The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  I ignore her. Sure enough, beyond the sinks, there’s an open door in the back. I sprint outside, hurtle up the concrete steps and keep running, making two sharp rights down the poorly lit alley. A black rat scrambles in front of me, but it’s the least of my worries. Whoever these people are—how the hell could they move so fast? A biting pain pinches me at the base of my neck, and the world swirls for the slightest of seconds. I need to sit down . . . gather my thoughts . . . find a place to hide. My brain flips through the short list of people I can count on. But after watching Lowell’s reaction, it’s clear that whoever Janos is working for, they’re drilling through my life. And if they can get to someone as big as Lowell . . .

  Straight ahead, a passing ambulance whips up Vermont Avenue. The sirens are deafening as they reverberate through the canyon of the brick alleyway. Instinctively I reach for one of my phones. I pat all my pockets. Damn . . . don’t tell me I left them in the—

  I stop and turn around. The table of the restaurant. No. I can’t go back.

  Double-checking to be sure, I stuff my hand inside the breast pocket of my jacket. There’s actually something there, but it’s not a phone.

  I open my palm and reread the name off the blue plastic nametag:

  Senate Page

  Viv Parker

  The white letters practically glow in front of me. In the distance, the siren of the ambulance fades. It’s gonna be a long night ahead, but as I turn the corner and run up Vermont Avenue, I know exactly where I’m going.

  15

  OUTSIDE STAN’S RESTAURANT, Lowell Nash slowly scanned the sidewalks up and down Vermont Avenue. He stared at the shadows in the doorways of every storefront. He even studied the homeless man sleeping on the bus-stop bench across the street. But as he turned the corner onto L Street, he couldn’t spot a twitch of movement. Even the air hung flat in the night. Picking up speed, he rushed toward his car, which was parked halfway up the block.

  Again Lowell checked the sidewalks, the doorways, and the bus-stop benches. If his recent notoriety taught him anything, it was never to take chances. Approaching the silver Audi, he scrambled for his car key, pressed a button, and heard the doors unlock. He gave one last glance to his surroundings, then slipped inside and slammed the door shut.

  “Where the hell is he?” Janos asked from the passenger seat.

  Lowell yelled out loud, jumping so fast, he banged his funny bone against the car door.

  “Where’s Harris?” Janos demanded.

  “I was . . .” He grabbed his funny bone, holding it in pain. “Aaah . . . I was wondering the same about you.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. He finally got up and left.”

  “He was already here?”

  “And gone,” Lowell replied. “Where were you?”

  Janos’s forehead wrinkled in anger. “You said ten o’clock,” he insisted.

  “I said nine.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “I swear, I said nine.”

  “I heard you say—” Janos cut himself off. He studied Lowell carefully. The sting from the funny bone was long past, but Lowell was still crouched over, cradling his elbow and refusing to make eye contact. If Janos could see Lowell’s expression, he’d also see the panic on Lowell’s face. Lowell may be weak, but he wasn’t an asshole. Harris was still a friend.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Janos warned.

  Lowell quickly looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Never . . . I’d never do that . . .”

  Janos narrowed his glance, studying him carefully.

  “I swear to you,” Lowell added.

  Janos continued to stare. A second passed. Then two.

  Janos’s arm sprang out like a wildcat, palming Lowell by the face and slamming his head back into the driver’s-side window. Refusing to let go, Janos pulled back and smashed him against the glass again. Lowell grabbed Janos’s wrist, fighting to break his grip. Janos didn’t stop. With a final shove, he put all his weight behind it. The window finally cracked from the impact, leaving a jagged vein zigzagging across the glass.

  Slumped down in his seat, Lowell held his head from the pain. He felt a trickle of blood skating down the back of his neck. “A-Are you nuts?”

  Without saying a word, Janos opened the door and stepped into the warm night air.

  It took Lowell twenty minutes to get his bearings. When he got home, he told his wife some kid on Sixteenth Street threw a rock at the car.

  16

  THERE—HE’S DOING it again,” Viv Parker said Monday afternoon, pointing to the elderly Senator from Illinois.

