The Fifth Assassin

104

Soon, they’d all be screaming.

It always started with screaming — then running and scrambling, then the inevitable stampede that the Secret Service had no hope of containing.

But right now, as the heavy bulletproof door of his SUV was tugged open and a light mist of snow tumbled into the car, President Orson Wallace stepped out, all smiles.

His good mood had nothing to do with their current location or the fact that everyone thought he was still at Camp David. It had to do with who he was with.

Behind him, following him out of the SUV, Wallace’s eleven-year-old daughter, Vanessa, stuck her head outside, instinctively looking around. Their SUV had stopped along the edge of the road on the D.C. side of Memorial Bridge. But to her surprise, there was no crowd waiting, no one cheering, no cell phone flashbulbs popping. It was the same trick they used for Obama’s surprise Christmas visit to Iraq… and for sneaking President Bush to his daughter’s rehearsal dinner before her wedding. Instead of a motorcade, they put the President in a pair of jeans, the leather jacket he never got to wear, and an unmarked black baseball cap — then tossed him in a single SUV that no one would look at twice.

On her far left, pulled up on the grass, was an ambulance parked under one tree, and a black van tucked behind another. The Secret Service had prepositioned a few assets, but all were far enough away that father and daughter truly had something they never got to have: peace and quiet.

“It’s just us,” Wallace promised, which, really, was the point.

The President was determined not to miss this day. He’d missed so many already. Not the big ones, of course. Nessie’s birthdays, her elementary school graduation, even the spring piano recital — those were easy to block out on his calendar. But the small, everyday ones — like Fifth Grade Art Night or the softball game where they gave her a chance to pitch and she struck out two hitters! — those were the days he’d never get back.

When Wallace had first taken office, he heard the stories — about how Chelsea Clinton learned to drive from her Secret Service agents at Andrews Air Force Base. Wallace swore he’d do better than that. But as he learned during the very first days on the job, if you want to be the leader of the free world, sometimes the fifth-grade field trip needs to go on without you.

But not always.

“So. You excited?” the President asked, kicking himself for sounding so much like his own overenthusiastic father.

Nessie didn’t answer, shooting him the kind of preteen-daughter look that even the Secret Service can’t protect you against. Still, as Wallace reached out to help her from the SUV, Nessie reached back, taking her father’s hand and holding it in her own.

In just a few minutes, Nessie would be sobbing uncontrollably as a Secret Service agent carried her, clutching her to his chest. But right now, as they walked hand in hand — her thin fingers intertwined in his — the President’s day couldn’t possibly get any better.

“Sir… Miss Nessie — this way, please,” A.J. called out, pointing them toward the narrow path that led through the wide-open, snow-covered field behind the Lincoln Memorial.

“Not as good a view as the front, is it?” Wallace asked.

“I like it better from back here,” his daughter said, looking up at the enormous symmetrical columns that lined the back of the Memorial. “It’s quieter — like it’s ours.”

“Mmm,” the President said in a wordless hum that encompassed the pure joy of simply being alone with his daughter. Or as alone as a President gets. In front of them, a casually dressed Secret Service agent and a similarly dressed military aide — both in unmarked baseball caps — walked at least twenty yards ahead so they wouldn’t look like bodyguards. In back of them, A.J. brought up the rear, keeping a similar distance. For a full two minutes, as snow tumbled from above, father and daughter were just two more tourists exploring the nation’s capital. Nearing the back of the monument, A.J. whispered something into his hand mic. The President couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. A.J. shot him a knowing nod.

Wallace knew what it meant: Palmiotti had put the meat in the bear trap, and it had finally snapped shut. They had everything they needed at Camp David. Soon, they’d have the rest: Beecher, Nico, Marshall… The President still wasn’t sure how or why—but he knew they were all tied together. And now, whatever fight they were picking, one by one, they’d all go down.

“Sir, this way please,” the lead agent called out as he and the military aide approached the back of the Memorial and stopped a few feet shy of the granite base. On cue, from the ground, bits of snow popped as two metal cellar doors opened and a rusted old platform rose upward on an industrial scissor-lift. When the Lincoln Memorial was built back in the 1920s, the scissor-lift helped them lower electrical, mechanical, and plumbing equipment down to the basement level. These days, it lowered Presidents and visiting VIPs.

“Your chariot,” the President teased, motioning his daughter toward the steel platform with its three-sided railing. It wasn’t big enough to hold all of them. The lead agent and the mil aide went first, thinking they were being safe.

“So you think your friends will be excited to see me?” the President asked as the platform’s scissor-lift grunted and screeched, swallowing the first two members of their party.

“Dad, I hate to break it to you, but my friends didn’t vote for you.”

“That’s only because they’re eleven,” Wallace said as the now empty platform churned upward. When it stopped, the President and Nessie stepped onto it. Joining them, A.J. glanced around, doing his usual recon.

“Goliath and Glowing moving,” A.J. said into his hand mic as he squeezed next to Nessie. With the press of a button, the platform rumbled, and all three were eaten, slowly sinking underground.

105

The drop was longer than he thought.

He was on his stomach, lowering himself feet first through the basement window. While the top half of his body held his weight, his legs kicked in every direction, searching for something to stand on. Chairs. Suitcases. Anything to break his fall.

Finding nothing, Marshall didn’t panic. Even if it was four feet… five feet… the basement ceiling wasn’t that high. The drop couldn’t be that bad. With a quick shove, he slid down on his stomach, like a child on a steep playground slide. But as he picked up speed and the ground still hadn’t arrived… the drop was farther than he anticipated.

Off balance, Marshall tumbled on his ass, crashing to the concrete, which, in the dark, felt like it was covered with a thin membrane of fine dirt, the last remnants of all the filth washed up by the dishwasher flood.

Two weeks ago, this room was filled with water. Today, it was dry but smelled of wet books… and something else. Something old.

Climbing to his feet and readjusting his glasses, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small penlight, trying hard not to think of Pastor Riis entertaining young Bobby McNamera down here. By now, Marshall was sweating, though he didn’t think too much of it. Marshall was always sweating.

“Get in, get out,” he whispered to himself, remembering Beecher’s rules and heading for the bookcase. As the penlight cut through the dark, spider-bugs hopped in every direction. Last time, there were three or four. Now there were dozens, pinging from the floor to the walls and back again. But in the half an eyeblink that it took for Marshall’s eyes to adjust, all he cared about was the built-in bookcase, where he saw…

Nothing.

The books were gone. The case was picked clean. Forget the porn, even the shelves were taken out.

It was the same with the rest of the room. The file boxes, the folding chairs, the luggage, the brooms, the mops, the milk crates — every single thing that had been stacked up around the room — with that much water damage, it was all removed. That’s why the drop from the window was so — Oh jeez.

The window.

Spinning back, Marshall looked up at the small rectangular window that he’d just snuck through. Not only was it shut. It was high. Way above his head.

Panicking, he looked for something to stand on. The room was empty. He reached up, but the way the window was perched just below the basement ceiling, it was too far. As he added a quick jump, his fingers skittered at the ledge, but not enough to take hold. He even tried running at the wall, jumping up and—“ Uff.”

His chest crashed into the concrete, and the result was the same. The window was too high.

“Beecher…!” he whisper-hissed. He gave it a moment.

“Beecher, I’m stuck!” he whispered again.

But even as he said the words, as he looked up at the closed window like he was praying to God Himself, he knew there’d be no answer.

Sweating hard now, and finally starting to notice, Marshall spun back around. On his left was the doorway that led into the basement’s main room. In there. Maybe there’d be something to stand on.

Wasting no time, he darted next door, looking for a stepladder, a mop bucket, for anything to boost himself up with. But as he skidded to a stop and another swarm of spider-bugs pounced toward the walls, it was more of the same. Except for the boiler and water heater, the place was picked clean. Even the stairs — He stopped again, doing a double take.

The stairs.

There it was. His way out.

No, don’t be stupid, Marshall told himself, knowing better than to take that kind of risk. The last thing he needed was the pastor grabbing him in the kitchen.

Darting back into the other room, Marshall again headed for the high window.

“Beecher, please!” he called out, up on his tiptoes and waving his penlight back and forth like a lighter at a rock concert.

The only response was a skittering noise down by his feet.

The shadow moved fast, disappearing in the corner. Marshall jumped at the sound, spinning with the penlight and barely spotting it. But there was no mistaking the tkk-tkk-tkk of tiny claws clicking and scratching against the concrete. Whatever it was, it was way larger than a spider-bug. One thing was clear: Marshall wasn’t the only one in the basement.

And that was it.

“Gaaah!” Marshall whisper-yelled, scrubbing at his own skin and racing for the stairs as fast as he could.

He didn’t go up. He just stood on the first step, anxious to get on a different plane from whatever it was that had just run through the room. But as he looked up — as the shine from his penlight ricocheted off the stairs’ metal treads — he saw that at the top of the stairs, underneath the door to the kitchen, the lights were off. No one was there.

Doesn’t matter. Stay where you are, he told himself, shutting the light so the pastor wouldn’t see him either.

But the longer Marshall stood there in the dark, reality was sinking in. Beecher wasn’t coming. Neither was Paglinni. Plus, it wouldn’t be long until his mom started panicking, wondering why he wasn’t home. Unless he planned on sleeping with the spider-bugs and whatever animal was running around down here, he was running out of options.

Glancing toward the top of the steps, he could hear the rise and fall of his own breathing. The sweat was pouring down his chest, making his shirt stick to his stomach.

He wished there was another way. But there wasn’t.

Slowly and carefully, he shifted his weight to the second step, whose old wood let out a loud creak. Marshall stopped in place, his eyes locked underneath the kitchen door. Still dark. No one there.

Taking a breath, he gently made his way to the third step, then the fourth.

Step by step, he climbed slowly in the dark, listening for even a hint of anyone upstairs. At the top, on the second-to-last step, his heart sank as he grabbed the wooden doorknob. What if it was locked? What if it was…?

Kllk.

The latch gave easily, pulling its tongue from the strikeplate and freeing the door to open. Gently… carefully… Marshall eased it open, pressing his face so close to the threshold, the corner of his glasses scratched against the doorframe.

The smell of fresh bread hit him first. At his feet, a lone spider-bug pounced out onto the worn linoleum.

Otherwise, the kitchen was dark and empty. The only sound was—

“Oh, God… Oh, Lord…”

It was a woman’s voice — faint — coming from one of the front rooms. At first, Marshall thought it was a prayer… someone was hurt.

To be honest, Marshall didn’t care. He was moving too fast, already eyeing the back door, ready to shove it open and escape through the yard. But as he took his first steps, he couldn’t help but turn. That voice…

He knew that voice.

Stopping on the linoleum, he glanced over his shoulder, back toward the living room.

