and the wide shot of the Lincoln statue. The fifth graders are getting excited, bouncing on their heels. Wallace is close. I’ve got less than a minute to go.

“People don’t worship Abraham Lincoln,” Reed says.

“No — forget Lincoln! Look at the building! When the Lincoln Memorial was first designed, do you know what it was built as?” I ask as the camera jerks left. Along the bottom of the screen it says, POTUS Arriving. “A temple!” I tell him. “It was modeled on a giant Greek—”

I stand up straight as a frozen calm presses against my face.

I know who did this. “I know who the Knight is,” I blurt.

Next to me, Reed cocks his head, holding his finger to his ear. So does the Irish agent and the one with the small ears. Something just came through their earpieces, but from the way they’re looking at each other…

“What? What’s wrong?” Palmiotti asks.

“Shots fired,” Reed says. “At the Lincoln Memorial.”

102

They waited until dark. Not midnight dark. They were still twelve-year-olds; there was a limit to how late they could be out before their parents started making phone calls. But at a quarter to nine, as Beecher and Marshall hid behind the narrow dogwood tree in Darlene Signorelli’s front yard and squinted diagonally across the street at the modest arts-and-crafts-style house with the low-pitched roof, it was dark enough.

At the front door, hammered copper porch lights were filled with yellow bulbs, giving the 1930s house a golden glow. In the distance, there was a steady rrrrrr of a faint lawn mower. Everyone in town knew Tom Sable only mowed his lawn at night, thinking it was better for the grass. But all that mattered now was that house across the street. The home of Pastor Riis.

“You sure you can fit in there?” Beecher asked, staring up the driveway at the small rectangular basement window that sat just above the grade of the lawn.

“It’s bigger than it looks,” Marshall said, hunched just behind Beecher and looking over his shoulder.

“You homos humping back there or what?” a familiar voice called out.

Beecher jumped, the back of his head slamming into Marshall’s jaw. On their right, halfway up the block, Vincent Paglinni pumped his bushy eyebrows, laughing that laugh that stabbed like a blunt screwdriver.

“Not funny!” Beecher yelled. “What’re you even doing here?”

“Y’mean besides living here?” Paglinni shot back, tugging on a retractable leash and revealing a small fluffy dog — a brown bichon — that let out a defiant yip.

“Murphy, no! Sit!” Paglinni commanded, though the dog hopped frantically, letting out another yip. “She’s just excited — she hates everyone,” Paglinni explained, scooping the dog up and letting Murphy lick his face and lips, adding his own machine gun of puckered kisses.

For a moment, Beecher forgot. Paglinni’s family lived around the corner.

“So that’s your dog?” Marshall asked.

“No, I stole it. Of course it’s my dog, dumbass. Now who you two watching undress?” Paglinni asked, still cradling his dog.

Beecher looked down at the pavement. But Marshall was still glancing diagonally across the street.

“Nooo,” Paglinni gasped. “Pastor Riis’s wife? You know how nasty-brained you gotta be to see her naked?”

“Can you please keep your voice down?” Beecher pleaded. “We’re not trying to see her naked.”

“We’re here to get our magazines back,” Marshall said.

Marsh, don’t! Beecher said with a scolding look. Too late. Paglinni already had that smile that came with feathers in his mouth. “Our magazines…?” He looked across the street. The house was mostly dark, with one light on in the back room, by the kitchen.

“That’s who took your porn? Pastor Riis?” Laughing out loud, Paglinni added, “Lemme guess: Marshmallow’s mom gave it to him.”

In his head, Marshall wanted to race at Paglinni. He wanted to scream, Don’t talk about my mom! And he wanted to shove Paglinni in the chest, knocking him back on his ass.

Instead, Marshall just stood there in the dark, his gold eyes locked on the ground.

“Do you even realize how out of your league you are?” Paglinni laughed.

“You’re wrong,” Beecher blurted. “Marsh already broke in there once before.”

Paglinni wheeled around, excited by the challenge. “What’d you say?”

“In Riis’s basement. Mallow was there. Ask him.”

Paglinni looked at Marshall.

“I was,” Marshall said.

“And when exactly did this fantasy take place?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Same day you started visiting our treehouse,” Beecher added, now the one wearing the smile that came with feathers.

Even for Paglinni, it didn’t take long to do the math. “Wait… so that was…” Paglinni’s eyes went round. “Leg Show! Sonuva—! Don’t tell me that’s where you got all the porn!”

