diamond. It took hours, and over thirty needles, to reproduce the mark.
But again, that’s how it was written. That’s how it had to end.
Inside the church, he climbed another short set of steps and made a quick left, scanning the empty desks and cubicles in the narrow church office that sat behind a long wall of glass. The custodian was still on the far right side of the building, opening the chapel.
The Knight knew this place even better than St. John’s. And this time, he wouldn’t be limited to a one-shot revolver. In his right pocket, he felt the British Bulldog pistol. It had a white ivory inlaid grip and five bullets in its chamber.
Back in 1881, on the day Guiteau bought his gun, the owner of the shop told him that he could save money if he bought the same pistol without the white ivory handle. Guiteau wouldn’t hear of it. He knew that when the act was done, this was a gun that would be on display. The elegant inlaid grip was the only choice.
From there, Guiteau left nothing to chance, spending nearly a month trailing President Garfield and learning his schedule. He even followed Garfield to church, peering through the window to see if he could shoot him in his pew.
Today, the Knight was no different. In less than an hour, history would be made. He’d put in the time. And bought the antique gun. And paid for the specially made inlaid handle. Most important, he’d mastered every detail of Foundry Church, from the building’s layout to every employee in it.
On his left, as he reached the end of the hallway, the Knight peered into the office suite, eyeing his eventual destination—the private office of the new pastor, who everyone knew came in at exactly 9 a.m.
On his right, he shoved open the door to the men’s room and made his way to the back stall, which had a sign reading
Out of Order
on it. He had put the sign there two days ago. Lifting the tank cover off the toilet, he pulled out the plastic bag that held a white plaster mask—a duplicate of the death mask made from Abraham Lincoln’s face, but with eyeholes cut into it—that he’d hidden during the dry run.
A glance at his watch told him he was right on time. In sync with his predecessor. In sync with God’s plans.
At 9:25, the next lamb—perhaps the most vital lamb—would take his fall.
Until then, the Knight would do exactly what the assassin Guiteaudid when he was in the train station waiting to put a bullet in President Garfield.
Kneeling down on one knee, the Knight reached into his pocket and pulled out a small round tin and a horsehair brush that was about the size of a chalkboard eraser. With a twist of the metal tin, the bitter chemical smell of shoe polish filled the air. Dipping the brush into the tin, he dabbed a swirl of black shoe polish onto his loafers.
Small circles… then brush
, he reminded himself.
Small circles… then brush.
It was no different with the Knights.
Small circles were the strongest circles.
12
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
N ico didn’t like the new building.
“Nico, you’re gonna love the new building,” the heavy male nurse named Rupert Baird called out. “It’s beautiful, right?”
Walking through the gravel parking lot, Nico didn’t answer. He preferred the old building—the redbrick John Howard Pavilion—which for decades had housed the most dangerous of the NGIs. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.
Today, the John Howard Pavilion was being closed, and all of its patients were being moved to the brand-new facility that had been built directly next door.
“Wait till you see inside,” Rupert said. “New rooms… new TVs… a relaxation garden… You’re gonna think you’re at a damn hotel.”
Nico glanced up at the modern building. It was squat in shape and had only three floors, and from the flat shine on the windows, Nico could tell they were high-impact glass, maybe even bulletproof.
“
I don’t like it either
,” added the dead First Lady, whom he killed
But again, that’s how it was written. That’s how it had to end.
Inside the church, he climbed another short set of steps and made a quick left, scanning the empty desks and cubicles in the narrow church office that sat behind a long wall of glass. The custodian was still on the far right side of the building, opening the chapel.
The Knight knew this place even better than St. John’s. And this time, he wouldn’t be limited to a one-shot revolver. In his right pocket, he felt the British Bulldog pistol. It had a white ivory inlaid grip and five bullets in its chamber.
Back in 1881, on the day Guiteau bought his gun, the owner of the shop told him that he could save money if he bought the same pistol without the white ivory handle. Guiteau wouldn’t hear of it. He knew that when the act was done, this was a gun that would be on display. The elegant inlaid grip was the only choice.
From there, Guiteau left nothing to chance, spending nearly a month trailing President Garfield and learning his schedule. He even followed Garfield to church, peering through the window to see if he could shoot him in his pew.
Today, the Knight was no different. In less than an hour, history would be made. He’d put in the time. And bought the antique gun. And paid for the specially made inlaid handle. Most important, he’d mastered every detail of Foundry Church, from the building’s layout to every employee in it.
On his left, as he reached the end of the hallway, the Knight peered into the office suite, eyeing his eventual destination—the private office of the new pastor, who everyone knew came in at exactly 9 a.m.
On his right, he shoved open the door to the men’s room and made his way to the back stall, which had a sign reading
Out of Order
on it. He had put the sign there two days ago. Lifting the tank cover off the toilet, he pulled out the plastic bag that held a white plaster mask—a duplicate of the death mask made from Abraham Lincoln’s face, but with eyeholes cut into it—that he’d hidden during the dry run.
A glance at his watch told him he was right on time. In sync with his predecessor. In sync with God’s plans.
At 9:25, the next lamb—perhaps the most vital lamb—would take his fall.
Until then, the Knight would do exactly what the assassin Guiteaudid when he was in the train station waiting to put a bullet in President Garfield.
Kneeling down on one knee, the Knight reached into his pocket and pulled out a small round tin and a horsehair brush that was about the size of a chalkboard eraser. With a twist of the metal tin, the bitter chemical smell of shoe polish filled the air. Dipping the brush into the tin, he dabbed a swirl of black shoe polish onto his loafers.
Small circles… then brush
, he reminded himself.
Small circles… then brush.
It was no different with the Knights.
Small circles were the strongest circles.
12
St. Elizabeths Hospital
Washington, D.C.
N ico didn’t like the new building.
“Nico, you’re gonna love the new building,” the heavy male nurse named Rupert Baird called out. “It’s beautiful, right?”
Walking through the gravel parking lot, Nico didn’t answer. He preferred the old building—the redbrick John Howard Pavilion—which for decades had housed the most dangerous of the NGIs. Not Guilty by reason of Insanity.
Today, the John Howard Pavilion was being closed, and all of its patients were being moved to the brand-new facility that had been built directly next door.
“Wait till you see inside,” Rupert said. “New rooms… new TVs… a relaxation garden… You’re gonna think you’re at a damn hotel.”
Nico glanced up at the modern building. It was squat in shape and had only three floors, and from the flat shine on the windows, Nico could tell they were high-impact glass, maybe even bulletproof.
“
I don’t like it either
,” added the dead First Lady, whom he killed
Similar Books
