The President's Shadow (21 page)

G
-Go screw yourself,” Marshall said, fighting to take a breath and feeling like there was a thorn in his lungs.

“Before you say no—” Ezra began.

“I already said no. If you want to keep fighting…I-I told you where to put your next bullet,” he said, crawling away from Ezra, away from the barely conscious Clementine. Marshall’s body was in shock. His armpit was burning. He cupped the bullet wound with one hand as blood seeped between his fingers, leaving a trail of droplets behind him. Based on his breathing, the bullet hadn’t gone clean through his armpit. Something internal was hit.

“Where you going? To your car?” Ezra asked. “Don’t be such a martyr. You know you’re not leaving Clementine behind. And you’re certainly in no shape to move her. It’s really a teachable moment: At times like this, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone you can call for help?”

“Eff you. You shot me.”

“Would you’ve talked to me otherwise? Should I have just texted you a quick note instead:
Wanna hear about the Knights? Smiley face!?
”

Crawling on his belly, Marshall looked down at his shirt, where a small spot of blood was growing next to his nipple. The bullet had ricocheted off his ribs. “You’re a sick person, and you don’t even know how sick you are,” Marshall said, coughing the words as his lungs tightened. “Your so-called Knights—”

“You have no idea what the Knights are!”

“I know
exactly
what the Knights are! You think we don’t know about the buried arms? Or that Clementine didn’t tell me about the maudlin little photo you carry around of you and your grandfather meeting Ronald Reagan? Y’know how many grip-and-grin photos a U.S. President takes? Reagan probably took—
ahuh
—he probably took eighty
just that day
! It doesn’t mean you’re special! And it certainly doesn’t mean you’re on some holy mission! You’re a child who’s chasing the Culper Ring for nothing more than imagined revenge.”

Ezra stood there, posture square as ever, licking his own busted lip from the car crash. “You put a lot of faith in the Culper Ring considering how little you know about them.”

“Whatever you’re about to say, you’re a liar,” Marshall insisted, still belly-crawling to the car, each new breath bringing new pain.

“Ask this: Do you have any idea who’s in charge of the Culper Ring, or what they really stand for? Or are you just as naïve as Beecher?”

Marshall stopped, glancing back over his shoulder. Ezra’s clothes were brand-new. Herringbone coat. Polo shirt. Overpriced dark jeans. But the way his jeans were bunched at the waist, held in place by his belt… They didn’t quite fit. Like he was wearing someone else’s clothes. It was the same with his belt. The prong of the belt pointed left, like you see with someone left-handed. But Ezra was holding his gun with his right. Something was off. Why would someone dress like someone else?

“Unsettling thought, right?” Ezra asked. “You think you’re playing for the Culper Ring angels, but what if you picked the wrong side?”

“Tell me why you put that coin in the buried arm.”

“You really are lost, aren’t you? When someone sends a message—”

“Tell me about my father.”

“First things first. I want you to join us, Marshall. And I think you will…once you hear the real mission of the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

A
.J. studies me, arms crossed over his tie, not saying a word. He always plays pissed when he sees me, but as he stares down at me, his thick ribcage rising and falling, it’s like he’s breathing different.

“I figured you’d be with Francy and the big man,” I challenge.

Casually, he glances up at the tall brick building, studying the fire escape, but not answering.

“Riestra must be pretty invested to come here and do his own legwork,” I add.

A.J. glances around the L-shaped alley like I’m not there.

“A.J., did you hear what I—?”

His eyes slide sideways toward me. He chews on some imaginary gum in his cheek. “No sign of Beecher back here,” he says into his hand mic, eyes perfectly locked on me.

I take a step back, confused. The blue-jeweled lapel pin is gone from his chest. He’s no longer on Wallace duty.

Still in shock, I head toward the side of the alley that leads out to the street.

A.J. shakes his head, then catches himself. This isn’t easy for him. Before he can talk himself out of it, he points with his forehead to the other end of the alley, which cuts behind a neighboring building.

This way…?
I ask with a glance.

He turns his back to me.

I take the hint, running slowly at first, then faster as I hear a window open four stories above us.

“
She said Beecher came this way!
” Riestra shouts from the fire escape.

