The President's Shadow (20 page)

G
ogogo! Get out of here!
Marshall told himself. Scrambling into Clementine’s rental car and hearing the pop of a gunshot, he kept his head down and turned the keys in the ignition.
Put it in reverse! Get away from here!
It was the only way out. Fight smart. Fight later.

Across the parking lot, there was another loud pop from the front seat of Ezra’s black Dodge. A second gunshot. Putting the car in reverse, Marshall saw Clementine’s trembling body, twisted awkwardly across the concrete. Her wig had fallen off her head. She was lucky the car hadn’t been moving
full speed.

Of course he didn’t want to leave her. But as Ezra fired again, Marshall had no choice. In situations like this, you have to get away. Yet as he looked back at Clementine and her exposed bald head…

Dammit.

Throwing the car into drive, Marshall stomped the gas. The tires swirled, kicking bits of rock and melted snow through the air.

As the car barreled forward, Marshall pulled his own gun, firing out the window with his left hand and holding the steering wheel with his right. At this speed, h
e
knew he wouldn’t hit Ezra. But he would distract him.

Sure enough, Ezra ducked down in the front seat, no longer firing.

Pressing the gas even harder, Marshall picked up speed. The car blazed like a missile toward its target: straight into the side of the black Dodge, to that sweet spot midway between the front and back doors.

The impact was a violent gnashing of metallic teeth. At that speed, Marshall’
s
car T-boned the black Dodge, which practically bent around the hood of the gray rental. Marshall knew
what he was aiming for. Now the Dodge was undrivable. Ezra wasn’t getting away.

Still skidding sideways, the Dodge snapped through one of the strip mall’s stucco support columns and sent a metal trash can flying. The skid stopped just short of the herbal shop’s plate glass window. Ezra flew from the driver’s seat to the passenger seat, hitting with a thud.

“
Clementine, you hear me!?
” Marshall shouted, fighting the airbag from his face and searching for his gun, which had gone soaring during the impact.

Outside, Clementine was still on her side, still trembling.

Kicking open the car door and ignoring the burning pain where the steering wheel had smashed into his chest, Marshall raced to her.

“
Clemmi, open your eyes!
” he yelled, grabbing her nearby wig. He didn’t like seeing her bald. It reminded him of his mother’s funeral.

Clementine didn’t move, but her stomach was— She was breathing. One of her cheeks was scraped raw. Blood poured from her mouth along with something wiry and metal. Marshall pulled it out to keep her from choking on it. It looked like a retainer, but with two fake teeth on each side. A bridge.

He held the bridge in one hand and tried to put the wig back on her head. It wouldn’t stay, sliding to the ground like lifeless straw.

“Clemmi, please
—
if you hear me, I need you to nod.”

Still no response. If it’d been anyone else, he’d call for an ambulance. But this was Nico’s daughter, still at the top of every most-wanted list.

Turning Clementine over and crouching down on one knee, Marshall scooped a hand behind Clementine’s neck and another below her knees. He put the wig on her belly, so focused on not dropping it, he didn’t even feel the barrel of the gun that poked him from behind and wedged its way into his armpit.

“What in the f
—
!?”

Behind him, Ezr
a
again didn’t say a word. He just pulled the trigger.

Pop.

B
eecher, get out of there,” Mac blurts in my ear.

“When was the last time you actually saw your son’s roommate?” I ask Mrs. Young, who’s either
the greatest liar of all time, or clearly has no idea that her dead son Kingston is not only
very much alive, but has recently gone all
Talented Mr. Ripley
with the real Ezra’s life.

“I don’t know,” she says, sounding wary. “I last saw Ezra…maybe sometime around Christmas. Why?”

“You need to leave there.
Now
,” Mac insists.

“Was he at your son’s funeral?” I ask, staying with Mrs. Young.

“I-I didn’t see him there, but I know he signed the guestbook and was—” She starts to sway, nearly knocking into a nearby sewing mannequin. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

I look over at another photo of her and Kingston on the wall, a high school graduation pic where he’s in full cap and gown. I don’t know what’s worse: this white-eyelashed bastard letting his own mother think he’s dead…or killing the real Ezra, and then showing up at his own funeral just to sign the guestbook to throw folks off the trail. Whatever the case, White Eyelashes clearly wanted Ezra’s life in more ways than one. “Two minutes,” I say to Mac in my ear.

“Who’re you talking to? You know something about my boy?” Mrs. Young stutters, tears flooding her eyes.

