The Perfect Candidate

by Peter Stone

  “Anyway, I don’t even know what I’m saying. It’s two a.m., and you kind of blindsided me tonight, Cam.”

  “Can we not talk about it again?” I asked her. More of a demand than a request.

  “Gladly,” she answered. “How ’bout you start by not giving us anything more to talk about on that subject?”

  A kind robot GPS voice in the car announced that we had arrived at the destination.

  I opened the passenger door and turned toward her.

  “I’m serious,” she urged. “I don’t want to lose two staffers this summer.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I responded. “And the chat. You’re right. I’m done asking other people’s questions.” What she wants to hear, I thought. Whatever makes her think I’m not going to poke around anymore. . . .

  She kept the car in park until the front door of my apartment building clicked behind me. As I walked toward the door of our unit, I pulled out both of my phones. There was a text message from Berto on my phone and another from Memo on the flip phone. I checked Memo’s first.

  You told him your name, didn’t you?

  Followed by, You’ve stepped in the mud with your socks on. Can’t get dry now. . . .

  As I clicked the key in the lock of the door and started to open it, I heard a rumble on the other side, followed by the crash of a lamp and a light bulb. Then total silence. With the door completely ajar and darkness beyond it, I froze. The hallway light framed me from behind, and my soft shadow fell on the ground in front of me. Whoever had knocked over the lamp was watching me from the deep black inside. Our standoff lasted for about four deep breaths before I flipped on the living room light, like the click of a revolver in Russian roulette.

  I heard the scream before I saw who it came from.

  It was Hillary. Sitting on top of Zeph. In what appeared to be the middle of a very romantic moment. Screaming at me.

  “Close the door!” shouted Hillary as Zeph leaped from the couch. Caught. “Can’t you knock?”

  “I live here,” I said, my eyes still taking in the bewildering scene.

  “Well, hardly anymore,” Hillary snapped. “And what’s with that granny housedress nightmare situation?”

  I froze and wondered how much of my night was given away by my alarming appearance. “Long story, involving an aggressive sprinkler system and a very solicitous night clerk in the CVS clothing section.” I shrugged it off and deflected back to them. “You guys . . . So this explains all of the fighting.”

  “Um, yes,” admitted Zeph, before breaking into a deep belly laugh.

  “Well, what do you expect us to do?” asked Hillary. “Now that you’ve abandoned us and never tell us where you go anymore!”

  Zeph laughed harder.

  “Don’t laugh, Zephy,” demanded Hillary. “Seriously, it’s not funny,” she said as she picked up the pieces of the broken light bulb and let out a snort.

  “Zephy?” I asked.

  They both exploded into laughter. She playfully hit Zeph. He kissed her back.

  “You’ve outed us, Cam,” he said. “And in a very Hitchcockian fashion. That was quite the dramatic entrance. A robe and a heavy bag of . . . something . . .”

  “My clothes,” I explained.

  “Ugh, weirdo,” moaned Hillary as she dragged Zeph into her room.

  “Good night!” chirped Zeph as Hillary slammed her bedroom door.

  I locked the front door and cleaned up the rest of the shattered light bulb.

  Then checked to make sure the door was locked.

  Then checked four more times, before closing my own bedroom door. My heart thumped in response to every creak of the wall, window crack, and chortle of the air-conditioning. All night long.

  20

  Washington, DC, did heat with great pride and creativity. Every summer day, the city found new combinations of temperature, humidity, and furnace-like breezes to make people question whether they would actually die before walking another street block. They were not the dry, hot pool days of Lagrima; these felt like Mother Nature burping out a thick blast of hot breath on the mere mortals below.