“I’ll check again!” A.J. shouts back. “You sure he didn’t go up to the roof!?”

I’m running so fast, I don’t hear the answer.

Shooting out of the alley and reaching the street, I make a quick left, back toward Tot’s—

Screeeech.

The car appears from nowhere, bucking to a stop in front of me.

“Don’t look so surprised. C’mon, get in!” an older woman with a wide nose, outdated horn-rimmed glasses, and a silver bob calls out. Usuall
y
, her voice is in my ear, coming through a voice modulator: Amazing Grace aka Immaculate Deception.

“Mac, what’re you—?”

“The Service traced your car. That’s how they knew you were here.”

“Who told you that?” I ask, tugging open the door and sliding into the passenger seat.

She shoots me a look over the brow of her horn-rims. On her wrists are two carpal tunnel Velcro braces. She undoes the Velcro, then redoes it again. “What’s my job, Beecher? You think I don’t have someone in the Service?”

She hits the gas. I’m staring in the passenger rearview, watching the building shrink behind us.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” I ask.

“I just got word about the car on the way here. My hope was, you’
d
be out of there before they came.”

“You were wrong about that.”

“But you know what I’m right about?” she asks. “Riestra isn’t just looking for White Eyelashes anymore. He’s also looking for
you
.”

T
o understand the Knights,” Ezra began as he tucked his antique gun back in his coat, “you first need to understand the Culper Ring.”

“I already know about the Ring,” Marshall shot back, still down on his belly, gritting his teeth to get a deep breath. If he was lucky, the crash was
loud enough that someone called an ambulance. He closed his eyes to listen. Nothing was coming.

“You know the story Beecher told you…and that Tot told him.”

“Just get to the point. If you think the Ring is evil—”

“Evil? You think this is some childhood game? What George Washington built with the Ring…I admire it more than you know. In fact, for those first few years, the Ring worked beautifully. But there are some things the Culper Ring can’t do. Ever hear of Thomas Hickey and William Tryon?”

Marshall shook his head, keeping his chin down. He was finally in position. He had a clear view under the gray car. During the crash, hi
s
gun had gone flying. It should be here somewhere.

“Back in 1776, Thomas Hickey was in charge of protecting one of the military’s biggest generals. Hickey’s friend Tryon was the governor of New York. Together, along with the mayor, they plotted to kill Hickey’s boss, a man named George Washington.” Ezra waited for Marshall to look up, but when he didn’t, he added, “Can you imagine where we’d be today if they succeeded? Forget Benedict Arnold. Thomas Hickey is the name we should remember. But lucky us, the Culper Ring did their job, rounding up Hickey and everyone involved. That’s their mission: to protect the President.”

“They protect the
Presidency
,” Marshall gasped. The thorn in his lung felt like it was slicing downward.

“They
try
to protect the Presidency. But everything has its limits. In the end, Hicke
y
was found guilty and became the first person to be executed for treason in what would be these United States. To send a clear message, George Washington made every member of the military attend the hanging. Twenty thousand men watched as Hickey swung by his snapped neck. Fair punishment, right? Except for this: Hickey was the
only one
punished. The other conspirators—the mayor, even the governor—all the big shots—walked free. As usual. Some say it’s because there wasn’t enough evidence, others say Washington didn’t want another political fight.”

“If you have a point, make it.”

“I looked you up, Marshall. Three years in the marines, then dismissed for not following orders and conduct unbecoming an officer. They asked you to do something you didn’t like, didn’t they? Is that how you got those burns, or did they come from civilian life?”

Still on his belly, Marshall held tight to his wound, his heart beating through his armpit. He scanned around for the gun, but he saw nothing but broken glass.

“The military trained you well, though. So let’s stick with that training,” Ezra added. “What’s the most important punch in a fight?”

Marshall didn’t answer.

“You know this: the first one,” Ezra said. “So when Governor Tryon’s group tried to kill George Washington—
and got to walk away scot-free
!—let’s just say not every member of the Culper Ring thought they should be so forgiving. Don’t forget, this was 1776. The height of the Revolutionary War. Think of the stakes. They took a potshot at our leader. If you’re trying to keep our country safe, do you turn the other cheek…or do you answer them back and let them know they can’t do that again? Within the Ring, the men began to talk. And as with any group, it’s like a plate glass window—once there’s a fracture, it slowly begins to spread…until eventuall
y
, there’s a break.”

