by John Helfers
‘‘Exactly.’’ South Africa tossed his glossy blond hair beside Sinaloa. ‘‘This is a bug. The Developers will fix it.’’
Nevada rubbed the stubbly cleft of his chin and met South Africa’s blue-eyed stare. ‘‘Like Idaho?’’ he said slowly.
South Africa straightened his khaki safari shirt and looked away. So did stocky Kamchatka, the recent Russian convert, who had followed him up the steps.
Sinaloa glared. ‘‘I hear that might have been someone else’s fault. Not the Developers.’’
A cold, threatening smile spread across Nevada’s face. He knew exactly whom Sinaloa was talking about.
He was talking about Nevada.
‘‘Then maybe you’d best be careful.’’ Nevada adjusted his gold pinky rings and cracked his knuckles. ‘‘Just in case he can hear what you’re saying.’’
‘‘If, by some wild chance, the same person is responsible for this crime, I hope he does hear me,’’ said Sinaloa. ‘‘I want him to know he won’t get away with what he’s done.’’
‘‘Tell him yourself, when you catch him.’’ Nevada started to walk away.
‘‘I won’t catch him.’’ Sinaloa caught Nevada’s shoulder and held him in place. ‘‘You’re sergeant-at-arms of the House, aren’t you?’’
Nevada sighed and nodded. ‘‘As of twenty-four hours ago. What makes you think I’m ready to catch a killer?’’
Sinaloa let go of Nevada. ‘‘We all know you’ve done this job before.’’ He tightened his bolo tie, pushing the turquoise slide higher into the neck of his black silk shirt. ‘‘Five years ago, yes?’’
‘‘So what?’’ said Nevada.
‘‘So you’ve got experience,’’ said Sinaloa. ‘‘Not just with being sergeant-at-arms, but with losing e-reps on the job.’’
Nevada felt the urge to clock him in the face. Sinaloa couldn’t resist bringing up Idaho—his black mark, his greatest failure, his darkest moment.
His deepest love.
‘‘You’re better qualified than any of us. You have more motivation to solve this than anyone,’’ said Sinaloa. ‘‘You have quite a lot to prove, don’t you?’’
Nevada smirked and loosened the collar of the frilly shirt under his tux jacket. ‘‘You just don’t want to get your hands dirty. None of you ever do.’’
Even as he said it, he knew Sinaloa was right. He knew what people thought of him.
He knew he had a lot to prove.
Sinaloa laughed and walked away. ‘‘You’ll do it. We can all rest easy.’’
‘‘Or rest in peace, pally,’’ muttered Nevada, running a hand over his slick black hair. ‘‘Whichever comes first.’’
‘‘Missouri and I walked out together,’’ said Antarctica, her beautiful silver eyes staring into space. ‘‘He went back in for some papers he’d forgotten, and I left him there.’’ She tucked her long, platinum hair behind her ears, and a single tear rolled down her pale cheek. ‘‘That was the last time I saw him alive.’’
Across the table, Nevada watched Antarctica’s reaction closely. She was the last person to have seen Missouri before the murder, and that earned her a spot on the list of suspects.
She was also a sweet kid, and Nevada didn’t buy her as a killer. She was the youngest e-rep, in fact, from the newest, hundredth state; Antarctica had joined the U.S.A. only one year ago, in 2299. Strikingly beautiful and shining with inner light, the junior Congresswoman gave Nevada an impression of innocence and honesty, not wiles and lies.
For a moment, Nevada looked away from her, directing his gaze across the chamber at the bloody Speaker’s bench. While Nevada interviewed witnesses in the back of the room, other e-reps were up front, clearing the crime scene.
‘‘Did he say anything unusual?’’ Nevada flicked his eyes to Antarctica, then back to the cleanup crew. They’d already removed Missouri’s body, but the blood was another matter. Soap and water didn’t exist in the digital realm, so the e-reps couldn’t scrub out the soaked-in stains.
‘‘Nothing.’’ Antarctica adjusted her white fur wrap. ‘‘Just small talk about today’s vote.’’
As Nevada considered his next question, his fellow e-reps gave up trying to clean the Speaker’s bench. Instead, they draped a red tablecloth over it to hide the blood. ‘‘How close were the two of you?’’
‘‘He was a mentor to me,’’ said Antarctica. ‘‘Even though he was Speaker of the House, he still took the time to show me the ropes.’’
Nevada nodded. He thought the e-reps should’ve left the bench uncovered. Not seeing the blood made it seem bigger and brighter in his imagination.
‘‘And there was nothing else between you?’’ Nevada locked eyes with her. ‘‘Nothing of a more personal nature?’’
Antarctica didn’t flinch. ‘‘No. Nothing.’’
Nevada believed her. His intuition rarely misled him, and he followed it again. ‘‘Okay, fine,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank you for your time.’’