“Fine, I won’t tell you,” Beecher teased.

“I’m serious, Beech Ball. You expect me to believe Pastor Riis really keeps a secret smut stash?”

“Not only does he keep it; Marsh stole it. And unless you want to keep wasting our time with dumb questions, you’re gonna miss him stealing it again, because he’s about to sneak back in for round two. Isn’t that right, Mallow?”

Marshall nodded hesitantly, even as he shot Beecher a look. I thought we were both going in. You’re not coming?

You don’t need me. You’ll be great, Beecher replied with his own quick look, meaning every word.

Across the street, the light in Pastor Riis’s kitchen went dark, while the one in the living room blinked on, dim and flickering behind the lowered vinyl shades. The upstairs was still black. As was the small basement window.

“I think he’s watching TV. C’mon…” Beecher whispered, tugging Marshall by the shirt, leading him across the dark street. “Let’s get you in there. If he goes to bed, it’ll be too quiet.”

“You’re serious? You’re really doing this?” Paglinni asked as they took off without him. For a few long seconds, he stood there, alone in the dark, still cradling his dog. A chorus of crickets sang out, harmonizing with the rrrrrr of Tom Sable’s distant lawn mower. Paglinni looked around. No way was he missing this.

Catching up with them at the curb, Paglinni’s dog let out another loud yip. “Marshmallow, I gotta say, you even pretend to pull this off and you’re officially fifty times more whacked in the head than I ever thought you were,” Paglinni added, patting Marshall on the back with one hand and still holding his dog with the other.

For Marshall, though, it wasn’t the thundering back pat that kick-started a sudden flush of confidence. Sure, peer pressure was a potent social lubricant. But as any seventh grader knew — especially when it came from Paglinni — nothing emboldened a teenager more than simple admiration.

“Marsh, you’re gonna be town hero after this,” Beecher added as they reached Riis’s driveway, whose only light came from the nearby porch lights. They glanced around again, checking the street, the sidewalks, even nearby windows. No one was in sight.

“He’s right,” Paglinni said, a newfound excitement in his voice. “You pull this off, we’ll have a victory parade. They’ll make a statue of you. You’re like the Hugh Hefner of seventh grade.”

“I know you’re just saying that to get me in there,” Marshall said.

“Think whatever you want,” Paglinni shot back. “You’re clearly not the pud I thought you were.”

Standing there in the dark, Marshall didn’t move.

“That’s a compliment, jackass,” Paglinni added.

Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Marshall smiled. Looking over at Beecher, he gave his friend one last chance to come along.

Beecher stayed where he was. By Paglinni’s side.

“So I’ll see you soon,” Marshall said, though it sounded like a question.

“I’ll be right here,” Beecher reassured him, adding a final nod for him to get going.

“You heard it here first: Hugh Hefner of seventh grade!” Paglinni whisper-yelled as Marshall took off up the driveway, ducked low like a waddling ninja.

Marshall was chubby and wasn’t a great runner. “He gonna fit through there?” Paglinni asked.

“He said it’s bigger than it looks.”

For about thirty seconds, Beecher and Paglinni stood there silently in the dark, watching Marshall’s pudgy silhouette get swallowed by the black shadows of overgrown shrubs.

Double- and triple-checking in every direction, Beecher again studied the house, the empty sidewalk, every nearby window. At one point, a car rumbled down the block but passed without incident. Even on Saturday night, Sagamore didn’t have much nightlife.

At the back of the driveway, down on his knees, Marshall pulled out the Swiss Army knife that one of his dad’s clients had bought him as a thank-you gift, then wedged it into the cracks at the base of the window. Old hinges shrieked as he tugged the low awning window toward him, flipping it upward.

“I think he’s… He’s inside…” Beecher whispered as Marshall disappeared down the rabbit hole and the window flapped back into place, snapping shut like a car trunk.

Next to Beecher, in the dark, Paglinni grinned, letting out a barely audible chuckle.

“What? What’s funny?” Beecher asked, smiling along, but knowing that look on Paglinni’s face. Something was wrong.

“You’re kidding, right? You didn’t see it?”

“See what?”

As his grin spread even wider, Paglinni held his pup and gave her another kiss on the head.