  A little over a week had passed—a thankfully uneventful stretch of days where for moments at a time, I actually felt like a normal intern. And never more “normal” than when I was parked on the Mall—the southwest corner of Constitution Avenue and Fifteenth Street to be exact. I was fulfilling the distinguished intern task of reserving a softball field for our office’s weekly face-off against some Texas rep’s team that afternoon. Having used up the junior staff, Hillary, and Zeph already, Jigar informed me that it was my turn to race to the base of the Washington Monument and squat on the field for two and a half hours—just as the sun hovered directly overhead. I barely made it. By the time I was sitting in the office’s ancient folding beach chair, I saw other lucky interns racing to the empty fields. Like a desperate land rush, to which all of our professional futures were somehow linked. The first intern who arrived to find that all of the seven fields had been taken shouted multiple expletives and stormed back to Capitol Hill, where ridicule and ostracizing no doubt awaited in the office.

  “You can’t just leave a pylon or a pile of stuff in the middle of the field and walk away, because someone will take it from you,” Jigar had instructed. “You must sit in the middle of the field, the entire time. No pee breaks, no movement at all.”

  “And don’t talk to strangers.” Nadia laughed, with a knowing gaze that made me give her a double take and myself second thoughts about going out there for so long, alone. I would be a sitting duck, and it wasn’t strangers I was worried about. It was someone about whom I knew too much.

  Though I cursed Jigar’s name, I obeyed and watched a slow drip of sweat from my forehead splat down on the increasingly wet dirt. The accumulation of sweat formed a tiny mud puddle, which a parade of ants efficiently bypassed as they went about their day. I envisioned the long, sizzling days in Lagrima, when I drove from lawn to interminable lawn. I could even hear my lawn mower, chugging away at the tufts of grass. Getting the job done. One hour closer to dinner at Berto’s house. . . .

  I looked up to see that I was actually hearing a real lawn mower trekking across the Mall. The man rode in a shaded John Deere ZTrak Zero, and I was instantly jealous. Those things cost a fortune. My dad laughed at me when I suggested that we buy one. I tracked the beautiful lawn mower as it neatly combed the broad swath of grass. Left and right, and left again. And though I’m usually quick to critique others’ lawn mowing, this guy was good. An artist. Never crossed the same patch twice, nice racetrack finish, continuous flow. I told myself that the next time he drove near my field, I would get up and talk with him. I didn’t care if we lost the field; I had to talk to someone normal for a few minutes. Maybe he’d let me do a test drive.

  And then I heard a low, calm voice from behind. “You will not get up. You will not turn around.”

  My shoulders swiveled slightly before I could process the words and froze in place.

  “You will listen carefully to every word I say right now.”

  His voice was quiet but commanding—and urgent—like an angry but restrained surgeon methodically issuing instructions in an operating room.

  My body temperature instantly shot up. My subtly shaking head felt like it was in a vise, ready to pop open.

  “Who are you?” I asked, clearing my throat halfway through the question.

  “You should know. You called me,” he replied with a chuckle. “I’m Ray Burns.”

  Though he didn’t have the unsettlingly upbeat tone from my hasty phone call, I could tell this was the man I called. It was Russell Meteer. It felt like the bottom of my stomach opened up and all of my insides crushed the parade of ants below. I futilely scanned the Mall for Memo. And as the lawn mower man drew near, I wanted to shout to him.

  “You will not draw attention to us.” As if he knew my thoughts.

  I looked down at his shallow midday shadow on the ground and saw that he
was gently swaying back and forth.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Meteer?” I asked.

  He let out a short gasp when I mentioned his name. Or was it a cough? Followed by, “The last time someone called that phone number, it was a nice little girl by the name of Ariel Lancaster. You know her, I presume?”

  “Yes, I know her.” I sat captive and felt the dark, sorrowful weight of his presence behind me. “Knew her.”

  I watched as the lawn mower crossed a dirt pathway and drove closer to the Capitol. Away from me. Away from us.

  “Such a shame what happened,” he said. “The roads aren’t safe. . . .”

  I imagined that he was holding a tiny needle that would inject some poison into my body that would make it look like I’d died of heat stroke. Surely people like him had access to things like that. Or a simple snap of my neck and he’s on with his day. A man who was really good at killing people in broad daylight stood inches from my back, the heat from his body radiating along my shoulders.