“I get it,” Marshall grunted through gritted teeth, trying to remember his training. “That splinter group became the Knights of the Golden Circle.”

“You make it sound so simple. I’m not sure they even had a name back then. They were just a few men in the back room of a tavern. Then they added a few more men. Then they had their own meetings, their own discussions. And finally, thei
r
own solutions.

“A few years later, Governor Tryon was found dead from an unnamed illness. And y’know who else was found dead? His son, then his daughter. Tryon’s group never threatened our country again.”

Down on the ground, Marshall stared at the stain of blood that was widening across his shirt. “There’s no victory in murdering children.”

“There’s also no victory in having your enemies slit your throat in the middle of the night. Don’t act like you don’t understand. As a marine, you took an oath to keep this country safe. For over two hundred years, the Knights have done the same thing—by staying in the shadows and taking on the battles no one else wants,” Ezra explained, his voice picking up speed.

“Look at…look at…look at the end of World War II. The U.S. government was spending millions recruiting the Nazis’ top scientists to keep them from working for our enemies. At one point, four of the Nazis’ senior bomb-builders were trying to sneak into the Soviet Union. Three others were making their way to our then-enemies in Egypt. Thanks to the Knights, none of them made it. Was that a
hard
decision? Absolutely. But was it the
right
decision? The safety of two hundred million Americans versus seven backstabbing Nazis determined to kill us? What would you have done, Marshall?” he asked. “The only reason this country’s been able to live in peace for so long is because someone’s out there making those tough choices.”

“I liked your speech better when Jack Nicholson was up on that wall, shouting it at Tom Cruise.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not who you are. Soldiers are always soldiers. They need the fight.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m
right
. I see the way you’re no longer searching under the car, trying to find your gun. You’re no longer picking apart what I’m wearing. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not thinking about the Knights’ mission. Right before 9/11, in the hours
before
those planes flew into the World Trade Center, hundreds of Saudi families left the U.S. in the middle of the night, like they knew what was coming. The Saudi government, with all their oil, walked away scot-free under sovereign immunity. You think that’s the right reaction by our leaders? Is that the country we’re supposed to be?”

Marshall’s only answer was the huffing of his breath.

“I know you’ve wrestled with those same hard decisions. You brought that gun with you today,” Ezra said. “When you came here with Clementine, were you planning to put me under citizen’s arrest, or a solution grounded in a bit more justice?”

For a full minute, Marshall stayed silent. He rolled onto his side, feeling the thorn in his lung. “You said the Culper Ring hunted the Knights. Why?”

“Jack Ruby.”

Marshall scowled. “You’re officially insane.”

“Trust me, when I read the diaries, I was just as doubtful. But you need to understand, for over two hundred years, from John Wilkes Booth to Lee Harvey Oswald, there have always been those who have used the Knights’ name for their own benefit. Booth claimed to be a Knight, though most think it was just a distraction. Oswald was rumored to be one too. Neither of them were true Knights. But in those days after JFK’s death, while our country was still reeling from watching the President’s head explode, LBJ didn’t turn to the Culper Ring. He turned to the Knights and called on a man who would become one of our most famous members.”

“You’re saying Jack Ruby was a Knight?”

“He did what had to be done to keep this country safe. Look at the facts: If Ruby hadn’t fired that famous shot, young communist Lee Harvey Oswald would’ve had a trial that dragged on for months, where he’d rant against our government and pull our attention away from the Soviet threat. Can you imagine putting Jackie Kennedy on the witness stand, where the sleaziest defense lawyers in the world would’ve turned her into a sobbing mess as they forced her to watch, along with the rest of us, the exact moment when her young husband’s brain was spit across her bright pink suit? C’mon, Marshall, answer me honestly: With the Cold War at stake, what was truly better for our country: spending another year reliving JFK’s assassination and being emotionally torn apart, or putting the entire incident squarely behind us?”