“Vinnie, if you know something—”

“All I’m saying is, don’t be so sure Marshall is the only one visiting the pastor tonight…” Taking a step toward the sidewalk, he pointed at the tan Honda that was parked up the block — just far enough that it didn’t look like it was in front of Pastor Riis’s house.

Beecher’s teeth began to hurt as soon as he saw it. The tan Honda. He knew that car.

That was Marshall’s mom’s car.

Turning back to the pastor’s house, Beecher studied the dimly lit living room window and the way its shadows flickered against the shades.

Oh, God. If Marshall’s mom… if she’s inside—

“How long’s the car been there?” Beecher blurted.

“What’m I, a meter maid? I thought you saw it too. I figured you didn’t want him to wuss out or—”

“And you let him go in? What’s wrong with you!? If Pastor Riis… if they’re alone…” Beecher could barely get the words out. “How could you do that to someone?”

“I want the porn,” Paglinni said matter-of-factly, his eyes cold and his grin long gone. “Besides, even if it all goes wrong, can you imagine? Marsh walks in and finds his mom bent over? Beech Ball, this is gonna be theater!”

Shaking his head, Beecher studied the closed basement window at the end of the driveway. If the porn was where they thought it was, Marshall would be out any second. Any moment now, Beecher told himself, his teeth feeling like they were about to drop from his mouth. The window didn’t move.

“We need to tell him!” Beecher said, heading for the house.

Paglinni grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Tell him what? That his mom’s got her panties off in the living room? He’s already inside. He’ll be done any minute.”

“What if he’s not?”

“Beecher, look around. There are only two options here: Either Marshmallow rescues the porn and gets out… or Pastor Riis catches him and gives our boy the shock of his life. But I promise you, if you race in there making noise and trying to warn him, you’ll guarantee that the second one is the one that takes place. And even worse, you’re gonna get caught along with him.”

Focusing on the distant buzz of Sable’s lawn mower and swaying from one leg to the other, Beecher didn’t respond. If he wanted, he could go help Marshall in the basement. He could scramble through the window and be right there, right by Marshall’s side. Even if everything went wrong and they got nabbed by Pastor Riis, at least they’d be together and Marshall wouldn’t be alone.

That’s what a real friend would do.

Indeed, as Beecher swayed there in the darkness, he could see in his mind’s eye just how much better it would be for Marshall to at least have a friend by his side.

But as he stared across at that small basement window — as the buzz of the lawn mower grew louder than ever — Beecher just stood there. And did nothing at all.

It was a decision he’d regret for the rest of his life.

103

The Knight knew how it would end.

Today was a perfect day to kill a President. And in less than an hour, as a fine mist of snow tumbled from the sky, that day would come.

But as the Knight squinted at the silver-and-red tour bus at the end of the block, he understood that the President wasn’t the only one who would die today. No. Today was the day that the Knight would die too.

There was no arguing with it. From John Wilkes Booth, to Charles Guiteau, to Leon Czolgosz, to Lee Harvey Oswald, the four men who successfully murdered the President of the United States were all men with a cause. And when their task was complete, all four — every single Knight of the Golden Circle — lost their lives.

At first, the Knight thought he’d find a way around it. That somehow he’d be the one who’d figure out how to escape. But the more he studied his predecessors, the more God’s will became clear. Every fraternity had its rituals. And its rites of initiation. Indeed, if Nico had succeeded in killing the President, he’d be dead now too. There was no choice. To join this brotherhood, the cost of admission was life itself. But the reward? As others had said: Blood alone moves the wheels of history.

Up the block, a young couple walked straight at him, hand in hand, both of them looking at their own cell phones. Like every one of his predecessors, the Knight was careful, cautious. On his head, he wore a checkered newsboy cap. On his face he’d glued a fake gray beard. In his shoe he’d tucked a single small pebble, which gave him a convincing and realistic limp. It was an old CIA trick. Changing your face made you hard to spot; changing your walk made you an entirely new person.

Sidestepping the couple and heading farther up the block, the Knight checked every nearby bench, every tree, every parked car. No Secret Service. No undercover agents. And as far as he could tell, no sign of Beecher or any of Wallace’s staff.

He could feel it now. It wouldn’t be long until his initiation was complete.

For weeks, the Knight had been dreaming of this moment — truly dreaming of it. As he eyed the tour bus in the distance, he wondered if President Wallace had had similar dreams. Wallace wouldn’t be the first. Throughout his life, Abraham Lincoln was obsessed with his own dreams. Indeed, on the day he was shot, at what became his final Cabinet meeting, Lincoln told his Cabinet members that the same dream preceded “nearly every great and important event of the war.” It was a water dream.

