by Jan Gangsei
Darrow’s eyebrows bunched together. Damn right the situation had changed. Darrow had his recording, and he didn’t have to take being blackmailed. Juvenile record or no juvenile record.
Darrow checked the time. It was seven. School started at eight, but the first period today was “morning meeting,” the traditional Quaker meditation, and he didn’t really need to be there for class until nine thirty. He grabbed his things and went downstairs for breakfast. His mother was in the kitchen eating a bowl of quinoa and reading the Washington Post. She folded the paper and set it on the table.
“Morning, hon,” she said. “Join me?”
“Sure,” he said. He grabbed a bagel, cream cheese, and a gallon of orange juice and sat down. He poured himself a glass of juice, drank it all in one long gulp, and poured himself another. Cheryl watched him, eyebrow arched.
“I was wondering where the last gallon went,” she said. Darrow smirked as he filled a third glass. He spread some cream cheese on his bagel and took a bite, staring absentmindedly out the window. A bird fluttered from branch to branch on the big tree in their backyard, landing briefly on one, only to move to the next. There was something…off about McQueen’s e-mail. If he just wanted to prove he hadn’t lost Darrow’s file, why make such a big production out of it? Why tell him the situation had changed?
“Hey,” Darrow’s mother interrupted his thoughts. “What’s got you all distracted this morning?”
“Huh? What?” Darrow said. He shook off the question. “Nothing.”
“Nothing. Of course,” Cheryl said, glancing at the newspaper. The front-page headline was about the arrest of a man implicated in the Cerberus attacks, and hinted more arrests would soon be made. Darrow saw no mention of the fact that an unmanned drone had breached the White House perimeter. He wasn’t surprised, though. His mother had told him they’d managed to downplay the story. For some reason, Cerberus hadn’t come forward to take credit this time, and the administration was just playing it off as an accident. No one beyond a small circle of White House insiders even knew the drone had detonated. Or the fact that Addie had been just feet away when it did. Darrow shuddered. Had that drone been armed, she might be dead.
“She’s okay, hon,” Cheryl said, reading his mind. “Addie. I know you’re worried about her, but she’s fine. All right?”
“Sure,” he said. Cheryl got up and rinsed her bowl in the sink, then slipped on her suit jacket and headed to the door. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll see you tonight.” She blew him a kiss.
“Have a nice day, Mom,” Darrow said.
He sat there a little while longer before leaving. When he reached the EEOB, it was five minutes past eight. He didn’t know what McQueen wanted now, but he was certain it wasn’t to meet for coffee and doughnuts. At least this time, Darrow thought as he tapped the phone in his pocket, he’d be ready.
When Darrow entered McQueen’s office, his assistant waved him through. “Go on in. He’s expecting you,” she said. “Been working here most of the night.”
Darrow walked around her desk and down the hallway to the door of McQueen’s office. It was partially closed. He could smell coffee brewing on the other side. Darrow rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited for the gruff response. It didn’t come.
Darrow knocked again, and the impact pushed the door open slightly. McQueen’s chair was turned away, but Darrow could see the outline of the general’s broad shoulders. He walked inside.
“General, sir?” Darrow said. “It’s Darrow Fergusson. You wanted to see me.”
The man in the chair didn’t answer. With growing trepidation, Darrow took measured steps toward McQueen’s high-backed leather chair. Maybe he’d fallen asleep? His assistant had just said he’d been working late. But something about the angle of McQueen’s head didn’t look right. Darrow’s heart pounded.
Darrow rounded the desk. An empty bottle of medication sat on top, cap next to it. Darrow called out McQueen’s name again and touched the chair. It spun toward him. The general wasn’t wearing his usual suit, but a gray Army T-shirt and athletic pants. His head lolled unnaturally to the left. Darrow gasped. Frantic, he put two fingers on McQueen’s neck. There was a pulse, but it was faint.
“Help!” Darrow yelled. “Somebody! Help!”
