by Brad Meltzer
On my left, I catch our reflection in a nearby exhibit case: me in a black suit, Viv in her navy one. So professional and put together. Behind the glass are Mr. Rogers’s red sweater and an Oscar the Grouch puppet. Oscar’s frozen in his garbage can with his mouth wide open. Following my gaze, Viv stares at the Grouch, whose empty black and white eyes stare hauntingly back.
“I’m sorry, Viv.” It’s the second time I’ve said those words. But this time, she needs them.
“I-I was just doing you a favor,” she stutters, her voice breaking.
“I shouldn’t have asked you, Viv—I never thought . . .”
“My mom . . . if she—” She cuts herself off, trying not to think about it. “What about my aunt in Philly? Maybe she can—”
“Don’t put your family at risk.”
“I shouldn’t put them at risk? How could . . . how could you do this to me?!” She stumbles backwards, once again scanning each passing tourist. I thought it was because she was scared, nervous—forever the outsider trying to fit in—but the longer I watch her, the more I realize that’s only part of the picture. People who look for help tend to be the type of people who’re used to getting it. Her hand continues to clutch her ID. Her mom. . . her dad . . . her aunt—they’ve been there her whole life, pushing, aiding, cheering. Now they’re gone. And Viv’s feeling it.
She’s not the only one. As she nervously searches the crowd, a sharp, nauseous pain continues to slice through my belly. No matter what else happens, I’ll never forgive myself for hurting her like this.
“Whatta I do now?” she asks.
“It’s okay,” I promise, hoping to soothe. “I have plenty of cash—maybe we can . . . I can hide you in a hotel.”
“By myself?”
The way she asks the question, I can already tell it’s a bad idea. Especially if she panics and doesn’t stay put. I made her a sitting duck once. I’m not abandoning her and doing it again. “Okay . . . forget the hotel. What if we—?”
“You wrecked my life,” she blurts.
“Viv . . .”
“Don’t Viv. You wrecked it, Harris, and then you—oh, God . . . do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“It was supposed to be one little favor—I swear, if I thought this would happen . . .”
“Please don’t say that. Don’t say you didn’t know . . .”
She’s absolutely right. I should’ve known—I spend every day calculating political permutations—but when it came to this, the only thing I was worried about was myself.
“Viv, I swear, if I could undo it . . .”
“But you can’t!”
In the last three minutes, she’s hit all the stages of emotional response: from anger to denial, to despair, to acceptance, and now back to anger. It’s all in reaction to one unchangeable fact: Now that I’ve gotten her involved, Janos isn’t giving up until we’re both dead.
“Viv, I need you to focus—we have to get out of here.”
“. . . and I made it worse,” she mumbles. “I did this to myself.”
“That’s not true,” I insist. “This has nothing to do with you. I did this. To both of us.”
She’s still in shock, struggling to process everything that’s happened. She looks at me, then down at herself. It’s not just me anymore. We. From here on in, we’re chained at the wrist.
“We should call the police . . .” she stutters.
“After what happened with Lowell?”
She’s quick enough to see the big picture instantly. If Janos got to the number two person at Justice, all paths to law enforcement take us straight back to him.
“What about going to someone else . . . ? Don’t you have any friends?”
The question backhands me across the face. The two people I’m closest to are already dead, Lowell’s turned, and there’s no way to tell who else Janos has gotten to. All the politicians and staffers I’ve worked with over the years—sure they’re friends, but in this town, well . . . that doesn’t mean I trust them. “Besides,” I explain, “anyone we talk to—we’re painting a target on their chest. Should we do to someone else what I did to you?”
She stares me down, knowing I’m right. But it doesn’t stop her from searching for a way out.
“What about any of the other pages?” she asks. “Maybe they can tell us who they made drop-offs to . . . y’know, who else was playing the game.”
“That’s why I wanted the delivery records from the cloakroom. But there’s nothing there from any of the game days.”