  “I was supposed to meet Ariel the day after her body smashed into a dashboard of the car that uprooted that tree along the Potomac. Did you know the tree’s still there, all tilted? Halfway out of the ground. Visited it this morning . . .”

  “What do you want?” I asked. Even though I was sitting down, I knew my heart was beating faster than that of a panting, athletic woman who jogged by. She obliviously glanced at me and smiled.

  “You can help me,” he stated.

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone for you,” I said. “I won’t do that.”

  “You’re not going to hurt anyone who didn’t have it coming anyway,” he clarified.

  The lawn mower was now a tiny green-and-yellow speck, chugging along two football fields away on the Mall. I wanted to follow it—I wanted to go home. I cursed every step that had gotten me to this impossible place—my stupid phone call, Memo, coming to DC, getting the offer from that lady in the district office. I wanted to undo all of it. Nothing was worth this.

  “We need to talk, somewhere more secure,” he said. “When your teammates aren’t minutes away.”

  “Interns aren’t even allowed to play. . . .” I brooded.

  “We need to talk,” he repeated.

  “I’m not coming alone,” I told him.

  “You want to bring Memo?” he asked. Of course he knew who Memo was. “Sure, bring him. He can help too. Wasn’t much help to Ariel, though . . .”

  “Did you do something to her?” I asked.

  “The Awakening. Thursday at sunrise.”

  “What did you do to her?” I repeated, just a little more boldly.

  He ignored me. “And no crying to that pathetic chief of staff of BIB’s. I can see how much you look up to her. . . .”

  “She’s not pathetic,” I said, as I realized my hiding place at Katie’s was not as secure as I had thought. Nothing was as secure as I had thought. When you don’t know who’s watching you, you don’t know what’s being watched.

  A strong breeze drew a patch of dirt high into the air, where it dissolved. My eardrums were thumping with every beat of my heart.

  “What is The Awakening?” I asked. But there was no response and no shadow at the base of my chair. I took ten deep breaths before slowly turning around to see that there was no one standing there.

  Russell Meteer had disappeared.

  “Nice work, Cam!” shouted Marcus from two fields away. “You picked the best softball field!”

  Zeph and Hillary were close behind, pinkie fingers discreetly linked.

  I ripped the flip phone out of my pocket and texted Memo: He found me. He wants to talk with us. Thursday, sunrise.

  Marcus balanced the bases with a bag of bats and balls as he speed-walked toward me, already sweating profusely. “Thanks,” he said, before walking around the field to put each base in its place.

  “Sure.” I flashed him a quick smile, an annoyed smile. And stared at the screen of the phone, where Memo’s reply appeared.

  Are you okay? Where does he want to meet?

  I typed back quickly, Yes, fine. He wants help. Said something about The Awakening.

  I’ll pick you up Thursday at 5:30-ish. Be ready, Memo answered.

  “Did you bring the orange slices?” asked Marcus, already out of breath.

  “Jigar didn’t say anything about . . .” I trailed off.

  “Just joshin’ ya.” Marcus laughed before exploding into a violent coughing fit.

  The rest of our office team showed up, along with the Texans. I continued to sit in the middle of the field, staring at the dirt.

  I saw Katie’s feet on the ground in front of me before she asked a loaded “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I replied and looked up at her. A lump grew and settled into the bottom of my throat. And she heard it.

  “What’s happening, Cameron? You look pretty shaken up,” she assessed. “You’re not . . . ,” she said as she made particularly concerned eye contact with me.

  I couldn’t talk to her. Meteer said so, and he was probably watching from nearby. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I had to get away. I stood up and acted out what I guessed he would want to see.

  “Well, I’ve been sitting in ninety-five-degree weather with ninety-five percent humidity for three hours so all of you can play softball. So excuse me if I’m a little out of it.”

  “Cameron . . .” Her voice was as worried as it was disciplinary.

  “I don’t have to stay for the game, do I?”

  “No, but we could use some help in the cheering department,” she responded. “The Texans are intense.”