  “Where?”

  “Right there . . .”

  Across the Floor of the Senate, in the third row of antique desks, the senior Senator from Illinois looked down, away from Viv.

  “Sorry, still don’t see it,” Devin whispered as the gavel banged behind them.

  As pages for the United States Senate, Viv and Devin sat on the small carpeted steps on the side of the rostrum, literally waiting for the phone to blink. It never took long. Within a minute, a low buzz erupted from the phone, and a small orange light hiccuped to life. But neither Viv nor Devin picked it up.

  “Floor, this is Thomas,” a blond-headed page with a Virginia twang answered as he shot to his feet. Viv wasn’t sure why he stood up for every call. When she asked Thomas, he said it was part for decorum, part to be prepared in case he had to spot a passing Senator. Personally, Viv thought there was only one “part” that really mattered: to show off the fact that he was head page. Even at the bottom of the totem pole, hierarchy was king.

  “Yep—I’m on it,” the head page said into the receiver. As he hung up the phone, he looked over to Viv and Devin. “They need one,” he explained.

  Nodding, Devin stood from his seat at the rostrum and dashed off toward the cloakroom.

  Still on the rostrum, Viv glanced over at the Senator from Illinois, who again raised his head and leveled a leering glare directly at her. Viv tried to look away, but she couldn’t ignore it. It was as if he were squinting straight through her chest. Fidgeting with the Senate ID around her neck, she wondered if that’s what he was staring at. It wouldn’t surprise her. The ID was her ticket in. From day one, she was worried someone would step in and snatch it back. Or maybe he was staring at her cheap navy suit . . . or the fact that she was black . . . or that she was taller than most pages, including the boys. Five feet ten and a half inches—and that was without her beat-up shoes and the close-cropped Afro that she wore just like her mom’s.

  The phone buzzed quietly behind her. “Floor, this is Thomas,” the head page said as he shot to his feet. “Yep—I’m on it.” He turned to Viv as he hung up the phone. “They need one . . .”

  Nodding, Viv stood from her seat but carefully stared down at the blue-carpeted floor in a final attempt to avoid the glance of the Senator from Illinois. Her skin color, she could handle. Same with her height—like her mom taught, don’t apologize for what God gave you. But if it was her suit, as stupid as it sounded, well . . . some things hit home. Since the day they started, all twenty-nine of her fellow pages loved to complain about the uniform requirement. Every Senate page bitched about it. Everyone but Viv. As she knew from her school back in Michigan, the only people who moan about required uniforms are the ones who can compete in the fashion show.

  “Move it, Viv—they need someone now,” the head page called out from the rostrum.

  Viv didn’t bother to look back. In fact, as she rushed toward the cloakroom in the back of the chamber, she didn’t look anywhere but straight down. Still feeling the Senator’s stare burning through her, and refusing to risk eye contact, she speed-marched up the center aisle—but as she blew past row after row of antique desks, she couldn’t ignore the haunting voice in the back of her head. It was the same voice she had heard when she was eleven and Darlene Bresloff stole her RollerBlades . . . and when she was thirteen and Neil Gru
bin purposely squirted maple syrup all over her church clothes. It was a strong, unflinching voice. It was her mom’s voice. The same mom who made Viv march up to Darlene and demand her RollerBlades back now . . . and who, as Viv begged and pleaded to the contrary, personally carried the maple-syrup-covered suit back to Neil’s house, up the three flights of stairs, and into the living room, so Neil’s mother—whom they’d never met before—could see it for herself. That’s whose voice was echoing in the back of her head. And that’s the voice she heard halfway up the aisle . . . with the Senator dead ahead.

  Maybe I should just say something, Viv decided. Nothing rude, like What’re you looking at? No, this was still a United States Senator. No reason to be stupid. Better to go with simple: Hi there, Senator . . . or Nice to see you, Senator . . . or something like . . . like . . . Can I help you? There we go. Can I help you? Simple but straightforward. Just like Momma.