“So all of us—all the pages—we were being used without even knowing it?”
“Maybe for the other bets, but not for the gold mine.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“That kid who hit Matthew—Toolie Williams—he’s the one who had your nametag. He was dressed up to look like a page.”
“Why would someone want to look like a page?”
“I’m guessing Janos paid him to do it . . . and that Janos is acting on behalf of someone else who had a vested interest in the outcome.”
“You think it goes back to the gold mine?”
“Hard to say, but they’re the only ones who benefit.”
“I still don’t understand,” Viv says. “How does Wendell Mining benefit if there’s supposedly no gold in the mine?”
“Or more specifically,” I add, “why does a company that has no mining experience spend two years trying to buy a gold mine with no gold in it?”
We both stare at each other, but Viv quickly looks away. We may be stuck together, but she’s not forgiving me that quickly. More important, I don’t think she wants to know the answer. Too bad for her, that only makes one of us.
I pull the rolled-up pages from Matthew’s briefing book out of my pocket. I can still hear the mayor’s voice in my head. Wendell was already getting to work, but there wasn’t a piece of mining equipment in sight. “So what’re they doing down there?”
“You mean other than mining?”
I shake my head. “The way the mayor said it . . . I don’t think they’re mining.”
“Then what else do you need a gold mine for?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
She knows what I’m thinking. “Why don’t you just call the mayor back and—”
“And what? Ask him to take a little snoop around and then put his life in danger? Besides, even if he did, would you trust the answer?”
Viv again goes silent. “So what do we do?” she finally asks.
All this time, I’ve been looking for a lead. I reread the name of the town from the sheet of paper in my hands. Leed. Leed, indeed. The only place that has the answer.
Checking the exhibit hall one last time, I take off for the escalator. “Let’s go,” I call out to Viv.
She’s right behind me. She may be mad, but she understands the danger of being by herself. The fear alone sends her from anger back to acceptance, reluctant though it may be. As she falls in next to me, she takes one last look at Oscar the Grouch. “You really think it’s smart to go all the way to South Dakota?”
“You think it’s any safer here?”
She doesn’t answer.
Sure, it’s a gamble—but not nearly as risky as a company betting on a gold mine that has no gold in it, then keeping all the locals away so no one sees what they’re really up to. Even a seventeen-year-old knows something here stinks—and the only way to find out what is by going directly to the source.
29
TWO HOURS LATER, WE’RE in the back of a taxi in Dulles, Virginia. The sign out front is easy to miss, but I’ve been here before. Piedmont-Hawthorne’s Corporate Aviation Terminal.
“Just give me five back,” I say to the cab driver, who’s taken far too many glances at us in his rearview mirror. Maybe it’s our silence . . . maybe it’s the fact Viv won’t even look at me. Or maybe it’s the fact I just gave him a crappy tip.
“Actually, keep the change,” I tell the cabbie as I p
aint on a warm grin and force a laugh at the Elliot in the Morning promo that screams from the radio. The cabbie smiles back and counts his money. People are far less likely to remember you when you haven’t pissed them off. “Have a great day,” I add as Viv and I climb outside. He gives us a wave without looking back.
“You sure this is legal?” Viv asks, forever the good girl as she follows me toward the squatty modern building.
“I didn’t say anything about legal—all I’m looking for is smart.”
“And this is smart?”
“You’d rather fly commercial?”
Viv goes back to her silence. We went through this on the ride over here. This way, they won’t even ask for ID.
There aren’t many places you can get a private plane in less than two hours. Thankfully, Congress is one of them. And all it took was a single phone call. Two years ago, during a key vote on a controversial aviation bill, the head of FedEx’s government relations office called and asked to speak to Senator Stevens. Personally. Knowing they never cried wolf, I took a chance and put the call through. It was a gorgeous chess move by them. With Stevens on board, it set the tone for the rest of the Midwest Senators, who quickly followed with support for the bill.