As Darrow moved the general to the floor, McQueen’s assistant rushed into the room and screamed.
“I think he’s had a heart attack,” Darrow said. He shoved his palm into the general’s chest and began counting out compressions. The secretary pulled the phone off the desk and dialed 911.
“Come on, come on,” Darrow said, pushing against McQueen’s rib cage. He wasn’t the general’s biggest fan, but he sure as hell didn’t want him to die.
Out of nowhere, a hand reached up and gripped Darrow’s shirt with such force he almost screamed. McQueen’s eyes flew open and he stared at Darrow.
“Ad,” cough. “Ee,” cough. “She’s sir,” cough choke.
“What?” Darrow said. A strange wheeze came out of McQueen’s throat. Darrow shook his head. “Stop. Don’t try to talk.”
McQueen’s assistant began shouting into the phone.
“I’m in the office of General James McQueen, fourth floor of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building. He has an arrhythmia and appears to be having a heart attack,” she said.
McQueen heaved another breath.
“Sir…” he sputtered again. And then the hand gripping Darrow’s shirt released and fell to the ground. Darrow watched in horror as General McQueen’s eyes stopped looking at him and rolled into the back of his head. He pushed a few more compressions, but it was pointless.
All the breath left Darrow’s chest. McQueen was dead. The operator’s voice drifted from the phone in the secretary’s hand.
“Please remain where you are, ma’am. Help is on the way.”
A tall, slim figure leaned against the cool granite of the EEOB’s exterior wall, just out of sight of the main entrance, hunched beneath a black trench coat. From behind a pair of sunglasses he watched the stretcher carry away the corpse. He knew it was a corpse and not a patient because the sheet had been pulled over the large man’s face. A crowd had gathered, including several who were covering their faces and sobbing, along with the typical curious onlookers who were snapping photos with their phones and whispering among themselves, hoping they’d witnessed the demise of someone important.
The legs of the stretcher screeched as the EMTs lifted it into the back of the ambulance. He watched as the rescue vehicle drove away. No lights flashing. No sirens for the dead.
It was done.
He turned and disappeared into a crowd of tourists and made his way down Pennsylvania Avenue. As he walked, he looked down at the phone in his hands, slick from his sweaty palms. He was still in shock. He had been worried the plan might not work. He almost wished it hadn’t. He’d never helped kill someone before, and it left him with a strange feeling in his gut. Hollow. Like a different person. A weird shell of himself.
Sometimes he hated this world—a world where it was possible to kill so easily, without looking someone in the eye. Today, an EEOB janitor had made sure of that. A quick swap of McQueen’s normal daily heart medication for a lethal dosage while the general was away from his desk exercising, and a half hour later the general had unwittingly offed himself. Michael’s body suddenly felt inexplicably light, as though he could no longer feel his arms and legs. What had he just done? And what did this make him? A terrorist? Was he no different than…
He couldn’t think about it anymore. He tapped the phone’s screen and typed a message. The answer came back almost immediately.
Good work, son. I’m proud of you.
I’m proud of you. It was all he’d ever wanted. He smiled and put the phone in his pocket, trying to forget about the man under the sheet. He wasn’t a man. Just a threat. That was all.
A threat that had to be neutralized.
Darrow stood outside Harper’s “recording stud
io,” tapping his foot and glancing furtively up and down the empty hall. When the red light flicked off he knocked and pushed the door open, not even waiting for an answer.
“Hey,” Harper said with a jolt. She pulled her earphones off. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” Darrow walked inside. The room was all of four feet by four feet, walls covered in thick black soundproofing foam. Harper sat in front of a small table that held a computer, a couple of speakers, and a notepad. A big silver microphone on a retractable metal arm stretched in front of her face. She pushed it away as Darrow pulled the door shut.
“What’s up?” Harper said. “Want to be interviewed for my segment on the children of the rich and famous and how they manage to cope with driving ridiculously fancy cars and hanging out with beautiful people?”