That sounded just like his mother.

106

You okay? the President asked his daughter with just a look.

Nessie nodded, but was still holding tight to the railing of the scissor-lift. As the platform descended underground, below the Lincoln Memorial, a dark shadow rose up, enveloping them.

“What is this place?” Nessie asked, her eyes squinting and adjusting as the white brightness of the snowy day was replaced by a damp, poorly lit basement that smelled of mud, rainwater, and oil. With a final thunk, the platform locked into place and the cellar doors in the ceiling clamped shut, stealing the gray sky with it.

“Mechanical room,” A.J. explained, pointing around at the roomful of huge industrial equipment. “These are the generators that light up Lincoln and his famous columns. Plus you need a boiler, chiller, and a water supply in case there’s a fire or other emergency. Every tourist attraction in the world — from the Eiffel Tower to the Pyramids in Egypt — they’ve all got one of these below it,” he added, trying to be reassuring.

Nessie still didn’t release her grip on the railing.

“Don’t worry, there’re no spiders,” her father finally said. Turning to A.J., he added, “She’s not worried about the dark. She hates spiders. Always has.”

Following them off the platform, Nessie didn’t argue. She was too busy looking around at the peeling ceiling, the cracks along the concrete wall, and even some old graffiti. The machinery was relatively new, but the room hadn’t been updated in nearly a century.

“Nessie, I promise you — if we see any spiders, I’ll have A.J. shoot them,” the President said.

Not amused, Nessie let go of his hand. “Just FYI, Dad, one of the other chaperones… Emily Deutchman’s dad… she said her father didn’t vote for you either.”

Wallace grinned his presidential grin. “You saying I need to turn on the charm?”

“No, I’m—” Nessie caught herself, knowing her father too well. “Dad, I’m serious… If you — Don’t even talk to him, okay?” she threatened, following the lead agent and the mil aide up the room’s main aisle. Behind them, A.J. brought up the rear.

With the twisting pipes and enormous machinery, plus the natural darkness of the basement, the room was truly a metal maze. Making a sharp right at a giant water tank, the mil aide stood still, waiting for the President to pass as A.J. rotated forward. Now A.J. and the lead agent were in front, and the mil aide was in back. Upside-down triangle formation.

At each twist and turn, the triangle shifted again, so someone was always on watch as the President turned a dark corner. They still had no idea how soon the screaming would start.

“So this girl Emily’s father, is he the one I met at parent-teacher night… with the thin blond hair?” the President asked.

“Dad, I’m not joking. If you say something…”

“A.J., did you just hear that? Nessie was about to threaten me.”

Ignoring the joke and reaching the end of the room, A.J. and the lead agent climbed a set of cracked concrete steps toward a thick metal door that was marked Plaza Level. The President had come this way before during the concert for his Inauguration. Through here was the small museum exhibit and the elevator that would take them up to the statuary chamber. A.J. disappeared through the door, checking the hallway.

“Y’know, you really should be nice to me,” the President chided his daughter. “Today is Presidents’ Day.”

“That’s only for dead Presidents,” Nessie teased back. “And good Presidents… like Lincoln and Washington.”

“You’re joking, right? Do you have any idea how many people want me dead?”

At that, Nessie tucked her chin down, pulling away. “Dad, that’s not funny.”

“What’re you talking about? Didn’t you ever hear what Queen Victoria wrote to her daughter?” Putting on a quick British accent, he added, “It is worth being shot at — to see how much one is loved.”

“Sir, we’ve got the all-clear,” the lead agent called out from the top of the stairs, cracking the door slightly wider. Fluorescent light from the hallway lit the left side of his face. “Right this way.”

Heading up the concrete steps with the mil aide behind him, the President placed his hand on the small of his daughter’s back, ushering her in front of him. At the top of the steps, the open door led out into a short, perpendicular hallway. The Service had blocked it off, probably with something simple like a Wet Floor sign. But from the far left of the hallway, they could still hear the echoes of bustling tourists making their way back and forth toward the restrooms and the exhibit.

“We’ve got the elevator. Sharp right, sir,” the lead agent whispered to the President as he approached. Like before, at the open door, the lead agent held his position and let Wallace, Nessie, and the mil aide pass as the triangle once again shifted.

In a quick, almost balletic movement — while keeping his head down and using his baseball cap to hide his face — the President of the United States followed his daughter out into the hallway, holding her shoulders and steering her to the right. They pivoted quickly, leaving just enough room on their left — back where the tourists were — for the mil aide to follow them into the hallway, where he used his body to block any clear view of the President.

“You’re getting the hang of this, Nessie,” A.J. said as they joined him on the waiting elevator, followed by the mil aide and the lead agent. As the doors began to close, Wallace and his daughter were at the back of the elevator. Still, the President couldn’t help but stare out at the empty hallway — and the perpendicular one at the far end of it. Just as Wallace lifted his cap, a black woman in a black winter coat turned his way. Their eyes locked as the doors chomped shut.

“She saw you.” Nessie laughed.

“She didn’t. Not with my awesome baseball cap on. This thing is satellite-proof.”

For a moment, the five of them smiled to themselves as the elevator silently rose toward the statuary chamber. In less than a minute, Nessie’s classmates would all stop and turn, making her the true center of attention and the envy of every kid there. Nessie would never have said it, but this was one of those moments where she was happy — truly happy — that her father was the most powerful man in the world.

Feeding off his daughter’s excitement, the President nodded a quick thank-you to A.J. — for taking care of everything with Beecher.

In thirty seconds, the screaming would begin.

“You know what you’re gonna say?” Nessie challenged.

“What kinda tour guide do you think I am? I did research,” Wallace said, patting his jacket pocket at the one-sheet his staff had prepared for him. “Did you know that Lincoln’s statue was carved from twenty-eight blocks of Georgia marble? Or that there’s a U.S. flag draped across the back of his chair? Or that his head is slanted down so that his eyes meet yours? Trust me, this President knows his Presidents’ Day facts,” he said as Nessie’s smile spread even wider.

The elevator slowed, bobbing to a stop. A.J. and the lead agent angled forward. They’d be the first ones out, vetting the crowd. With surprise visits like this, it took at least four minutes before strangers realized what was going on, and even then, they didn’t believe it. With the baseball hat and the crowd of kids around him, it might take even longer than that. No one looks twice at school field trips.

In that pregnant moment when the elevator had settled but the doors still hadn’t opened, Wallace lifted his smile into place. Through the doors, he could hear the crowd outside, their voices bouncing through the limestone chamber.

“Dad, just promise me… about Emily’s father,” Nessie said, tugging at his arm.

Looking down, he shot her a playful look, a look she knew well. He didn’t have to say it. He’d never do anything — in this entire world — to hurt his daughter.

With a clank, the elevator doors parted. The President lowered his cap and again put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, steering her behind A.J. As they stepped outside, the cold wind felt good against their faces, and they blew right past the few people waiting to get on the elevator. Not one of them noticed that the man with the lowered baseball cap was the President of the United States.

Across the chamber, an undercover Secret Service agent sat on one of the marble benches, pretending to read a newspaper. Another stood in the corner, and another on the right side of the statue, both carrying tennis bags. On the left side of the statue, but at least ten feet away from it, a crowd of ten- and eleven-year-olds bounced on their feet, in the exact spot where they had been told to wait.

On cue, a few kids started to turn. One of them — one of Nessie’s friends — began to point as she realized who was coming. “Nessie!” another girl yelled as Nessie’s smile bloomed wider than ever. They were yelling her name. Not her dad’s. One by one, the rest of the kids began to turn… began to look… began to smile.

Yet as Wallace made his way through the chamber, he wasn’t looking at the kids. Or the hidden agents. Or even at any of the dozens of tourists snapping photos in every direction. No, at this moment, with his head craned upward, with two agents in front of him and the mil aide behind him, the only thing the President of the United States was looking at was the towering 175-ton white marble statue of Abraham Lincoln clutching the armrests of his chair.

He didn’t even notice the bearded old man in the checkered newsboy cap who was standing to the side of the elevator.

As Wallace passed by him, the man leaned forward, like he was finishing a sneeze. But as the man stood up straight, what Wallace and his agents missed was that he was now wearing a plaster mask.

“Dad, lookit,” Nessie said, pointing back over her own shoulder. “That guy… he’s actually dressed like Abraha—”

President Orson Wallace turned. So did the mil aide.

Neither was fast enough.

The Knight reached into his pocket.

There was a soft pffft. Like a muffled gunshot.

Then a burst of blood.

Then there was nothing but screaming.

107

Marshall should’ve never turned the corner.

He knew it too. He knew it from the moment he heard that noise coming from the living room. He knew it the moment he left the kitchen. Indeed, as he tiptoed down the hallway that was lined with vacation photos of the pastor and his wife, he felt the universe pushing him back, warning him away.

The problem was, he knew that voice.

Every child knows his mother’s voice. Just like they know their mother’s sneeze. And even the sound she was making right now — an indistinct moan that sounded like she was mumbling in her sleep, or twisting in pain.

Hours from now, as the tidal wave of gossip plowed through the town, everyone would say that Marshall knew… that he came here because he was angry and suspicious of his mom and Pastor Riis. But right now, as the chubby twelve-year-old reached the end of the hallway, about to step into the dimly lit living room with its flickering TV lights, anger was nowhere in Marshall’s makeup. No, as he swallowed hard, feeling like his tongue was stuck in his throat, Marshall was worried. He was confused. That noise his mom was making…

He just wanted to make sure she was okay.

“Mom, are you—?”

As Marshall turned the corner, his mouth was still open, mid-syllable. The first thing his brain registered were two candles, side by side, their flames flickering as they burned on the end table, next to the floral-print sofa. That’s why the room was so dim.

But as Marshall entered the room, he saw more than the end table. He saw the sofa. And who was on it.

Marshall froze. He saw her bare back first… and the beauty mark just below her left shoulder blade. She had no top on. But what made him completely confused were the two arms wrapped around his mother’s neck. Someone was hugging her. Someone with freshly painted pink nails. And pale breasts.

“Mrs. Riis…?” Marshall stuttered, staring at the woman everyone called Cricket.

“Cherise, move…!” the pastor’s wife exclaimed, pushing Marshall’s mother aside.

“Mom… what’re you—? What’s happening?”

His mom twisted to face him as she struggled to cover her bare breasts with her hands. Their gazes locked — mother and son — both their eyes wide with terror that slowly shifted to—

“What’re you doing here!? Get out!” his mom exploded, stumbling, spinning, grabbing clothes to cover herself. She was naked. Naked with Pastor Riis’s wife.

“You didn’t see this! You hear me!? You didn’t see this!” his mom shouted in a tone Marshall had never heard before.