  With less than twenty feet to go, Viv raised her chin just enough to make sure the Senator was still there. He hadn’t moved from behind the hundred-year-old desk. His eyes were still on her. Within two steps, Viv’s pace slowed imperceptibly, and she again gripped the ID as it dangled from her neck. Her thumbnail flicked at the back of the ID badge, scratching at the piece of Scotch tape that held the cutout picture of her mom in place. Viv’s photo on front, Momma on back. It was only fair, Viv had thought the day she Scotch-taped it there. Viv didn’t get to the Senate alone; she shouldn’t be there alone. And with Mom resting on her chest . . . well . . . everyone hides their strength in a different place.

  Ten feet ahead of her, at the end of the aisle, the Senator stood his ground. Vivian, don’t you dare back down, she could hear her mom warn. Stay positive. Viv tightened her jaw and got her first glimpse of the Senator’s shoes. All she had to do was look up and say the words. Can I help you? . . . Can I help you? . . . She replayed them in her head. Her thumbnail continued to scratch at the back of her ID. Stay positive. She was close enough to see the cuff on the Senator’s slacks. Just look up, she told herself. Stay positive. And with one final deep breath, Viv did just that. Steeling herself, she lifted her head, locked on to the Senator’s deep-gray eyes . . . and quickly looked back down at the dark blue carpet.

  “Excuse me,” Viv whispered as she ducked slightly and sidestepped around him. The Senator didn’t even look down as she passed. Leaving the aisle and heading across the back of the chamber, Viv finally let go of her ID . . . and felt it slap against her chest.

  “Got one for you, Viv,” Blutter announced as she pulled open the glass-paned door and smelled the familiar stale air of the cloakroom. Originally designed to store Senators’ coats when they had business on the Floor, the cloakroom was still a cramped, tiny space. She didn’t have to go far to reach Blutter.

  “Is it close?” Viv asked, already exhausted.

  “S-414-D,” Blutter said from his seat behind the main cloakroom desk. Of the four full-time staffers who answered phones in the cloakroom, Ron Blutter was the youngest at twenty-two, which was also why he was the designated cloakroom boss in charge of the page program. Blutter knew it was a crap job—keeping track of his party’s puberty-ridden sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds—but at least it was better than being a page.

  “They asked for you personally,” Blutter added. “Something to do with your sponsor’s office.”

  Viv nodded. The only way to get a job as a page was to be sponsored by a Senator, but as the only black page in the entire page program, she was well accustomed to the fact that there were other requirements of the job besides delivering packages. “Another photo op?” she asked.

  “I’m guessing.” Blutter shrugged as Viv signed herself out on the locator sheet. “Though from the room number . . . maybe it’s just a reception.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Behind her, the door to the cloakroom opened, and the Senator from Illinois lumbered inside, heading straight for the old wooden phone booths that lined the narrow L-shaped room. As always, Senators were tucked into the booths, returning calls and gabbing away. The Senator stepped into the first booth on the right and slid the door shut.

  “By the way, Viv,” Blutter added as his phone started to ring, “don’t let Senator Spooky creep you out. It’s not you—it’s him. Whenever he prepares for a Floor speech, he stares through everyone like they’re a ghost.”

  “No, I know . . . I just—”

  “It’s not you. It’s him,” Blutter reiterated. “You hear me? It’s him.”

  Lifting her chin, Viv pushed her shoulders back and buttoned her blue suit jacket. Her ID dangled from around her neck. She headed for the door as quickly as she could. Blutter went back to the phones. There was no way she’d let him see the smile on her face.

  S-414-B . . . S-414-C . . . S-414-D . . . Viv counted to herself as she followed the room numbers on the fourth floor of the Capitol. She hadn’t realized that Senator Kalo had offices up here, but that was typical Capitol—everyone scattered all over the place. Remembering the story about the female staffer giving new meaning to the term briefing the Senator, she stopped at the heavy oak door and gave it a sharp knock. Truth be told, she knew the story was bullshit—just something Blutter told them so they’d watch their manners. Indeed, a few staffers may’ve had some fun, but from the looks of the rest . . . the stiffness she saw in the halls . . . none of these people were having sex.