With that, Nevada rose from his chair and called out to the e-reps milling around the chamber. ‘‘Panama,’’ he said. ‘‘Will the great state of Panama please report to the sergeant-at-arms.’’
When Nevada turned back to the interview table, he realized that Antarctica was still sitting there. Her pale hands were folded neatly in front of her, and her silvery eyes were focused coolly on Nevada.
‘‘You’re dismissed, sweetheart,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘Unless you got something else to say?’’
Antarctica nodded grimly. ‘‘I want to help you,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to help find who killed him.’’
Nevada sniffed and fiddled with his tuxedo cufflinks. He could think of two possible reasons for her offer. One, she really did want to do her part to bring the killer to justice.
Or two, she was the killer. Maybe she wanted to divert attention from her own guilt.
Either way, Nevada figured he could use her.
‘‘Why not?’’ he said. ‘‘As long as you don’t mind getting your hands a little dirty.’’
‘‘I’ll do what I have to.’’ Antarctica rose, smoothing the glittering, ice-blue gown that she wore under her fur wrap. ‘‘Missouri was a great state.’’
‘‘Aren’t they all?’’ said Nevada.
Panama was no help. Neither was Jamaica or Wyoming or any of the other states who had been around Missouri before his death.
After hours of questioning one e-rep witness after another, Nevada was no closer to solving the murder. According to the witnesses, Missouri hadn’t said or done a thing out of the ordinary, and no one in his orbit had said or done anything suspicious.
Whatever had happened to Missouri, the only part that wasn’t a mystery was the fact that he was dead.
Frustrated, Nevada marched out of the House chamber through big double doors and into the halls of the digital Capitol building. ‘‘I need some fresh air.’’ Antarctica followed him.
Except for Nevada and Antarctica, the halls were empty. The e-reps, whose sole reason for existing was to vote on le
gislation according to the will of the electorate, rarely ventured outside the House chamber. Neither did the e-senators.
Nevada was the exception to the rule. For him, the peace and quiet beyond the chamber were a bonus. Except for the glitz of Las Vegas, he was a state of wide-open spaces; he did his best thinking away from the endless chatter of his fellow e-reps.
‘‘What’s next?’’ said Antarctica.
Nevada shrugged. ‘‘Missouri’s office, I guess. Root around for some kind of clue.’’
‘‘Like what?’’ said Antarctica. ‘‘What are we looking for?’’
‘‘How should I know?’’ said Nevada. ‘‘I’m no detective.’’
Antarctica frowned. ‘‘What did Sinaloa mean when he said you have experience losing e-reps on the job?’’
Nevada sighed. ‘‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you about Idaho?’’
‘‘I’m new around here,’’ said Antarctica. ‘‘There’s a lot I don’t know.’’
Nevada was relieved that there was one person left who hadn’t heard the story. He almost didn’t tell her, just so he wouldn’t lose that one last unspoiled innocent.
Then, he decided just to get it over with. ‘‘Idaho disappeared five years ago,’’ he said. ‘‘Without a trace. I was sergeant-at-arms at the time, and I couldn’t find her.’’
‘‘So they blame you for losing her?’’ said Antarctica.
‘‘Some of them.’’ Nevada listened to his lizard-skin cowboy boots echoing down the corridor. ‘‘And some think I might have killed her.’’
‘‘What?’’ Antarctica gaped at him. ‘‘How could they think that?’’
‘‘Because we were lovers,’’ said Nevada, and then he stopped in front of a door. ‘‘Well, here we are.’’ The print on the frosted glass bore the name of Missouri. Nevada turned the knob and pushed the door open, following it into Missouri’s office.
Antarctica walked in after him and closed the door. As Nevada rifled drawers and flipped through papers on Missouri’s desk, Antarctica circled the perimeter, watching him with a newly guarded expression.
Nevada knew exactly what she was thinking. He’d seen that look a thousand times before on other faces.
She was wondering if he’d killed his lover. ‘‘Nothing here.’’ After ransacking the desk for a while, Nevada planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. ‘‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’’
‘‘What about that?’’ Antarctica pointed toward the door through which they’d entered. At the base of it, a single sheet of blank paper lay flat on the floor.
‘‘Someone must have slid it under the door while we were busy,’’ said Nevada.
Antarctica picked up the paper. ‘‘Why would somebody slip us a piece of paper with nothing on it?’’
‘‘Depends.’’ Nevada reached out, and she gave him the paper. As soon as his fingers touched the page, black lettering appeared on it. ‘‘Depends who it’s addressed to.’’
Antarctica leaned in close enough that Nevada could smell her sweet gardenia perfume, and they read the note together.
Statue of Liberty, 3PM. Come Alone.
‘‘It’s an invitation,’’ said Nevada. ‘‘Somebody wants to tell me something.’’
‘‘Or maybe this is from the killer,’’ said Antarctica. ‘‘Maybe he wants you to ‘come alone’ so he can kill you.’’