“Get him out of here!” the pastor’s wife screamed, grabbing sofa pillows to cover herself.

Marshall tried to turn and run. But his feet were locked, like they were bolted to the carpet. His eyes swelled with tears.

“Oh, Lord, we’re dead…” the pastor’s wife whispered, now starting to cry.

“You didn’t see this!” his mother kept yelling, racing toward him. She pressed her shirt against her chest with one hand. With her other, she clumsily pulled on her skirt.

Across the room, Marshall just stood there, horrified by the shadowy glimpse of his mom’s pubic hair.

“They’ll call us abominations. We’re abominations,” the pastor’s wife sobbed.

“Did your father send you here!?” his mother shouted as she threw on her blouse and snatched her bra and lemon yellow blazer off the floor.

“No, I—”

“It’s okay. It’ll be fine,” his mom insisted, her voice softening but still racing. “We’ll go home and it’ll be fine.”

She grabbed Marshall by the back of the neck, twisting him around and shoving him back up the main hallway, toward the front door.

“You didn’t see this,” she added, still holding her bra against her chest. “If you didn’t see this — if your father doesn’t know — we’re okay.”

“Dad didn’t do nothing!” Marshall pleaded, crying, stumbling, barely able to stay on his feet. His mom’s blazer fell to the floor. She didn’t stop to get it.

As they reached the front door, his mother let go of her son for the three seconds it took to fight with the doorknob. “Don’t run away. Come back,” she said, gripping him again. “It’ll be fine—”

She was still yelling as the door flew open, bathing them in yellow porchlight. But as they crashed down the front steps and into the warm night, Marshall’s mom was moving so fast… and holding Marshall’s fat neck so tight… and still clutching her bra in her hand…

… she didn’t even notice that Beecher and Paglinni were standing right there, watching everything from the driveway.

108

The Knight didn’t rush.

He was patient, with his head down, pretending to look at his watch as the elevator doors slowly opened.

The President exited calmly, without a fuss, stepping off the elevator and making his way through the small crowd waiting to take it down. Well past the crowd, midway through the chamber, the Knight still didn’t look up. He saw it all out of the corner of his eyes, counting three agents plus Wallace’s daughter.

The Knight’s skin tingled. He didn’t have to approach the President. From where he was standing, Wallace was approaching him.

The Knight had practiced for this moment. Prayed for it. Like his predecessors, he had run through every detail. Every detail, including putting on the mask. For hours, for days now, the Knight had taken out the mask and slipped it on, taken it out and slipped it on, over and over, until he had it down to one quick movement.

Seeing President Wallace delivered to him like this, the Knight knew his prayers were about to be answered.

The President was about to pass him. Leaning forward, the Knight reached into his pocket, palming the front of his plaster mask. At just the touch of it, as his fingers scraped against its chalkiness, muscle memory took over. Time froze. Life moved frame by frame as the two agents in front of the President seemed to float by like life-size parade floats. Two steps behind them, as the Knight pulled the mask from his pocket, the President and his daughter floated by too. Same with the mil aide in back of them. As they passed, the Knight couldn’t help but grin. He was diagonally behind them all now. None of them had even noticed him.

They were all locked on their destination — on the group of kids across the chamber. As the President got closer, a few kids began to turn. One of them, a girl with big cheeks and brutal-looking braces, lifted her hand, beginning to point as she realized who was coming. Another began to mouth the President’s daughter’s name. One by one, the rest of the kids began to turn… began to look… began to smile. The Knight’s plaster Lincoln mask was firmly in place.

“Dad, lookit,” Nessie announced, pointing back at the Knight. “That guy… he’s actually dressed like Abraha—”

President Orson Wallace turned. So did the mil aide.

The Knight reached into his jacket pocket, where his gun—

No. His gun was gone. How could that—?

Pffft.

Something with burning teeth bit into the Knight’s lower back.

Grabbing at his own back and clutching at the pain, his finger hit a hole. In his back. There was a hole in his lower back.

He looked down at his stomach. It was soaked… and red… Blood. His own blood, seeping and spreading down to his waist.

He’d been shot. Someone… someone…

“Why?” a barbed wire of a voice growled closely behind him.

The Knight teetered, spinning to face his shooter, who was holding the Knight’s gun. The man wore a bright red scarf that covered the lower half of his face. But under the scarf… there was something wrong with the shooter’s skin. Like it was melted.

Cocking his head, the Knight felt his eyesight go blurry, then come back again. He knew the man — the man with the melted skin — the man who had just shot him and saved the President’s life: That was Marshall.

“Why did you kill Pastor Riis!?” Marshall demanded, reaching for the Knight’s mask.

The answer never came.

People were screaming, scattering in every direction.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” someone yelled.

In a blur, undercover agents plowed into Marshall and the Knight. Both men went limp, their heads snapping sideways and backwards as they plummeted like tackling dummies. Yet as Marshall fell — the Knight could see it on his face — he was calm, unconcerned. It’s what made Marshall so dangerous. He didn’t care about himself.

As he hit the floor face-first, the Knight’s mask shattered. Half its pieces skittered outward; the other half chewed into the Knight’s face, peeling away the fake beard, finding blood, and revealing a man with a dimpled chin and a boxer’s nose.

Chestdown next to him, Marshall knew him immediately — from the shooting at Foundry Church: the pastor. The pastor who was shot… who fell to the carpet… and who lived. The same pastor who took the Christmas photo with the rabbi and the imam… and who was in the hospital chapel when both the chaplain and Tot were attacked.

“I didn’t do anything!” Pastor Frick yelled as they tore through his pockets. “He shot me!”

“Knife!” a Secret Service agent shouted from the dogpile that smothered Pastor Frick. From Frick’s pocket, he pulled out the hunting knife with the curly birch handle.

“Go, go — move!” an agent yelled across the chamber.

In the distance, a group of agents formed a human wall around the President, gripping him by the elbows, lifting his feet off the ground, and rushing him to the preselected saferoom. At the back of the statuary chamber was a door that led to the Park Police’s breakroom. Racing behind them, A.J. scooped Wallace’s daughter into his arms.

“Your dad’s fine. He’s fine,” A.J. whispered, following the group to the saferoom as, shaking, she sobbed into his chest.

Still pinned facedown, Pastor Frick let out a wordless howl as the Secret Service drilled their knees into his lower back — into his wound — and cuffed his hands behind him. They didn’t care that he’d been shot — or that he couldn’t feel his legs — or that unlike the wound he’d so carefully inflicted on himself in his office, this wasn’t the kind of attack he’d walk away from. Marshall had gone for vital organs.

Across from him, under his own dogpile and with his own hands cuffed behind his back, Marshall didn’t struggle… didn’t say a word. Chin to the ground, he simply stared at Pastor Frick — his gold eyes burning with that first question he’d asked: Why did you kill Pastor Riis?

Still on the ground, with his bloody cheek pressed against the bits and pieces of his mask, Frick could barely see anything. The world was still blurry, the edges of his vision ringed by a red circle that began to shrink and tighten, leaving only black. Frick tried to answer… he looked at Marshall and said the words: Nico told me to.

Nico told me to! he insisted.

But all that came out was a wet gurgle. It came up from Frick’s chest, up his throat, rattling like a bag of teeth.

Indeed, as the red circle continued to tighten and blackness filled his peripheral vision, Pastor Frick’s final thoughts were of the simple fact that, all this time, he had it all wrong.

For years now, Frick had heard the rumblings and rumors about the Knights and John Wilkes Booth. But it wasn’t until four months ago, when the church picked Associate Pastor Frick and put him here—right in Abraham Lincoln’s church — that he began to understand God’s message. Surely, this was fate.

And then, to get the call that President Wallace was coming to visit. Frick had known the President wasn’t a churchgoer. Wallace attended on Easter, on holidays… only when there was a camera around. But now, with the President coming, here it was. Every life exists for a reason. This would be Frick’s chance to bring faith to millions.

Yet what Wallace did on Christmas — using Frick’s church and Frick himself, bringing the rabbi and imam, then parading the three of them together like cheap interchangeable toys, as if one size would fit all. For the millions watching, and for Frick himself, it was a blasphemy.

During those days, Frick understood the real reason why God had sent him to Lincoln’s church. Here in D.C., he could feel the church’s greatest threat raising its head once again. Every President has power; so too does the church. But to Frick, it was now clear why the balance between the two was shifting. Rather than looking to the church for moral guidance, the world watched as the President trivialized the name of Christ and everything it stood for.

Was it any wonder that congregations were shrinking, members were disengaged, or that some refused to believe altogether? Today’s church was being reduced to a community center where people were bribed with Date Nights and fruit smoothies. It was time for the pollution to stop, for the sacrilege to end, and for the pure church, with its intended purpose, to make its return.

The President didn’t even hide his goal — he said it right to Frick’s face: He would bring all three voices… Christian, Jewish, Muslim… the President would do everything in his power to bring the country together. Like Lincoln! Like JFK! Like every king whose growing influence would challenge church power. The church had lost so much lately. It couldn’t afford to lose more.

Frick knew he’d need help. He knew he couldn’t do it alone. That’s what made him seek someone with experience and inspired him to reach out to Nico. And then to learn that one of his congregants — that Rupert — that Rupert worked with Nico… And to hear Nico’s stories and all that had gone before…

Centuries ago, Vignolles created the Knights to protect the Name of God. But even Vignolles knew that what he was really protecting was the church’s power. When that power shifted between church and state, Knights like Booth, Guiteau, Czolgosz, and Oswald stepped forward to restore a proper balance. Now it was Frick’s turn. Someone had to stop this civil war and end this blasphemy.

With Nico’s help, it was all so clear. How could this not be Frick’s mission? He thought he was chosen! Frick was the final Knight! But to look at it now, to look around and see the pieces that remained… No, now Frick understood: It was never he who was Chosen. From the start, he had it wrong. The Chosen One was always…

Nico.

Nico was the final Knight. And his mission was just beginning.

It was that final thought — of Nico and the mission still to come — that sputtered through Frick’s brain as the red circle shrank into a pinhole and the world went black. That and the fact that he’d been right about one thing: He wouldn’t survive this day.

109

It was a small funeral. Not by choice.

In a town as watchful and religious as Sagamore, judgments moved even quicker than gossip. Especially gossip like this.

At the close of the funeral, they called on Marshall as one of the pallbearers. His father too. But since a twelve-year-old and a double amputee can’t be relied on to lift anything heavy, he and his dad simply put their open palms on the back of the coffin as it was rolled on the metal scissor-cart out to the hearse.

That was this morning.

