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 pos
sibly 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.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’ve been working on this book for almost four years now. That means I’ve spent four years surrounding myself with presidential deaths. And yes, the death of a President shouldn’t be any more compelling than the death of anyone else, but when I hear that John Wilkes Booth used a mysterious card to get into Ford’s Theatre, my eyebrow starts twitching and I get obsessed.
And so, let me answer the number one question that the proofreaders kept asking me when they finished reading: How much of this is real? The question took many forms. Did John Wilkes Booth really have that creepy tattoo? What about the second killer? Did he have that tattoo also? And what about the playing cards?
I love doing the research and including as much real history in my books as I can (even as it consumes me). To that end, the scenes with the Presidents’ deaths are as accurate as could be. That museum in here that has pieces of Lincoln’s skull and John Wilkes Booth’s bones? That place is real too and has even more cool stuff that I didn’t have room for. And those tunnels under Camp David? I changed a few security details for safety purposes, but yeah, those are pretty darn real too.
But as you know, this is still a work of fiction. So yes, John Wilkes Booth really did have a JWB tattoo on the web of his hand, but he didn’t have an ace of spades. The playing card details came from a tattoo on a leathery piece of skin that I found in an old museum box. Inside the box were many artifacts that purportedly belonged to presidential assassin Charles Guiteau, including the bones of his trigger finger. As it says in the novel, those bones were stolen from the museum and then returned. When they came back, that piece of skin was with it (and yes, the tattoo is exactly as I described, including the eagle and the red diamond with the knife in it). To this day, no one knows where the skin came from or if it’s Guiteau’s or not, but the moment the museum folks put it in my hands, the lightbulb went off and I started researching playing cards (and yes, George Washington really did order playing cards by the dozens).
If you want to know more about the other historical details—or ask a question about anything else—then let me invite you to BradMeltzer.com. You’ll see answers to tons of questions there, including ones about the secret code that I hid in the pages of The Inner Circle. Crack the code and it’ll lead you to the location for a hidden “treasure” (no one’s found it yet). Even the Decoded folks haven’t uncovered it.
Other than that, let me say the most important thing of all: Thank you for reading to the very end (or at least skipping to the end and ruining all the good parts).
See you in the Archives.
ALSO BY BRAD MELTZER
Novels
The Tenth Justice
Dead Even
The First Counsel
The Millionaires
The Zero Game
The Book of Fate
The Book of Lies
The Inner Circle
Nonfiction
Heroes for My Son
Heroes for My Daughter
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Contents
Welcome
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part I: The First Assassination
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part II: The Second Assassination
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Part III: The Third Assassination
Chapter 65
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Part IV: The Fourth Assassination
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Part V: The Fifth Assassination
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Author’s Note
Also by Brad Meltzer
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Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.