“Beecher, if White Eyelashes is as smart as we think he is, he’s got someone watching his mom’s place!” Mac insists.

A loud buzzer shrieks through the room, punctuating the point.

“Don’t answer it,” I tell Mrs. Young.

Panicking, she lunges, pressing the button. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know me.

“Ma’am, my name is Leonard Riestra—from the United States Secret Service.”

As soon as I hear his deep voice, I fish through my coat pockets to see if they traced me here. Both are empty. I know they can’t track my phone. Mac takes care of that. That still leaves my car, though there’s nothing I can do about it right now.

“They don’t bring the director for house calls,” Mac warns as Mrs. Young buzzes him in.

For Riestra to be here, they’re not screwing around. Neither am I. For centuries, the Culper Ring has worked outside the system, safeguarding the United States against whatever abuses inevitably show their faces. For the past few hours, the face that keeps showing up is
Riestra’s. Maybe he’s just trying to protect the commander in chief. Maybe he and White Eyelashes are in this together. Either way, here’s the one thing I can’t shake: Whatever message those body parts are sending, the only way to bury them that close to the President is to get help from someone inside.

“Why’s the Secret Service here? What’s going on?” Mrs. Young asks.

I glance out the window, toward the alley behind the building. Right no
w
, I’m half a step ahead of the Service. I’ve done nothing wrong; it doesn’t matter if they find me here. But if they do, I’ll be sitting in this living room for the next three hours as they pump me with questions.

“Where’s your fire escape?” I ask Mrs. Young.

“There’s isn’t a—”

“Please. I know you have one. Is it off the bedroom or the living room?” I owe Marshall for that. He taught me never
go in a place unless I know how to get out.

Mrs. Young doesn’t answer. Outside, a thundering herd echoes up the stairwell. Riestra’s not alone.

“You have nothing to hide,” I say to Mrs. Young. “You can tell them you spoke to me. They know who I am. Give them all the details. Tell every agent that’s here.”

I take off for the bedroom, a cramped little rectangle that sadly reminds me of my own room. Alarm clock on only one of the nightstands. Creased pillows on only half the bed. This is how I’ve lived for too long.

Through the window, I spot the rusty grating of the fire escape.

“You know what happened to my son, don’t you? You don’t think it was suicide,” Mrs. Young calls out behind me as I tug at the closed window. Years of old paint crack and fall as the window gives way and the cold twirls across my torso.

Back in the living room, there’s a loud knock on the door. Riestra’s here. Mrs. Young doesn’t move, staying with me.

“Ma’am, I promise you one thing,” I tell her, straddling the windowsill with one foot outside. “I want to catch the person who did this. I know what it means when you don’t know why your loved one is gone.”

She nods tearfully at me.

The knocking on the front door gets louder than ever. “
Mrs. Young, please open up!
”

I duck out onto the fire escape, scrambling quickly down the metal stairs, bits of rust biting at my hands. Third floor…second floor… I kick at the metal pin that frees the final ladder and sends it dropping to the ground. Rung by rung, fist below fist, I clamber down, leaping off the final perch as my soles smack the pavement.

Before I can even stand up, there’s a quiet click behind me.

“We’re the Secret Service,” A.J. says. “You think we don’t cover the back exit?”

T
he gun was an antique, releasing a small black musket ball that blew out the front of Marshall’s armpit, taking hunks of muscle, skin, and blood with it. Back during the Civil War, guns like this needed to be reloaded, and the gunpowder repacked, after each shot. Instead, this modified six-shooter gave Ezra multiple shots.

For a half-second, Marshall just stood, staring down at the shreds of skin of his blown-out armpit like he was staring at a bruise he didn’t remember getting. As training took over, he reached into the bloody hole, which swallowed his fingers up to the knuckle. If the bullet was there, he couldn’t find it. His heart took a long, aching beat. Then the burning pain arrived.

His legs wouldn’t work. Crumpling to the ground and gripping his own armpit, Marshall clenched his teeth, refusing to let himself scream. A sound still came out of him, a guttural wail that sounded like the howl of a dying dog.

“Y’know, another inch over and I would’ve collapsed your lung,” Ezra said, standing over him. “Don’t worry, though. In that part of your armpit, there’re no major vessels, no critical organs. Though eventually, the blood loss will certainly be a problem.”

“Y-You should’ve put that bullet in my head,” Marshall growled.