It was dark now, nearly ten o’clock. Yet for Marshall, who was sitting alone on the treehouse carpet, in the glow of one little lantern, glaring down through the Plexiglas window at the last few visitors leaving his house, that wasn’t even the hard part. The funeral was already a blur. It’d been nearly a week since his mother crouched down in her walk-in closet, prayed the rosary, then put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. At this point, filled with so much anguish and rage, he just wanted everyone to stop telling him that it would all be okay. Even twelve-year-olds know when they’re being lied to.

“Knock, knock, Marsh — you there?” his father called, rolling out to the treehouse when everyone was finally gone.

Marshall didn’t answer.

“Buddy, you okay? You been up there all night,” his father added.

Still no response. And unlike the past few nights, when Marshall insisted on sleeping in the treehouse, his father didn’t press. Plus, as Marshall knew, even if he did, it wasn’t like his dad could climb up and bring him down.

For that reason, twenty minutes later, Marshall sat up straight in his beanbag chair when he heard someone climbing the ladder rungs nailed to the tree.

“Whoever it is, I hear you,” Marshall warned.

No one replied.

“Beecher, if it’s you, get the hell out,” Marshall added even though he knew that while Beecher’s mom had let him attend the funeral, she had forbidden him to pay any more visits to the treehouse. It was the same with Paglinni. And the rest. No one told him directly, but after a week of sitting alone in a beanbag, Marshall got the point.

“You taking visitors?” a familiar voice asked.

From the ladder, Pastor Riis peered over the floorboards, his normally neat hair looking scruffy and overgrown in the dim light.

“Go away,” Marshall said, disgusted.

“It’s a hard day. I came to see how you’re doing.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says who?” the pastor challenged.

Shifting in his beanbag chair, Marshall thought about it. He didn’t have an answer.

“I heard the funeral was… uff… I heard it was beautiful,” the pastor said, hoisting himself up and climbing into the treehouse.

“No one showed,” Marshall said, refusing to look up. “It was practically empty.”

“I heard. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I really wanted to.”

Rolling his eyes but refusing to turn and face him, Marshall stared down at the worn and filthy carpet.

“Marshall, you know I couldn’t be there, no matter how much it hurt me. And I promise you, it hurt me.”

Hearing a crack in the pastor’s voice, Marshall looked up. Not out of concern. Or sympathy. Marshall was damaged goods, his eyes filled with a darkness that came from getting a good hard look at what life eventually offers all of us. When Pastor Riis saw those eyes, he knew it was a darkness that Marshall would carry forever.

Riis took a seat on a nearby milk crate. When he was on the pulpit, the pastor stood tall and vibrant. Today he looked ten years older, hunched forward as he fidgeted with a stray thread that dangled from the wrist of his sweater.

“I heard they fired you from the church,” Marshall finally offered.

“They had no choice.”

Marshall nodded, though it still made no sense. What Paglinni saw, when he ran home and the word got out… He told his parents it was Pastor Riis and Marshall’s mom. But the pastor wasn’t even there. It was Riis’s wife who — Marshall closed his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell them the truth?” he said.

“She’s my wife, Marshall.”

“But she’s the one who—”

“She’s my wife. Bound by God. To care and protect,” he insisted in that voice that could keep an entire town quiet for hours at a time. “Nothing would’ve changed if people heard the truth. Not for any of us.” Pausing a moment, he added, “That includes your mom too.”

Grabbing the side of the beanbag chair, Marshall pinched it until he was squeezing just a single bean of foam between his thumb and his forefinger.

“I know you’re thinking something, Marshall. Just say it.”

Marshall squeezed the bead of foam even tighter.

“You want to know about my wife, don’t you? And what she and your mom—”

“Don’t talk about my mom,” Marshall growled.

“Then tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me something.”

Twisting lower in the beanbag, Marshall felt a swirl of questions racing through his brain. He did want to know about the pastor’s wife. He wanted to know how long it went on, and how serious it was, and if anyone else knew. But more than anything else, he wanted to know if his own mom… what she did with the gun… He wanted to know if she was in love, or did she just hate having to take care of him and his dad?

But instead, Marshall said nothing, squeezing the bead of foam so hard, it flattened in his fingertips.

“Marshall, I can’t pretend to have known your mom very well,” Pastor Riis finally said. “But I do know this. Your mother loved you. And despite what you’re so intensely feeling, she loved your family.”

“That means you don’t know the answer.”

“No. It means everything is complicated. No one has all the answers.”

It was as true a statement as Pastor Riis had ever uttered, but that didn’t mean it helped Marshall, who was still glaring down at the carpet.

“Let me ask you this, Marshall. When a tornado hits, which is a better use of your time: wondering why your house blew down — or figuring out how to rebuild?”

“You gave that speech this past Easter. This is where I’m supposed to say that I need to rebuild.”

“You disagree?”

“If you don’t figure out why the house blew down, how can you rebuild it so it’s strong enough so that it won’t happen again?”

“You’re missing the point, Marshall. Even the strongest house can be knocked down by a big enough tornado. And those really big ones? There’s no predicting their path, or trying to understand, much less control, what can’t be.”

“So you’re saying my mom’s a tornado?”

“No, what I’m saying is, you already have all the tools to build your house. And I promise you one thing: It’ll be a great one.”

Marshall gave no answer.

“I found a new parish. It’s a small one,” the pastor finally said. “In Toledo.”

Marshall nodded.

“And I heard you’re moving to Michigan,” Riis added.

“My dad’s sister. If we stay with her, she said she’d help with my dad.”

“Family’s important,” the pastor agreed.

Shifting again in the beanbag, Marshall slowly looked up, glancing over at the pastor.

“Y’know that day when your basement flooded,” Marshall began, “I stole a stack of magazines that were down there.”

“I know. I saw you,” Pastor Riis said. “They weren’t mine. We confiscate them every few months and just toss them down there. Cricket’s always worried about people seeing them in the church trash.”

“You’re not listening,” Marshall insisted, his voice starting to speed. “When I came back last week… to your basement… it was because I thought you snuck into my room—”

“Marshall, I’d never—”

“I know. I know that now,” Marshall stuttered, feeling the tears swelling behind his eyes, but refusing to let them out. “I found them a few days ago in my dad’s closet… when I was helping him clean up. He’s the one who took them from my room. But if I didn’t go back to your house… back into your basement… If I didn’t see my mom and Mrs. Riis—” Fighting the tears, he started to gasp, struggling to catch his breath as a week’s worth of horrors cracked the dam in his chest, flooding forward. “Oh, God, don’t you see what I’ve done!? I killed my mom!”

“Marshall, this is not your fault. Your mother killed herself. You’re not responsible.”

“No, that’s not true! This is God’s punishment. This is for what I did…! I’m so sorry…!” he said, sobbing and sinking downward.

Pastor Riis knelt by the beanbag, taking Marshall in his arms. “That’s not how God works, Marshall. Are you hearing me? God doesn’t work like that,” Riis said as Marshall crumpled against his chest.

For several minutes, Marshall sobbed, sniffling over and over. Finally, the storm subsided. He was exhausted.

“I will say, though, I think you ruined my sweater,” Pastor Riis joked, pointing to the gob of snot that was now on his chest.

Even Marshall had to laugh, pulling away, lifting his glasses, and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m — I’m just so sorry I caused so much pain for you.”

“You owe me no apologies,” the pastor said. “The experienced life is far more fulfilling than the blissful and innocent life. Y’know who said that?”

“Jesus.”

“No, not Jesus. William Blake. He’s pretty good too.”

Marshall smiled at that. “Still doesn’t change the fact that my mom’s gone. I ruined my life.”

Taking a seat back on the milk crate, Pastor Riis gave a sharp tug to the thread at his wrist, snapping it from the sweater. “Marshall, y’ever hear of Harry Houdini?”

“Of course. I did a book report on him last year. World’s greatest magician.”

“And escape artist. Magician and escape artist. And did you know he was from Wisconsin? Not far from here.”

“In Appleton — I know. That was in the report too.”

“Then you know that after his father died, his mother wanted him to take a factory job that would help support the family. Instead, Houdini followed his heart, literally joined the circus, and eventually became the most famous performer of his time. Such a great story, right? But of all his achievements, you know what Houdini’s greatest escape was?”

“The one where he’s in a coffin at the bottom of a pool for an hour and a half?”

“That’s the trick that killed him. Not his finest.”

“What about the water torture one, where he’s tied up and lowered into a fish tank?”

“Nope.”

“I don’t know… The one where he jumps from the bridge… or where they stuff him in a milk jug… They’re all the same.”

“You’re right. They are all the same. But y’know which escape is his best, Marshall? When Houdini left Wisconsin. And moved on with his life.”

Turning toward the pastor, Marshall sniffled hard, sucking everything inside. He stared down, through the Plexiglas window, at the roof of his house. His old house.

“Pastor Riis, can I ask you a dumb question? How far is Toledo from Michigan?”

“Barely an hour. Why?”

“No, no reason. I was just thinking, if you’re ever bored or something, I dunno… Maybe you could come for a visit. Or something.”

Sitting on his milk crate, Pastor Riis leaned his elbows on his knees, and grinned with just his eyes. “I’d like that. And even when I’m not bored, if you ever need anyone to talk to, or want to hear me steal quotes from my old sermons, just let me know and I’ll be there too.”

He meant it.

Over the course of the next decade, Pastor Riis would stay in touch with Marshall, offering advice, visiting Michigan, and (though he never told Marshall) helping out financially when Marshall’s dad got sick and the hospital bills again began to pile up. Even when Marshall’s dad got better, and a teenage Marshall got arrested after that incident in East Lansing, and arrested again in his twenties, Pastor Riis would check in, still write, and still work to keep Marshall out of the trouble that always seemed to find him.

Indeed, it was Riis who would first suggest that Marshall enlist with the military, since Riis was a military man himself. It was a decision that would change Marshall forever.

So, three weeks ago, when Marshall heard about Pastor Riis’s death, and found out that someone had shot him in the chest with an obscure old gun, Marshall swore he would tear the gates of hell off their hinges to find the person responsible.

“Maybe we can plan something for Christmas break. Or even earlier,” Pastor Riis offered, standing from the milk crate and ducking down slightly in the treehouse.

“Sure,” Marshall said, watching Pastor Riis climb down the ladder rungs, not really believing he’d ever see the pastor again.

110

My wrists hurt.

So does my back.

I’ve lost track of time. It feels like seven or eight at night, but since the shelter has no windows, it’s hard to know for sure. I’m still hunched on the edge of the bed, my hands still cuffed to the metal footboard.

For the first few hours, they asked questions nonstop: about Marshall, and the Knight, and about what I knew and didn’t know about the foiled attack on the President. I saw most of it onscreen, including Frick and Marshall. When the Service finally left, I knew we weren’t done. But when an hour went by and no one returned, it made no sense. Then a second hour went by. Then a third, making me wonder if they’d forgotten about me. It’s almost nighttime now.