Exactly two hours ago, I called FedEx’s government relations office and asked them to return the favor. The Senator, I explained, didn’t want to miss a last-minute fundraising opportunity in South Dakota, so he asked me to call. Personally.
That’s what brings us here. According to the ethics rules, a Senator can use a private corporate jet as long as he reimburses the company for the price of a first-class commercial ticket, which we can repay later. It’s a genius loophole—and Viv and I just jumped headfirst right through it.
As we’re about to enter the building, an automatic door slides open, revealing a room that reminds me of a fancy hotel lobby. Upholstered head chairs. Victorian bronze lamps. Burgundy and gray carpet.
“Can I help you find your aircraft?” a woman in a business suit asks as she leans over the reception desk on our right.
Viv smiles but then makes a face when she realizes that the sudden helpfulness is directed toward me.
“Senator Stevens,” I say.
“Here you go,” a deep voice calls out just past the reception desk. I look over as a pilot with brushed-back blond hair nods our way.
“Tom Heidenberger,” he says, introducing himself with a pilot’s grip. From the handshake alone, I know he’s former military. He reaches over and shakes Viv’s hand as well. She stands straight up, enjoying the attention.
“Senator on his way?” the pilot asks.
“Actually, he’s not gonna make it. I’m speaking in his place.”
“Lucky you,” he says with a grin.
“And this is Catherine, our new legislative assistant,” I say, introducing Viv. Thanks to her navy suit and above-average height, she doesn’t even get a second glance. Congressional staffs are full of kids.
“So you ready to go, Senator?” the pilot asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply. “Though I’d love if I could use one of your phones before we take off.”
“No problem at all,” the pilot says. “Is it a regular call, or private?”
“Private,” Viv and I say simultaneously.
The pilot laughs. “Calling the Senator himself, huh?” We laugh along with him as he points us around the corner and down the hallway. “First door on your right.”
Inside, it’s a miniature conference room no bigger than a kitchenette. There’s a desk, a single leather chair, and on the wall, an inspirational poster of a man climbing a mountain. At the center of the desk is a shiny black telephone. Viv picks up the receiver; I hit the button for the speakerphone.
“What’re you doing?” she asks as the dial tone hums through the room.
“Just in case you need help . . .”
“I’ll be okay,” she shoots back, annoyed that I’m checking up on her. As she hits the button marked Speaker, the dial tone disappears.
I can’t say I blame her. Even forgetting that I got her into this (which she doesn’t), this is her show—and these two phone calls are ones only she can make.
Her fingers tap at the Touch-Tones, and I hear the ringing through the receiver. A female voice picks up on the other end.
“Hey, Adrienne, it’s Viv,” she says, pumping excitement into her voice. The show’s already on. “No . . . yeah . . . nuh-uh, really? And she said that?” There’s a short pause as Viv plays along. “That’s why I’m calling,” Viv explains. “No . . . just listen . . .”
The female voice on the other line belongs to Adrienne Kaye, one of Viv’s two roommates in the Senate page dorm. As Viv told me on the ride over, every night, when the pages get back from work, they’re supposed to sign the official check-in sheet to make sure everyone’s accounted for. For the thirty pages, it’s a simple system that works just fine—that is, until last week, when Adrienne decided to ditch curfew and stay out late with a group of interns from Indiana. The only reason Adrienne got away with it was because Viv signed Adrienne’s name at the check-in desk and told the proctors she was in the bathroom. Now, Viv’s trying to get the favor returned.
Within thirty seconds, the job’s done. “Great—yeah, no—just tell them it’s that time of the month; that’ll keep them away,” Viv says, giving me the thumbs-up. Adrienne’s in. “Nuh-uh . . . no one you know,” Viv adds as she glances my way. There’s no smile on her face.
“Jason? Never,” Viv laughs. “Are you a nutbag? I don’t care if he’s cute—he can pick his nose with his tongue . . .”