  “Good luck,” I said as I folded up the chair and walked away from Katie, to home base. I dropped the chair near Marcus’s stash and walked toward Constitution Avenue.

  “You’re not staying for the game?” whined Jigar. I didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

  The one time I looked back at the field, I could see Katie, still staring back at me with her head slightly cocked to one side.

  21

  When one is planning to meet a likely hired killer at a mysterious location at sunrise, it seems sensible to give a heads-up to someone close to you. In case of disappearance, dismemberment, or, you know, unintentional “suicide.” Or a conveniently fatal drunk-driving accident. At least someone would know where I was going and what was going down. So the truth wouldn’t die with me. So this viral infection of knowledge could be passed on to someone else.

  At that point, Berto would not have understood. And if he sensed any real fear (which he would definitely sense), he would go running to my dad. And Dad probably would have called the Lagrima Police Department, which would have been the opposite of helpful. Katie was out, because she thought I wasn’t “asking crazy questions” anymore.

  Zeph and Hillary were nowhere to be found. Probably making out in some abandoned corner of a Smithsonian museum. Love in the “Textiles from the 1700s” room. And the only thing Hillary loved more than hearing secrets was telling secrets—like a quartet of viper grannies at the nursing home bridge table.

  This left Lena.

  And explains why I found myself back in Kramerbooks on the eve of my little chat with Russell Meteer.

  As I walked in the door, the scene was remarkably similar to that first date with her. Loner bibliophiles wandered the aisles, new sets of girls’ nights out complained about their boyfriends or lack thereof, and a guy and a girl onstage (he with a ukulele, her with a Casio keyboard) proudly announced themselves in unison as I walked past: “We are Crack Is Whack.”

  Lena was sitting at the same table as before and had taken the liberty of ordering for me.

  “Apple crumble pie, which has raisins you will pick out like a surgeon. And extra vanilla ice cream so you don’t run out this time. Did I get that right?” she asked.

  “Impressive memory,” I said as I sat down and saw that there was just one plate on the table. “No vegan pecan pie for you this time?”

  �
�Not bad recall yourself,” she commented. “How cute! We both remember each other’s orders from our first date.”

  The band earnestly jumped into a song about children and the future and inner beauty.

  “What’s their deal?” I asked Lena.

  “It’s just DC’s best Whitney Houston cover band, that’s all,” she described. “Maybe the only Whitney Houston cover band. Name of the band is a little crass, but at least they’re honoring her memory. It’s a shame, you missed ‘Exhale (Shoop Shoop).’ ”

  “I am finding it hard to follow anything you just said,” I admitted, as I looked down at my vibrating phone, which announced “Humbertonius” was calling. I declined the call.

  “The parents are major Whitney fans. She’s kind of the soundtrack to my childhood. Or, at least, childhood road trips. And every Saturday morning. And junior prom, when my dad hijacked the DJ and dedicated ‘All the Man I Need’ to me and said the song was about how I felt about him.”

  “Obscure family culture, I get it,” I said. I did. “Do you know Barry Manilow?”

  “Didn’t he run for president in the 1960s?” she asked.

  “No, but we’re even in the weird-family-music-obsession department,” I responded. “And it’s ‘Goldwater,’ by the way.”

  “Oh, right! That poor little girl holding the daisy, no idea that Barry Goldwater was about to obliterate her with an atom bomb . . .”

  “The birth of the modern negative attack ad . . . ,” I mused.

  “LBJ was a bastard,” she added.

  “LBJ was a pragmatist,” I countered.

  “Okay, we’re being way too ‘DC’ right now,” she declared. “This is the conversation I’m supposed to be eavesdropping on and making fun of—not having myself.”

  Our forks intertwined on the plate as we simultaneously reached for a bite of gooey, crumbly pie. I pulled my fork away and motioned, Ladies first. I thought about telling her the truth about my summer right then, but these last few moments of her ignorance were sweet and comfortable. So I batted down those thoughts in my head—like trying to plunge a basketball to the bottom of a pool. Only a short matter of time before it bursts out . . .