hands on the patients… especially the ones who’re making actual progress.” Turning to Nico, Gosling forced a smile and added, “You okay, Nico?”
“I want to go to my room.”
Rupert could barely keep from rolling his eyes. Every doctor was careful with Nico, but Gosling was one of the few who built a careeron it. A decade ago, Gosling had been the junior member on Nico’s team—and the doctor credited with persuading Nico to stop plucking his eyelashes and using them to form tiny crosses that only he could see.
These days, Gosling was one of the hospital’s top administrators, in charge of not just the new facility’s operations but also making sure it opened without incident. And though Gosling insisted that his vintage movie ties were a way to seem accessible to the patients, everyone knew that he preferred the King Kong tie over the others. That’s how he saw himself: King Kong.
The biggest of them all.
“Take him to his room, then you can go to TLC,” Gosling told Rupert.
“I want my calendar, and my book too,” Nico said, his voice back to its usual steady monotone.
“We’ll get those both to you,” Gosling promised.
“
He will
,” the dead First Lady said. “
He means it.
”
Nico’s chocolate brown eyes, set so close together, stayed locked on Dr. Gosling.
“Keep up the beautiful progress,” Gosling added, patting Nico on the back and heading up the hallway.
“You’re supposed to take me to my room now,” Nico told Rupert.
“I heard him,” Rupert said as he led Nico toward the elevators.
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need!” Dr. Gosling called out.
Nico looked down at his watch. 9:25 a.m. The exact time Charles Guiteau shot President Garfield.
Nico’s lips curved into a thin smile. After all these years, he would finally have everything he needed.
13
Three minutes earlier
Foundry Church
P astor Kenneth Frick wore a little digital monitor on his left shoe that counted his steps. Two hundred and twelve steps for him to get dressed, comb his sandy blond hair, and mix his Cheerios with blueberry yogurt in the morning. Twenty-three steps to get from his kitchen to the front door of his small Capitol Hill townhouse. Then the full 1,958 steps that it took him to walk the three miles from Capitol Hill to the front door of Foundry Church every morning. Unlike St. John’s, the site of last night’s attack, across the street from the White House, Foundry Church was in a struggling neighborhood, not one most people walk to.
The monitor wasn’t Pastor Frick’s idea. It came from the church’s insurance company, which for every step he (or any of his employees) took gave a wellness discount (up to a total of twenty thousand steps per month). If he expected his staff to do it, the pastor had to lead the way.
It was the same when he was a boy. He wasn’t from an overly religious family, yet Frick was the one who used to drag his mother to Sunday sermons, making him the only five-year-old in their poor Indiana town who could tie his own tie. Back then, Kenneth was drawn to the church because it was the only place his father wouldn’t lay hands on them. But as he got older, Frick was captivatedby the
mystery
of the church—the way it could broaden life beyond what you can touch, feel, and grasp.
“Anybody here besides God?” Frick called out with the same old joke he used every morning. He knew the answer. Except for the custodian, he was always the first one in. Right at nine, which was now his custom.
It’d been barely four months since Frick—only an associate pastor in title—had been assigned to the church, taking over while the head pastor was traveling in New Zealand. Frick felt blessed to be selected, but it took him over a month to work up the courage to cancel the free fruit smoothies that brought in parishioners to the late Sunday service. This was still Lincoln’s Church. Wearing a digital monitor on your shoe for an insurance discount was
“I want to go to my room.”
Rupert could barely keep from rolling his eyes. Every doctor was careful with Nico, but Gosling was one of the few who built a careeron it. A decade ago, Gosling had been the junior member on Nico’s team—and the doctor credited with persuading Nico to stop plucking his eyelashes and using them to form tiny crosses that only he could see.
These days, Gosling was one of the hospital’s top administrators, in charge of not just the new facility’s operations but also making sure it opened without incident. And though Gosling insisted that his vintage movie ties were a way to seem accessible to the patients, everyone knew that he preferred the King Kong tie over the others. That’s how he saw himself: King Kong.
The biggest of them all.
“Take him to his room, then you can go to TLC,” Gosling told Rupert.
“I want my calendar, and my book too,” Nico said, his voice back to its usual steady monotone.
“We’ll get those both to you,” Gosling promised.
“
He will
,” the dead First Lady said. “
He means it.
”
Nico’s chocolate brown eyes, set so close together, stayed locked on Dr. Gosling.
“Keep up the beautiful progress,” Gosling added, patting Nico on the back and heading up the hallway.
“You’re supposed to take me to my room now,” Nico told Rupert.
“I heard him,” Rupert said as he led Nico toward the elevators.
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need!” Dr. Gosling called out.
Nico looked down at his watch. 9:25 a.m. The exact time Charles Guiteau shot President Garfield.
Nico’s lips curved into a thin smile. After all these years, he would finally have everything he needed.
13
Three minutes earlier
Foundry Church
P astor Kenneth Frick wore a little digital monitor on his left shoe that counted his steps. Two hundred and twelve steps for him to get dressed, comb his sandy blond hair, and mix his Cheerios with blueberry yogurt in the morning. Twenty-three steps to get from his kitchen to the front door of his small Capitol Hill townhouse. Then the full 1,958 steps that it took him to walk the three miles from Capitol Hill to the front door of Foundry Church every morning. Unlike St. John’s, the site of last night’s attack, across the street from the White House, Foundry Church was in a struggling neighborhood, not one most people walk to.
The monitor wasn’t Pastor Frick’s idea. It came from the church’s insurance company, which for every step he (or any of his employees) took gave a wellness discount (up to a total of twenty thousand steps per month). If he expected his staff to do it, the pastor had to lead the way.
It was the same when he was a boy. He wasn’t from an overly religious family, yet Frick was the one who used to drag his mother to Sunday sermons, making him the only five-year-old in their poor Indiana town who could tie his own tie. Back then, Kenneth was drawn to the church because it was the only place his father wouldn’t lay hands on them. But as he got older, Frick was captivatedby the
mystery
of the church—the way it could broaden life beyond what you can touch, feel, and grasp.
“Anybody here besides God?” Frick called out with the same old joke he used every morning. He knew the answer. Except for the custodian, he was always the first one in. Right at nine, which was now his custom.
It’d been barely four months since Frick—only an associate pastor in title—had been assigned to the church, taking over while the head pastor was traveling in New Zealand. Frick felt blessed to be selected, but it took him over a month to work up the courage to cancel the free fruit smoothies that brought in parishioners to the late Sunday service. This was still Lincoln’s Church. Wearing a digital monitor on your shoe for an insurance discount was
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