“No,” Darrow said, without even smiling at her lame recurring joke. He began pacing the small room. “Something’s happened. I need your help.” He’d come straight from McQueen’s office. The whole thing had left him rattled, and not just because he’d never seen someone die before. What the hell had McQueen been trying to tell him? It was something…something about Addie.
“Whoa, deep breath,” Harper said. “Have a seat and tell me what’s going on.”
Darrow sat in a metal folding chair tinged with rust and tapped his long fingers nervously on the desk. “I need a favor.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “What?”
“Remember last year when you did that exposé on the football team selection?” Darrow said. “Recorded the coach taking bribes for the starting lineup?”
“Yeah,” Harper said with a snort. “Shit really hit the fan on that one. But what does that have to do with you?”
“I was hoping I could borrow whatever you sent the assistant coach in to record them with,” Darrow said, spitting the words out almost faster than he could properly pronounce them. They felt like little missiles shooting from his mouth. “You know, without anyone knowing.”
“Come again?” Harper shook her head. “You want to record someone without anyone knowing? Who?”
Darrow didn’t say anything.
“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” Harper said.
“Addie.”
“Addie?” Harper said. “What the hell for?”
Darrow’s cheeks burned and he looked away. “It’s complicated,” he said.
“Yeah? Well I’m not giving you shit unless you tell me what’s going on,” Harper said. “You can’t just invade someone’s privacy for no reason. Sorry, D.”
Darrow knew she was right. He’d made the same argument to McQueen just days ago. Right before the guy died in his arms, gasping Addie’s name.
“Okay,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone, all right?”
“When have I ever told anyone anything?”
“I know,” Darrow said. He trusted Harper. Right now, she was probably the only person he trusted. “Here’s the deal. There’s just something…off, you know what I mean?”
“She’s been locked in a room with almost no human contact for eight years,” Harper said. “Of course something’s off.”
“That’s not it,” Darrow said. “You know that whole thing with Elinor trying to expose you and Emma?”
Harper visibly cringed. “Someone really saved my ass on that,” she said.
“I’m pretty sure that someone was Addie,” Darrow said.
“Seriously? What makes you think that?”
“I just know the way she thinks,” Darrow said. “And I’m pretty sure she did the same thing for me, too. Erased my juvenile record before someone could use it against me.”
“Okay, so she’s some sort of high-tech vigilante. What’s the big deal?”
“It makes no sense! How does someone learn how to do that when they’ve been locked up with no outside contact for half their life? And why hide it if you can?” Darrow said in a rush. It felt good to talk to someone about his fears, even if Harper was going to tell him he was nuts. In fact, he kind of hoped she would. Then maybe he could stop worrying about Addie and get on with his life.
“So, what, you think she has some kind of…agenda? Someone on the outside is controlling her?”
Darrow shook his head. “All I know is I’m scared. If there is someone controlling her, she could still be in danger, her whole family could be in danger.”
“Then you’ve got to go to the Secret Service,” Harper said. “Her father. Your mother. Someone.”
“I can’t,” Darrow said. “They won’t believe me.”
“That’s insane.”
“Oh yeah? That guy I told you about?” Darrow said. “The one who was going to use my juvenile record against me? He’s the only person in the administration who wasn’t buying Addie’s story. He was trying to blackmail me so I’d spy on her. Then he e-mailed me this morning to say something had changed and he needed to see me. Except when I got to his office this morning, he died. Right in front of me.”
Harper’s blue eyes were huge. “How?”
“It seemed like a heart attack. But…it’s weird, right?”
“I don’t know. Have you thought about just talking to Addie?”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it. She’s hiding something. Big. And she’s scared, I can tell. This is the only way I can find out what it is.”
Harper sighed, opening a desk drawer and shuffling its contents around until she pulled out a small silver disk, no bigger than an M&M. “I really hope you’re wrong about this.”
She handed him the recording device, then grabbed a larger black rectangle with an antenna that looked like a walkie-talkie and gave him that. “This is the receiver,” she explained.