She keeps the conversation going just long enough to keep it believable. “Cool, thanks again, Adrienne,” she says, finally hanging up.
“Well done,” I tell her as she stands in front of the desk and dials the next number.
She nods to herself, showing the tiniest hint of pride. The chase with Janos pulled her down a few pegs. She’s still trying to climb her way back up. Too bad for Viv, the next call will only make it harder.
As the phone rings on the other line, I already see the change in her posture. She lowers her chin, ducking down just slightly. Her toes turn inward, one shoe picking at the tip of the other. As her hand grips the receiver, she again glances at me and turns away. I know a call for help when I see one.
I hit the button for the speakerphone just as a female voice picks up on the other line. Viv looks down at the red light marked Speaker. This time, she doesn’t shut it off.
“Doctor’s office,” a female voice answers.
“Hey, Momma, it’s me,” Viv says, forcing the same amount of bubbliness through the phone. Her tone is pitch perfect—even better than the last call.
“What’s wrong?” her mom asks.
“Nothing . . . I’m great,” Viv says as she leans her left hand against the desk. She’s already having trouble standing up. Two minutes ago, she was seventeen, going on twenty-seven. Now she’s barely thirteen.
“Why’m I on speakerphone?” Mom asks.
“You’re not, Momma; it’s a cell phone that’s—”
“Take me off speaker—y’know I hate it.”
Viv looks my way, and I instinctively step back. She hits the button marked Speaker, and the call leaves the room. The good news is, thanks to the volume of Mom’s voice, I can still hear her through the receiver.
Earlier, I said we shouldn’t make this call. Now we have to. If Mom pulls the fire alarm, we’re not going anywhere.
“Better,” Mom says. “Now, whatsa matter?”
There’s real concern in her voice. Sure, Mom’s loud . . . but not from anger . . . or bossiness. Senator Stevens has the same tone. That sense of immediacy. The sound of strength.
“Tell me what happened,” Mom insists. “Someone make another comment?”
“No one made a comment.”
“What about that boy from Utah?”
I can’t place Mom’s accent—part southern Ohio drawl, part broad
vowels of Chicago—but whatever it is, when I close my eyes . . . the intonations . . . the speed of each syllable . . . it’s like hearing Viv twenty years in the future. Then I open my eyes and see Viv hunched over from the stress. She’s got a long way to go.
“What about the Utah boy?” Mom persists.
“That boy’s an ass—”
“Vivian . . .”
“Momma, please—it isn’t a cuss. They say ass on every dumb sitcom on TV.”
“So now you live in a sitcom, huh? Then I guess your sitcom mom will be the one paying your bills and taking care of all your problems.”
“I don’t have problems. It was one comment from one boy . . . The proctors took care of it . . . It’s fine.”
“Don’t let them do that to you, Vivian. God says—”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Don’t let them—”
“Mom!”
Mom pauses—a triple-length pause only a mother can give. All the love she has for her daughter—you can tell she’s dying to scream it through the phone . . . but she also knows that strength isn’t easily transferred. It has to be found. From within.
“Tell me something about the Senators,” Mom finally says. “They ask you to write any legislation yet?”
“No, Mom, I haven’t written any legislation yet.”
“You will.”
It’s hard to explain, but the way she says it, even I believe her.
“Listen, Momma . . . the only reason I’m calling . . . they’re taking us on an overnight to Monticello . . . Thomas Jefferson’s home . . .”
“I know what Monticello is.”
“Yeah, well . . . anyway, I didn’t want you fretting when you called and we weren’t here.” Viv stops, waiting to see if Mom buys it. We both hold our breath.
“I told you they’d take you up there, Viv—I saw pictures in the old brochure,” Mom says, clearly excited. And just like that, it’s done.
“Yeah . . . they do it every year,” Viv adds. There’s a sudden sadness in her voice. Almost as if she wished it weren’t that easy. She glances up at the poster on the wall. We all have our mountains to climb.