Ezra smiled at that. “You think I came to kill you? I did my homework, Marshall. I know who you are.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“That’s not true. There’s a reason I want you on my team. So here’s your chance,” Ezra said, squatting down next to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Would you like to join the Knights of the Golden Circle?”

I
t was just another breakfast. And since it was Friday, the cooks had put little bits of bacon into the eggs as a treat. Ever since Julian died, the Plankholders had been tossed a few extra indulgences.

For most of the troops, it was an appreciated gesture. For Alby, i
t
would’ve been too. But as he sat there at his cafeteria table, replaying that moment last night when he saw Julian—
alive and doing just fine
—Alby didn’t care much about breakfast, much less bacon-infused eggs.

“You eating your biscuit?” the kid from Arkansas asked, sitting across from him.

“Not really,” Alby replied, sliding Arkansas his tray and working hard to keep everything looking normal.

“You look like hell,” Arkansas added. “What’s wrong with you anyway?”

“Wha? No, I’m fine. I just— Crappy night’s sleep.”

Arkansas nodded. So many of them had been fighting diarrhea. “That mean you’re not eating your eggs?” Arkansas asked.

Alby spun his cafeteria tray, sliding the eggs across the table. “By the way, you seen Nico?” Alby asked.

“Right behind you.”

Alby turned, just in time to spot Nico standing there, silent as could be, with his own tray of bacony eggs.

“Mind if I sit?” Nico asked, sounding congested.

“Sure. Yeah. Of course,” Alby stuttered, pointing next to him. He hadn’t seen Nico come in, much less get in line or get his food. It was almost as if he’d appeared from nowhere. But what unnerved Alby more than anything else was the simple fact that Nico was now sitting at Alby’s table. Except for Arkansas Ovalface and…well, Julian…almost no one ever sat at Alby’s table.

Otherwise, like
any morning, everyone was in his usual place. Timothy and the meatheads were at their regular table. The marine guards were at their regular table. And at the front of the room, Colonel Doggett sat alone at the head of his own regular table.

“You eating your biscuit?” Arkansas asked Nico.

“Leave me alone, Ovalface,” Nico threatened, putting a hand on his biscuit and pulling out a familiar paperback book. The same book that had been on Nico’s bed last night. Julian’s old book.
The Diary of Dr. Mudd
, one of Abraham Lincoln’s killers.

When Alby woke up twenty minutes ago, of course he’d wanted to tell someone—to tell
anyone
—what he’d seen last night. But as he watched Nico sit there, hunched over and lost in the pages of the last book Julian was seen reading, something told Alby to keep his mouth shut. At least until he had more info.

For a while, Alb
y
sat there, eyeing Colonel Doggett at the head table. Doggett didn’t look at Alby, didn’t even glance in his direction. If Doggett knew that Alby had been there last night, ducking behind the date palm tree, Alby wouldn’t even be here this morning, right?

For sure
, Alby decided.
Had to be.

Ten minutes later, th
e
colonel wiped his mouth and bused his tray. Leaving his table, Doggett nodded a hello to the marine guards, and another to Dr. Moorcraft. But as the colonel slid his dirty cafeteria tray into the rolling rack, Alby realized that Doggett was doing the one thing he never did on
any
morning: He was headed for the Plankholders’ tables.

“Everybody get a good night’s sleep?” Colonel Doggett asked, stopping midway between the meatheads’ table and Alby’s.

“Yes, sir,” Timothy shot back along with a few others. Nico didn’t react at all, didn’t even look up from his book.

For a half-second—no more than that—the colonel’s dirt brown eyes turned to Nico, then to Alby. Nico still didn’t look up. It was just a half-second. It felt like an eternity.

“I like the bacon in the eggs. Makes it good, right?” the colonel asked to another round of
Yes, sir
s.

That was it.

Doggett didn’t look at Nico again. Didn’t look at Alby either. But Alby was looking at him, studying the colonel’s face, his exclamation point stance, and the only thing he was carrying: a manila file folder tucked under his arm.

No big deal. Every colonel has files. But as Doggett nodded goodbye and pivoted toward the door, Alby couldn’t help but think that somewhere on this island there had to be other files. Records that could explain what was really going on.

“Mind if I eat the hash browns too?” Arkansas asked Alby.

Without a word, Alby got up from his seat.

As the colonel shoved the screen door open and left the cafeteria, Alby followed directly behind him.

Alby knew what he had to do, and where to find what he was looking for.