Leaning toward the metal door, I listen, trying to see if anyone’s coming. The problem is, the whole shelter has an odd metallic hum, most likely from whatever generators are down here. Closing my eyes, I focus harder, listening through the noise. Above me, a wisp of warm air blows from the air ducts. Every once in a while, there’s a click-clack of someone walking the hallway. But from the faint rumble of voices coming from the room across the hall, at least half a dozen agents are still gathered together in one place.

Until they’re not.

The rumbling comes quick, pounding out into the hallway, toward the metal stairwell. They’re moving fast, with purpose.

“Viv, stay here,” Agent Reed calls back as the stampede rises upward. Within seconds, the submarine door slams shut, everything goes silent, and I’m still alone, handcuffed to the bed.

I’m tempted to scream for someone to let me out. But in the underground shelter below Camp David, the Secret Service only moves like that for one person.

All this time, I thought they were working me over. What they were really doing was making me wait.

For him.

From above, the submarine door again opens with a loud pop. There’s no stampede this time, just a lonely ting-ting of footsteps clanging against the metal treads. These aren’t the steel-toed boots that most of the agents wear. The sound is softer, like dress shoes.

There’s a long silent pause. I lean toward the door, trying to hear, but my heart is drumrolling too loudly.

With a soft click, the lock unclenches and the metal door to my room swings open, revealing a man wearing a black leather jacket and palming a cup of tea in fine bone china. He looks down at me with the world’s most famous gray eyes.

President Orson Wallace.

“Sir, if you need us…” Agent Reed announces, sticking his head in and making sure I’m still handcuffed to the bed.

“He’ll be fine,” insists a younger agent, who fits the description of A.J. As the President steps into the room, A.J. stays in the hallway. Whatever’s about to happen, it’s not happening in front of anyone.

Shooting a final look at the President, A.J. tugs the door shut but doesn’t lock us inside. I get the message. If anything bad happens, they’ll be in here within seconds.

Taking a sip of tea and letting the silence take hold, Wallace is unreadable as always. As he walks toward the center of the room, it’s the first time I realize his other hand has been in his pocket the entire time.

“Y’know, most people stand when I enter a room,” the President says.

I stay where I am, shackled in a sitting position at the foot of the bed.

“That was a joke, Beecher.” He shakes his head. “Would you like me to have them get you some tea?” the President adds. “Red robe oolong. The Chinese government always brings it as a gift. It’s quite good.”

I pull on my handcuffs just hard enough that he knows what I think of his oolong tea.

Next to the bed, the President spots a metal chair, but he stays where he is, taking another sip of tea and standing over me.

“What do you want from me, Wallace?”

“I want you to know, I’m not your enemy, Beecher.”

I’m silent.

“I realize you want to see me as the bad guy, but I’m not the bad guy here. Not in this one.”

I study his face, then look away.

“Actually, I came to say thank you,” he goes on. “For trying to save my life. And my daughter’s too.” Taking a final sip, he sets his teacup on the edge of the metal chair. “Whatever else you think of me, Beecher, I know that’s the reason you drove to Camp David. To keep me and my family safe.”

I shift in my seat. It’s the one point even I can’t argue with.

“I assume you also had something to do with sending Marshall there,” the President says. “He’s an old friend of yours, yes?” When I don’t answer, he adds, “I owe you for that, Beecher. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

I keep my eyes on the floor, refusing to look up at him.

“They said this Pastor Frick… They said you figured out he was the Knight,” the President says. When I still won’t look at him, he adds, “The Secret Service has the body. When they ran a black light over it, he was covered with white ink tattoos, including one on his hand with the initials J.W.B. John Wilkes Booth.”

I nod as if it makes sense.

“You’re a smart guy, Beecher. And I know this wasn’t an easy one. They told me about your friend, about Tot. I already placed a call to the doctors at the hospital. He’ll get the best help anyone could ask for.”

“He doesn’t need your help. And we don’t want it.”

“You sure about that?”

I look up, hearing that tone in his voice. It’s not a threat. He’s actually concerned.

“I know how hard you’re fighting for this country, Beecher. And how much the Culper Ring’s lost,” he says. “But if you let me help you… if we put our heads together… this is our chance to build it back. Stronger than ever.”

“You’re serious? You want to help rebuild the Culper Ring?”

“Stronger than ever,” he says, moving the teacup to the floor, taking the seat opposite me and crossing his legs. “I won’t interfere, Beecher. You keep doing everything you need to. But if you get in trouble or need help, do you have any idea of the resources I can bring? In fact, just today, when Nico escaped—”

“Nico escaped?”

He sits up straight, enjoying the slight advantage that comes with being a step ahead. “He walked right out through the St. Elizabeths loading dock. Stabbed a poor nurse to do it. Apparently, someone who looked like his daughter, Clementine, was spotted there too,” he says, reminding me of the fact that I still have no idea where Clementine is or what she’s up to. “But when they checked the list of visitors, you know who Nico’s last official visitor was? You, Beecher. That’s what it said in the computer. Until about an hour ago,” he adds, flashing the insta-grin that convinced sixty-eight million people to vote for him. I know he’s the President of the United States, but sometimes I forget how charming he can be. Still, it doesn’t erase what I found out months ago: that as he climbed the rungs of power, he and Palmiotti were part of a ruthless attack and at least two recent murders.

“So whattya say, Beecher? Stronger than ever?”

“It’s a generous offer, Mr. President. And I’m thankful for you looking out for me. But when it comes to the Culper Ring, I think it’s better if it stays independent.”

“Now you’re talking like a politician. I’m offering you a chance to help the Culper Ring reach its true potential. Isn’t that why George Washington created it? To arm the President with a fighting force no one else would see coming?”

“You make us sound like a weapon.”

“And you make it sound like you’re in charge,” Wallace says, his insta-grin now gone. “Or that I’m asking your permission.” He lifts his grin back in place, hoping it’ll intimidate. Last time, it worked. But this time isn’t last time.

“Sir, what you said about George Washington… You’re wrong,” I tell him, trying to keep the conversation upbeat. “He didn’t create the Culper Ring to protect the President. He created it to protect the Presidency. Especially from those who might do it harm.”

“You think that’s clever, Beecher? Let me say this as clearly as I can: I’m currently extending my hand to you. If you refuse it, this offer, this opportunity I’m offering right now… it’ll never come back.”

“I appreciate that, sir. And I also appreciate that you’re not used to people saying no to you. But let me remind you,” I tell him, leaning forward so we’re only a few feet apart. “I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. And just so we truly understand each other, the Culper Ring doesn’t work with murderers.”

“Then you should talk to your friend Tot,” the President shoots back, keeping his voice steady, his legs still crossed for teatime. I forgot how he fights. No matter how hard he’s hit, he never loses his composure. He just keeps acting like he’s in control. Until he is.

“You just made that up about Tot to get in my head.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Beecher. But don’t be so sure you know who you’re working with.”

“Tot’s not a murderer.”

“If you say so,” he says, resting both palms on his crossed knee. “I’m just sorry we won’t be working together.” Calmly reaching down toward the floor, he picks up his teacup and tosses me one last false grin. “So. We’re done here, yes?”

“Y’know, you said that to me two months ago. That we were done. But we’re not, Mr. President. Not yet. In fact, do you remember what else you told me last time? You said this was a prizefight. And near as I can tell, we just finished round two.”

“From where I’m sitting, you lost round two.”

“Maybe I did. But next time I see you, Mr. President…” I tug hard on the chains, pulling them tight against the footboard. “… I’m not gonna be in handcuffs.”

“Good news for me, then. Because the next time I see you, Beecher, I most definitely won’t be offering you tea,” he says, toasting me with his teacup. Standing from his seat and heading for the door, he adds, “Be sure to say hi to Tot for me. And if I were you, I’d get there as quickly as I could.”

111

Three hours later, I’m staring at a set of closed doors with frosted glass squares cut into them.

“I’m sorry, visiting hours are done for the day,” the nurse tells me, her voice coming through the in-house phone that’s next to the doors.

“Is this Angelica? Angelica, my name is Beecher White. I was told to ask for you.”

There’s a pause. Without another word, the closed doors of the ICU swing open. It’s nearly midnight, but as I step inside, a chorus of pings and beeps swarm like a hornet attack.

At the nurses’ station, behind the main desk, Angelica doesn’t say a word. Like most nurses, she knows the emotional risk of eye contact; she also knows what happened here today. Two people were shot. Their hospital chaplain was killed. Keeping her head down, Angelica points me around to the left and I start reading room numbers.

There, midway down the hall: Room 214—home of the Knight’s final victim. And my best friend.

Still thinking of the President’s warning, I slow down, my stomach hollowing out from the terror that comes with most hospital visits. The room is sealed by sliding glass panes, frosted at the bottom and transparent up top.

As I look through the glass, the lights are dimmed and a mass of red and white dots glow inside. They warned me before I came that there’d be lots of machines… and that they had to shave his head for the surgery… but to finally see him… The lump in my throat makes it hard to catch my breath.

I slide the glass door open and the lump expands. His beard… They shaved his beard, trimming it so the accordion feeding tube could be inserted in his neck, where bits of dried blood mark the entry point. His eyes are closed and his color’s gray, like a corpse, which only makes the nasty black scar on his head stand out even more. The scar’s stitches and knots are thick and black, arcing down the side of his head like a jagged roller coaster that dead-ends at the pillow of gauze covering most of his ear.

But the worst part is the other half of his head, where his silver hair is still long. They only shaved half his head, making Tot look like a baseball that has patches of gray yarn sprouting from it. His mouth hangs open like a urinal. His palms are up, facing the ceiling, like he’s begging for death.

“I wish they hadn’t shaved his beard,” a soft female voice whispers.

I spin, following the sound. At the foot of the bed, in a wood and vinyl hospital recliner, sits an older woman with a wide nose, unpierced ears, and horn-rimmed glasses that weren’t stylish even in the 1950s. Her silver hair is in a bob that grazes her chin, and on her wrists are two carpal tunnel Velcro braces. Of course. She’s on the computer all day. Immaculate Deception.

“Grace,” I say, though it comes out as more of a question.

She nods, blinking enough that I can tell she’s been crying. And though she barely fills out the black sweater she’s wearing, there’s nothing frail about her.

“He doesn’t look good,” I say.

She tries to reply, but when nothing comes out, I’m hit with that feeling you get at a funeral, where the dread rises off the mourners, engulfing everyone nearby. But what I’m really seeing is relief.

“They said he’ll make it. They said he’s strong,” Grace says, nodding and trying to smile.

“So the doctors—?”

