The Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer Page A

putty. But up close, even in this bad light, the lumpy texture of it makes his forehead and cheeks look like a melted candle. His skin isn’t red, it’s pink. Whatever happened, it was years ago. But he was burned badly. His nose is square at the tip from whatever surgery put it back together. His eyebrows are tattooed on. His black hair covers what’s left of his ears. I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s been through.
    I try to say something, but the only thing I can think of is just how much I don’t know this person anymore.
    As Marshall continues steering the curve of the ramp, I try to picture the chubby kid with glasses from the treehouse. He’s not there. Today, the new Marshall’s posture is perfect, his shoulders square and unmoving. Even through his wool peacoat, I can see he’s compact, but all muscle. And somehow, there’s an ease about him, like a poker player who already knows the order of all the cards in the deck.
    The thing is, as I notice his flat grin, something tells me that even if he didn’t know the order of the cards, he’d still be just as confident. No matter how much I was trying to surprise Marshall, it feels like he always knew I was coming.
    “So how long have you lived here?”
    Marshall stares straight ahead.
    I’ve lived in Washington long enough to know what people do with silence. The CIA uses it as an interrogation technique, knowing that the longer you stay quiet, the faster you get people to talk. Reporters do the same. So if that’s the game Marshall’s playing, he’s about to learn that there’s no one more patient, or more comfortable in their own silence, than an archivist.
    My ears pop as the ramp dumps us on the fifth level underground. As we pull into one of the many open parking spots, I don’t know why he took us down this far. Whoever else is in this building, most of them are gone.
    Still silent, Marshall hops out, his pale, bumpy face peering back at me through the car’s front window. I follow him in silence as he shoves open a red metal fire door, and we enter a fluorescent-lit concrete room with a dull metal elevator. He’s got his back to me, but now that we’re both standing, I see he’s shorter than I am.
    I remember him always being a few inches taller. It messes with the perspective of my memories, like when you go home and see how tiny your childhood room looks.
    “How did you know I was looking for you?” I ask as the doors of the elevator stretch wide.
    He doesn’t answer as we step inside. He waves his hand in frontof the small black rectangle that’s set just above all the elevator’s call buttons. He’s got a key fob in his hand that allows access to the building.
    The button for the twelfth floor lights up automatically, and we rise quickly.
    “Marsh, I asked you a—”
    “I go by
Marshall
now,” he interrupts, forcing his grin back into place.
    “Marshall,” I correct myself, making note of the sore spot. “Listen, Marshall—I appreciate the Clint Eastwood silent thing you’ve got going, but c’mon… how often do you get drop-in visits from people you haven’t seen since puberty?”
    He laughs at that one, making the waxy skin on his neck wriggle.
    His peacoat is open now. I notice how his burns continue down his neck, into the collar of his pristine white dress shirt. Is he burned all over his body?
    I look down at his hands, and for the first time realize he’s wearing gloves. A small pool of sweat fills the dimple of my top lip, and I wonder if the decision to come here was one of the stupidest of my life.
    “You’re staring, Beecher.”
    I don’t look away.
    “If you want to ask about my burns, just ask.”
    I pause, staying with him. “How’d you get burned?”
    “By a fire,” he says, his eyes narrowing into a grin.
    “I just want to know how you’re doing, Marshall.”
    The elevator doors open, but we’re not in a hallway. It’s a small entry with a single wooden door. This is a private elevator,