In it, Lincoln said he was in some “singular and indescribable vessel” that was moving fast toward an indefinite shore. He told his Cabinet that he had the same dream that very night, and that it meant great news was coming soon. Within hours, John Wilkes Booth entered Ford’s Theatre. Great news was coming. Just as it would today.

At the end of the block there was a loud mechanical belch as the silver-and-red tour bus opened its front door and spit a mob of Dutch tourists onto the sidewalk. Taking it as a sign, the Knight lowered his head and slipped into the group’s jet stream. As they shuffled diagonally across the street, he walked right past a uniformed member of the Park Police who was standing guard on the corner, near the entrance to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

On his right, at the sight of the Lincoln Memorial’s grand marble staircase, the Knight’s skin began to prickle. In his jacket pocket he fingered the brand-new gun he’d bought for the occasion. In his other pocket was a hunting knife, a set of old playing cards, and the plaster Lincoln mask that he knew was now his totem.

Scanning the crowd and its steady stream of tourists, the Knight picked out two other members of the Park Police, but still no Secret Service agents. For a moment, he was worried he might’ve misjudged the President — but as always, he trusted in his predecessors.

When the third Knight, Leon Czolgosz, was a boy, he used to go hunting with his brother. Leon always carried the gun. But it was his brother, armed with only a stick and a burlap sack, who was the smart one. Approaching a rabbit hole, his brother would set a small fire on one end of the hole, then cover the other end with the burlap sack. Once the smoke started, like clockwork, the rabbit would take off, scurrying right into the sack. Best of all, there was no blood. Until later.

It was a lesson not lost on the Knight. For days now, from the murder at St. John’s to this morning at the hospital, everyone thought these were copycat crimes or some sad tribute to Nico’s early days. But for the Knight, each attack was simply a small fire.

At this moment, he’d sent Beecher scurrying down one rabbit hole, and the President down another. All the Knight had to do was hold tight to the burlap sack.

“U ziet de architectuur,” the Dutch tour leader announced, leading the crowd along the main plaza and pointing out the Reflecting Pool on their left. Just ahead, a tourist carrying a tennis bag glanced around, pretending to enjoy the sight. Undercover Secret Service, the Knight knew. Tennis bags were where they hid the M-4 assault rifles.

Sticking to the base of the famous steps, the group of Dutch tourists headed for the open door on the far left side of the monument.

Just ahead, a small sign showed pictograms for men’s and women’s restrooms and a bright white arrow that pointed dead ahead. Through the open door, beyond the restrooms, was a small museum exhibit and a wheelchair-accessible elevator for those who couldn’t walk the steps to the statuary chamber. But what the sign didn’t say was that there was also a mechanical and electrical room that ran underneath the monument and out the back of it, making it the ultimate private entrance for a President who wanted to make a surprise unannounced visit.

Feeling his skin prickle more than ever, the Knight closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back to the original Knight — the Sacred Knight known as Vignolles. For centuries, he’d been credited with creating the suits that we still see on modern playing cards. Spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds, each one representing a part of medieval society. But what had been lost to history was the fact that, from the start, there weren’t just four suits. There were five.

Opening his eyes, the Knight still felt the aching soreness from the white ink tattoos he’d drilled into his own body. Four symbols — from his four predecessors — marked his back, his thighs, and his left hand. He did the last ones this morning. All were invisible to the naked eye. But now, as he pulled his left hand from his pocket and looked down at his open palm, he saw the bold black ink (there was no hiding now) of the final symbol — the secret symbol: a small crescent moon. Yes, the four suits represented the parts of society, but it was the moon that represented the final part, the part that made the circle complete: the Enlightened.

“Let’s keep it moving!” a member of the Park Police called out, motioning the line forward.

As the Dutch crowd shuffled through the open door, the Knight stood just outside the entrance, waiting patiently to go inside. Looking diagonally upward, toward the very top of the grand marble steps, he couldn’t see the statue of Abraham Lincoln. From this angle, it was hidden by the Ionic columns. But the Knight knew what was carved into the marble wall just above Lincoln’s head:

Unwrapping a butterscotch candy, the Knight tossed it into his mouth and stepped inside.

He knew how it would end.

In a temple. Just as it was supposed to.