“So how does it work?” Darrow said.
“Like you think it would,” Harper answered. “Place the recorder close to your subject—as close as possible. I have to warn you, the sound quality isn’t great. It’s not like I’m operating on a big budget around here. So it’s critical you place it properly.”
“Okay,” Darrow said. “Then what?”
“You’ll need to be within a mile to pick up the transmission,” Harper said. “So plan accordingly.”
“Thanks,” Darrow said. He stood and twisted the doorknob, the light from the hallway hitting him square in the eyes. He squinted. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me several,” Harper said. “But who’s counting?”
A small laugh escaped from Darrow’s lips.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Harper said.
“Not at all. But when did I ever let that stop me?”
Harper shook her head. Darrow closed the door, walked into the hall, and froze. Addie was standing directly across from him, leaning on a locker and scrolling through something on her phone. She glanced up.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” Darrow answered, trying to hide the surprise on his face. “You’re here. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Addie said.
“I heard about the drone from my mom,” Darrow said, lowering his voice “I was worried about you. You didn’t answer my text last night.…”
“It was pretty scary, but I’m okay,” Addie said. “And I texted you back this morning. You didn’t see it?”
“I guess not,” Darrow said. “I was busy.”
“I noticed you weren’t in morning meeting,” Addie said. “Didn’t feel like contemplating your inner light for an hour?”
“Overslept,” Darrow said, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“So what, you were busy or you were sleeping?” Addie said. “Or were you busy sleeping?”
Darrow gave what he hoped was a casual shrug. “I was busy oversleeping. Gotta run. Don’t want to be late for History.”
“Right,” Addie said, squinting at him. “Well, guess you’d better hurry then.”
“Yep,” Darrow replied. “Catch you later.”
“Yeah, if you can,” Addie said, a smile tuck
ed into the corners of her mouth.
The key to winning chess was to always stay at least three moves ahead of your opponent in your mind. Addie had learned that from Mikey. She remembered the first time they’d met. He’d knocked on her door one afternoon when she was eight, about three months after she’d been taken. It was a soft knock. Not the authoritative rap-rap-rap she was used to hearing. Instead, the key scraped gently in the lock and the door slid open slowly.
“Hello?” a soft voice said.
It wasn’t a man but a boy; he was only a few inches taller than Addie. He was thin, with olive skin and wispy, light brown hair.
“I thought perhaps you’d like to play?” His speech was oddly formal, not like any other kid Addie had ever met. She wondered if he spent much time with other children. He held out a wooden box. “I have chess,” he said. “It’s all Father lets me play. Do you know how?”
She shook her head. “Maybe you could teach me?” She was so excited to see another person after three months of near-isolation—another kid—she had to restrain herself from running over and pulling the boy into the room. There was something so cautious about him, the way his shoulders hunched and he kept his eyes cast downward, that she was afraid she’d scare him away if she did.
“Can you come in?” Addie said.
“If you’d like,” the boy said.
“I would. What’s your name?”
“Michael,” he answered as he trod carefully across the carpet, barely making a sound. He set his box on the table where Addie ate her meals every day and began unpacking the pieces, placing them on the board. He held them up as he talked. “This is the king. This is the queen. These are the rooks, bishops, and knights. And, of course, the pawns. White always goes first.”
“Why?” Addie said.
“I don’t know,” the boy answered. “Those are just the rules.”
He had a sweet voice that he barely raised, and a kind smile. He didn’t seem like a Michael, not at all. More like a Mikey. So Addie began calling him that. And he didn’t object.
Addie began to watch the clock, waiting for his visits. And he came back, every day—box tucked under his arm, carefully setting up his pieces and patiently explaining the game. After the third day, Addie had already figured out how to beat her new friend. But as she cornered his king, preparing for checkmate, she saw the boy’s face crumple in disappointment. Terrified to lose him, she let him win that day. On the fourth and fifth day, too.