“They’re on it. They’ve mobilized half the hospital for this. Apparently, President Wallace called them personally,” she says as I picture him toasting me with that teacup. “They said when Tot was shot, the bullet hit him in the bone behind his ear. It kept the bullet from his brain. They called it a miracle. They said when the swelling goes down, they can check the rest of his functions.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

She nods, her whole body shaking. “They hope so… they think so.”

I close my eyes and whisper a quick thank-you. As I open them, I see Tot’s open mouth and the way he’s barely moving. I replay Grace’s words: He’ll make it.

“He’s tougher than they think,” I insist.

“You have no idea.”

Standing from her chair, she smooths her skirt and approaches the bed. She adjusts one of the Velcro straps at her wrists. “How long did the Service keep you locked up for questioning?” she asks.

“What’re you—?”

She motions to the red marks on my own wrists, from the handcuffs.

“They wanted me to see Wallace,” I tell her.

“And did you?”

I nod.

“He do anything but hit you with veiled threats?”

I shake my head.

“That’s his style. He’ll never change. That’s why, back at your house, I told you not to go with Palmiotti.”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

“I did. You stopped listening. Once he said the words Camp David, you were out the door and—”

“Grace, is that really the best use of our time right now? You gloating that you were right about Palmiotti?”

“I’m not gloating, Beecher. But I was right about Palmiotti.”

“And you were wrong about Marshall. So was Tot.” I look over at the bed. From this angle, the way Tot’s head is tipped back with his mouth agape, I see he has no teeth. They took out his dentures. But at least he’ll survive. “It doesn’t feel like much of a win,” I say, my voice catching.

“Win?” Grace shoots back. “You think this is a win? Look around, Beecher: We lost! The Culper Ring lost! We didn’t stop the Knight, Nico escaped and is God knows where. And worst of all, the President, who we all know is a monster, is now taking a victory lap and is more beloved than ever, thanks to surviving this assassination attempt. The only good news is that Tot won’t be using diapers and bedpans for the rest of his life.”

“We still found out about Palmiotti. We can prove he’s alive.”

“And where does that get us?”

“It’ll show what a liar Wallace is. Isn’t that the real goal? Tot told me you’ve been trying for years to build a case against Wallace. Palmiotti’s the way to finally put it together.”

“And again, where does that get us? They’ll either deny it, and people will believe them, or they’ll make up some excuse and no one will care. Either way, Palmiotti only gets us so far. To topple a President, you need to get the President, not his childhood pal.”

“But if the rest of the Ring—”

“The Ring is decimated, Beecher. You’re looking at most of it right now.”

“But I’m not looking at all of it, am I? You said Tot was starting to rebuild.”

For once, Grace stays quiet. Reaching down, she takes Tot’s open hand, holding it between both of her own.

“Grace, Wallace is the one who’s been hunting and killing the Culper Ring, isn’t he?”

This woman’s been doing this since before Kennedy was President. She’s no novice. But as I watch her holding Tot’s hand, the way her thumb gently brushes circles into his palm… I don’t know how far it goes back, but something tells me that when Tot’s wife was alive, she wasn’t Grace’s number one fan.

“So that’s it? We just sit here and wait until Tot’s better?” I ask.

“Beecher, did you ever hear that Winston Churchill quote, the one where he says, Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never — in nothing, great or small, large or petty — never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense?”

“What about it?”

“This is the moment of good sense.” Still holding on to Tot’s hand, Grace turns my way, her dark eyes looking even smaller through the thickness of her horn-rimmed glasses. “The Culper Ring didn’t last this long because we’re the toughest, Beecher. We lasted this long because we’re the smartest.”

“But if we stop fighting now…”

“… then we’ll survive. And regroup. And try to figure out what the hell just hit us. That’s how we rebuild. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again. I’m sorry, Beecher, I know it’s not as satisfying as punching someone in the face and yelling a good catchphrase, but that’s how this chapter ends.”

Standing on the opposite side of the bed, I don’t say a word.

“Don’t look at me like that, Beecher. We don’t have a choice. The fight’s over. There’s no one left to send in the ring.”

“Maybe,” I say, glancing through the sliding glass door into the empty hallway. “But maybe not.”

“Beecher, wait—! Where’re you going?”

112

By the time I get home, all the adrenaline is gone.

It’s nearly 1 a.m., my wrists are even more sore, my toes are frozen, and my body temperature is plummeting from exhaustion and hunger.

Unlocking my front door, I flick on the lights and bathe in the calm, familiar smell of my townhouse. As I look around, the sofa’s still made up like a makeshift bed, and across the carpet, I spot a few remnant strands of Clementine’s blonde wig, but it’s all untouched. Not a single thing is out of place.

“Marshall, I know you’re here,” I call out.

As the kitchen door swings open, I spot my best friend from childhood.

“How’d you know?” Marshall asks in his raspy voice, joining me in the living room and still wearing his wool peacoat.

“I didn’t. But I know you.”

He goes to say something, but for some reason decides against it. As he gets closer, his posture stays perfect, but he keeps his head slightly down and turned away. He doesn’t like being looked at.

“Can I get you something to drink or—?”

“Sorry about your wrists,” he says, motioning to the red marks from the handcuffs. Forever the wolf, he doesn’t miss a detail.

“Why’d you come here, Marshall?”

“You called me three times in the last half hour.”

“You could’ve just called me back. Why’d you really come here?”

He takes a deep breath through his mangled nose, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just upset. “I wanted to know if they killed you.”

“What?”

Pretending to stare at the three framed black-and-white photo cards that hang over my sofa, he presses his lips together, his sagging skin shifting in one large chunk. “They are going to kill you, Beecher. I called a friend in the Service who’s stationed up at Camp David. They know who you are. From here, it’s just a matter of time.” Letting the statement sink in, he adds, “So tell me, Beecher: Why’d you call me three times in the last half hour?”

“Because we need your help.”

“We?”

“The group I work with.”

“The Culper Ring?”

I shoot him a look. Of course he knows their name.

“They’re the ones who gave you that tracker you put in my car,” he reasons.

“They’re good people, Marshall. Smart too. And I was thinking… with your skills… plus their resources…”

“Don’t ask me to be part of your group, Beecher.”

“But if we—”

“There is no we. I’m not for sale. And I’m not some cheap grenade you get to toss at your enemies.”

I stand there a moment. I expect him to leave, but instead he stays where he is, still staring at the framed photos.

“That’s Saggy, isn’t it?” he asks, referring to our hometown.

“From back in the 1920s,” I explain as he takes a step closer to the three side-by-side photo postcards showing men, women, and children waving American flags and marching down the street in front of Cannell Park. “They’re from an old firemen’s parade that the town used to have.”

“They’re nice,” he says.

“Yeah, when I put them up, I told myself they were my daily reminder that if I screwed things up here, that’s where I was going back to. But I think it’s finally time to admit, I just like them because they remind me of home.”

Marshall looks my way. “Home is terrifying for some people.”

“It can also be a reminder of where you came from. And how far you’ve traveled.”

He turns back to the photos. “You’re still a cornball, aren’t you, Beecher?”

I laugh at the comment, studying my old friend and once again trying to see the old chubby, glasses-wearing version of himself. Tot said that was my problem, that I can’t stop remembering. He may be right. But some things are worth holding on to.

“Marsh, I’m sorry for thinking you were the one who killed those pastors.”

Still staring at the images, he doesn’t respond.

“It’s just that when I saw you had that Lincoln mask and those old playing cards, plus your history with Pastor Riis…”

“You were investigating the case, Beecher. You did everything you were supposed to.”

“That’s not even true. I got fooled by Nico. I couldn’t save Tot. I fell into every trap the Knight left for me. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be watching the President’s funeral right now.”

“So you think you lost?”

“You telling me I didn’t?”

Turning away from the photos, Marshall stands there, eyeing me. “Beecher, how’d you know Pastor Frick was the Knight?”

“Excuse me?”

“My friend in the Service. He said you figured it out right before the shots were fired.”

I take a breath, staring down at the carpet and reliving the moment. “The real assassinations. When all this started, I told Tot that when President Garfield was shot, he should’ve lived. It was medical malpractice that killed him, not the bullet. I figured that’s why Pastor Frick was left alive. But when I started thinking about how meticulous the Knight was — always killing in temples, using the old guns — it reminded me that Garfield did die. So for Pastor Frick to still be alive and walking around… and for him to be at the same hospital for the third and fourth attempts… That was it. But it still didn’t make me fast enough to save the President. Without you, Wallace would be dead right now.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Marshall, I appreciate the pep talk, but—”

“Do you have any idea why I went to the Lincoln Memorial?” he challenges.

I shake my head.

“Because you sent me there, Beecher.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“From the very start, I was trying to find the person who killed Pastor Riis. So when that first rector was murdered at St. John’s, the only pattern I saw was someone killing pastors. That is, until you came in and found all those links to John Wilkes Booth: the peephole in the wall, and the piece of wood in the umbrella stand. Once I heard you and Tot talking about that—”

“Wait. You bugged me?”

“In your wallet. Right after you bugged my car,” Marshall shoots back. “But the fact remains, without you spotting that original Abraham Lincoln connection, I would’ve never found the pattern of dead Presidents. That’s when I started looking at Wallace, and his schedule, and all the places he was supposed to be.”

For thirty seconds I stand there, still digesting his words. “I still don’t understand how you knew the Knight would be at the Lincoln Memorial.”

“I didn’t. In fact, I thought it was A.J. who was doing the killing. So when it came to the Memorial, I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance. And even if I was wrong, I had you at Camp David,” he says, his voice warming up as much as his voice can ever warm up. “You understand what I’m saying, Beecher? I may’ve grabbed the gun and shot the Knight, but when it comes right down to it, you’re the one who actually saved President Wallace. That was the job, right? You did everything the Culper Ring couldn’t. That’s why they picked you.”

I look straight at Marshall, who, for once, doesn’t look away. Though I try to fight it, I feel a grin lifting my cheeks.

“Beecher, you truly don’t make any sense, y’know that?” Marshall adds, sounding mad. “I thought you hated Wallace.”

“I do hate him.”

“So you’d rather save his life now, and then hope to take him down fair and square later?”

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things, Marshall.”

“You sure about that? Because when I was up by that big Lincoln statue and the Knight started reaching for his gun… God, I took joy in pulling that trigger. Real joy.” Reading the look on my face, he adds, “Don’t look so shocked. You know how many people he might’ve killed if I didn’t take that shot? Y’know how many kids were up there?”

“But that’s not why you took the shot, is it?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“You weren’t at the Lincoln Memorial to protect Wallace, or even to save a bunch of kids. You said it just now. You were after the Knight because he killed Pastor Riis.”

“What’s your point, Beecher?”