  Waiting for a response, she was surprised not to find one.

  She knocked again. Just to be safe.

  Again, no answer.

  With a twist, she opened the door a tiny crack. “Senate page,” she announced. “Anyone here . . . ?”

  Still no response. Viv didn’t think twice. If a staffer was tracking down the Senator for a photo op, they’d want her just to take a seat by the desk. But as Viv entered the dark office, there wasn’t an open seat. In fact, there wasn’t even a desk. Instead, at the center of the room were two large mahogany tables, pushed together so they could hold the dozen or so outdated computer monitors piled on top. On her left, three red leather rolling chairs were stacked one on top of the other, while on her right, empty file cabinets, storage boxes, a few spare computer keyboards, and even an upside-down refrigerator were shoved together in a makeshift pile. The walls were bare. No pictures . . . no diplomas . . . nothing personal. This wasn’t an office. More like storage. From the layer of dust that covered the half-lowered blinds, the place was clearly deserted. In fact, the only evidence that anyone had even been in there was the handwritten note on the edge of the conference table:

  Please pick up the phone

  At the bottom of the note was an arrow pointing to the right, where a telephone sat atop one of the open file cabinets.

  Confused, Viv raised an eyebrow, unsure why someone would—

  The phone rang, and Viv jumped back, bumping into the closed door. She searched around the room. No one there. The phone rang again.

  Viv reread the note and cautiously stepped forward. “H-Hello,” she answered, picking up the receiver.

  “Hello, who’s this?” a warm voice countered.

  “Who’s this?” Viv countered.

  “Andy,” the man answered. “Andy Defresne. Now, who’s this?”

  “Viv.”

  “Viv who?”

  “Viv Parker,” she replied. “Is this . . . Is this some kinda joke? Thomas, is that you?”

  There was a click. The phone went dead.

  Viv hung up the receiver and looked up to check the corners of the ceiling. She saw something like this on Bloopers and Practical Jokes once. But there wasn’t a camera anywhere. And the longer Viv stood there, the more she knew she’d already been there too long.

  Spinning around, she rushed to the door and clutched the doorknob in her sweat-covered hand. She fought to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge—like someone was holding it from the outside. She gave it one last twist, and it finally gave. But as the door swung open, she stopped in her tracks. A tall man with messy black hair was block
ing her way.

  “Viv, huh?” the man asked.

  “I swear, you touch me, and I’ll scream so loud, it’ll make your nuts shatter like crystal . . . uh . . . like crystal balls.”

  “Relax,” Harris said as he stepped inside. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

  17

  I SEARCH FOR A NAMETAG on the girl’s lapel. It’s not there. Reading my reaction, she’s obviously scared. I don’t blame her. After what happened with Matthew, she should be.

  “Stay back,” she threatens. Stepping backward into the room, she takes a deep breath, winding up to scream. I raise my hand to cut her off; then, out of nowhere, she tilts her head to the side.

  “What a minute . . .” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I know you.”

  I match her raised eyebrow with one of my own. “Excuse me?”

  “From that . . . from the speech you gave. With the pages . . .” She bumps back into the edge of the conference table and looks up at me. “You were . . . you were really good. That bit about making the right enemies . . . I thought about that for a week.”

  She’s trying to sweet-talk. My guard’s already up.

  “And then when you . . .” She cuts herself off, staring at her feet.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That thing you did with the Lorax . . .”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nu-uh . . . c’mon—you put that pin on Congressman Enemark. That was . . . that was the coolest thing ever.”

  Like I said, my guard’s up. But as I spot the wide-eyed smile on her face, I’m already starting to second-guess. At first glance, she’s slightly imposing, and it’s not just from the dark navy suit that adds another year or two to her age. Her height alone . . . almost five feet eleven . . . she’s taller than me. But the longer she stands there, the more I see the rest of the picture. Back against the table, she slumps her shoulders and lowers her neck. It’s the same trick Matthew used to use to make himself look shorter.