Down on the ground, Marshall stared at Ezra, not saying a word. But he still heard the advice his captain had given him when he first enlisted:
I’d rather be judged by eight of my peers than carried in a coffin by eight of them.

“We can’t change who we are,” Ezra added. “You’re different than Beecher. You see what he’ll never see. My grandfather saw it too. The Culper Ring is a perfectly designed shield. And sometimes the President needs a shield to protect him. But sometimes he needs something more aggressive. Something from the shadows.”

Silent, Marshall managed a small grin.

“I know you see it. I
knew
you would. So let me make it official,” Ezra said, reaching his hand out to help Marshall up. “Will you join me as a member of the Kn—?”

The gun erupted with a
pop
, and a burst of blood catapulted forward. Ezra never saw it coming. He was in mid-turn as Clementine stood behind him, swaying and fighting to stand as she pulled the trigger. The bullet should’ve hit Ezra in the back of the head, but as he spun, it blazed through his right cheek, splitting the skin and taking some bone with it.

“
Ahhhh! My face!
” Ezra screamed, stumbling forward and tripping over Marshall, who could barely hold his head up. “
You crazy bitch! I’ll kill you!
”

As Ezra continued to stagger, Marshall rolled onto his back, revealing a wide pool of blood below him.

“Please tell me you know he’s full of shit,” Clementine stuttered, limping toward Marshall.

“S-Shoot him again. Don’t let him go,” Marshall insisted. His face was gray. Each breath was a hard wheeze.

Struggling to keep her balance, Clementine pulled the trigger again, her bald head shiny with sweat. The shot missed, and a neighboring storefront’s glass window shattered. An alarm screamed. That would bring the police.

She stumbled over to Marshall, kneeling at his side. “Oh God—what’d he do to you?” The blood kept coming, pouring from his armpit.

“
Don’t…don’t let him go!
” Marshall yelled, trying to move, but getting nowhere.

In the distance, Ezr
a
turned the corner, still clutching his face as he ran from the plaza. Clementine’s own legs were throbbing. Her face and arms were dotted with cuts. She could either give chase or help Marshall. It was no choice at all.

Hobbling and darting for the herbal shop, which had bandages and medical supplies, Clementine yanked on the door. But as she stepped inside and was embraced by the smell of sandalwood incense, there was no sign of the nurse in the sage green uniform. Or her white cat.

“
Please, I need help!
” Clementine screamed, tasting her own blood in her mouth.
Don’t pass out
, she told herself. “Someone’s been shot!”

No one answered.

Wasting no time, Clementine speed-limped, doing her best to run to the breakroom in back. The refrigerator door that hid the sterile area was wide open. Yet it wasn’t until Clementine stepped inside that she remembered:
That door’s never open
.

“
Mrrrr
,” the skinny white cat murmured from the far left-hand corner.

Clementine jumped at the sound, spinning to find the chubby Asian doctor hunched facedown over the rolling medical cart. The nurse in the sage green uniform was right next to him, facedown over the makeshift dental chair. A thin but crooked dark line ran down both their spines, seeping though the back of their shirts like a skunk stripe.

Blood. From the wet black holes in the back of their heads, neither had known what hit them.

“
Prrrd
,” the cat called out in a trilling sound that was more insistent. At the nurse’s left foot, there was a splatter of blood. The cat kept circling near it, trying to get closer to her owner, yet avoiding the blood.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Run!
Clementine told herself. But instead, her first instinct was…

“C’mere!” she called out, her whole body aching as she scooped up the cat and held him against her chest. Behind her, th
e
drug closet was locked. She rummaged through a few open cabinets, grabbing bandages, gauze, and anything else that looked helpful.

“Don’t fight me, cat!” she warned. As she hobbled back through the herbal shop and out the front door, the sirens doubled in intensity.

“Marshall, we need to go,” she called out, reaching down and grabbing the metal bridge with her fake teeth. She tossed everything, including the cat, into her rental car’s open window.

Marshall didn’t move. His face was pasty, his half-open eyes looking waxy and wet, like he wasn’t in there.

“Marsh, don’t do that! Don’t leave me!” Clementine shouted, grabbing him by his good arm and trying to drag him toward the car. He was too heavy.

The sirens were only getting louder.