“I’m not — I just—” I cut myself off, still wondering whether to touch the subject we’ve both avoided for so long. “It always goes back to that night, doesn’t it? With Paglinni and the basement… when we… when I—” My voice cracks. I fight to catch my breath, still terrified that the words I’ve waited so long to say will never repair this pain. “Marsh, I’m sorry I sent you in there. I was a coward that night. I never should’ve let you go down there alone.”

“Beecher…”

“No. I need to say this, and you need to hear it. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.”

“Beecher, there’s nothing you could’ve stopped.”

“That’s not true. If you never went down there… if you never saw your mom with Pastor Riis—”

“Don’t blame Riis. It wasn’t him.”

“How can you say that?”

“It wasn’t him.”

“But he’s the one who—”

“Listen to what I’m saying, Beecher. It. Wasn’t. Him.”

Struggling to read Marshall, I replay the night. I can still see the yellow tint from the porch lights. Still see the view from the driveway. And still see the front door flying open as Marshall’s mom, holding her bra in her hand, shoved Marshmallow outside.

“Pastor Riis wasn’t even there,” Marshall insists.

I hear the words, but they don’t make sense. Marshall’s mom was half dressed. She was with someone. But if Pastor Riis wasn’t there—

Oh.

In front of me, the yellow porch lights fade, leaving me staring back at Marshall’s gold eyes, which drill at me in my living room.

“Mrs. Riis?” I blurt.

Marshall doesn’t move, but I feel him nod.

I nod back, my mind still processing. “But even so… if we — If I didn’t send you down there—”

“Beecher, do you know how I got into your house tonight? I picked all three of your locks. Easily. And back when I was in the military and finishing the training that taught me how to do it, for the final exam, my squad leader gave us one final lock that we’d have to pick. In the corner of the room, he’d lock you in one of those diver’s cages like you see during Shark Week. In your pocket, he’d give you a bent piece of metal, then he’d point at the rusted old lock and tell you it should take you three minutes or less to pick your way out. ‘Go,’ he said, slamming the cage shut and hitting the stopwatch.

“Within the first few minutes, the lock didn’t budge and I knew I was in trouble. As ten minutes went by, I started to sweat. By the thirty-minute mark, I’m flipping out and still can’t open the door. Finally, after an hour of trying to pick this lock… in total frustration, I collapse against the door, which swings open. The squad leader shoots me a grin.”

“The door was unlocked the entire time,” I say.

“Completely unlocked. But in my mind, it was locked — and that was enough to keep me from opening that door and getting out.”

“What’re you trying to say?”

“You didn’t put that gun in my mother’s mouth, Beecher. Or pull the trigger. It’s time to let yourself out of your cage.”

Staring across at my old friend, I try to swallow, but my throat expands with a ball the size of a grapefruit. I had no idea until this exact moment, but I’ve been waiting eighteen years to hear those words. “Marsh…”

“Don’t thank me, Beecher. And don’t cry either,” he says, serious as ever. “If you cry, I’ll stab you.”

“Yeah… no… I’m not crying,” I say, fighting hard not to laugh. “But y’know what’s funny? I think I remember Pastor Riis telling a story just like that during one of his sermons. But when he told it, it was Harry Houdini who was in the cage.”

Staring back at me, Marshall presses his lips together, unreadable as ever. “It’s still a good story,” he says.

“I agree.” Nodding to myself, I’m amazed how much it makes me think about the still missing Clementine.

Stealing one last look at the black-and-white photos, Marshall turns toward the door and reaches into his pocket. “By the way, here you go…” he says, tossing me a small black object.

“What’s this?” I ask as I catch the outdated, flip-style cell phone.

“It’s a phone.”

“I can see it’s a phone.”

“It’s a clone of the one Palmiotti uses to call A.J. When Palmiotti’s phone rings, so will that one.”

“Where’d you get this?”

“I told you. My friend in the Service. Not everyone there is a scumbag. Anyway, you listen to it long enough, you might hear something interesting.”

I glance at the phone, then at Marshall, who’s nearly out the door. “But you’d never join the Culper Ring, right?” I call out to him.

“I don’t like bullies, Beecher. Especially presidential ones.”

“I’m taking that as a yes!”

Stepping out into the night with his head ducked down, Marshall doesn’t answer.

113

At first, the dark blue car just circled the block, around and around, slowing down as it cruised along Pennsylvania Avenue, then speeding up again as it approached the corner and made a sharp right on 6th Street.

Over and over, the driver retraced the circle, but not for too long. There was nothing suspicious about pretending to look for a parking space. But this close to the White House, which was barely ten blocks away, only a fool thinks he can circle the block too often without being noticed.

Quietly settling into an open spot on 6th Street, the driver shut the engine, looked around, and eyed the two or three nearby pedestrians.

Nothing so far. It was almost time, but the driver still knew it was best to be patient.

The only problem was, the driver hated Washington, D.C. — especially this part of D.C., diagonally across from the National Archives. Too many bad memories.

After a half hour, the car pulled out of the spot and started circling again: looping around the block, slowly rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, and speeding up on the corner of 6th Street.

These days, the northeast corner of 6th and Pennsylvania held a modern glass-fronted building that was home to the Newseum, a museum dedicated to news and media. But what the driver really cared about — aside from the two uniformed guards who stood just inside the glass doors of the museum — was what used to be here. Years ago. Nearly a hundred and fifty years, to be precise, which is when the National Hotel used to occupy this exact corner.

Founded in 1827, the National was so popular that sitting Presidents from Andrew Jackson to Abraham Lincoln used to leave the White House and spend a night there, enjoying terrapin dinners and rare old wines. Indeed, Lincoln even had his post-Inauguration banquet there. In 1852, Henry Clay died in Room 116. But of all the great secrets contained in its halls, none was greater than the one that was hatched on the second floor — in Room 228—where John Wilkes Booth stayed while he plotted to assassinate President Lincoln.

Glancing down at the car’s digital clock, the driver pumped the brakes and again searched the sidewalk as the car rolled slowly along Pennsylvania Avenue. A young woman with a forceful gait and a Justice Department ID leaned forward as she plowed against the wind tunnel created by the canyon of tall buildings that lined the block. In the opposite direction, a middle-aged couple held hands as they headed for the Metro.

But as the car reached the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, what caught the driver’s eye was a homeless man approaching the corner of 6th Street.

He was no different from most of the homeless people on the street tonight. His knit cap was tattered and old, he wouldn’t make eye contact, and his crumpled jacket and torn pants looked like they were fished from the garbage. But as he reached the northeast corner of 6th and Pennsylvania — just as his foot touched the edge of the curb where the National Hotel used to exist — the driver couldn’t help but notice the time: 10:11 p.m.

The exact moment John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger on Lincoln.

Hitting the brakes on the corner of 6th Street, the driver lurched forward as her car bucked to a stop. The homeless man didn’t look up.

“You’re not alone,” the driver of the car called out as she lowered the passenger-side window.

“Clementine?” the homeless man asked, staring at the woman behind the steering wheel.

Clementine nodded, staring back at the so-called homeless man. At Nico, her father.

“Nico, you need to get inside,” Clementine added, popping the locks.

Turning to the side, Nico muttered something as if he were talking to someone next to him. His imaginary friend.

“Nico…”

Adding a quick prayer, he pointed a thank-you up to God and mouthed a silent Amen. Pulling open the car door, he slid into the front passenger seat, smelling of fish and wet garbage.

As her fingers curled around the steering wheel, Clementine couldn’t take her eyes off him, overwhelmed at how simultaneously old and young she felt every time she was in her father’s orbit.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Nico blurted, drilling her with a look that felt like he was trying to break her down to a chemical level.

“I’m your daughter,” Clementine offered.

Nico almost turned away. But he didn’t.

“I thought you’d be with Beecher,” he finally said.

“I’m not.”

“He’ll be looking for me. They’ll all be looking for me.”

“I understand,” she insisted. “I’m still your daughter.”

Clicking his front teeth together, Nico felt his cheeks rise into a crooked grin. “I need a razor,” he insisted.

“We can get it later,” she replied, kicking the gas and twisting the wheel as the car took off up 6th Street.

“I need it now. I need a razor right now,” he told her, staring up at the passing storefronts and streetlights. It’d been so long since he’d been outside the hospital.

Ten minutes later, after a quick stop at a nearby CVS while Nico waited in the car, Clementine handed her father a can of shaving cream, a set of disposable plastic razors, and a bottle of water.

“You don’t have to do this now,” she said, sending the car racing up the street. Next to her, Nico popped open the shaving cream and sprayed it into his hand.

With a quick smudge, he spread the cream into his black hair and tore open the bag of razors with his teeth.

“You need to use the water,” she told him.

Nico didn’t care. Starting at the back of his own neck, he pressed the blade to his skin and tugged upward, taking out a square of black hair and leaving a tiny nick of…

“You’re bleeding,” Clementine said, turning quickly and pulling onto a quiet side street where they’d be better hidden. “Please… can’t this wait?”

But it couldn’t. If Nico was in pain, he didn’t show it. Rinsing the blade with a dump of bottled water, he started again, working his way upward.

Shutting the car and watching him, horrified, Clementine assumed he was worried about being seen or recognized. By now, his picture was all over the news. But as the clumps of hair fell away, she noticed there was something else besides stripes of shaving cream and streaks of blood on the back of his head. At first, she could only see the edge of it: a thin line. It was muddy and pale green.

“Is that a tattoo?” Clementine asked, mesmerized as she studied its curved lines. Slowly, Nico worked the razor upward, shaving his own head.

“No,” Nico said. “It’s a symbol.”

With a sharp tug, the metal blade swallowed a final chunk of black hair from his nearly bald skull, which was shaved down the center like a lawn mower plowing a jagged line through a black forest. But it wasn’t until Nico lowered the razor and turned toward the passenger window that Clementine got a good look at what — for decades now — he’d kept hidden underneath. The final secret Nico Hadrian had kept from them all, even the Knight: a small tattoo that dated back to the Renaissance, where it was the fifth and final suit in certain decks of cards: a crescent moon.

The final suit of the final Knight. And the clear sign that — dear Lord, he had no choice but to admit it now — this mission had always been his.

His body shook, fighting to contain the tears he was keeping inside. In that moment, his entire life made sense. This was why he was chosen. Fate had led him to so many places — and now, once again, it had led him back here. Back to the original mission. Like his predecessors, like his fellow Knights, it was his destiny to kill the President of the United States.

The Knights of the Golden Circle would live again.

Facing the back of her father’s head, Clementine studied his reflection in the passenger-side window. “You know you don’t have to do this,” she told him.

Nico raised his close-set eyes, staring back at her. “That’s what you’ve never understood. I don’t have a choice.”

Knowing better than to argue, and wondering if he might actually be right, Clementine continued to study her father’s reflection. The more hair he took off his head, the more he looked like Clementine without her wig.