‘‘There’s only one way to find out.’’ Nevada crumpled the paper into his tux jacket pocket and headed for the door. ‘‘And I’d better hurry, since three o’clock is just ten minutes from now.’’
From the windows in the tiara of the Statue of Liberty, Nevada gazed out over the digital realm that was his home.
He could see everything spread out before him— a world of simulated American landmarks, brought together in a single electronic space. Who cared that in the real world, they were nowhere near this close together? All that mattered was that the e-reps and e-sens had plenty of picturesque American backdrops for their speeches and pronouncements.
In the middle of it all, Nevada saw the gleaming white dome of the Capitol building. Northwest of the Capitol jabbed the ivory needle of the Washington Monument; to the southwest rested the Lincoln Memorial. The Liberty Bell hung in a golden tower to the southeast, and Plymouth Rock perched on a pedestal to the northeast.
Straight across the bubble of the digital realm from the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore spanned the horizon, its giant presidential heads gazing out over the city. Niagara Falls roared to the east, and the Grand Canyon sprawled to the west, glowing forever red in the never-dimming sunrise.
As Nevada gazed out at it all, he wondered what it would be like to see such landmarks in the real world. As amazing as they looked in the digital domain, how much more spectacular would they seem in True America? Would he feel different to stand in their presence, to breathe the air and walk upon the soil of the nation he served and loved?
Or would it turn out to be a letdown? For all he knew, it was better in here, in this idealized, compressed simulation. Maybe he had it better than he knew.
Even if he wasn’t going to live forever, the way he’d once thought. Even if Missouri’s death was a precursor to his own.
‘‘Nevada.’’ The whispered voice from across the room surprised him. Nevada shot his gaze into the shadows . . . and saw an intercom speaker mounted in the wall there.
‘‘Nevada.’’ The voice spoke again, still no more than a whisper. Nevada crossed the room and stood close to the speaker, straining to identify who was doing the talking.
And failing. ‘‘Nevada. Are you there?’’
Nevada pressed the button to transmit and spoke into the grill in the wall. ‘‘I’m here. Who is this?’’
‘‘Call me Looking Glass.’’ The voice belonged to a man, but that was all Nevada could tell. ‘‘I know where to look.’’
‘‘For what?’’ said Nevada. ‘‘Or who?’’
‘‘For Yukon’s murderer,’’ said Looking Glass.
A sharp chill raced up Nevada’s spine. ‘‘Don’t you mean Missouri’s? Yukon isn’t dead.’’
‘‘She wasn’t,’’ said Looking Glass, ‘‘when you got on Lady Liberty’s elevator.’’
Nevada took a deep breath and released it. He burned with rage at the thought of a second murder taking place while he investigated the first . . . but he knew that he had to keep his cool. Looking Glass was on the line, and Nevada might still be able to get information out of him.
Nevada pressed the intercom button and spoke. ‘‘Did you do it? Is that what this is about? Did you bring me here so I’d be out of the way while you killed Yukon?’’
‘‘Here is your first clue,’’ said Looking Glass. ‘‘When is one one-hundred?’’
Nevada scowled. ‘‘Just tell me if you did it. Tell me if you killed them both.’’
‘‘When does one plus zero equal two?’’ said Looking Glass. ‘‘That’s your second clue.’’
‘‘If you didn’t do it, who did?â�
��™â€™ said Nevada. ‘‘I can’t get to you from up here, can I? So just tell me.’’
‘‘No more for now,’’ said Looking Glass. ‘‘See you after three and four.’’
With that, the line went dead.
Nevada slammed the button with the palm of his hand. ‘‘Looking Glass! Get back here! Talk to me!’’
But Looking Glass was gone.
‘‘Damn!’’ Nevada pounded the intercom speaker with the side of his fist. He hadn’t felt so angry for a long time . . . or so helpless.
He hadn’t felt this way since that day, five years ago, when Idaho, his love, had disappeared.
Yukon sat on the toilet in the women’s lavatory, fully dressed and covered in blood and toilet paper. Her long, brown hair covered her face like a shroud, as if her killer had tried to spare her the sight of her own murder.
‘‘When did you find her?’’ Nevada stood in the doorway of the stall, hands on his hips.
Nervous Connecticut stood at his left. ‘‘A half hour ago.’’ She took off her gold-rimmed glasses, then put them back on . . . then took them off again. ‘‘We c-came in together for a sidebar. She was f-fine when I left.’’
Nevada nodded. Since the e-reps hadn’t been programmed to simulate excretory functions, bathrooms in the digital realm were used mostly for sidebar meetings and secret deals. ‘‘Let me guess. No one noticed anything unusual.’’
‘‘Not exactly, señor.’’ Sinaloa stood at Nevada’s right and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘‘Some of us noticed you leaving the House chamber shortly before the murder. Would you call that unusual?’’
Nevada ignored him and stepped into the stall. Gently, he parted the hair over Yukon’s face with his fingertips, revealing a gruesome palette of cuts and bruises.