“Were you being honest before?” Nico asked, running the razor up the side of his head. “Do you have my cancer in your body?”

Clementine nodded, feeling her blonde wig clamped against her skull. But as she started the car, she didn’t want to talk about cancer, or killing, or anything else. For the first time in her life, Clementine just wanted to enjoy a quiet night with her father.

114

What about meatballs. You like meatballs?” the President asked.

“You know I like meatballs,” eight-year-old Andrew replied, trailing behind his father through the cabin’s rustic living room.

“And do you like hamburgers?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t say maybe,” Wallace told his young son, heading into the bedroom, toward his closet, where he pulled out a fleece pullover with the presidential seal on it. “That’s a rule for life. When someone asks you a question, say yes or say no. Stand for something. Now, do you like hamburgers?”

“Yes,” Andrew said assertively.

“And do you like taco meat?”

“May — Usually,” the boy said.

“Usually counts as a yes,” the President pointed out, sliding his arms into the fleece and pulling it on. As his head popped through the neckhole, Wallace’s hair was still perfectly in place. “Then you should like steak. Meatballs, hamburgers, taco meat… that’s all steak is, just in a different form.”

“But it’s harder to chew,” the boy countered.

Making his way back to the front door of the cabin, the President of the United States stopped and looked back over his shoulder at his son. “You really are going to be a politician when you grow up, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like what I don’t like,” Andrew said.

“That’s fine. Tell Suzanne to make you some spaghetti instead. And tell your mother we’re not having any more children.”

Grinning at the victory, Andrew ran toward the kitchen.

“I’ll be back,” the President called out, still amazed, after the recent horror, how quickly life could return to normal.

For nearly a week now, the Secret Service had kept them all at Camp David, not just to help Wallace relax, but to let the nation catch its breath after the shooting. With no press to bother him, and barely any staff, Wallace played air hockey with his son, taught his daughter how to shoot a proper free throw, and spent his nights either watching a movie in the private theater or simply reading in front of the stone fireplace with his wife. Even when they were just having a meal together, his family was acting like a family again.

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t squeeze in a few business meetings.

Kneeling down on one knee, he double-knotted the laces on his running shoes. As he tugged open the front door, the frozen air chilled his cheeks, reminding him just how unforgiving the mountain winds could be. And how invigorating.

“Did you stretch?” he called out.

If Wallace were in the White House right now, there’d be a small army of staffers waiting, plus a half dozen uniformed and plainclothes Secret Service agents.

Today, at the foot of the porch, among the poplar and hickory trees of Camp David, there was just one. A young agent in a faded Duke sweatshirt.

“I’m all set, Mr. President,” A.J. replied.

Without another word, President Wallace began to run, slowly at first, giving A.J. a chance to join in. In no time, they were jogging side by side, away from the cabin known as Aspen, and away from the Secret Service command post.

As their breath snowballed from their lips, they followed the main path, then a narrower path that broke off from it. The ground was hard in the cold, but it didn’t take them long to enter the southern part of Catoctin Mountain Park, where they picked up a trail known as Hog Rock Loop.

When George W. Bush was President, he used to love running Hog Rock, which was filled with beautiful streams and a nice big hill that put your calves and quads to the test. To this day, the Secret Service still joke that every time Bush was halfway toward the peak, he’d say the same thing to whichever agent was his runner: “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

It was a good idea at the time.

Just as it was for Wallace and A.J. today.

Feeling the pitch steepen and his lungs tighten, the President still had a half-step lead. He knew A.J. was taking it easy on him, letting him set the pace. That is, until they spotted an old, warped picnic bench that sat under a towering tupelo tree. Picking up speed and checking over his shoulder, A.J. pulled ahead of the President and made a sharp left downhill, off the path, a clump of wet leaves shifting with his heel. Wallace followed him into the forest.

For nearly half a mile, the two men continued to run downhill side by side, cutting between trees, neither saying a word. Unlike the mostly paved path, the ground here was covered with snow, making it far more slippery. Every few yards, A.J. would scan the area — left to right, then up and down — making sure they were alone as he searched for…

There.

Up ahead, hidden by a thicket of mountain laurel bushes that were hardy enough to still be green in the winter, was a tall man in a dark overcoat. The President slowed down, eyeing the man’s black dye job. But even if his hair had been pink, Wallace would still know his oldest friend a mile away.

“Not even huffing and puffing, huh? Your color’s better too,” Dr. Palmiotti said.

“Y’know I still hate your hair like that,” the President teased, bending over and catching his breath.

“Nice to see you too, sir,” Palmiotti replied, his wide smile revealing just how happy he was to be back in the mix. Better yet, in over a week, his name still hadn’t appeared in the papers. At least that secret was safe.

“I take it things are going better?” the President asked.

Palmiotti knew what his friend was talking about. Lydia. “I appreciate you doing what you did. She sends her best.”

“You’re just happy you’re getting laid again,” Wallace said.

“Sir, we really need to make it quick,” A.J. interrupted, talking to the President, but shooting a scolding look at Palmiotti. This wasn’t a social call.

“So we’re back on track?” the President asked.

“Why don’t you ask the man himself?” Palmiotti replied, stepping aside and motioning to the thicket of mountain laurel behind him.

From behind the bushes, a man with thin, burnt-away lips stepped out as javelins of sunlight stabbed down from the treetops at his candlewax skin.

“Here he is, America’s unsung hero,” the President said, offering Marshall a toothy grin.

Marshall didn’t grin back, his gold eyes glancing around the empty forest. “You sure there’re no cameras here?”

“No cameras,” A.J. insisted.

It didn’t make Marshall feel any better.

“What’s wrong, son?” the President asked. “You look miserable, even for you.”

“I don’t like being second-guessed,” Marshall said.

“Pardon me?” the President asked.

“You said you trusted me.”

“I do trust you.”

“But yet you still thought I was the Knight, didn’t you?” Marshall challenged. “That I was the one who killed those pastors.”

“Marshall…”

“Don’t insult me by denying it. Palmiotti and A.J. both said as much.”

“What’d you expect us to think?” Palmiotti asked. “First you get caught at the scene of the crime, then the police find Beecher’s name in your pocket—”

“Stewie, stop talking,” the President scolded. Never taking his eyes off Marshall, he put a calming hand on his shoulder, massaging it with the same reassuring confidence that convinced Syria to sign last year’s peace accords. “Marshall, this lunatic we were fighting… this Knight who was trying to murder me… I’m sorry he killed your friend.”

“Pastor Riis wasn’t a friend. He was like a father.”

“And I know how precious fathers are. I do. Mine walked out when I was in my teens. My mother still used to kiss his picture every night before bed. But we picked you for a reason, Marshall. I hired you to do a job, not to race off on your own investigation.”

“Well in this case, you got a twofer,” Marshall shot back.

“Watch your tone,” Palmiotti warned.

“Then use your brain,” Marshall said. “You really think Beecher would’ve come along if I just showed up and said, I really missed you, old pal? That trick might’ve worked on him once, but it wasn’t gonna work again. Beecher needed to feel like he found me. And it worked. In fact, the way I see it, you got what you wanted and you’re still alive. So forgive me if I’m having a little trouble understanding why you’re still complaining.”

Palmiotti started to say something, but the President cut him off with a glance. Same with A.J. On a day like today, the time for fighting was over.

“Y’know, one of my agents, when he tackled you and the Knight to the ground,” the President began, his hand back on Marshall’s shoulder, “he kept it out of his report, but he said that you were talking to Frick, asking him why he killed Pastor Riis.”

“What about it?” Marshall asked.

“He said Frick died without replying. That you never got your answer.”

“Again, what about it?” Marshall repeated.

“I’m just saying, if you’ve been reading the papers, or at least the bloggers…”

“I don’t read bloggers.”

“That’s smart of you, Marshall. But even the mainstream press, well… at this point, it’s just conjecture, but considering the way the Knight was communicating with him, plus his recent escape from St. Elizabeths, and his ties to your hometown…”

“Are you trying to tell me that Nico was the one who sent the Knight after Pastor Riis?”

“Son, how could I possibly tell you that? The only person who knows that is Nico himself.”

“I’m not sure I understand your point, sir.”

“All I’m saying is, whoever catches Nico first — be it the Secret Service or anyone else in law enforcement… Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if Nico fights back with such ferocity, he takes a bullet to the neck and, like John Wilkes Booth or even Lee Harvey Oswald, never even makes it to trial.”

For a long moment, Marshall stared across at the President, who was a full head taller than him. “I appreciate that, Mr. President. But when do I get what we talked about?”

“When you’re done,” Palmiotti replied. Nothing had changed since he first approached Marshall two weeks ago. In return for Marshall’s help with Beecher, they’d give him all the details of what happened all those years ago in the military to Marshall’s father.

“How’s your dad doing these days?” the President asked.

“He’s dying,” Marshall said, remembering the lie he told Beecher.

“Then I guess you should work quickly,” the President of the United States said, staring back at Marshall’s face. “So that’s it, yes? You think we’re in good shape?”

Marshall nodded. When Palmiotti had first reached out to Marshall, the President wanted the name and identity of every last member of the Culper Ring. Right now, thanks to Beecher, Marshall was their newest recruit.

“I just need to remind you of one thing,” Marshall said. “I know your feelings about Beecher, but—”

“You don’t know anything about me and Beecher,” the President said.

“I know he saved your life. So you need to know that too, sir. Without that brain of his, I would’ve never been at the Lincoln Memorial, and your daughter would still be picking pieces of your skull out of her hair.”

“So now I’m supposed to be scared of Beecher?” the President shot back. “You’re talking about someone who let us lock him up in Camp David.”

“That’s because he’s new. But I’m telling you, he learns faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s learning right now. So if you think this is going to be easy, or you take your eyes off him, that’ll be the worst mistake you’ll ever make.”

Biting a speck of chapped skin from his lips, Wallace didn’t respond.

“Then it’s good we have you,” the President finally said, looking uphill and pivoting toward the path that would take him back to Camp David. “Though I appreciate the warning.”

Following his own snow footprints back up the hill, the President began to jog, slowly at first, then faster as A.J. fell in next to him, the President always leading by an unmistakable half step. As they reached the top and rejoined the Hog Rock Loop, the President glanced back over his shoulder. Downhill, Palmiotti was still standing by the mountain laurel bushes. Marshall was already gone.

A half-smile crept up Wallace’s face.

For over a week now, as the details leaked out, the press had been fixated on the set of ancient playing cards that were found in the Knight’s pocket. But as the President picked up his pace and followed the path back to Camp David, he knew that when it came to kings, queens, jacks, and the rest — and especially when it came to Beecher and the Culper Ring — nothing beats a wild card.