Zero Game (15 page)

“Stop them!” Janos shouts, taking off after us.

The first officer grabs him by the windbreaker, pulling him back.

“What’re you doing?” Janos roars.

“My job,” the officer says. “Now let’s see some ID.”

Twisting and turning back through the maze of the basement, we eventually push our way outside on the east front of the Capitol. The sun’s already passed to the other side of the building, but darkness is still an hour or so away. Hurtling past the groups of tourists taking pictures in front of the dome, we race toward First Street, hoping the Capitol Police give us enough of a head start. The white marble pillars of the Supreme Court are directly across the street, but I’m too busy looking for a cab.

“Taxi!” Viv and I shout simultaneously as one slows down.

We both slide inside, locking our respective doors. Back by the Capitol, Janos is nowhere in sight. For now. “I think we’re okay,” I say, ducking down in my seat and searching the crowds.

Next to me, Viv doesn’t bother to look outside. She’s too busy glaring directly at me. Her brown eyes burn—part of it’s fear, but now . . . part of it’s anger.

“You lied . . .” she finally says.

“Viv, before you—”

“I’m not a moron, y’know,” she adds, still catching her breath. “Now what the hell is going on?”

28

R
IDING THE ESCALATOR
down to the lower floors of the Smithsonian’s Museum of American History, I keep my eyes on the crowds and my hands on Viv’s shoulders. It’s still the best way to keep her calm. She’s one step down but twice as nervous. After what happened in the Capitol, she doesn’t trust anyone— including me—which is why she jerks her shoulder and shoos me away.

Without a doubt, the museum’s not the ideal place to change her mind, but it is enough of a public place to make it an unlikely spot for Janos to start hunting. As we continue our descent, Viv’s gaze flits around the room, searching the face of every person she can find. I’m guessing it’s nothing new. She said she was one of two black girls in an otherwise white school. In the Senate, she’s the only black page they’ve got. No doubt, she’s an outsider on a daily basis. But never like this. Unfolding the museum map I got from the info desk, I block us from the crowd. If we want to blend in as tourists, we have to play the part.

“Want some ice cream?” I ask as we step off the escalator and spot the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor along the wall.

Viv hammers me with a look I usually see only on the press corps. “Do I look thirteen to you?”

She’s got every right to be pissed. She signed up to do a simple favor. Instead, she spent the past half hour running for her life. For that reason alone, she needs to know what’s really going on.

“I never meant for it to happen like this,” I begin.

“Really?” she asks. She presses her lips together and pierces me with a scowl.

“Viv, when you said you would help . . .”

“You shouldn’t have let me! I had no idea what I was getting into!”

There’s no arguing with that. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I never thought they’d—”

“I don’t want your apologies, Harris. Just tell me why Matthew was killed.”

I wasn’t sure she knew what it was about. It’s not the first time I underestimated her.

As we walk through an exhibit labeled
A Material World,
we’re surrounded by glass cases that track America’s manufacturing process. The first case is filled with timber, bricks, slate, and cowhide; the last case features the bright colored plastic of a Rubik’s Cube and a PacMan machine. “This is progress,” a nearby tour guide announces. I look at Viv. Time to make some progress here, too.

It takes me almost fifteen minutes to tell her the truth. About Matthew . . . and Pasternak . . . and even about my attempt to go to the Deputy Attorney General. Amazingly, she doesn’t show a hint of reaction—that is, until I tell her what set all the dominos tumbling. The game . . . and the bet.

Her mouth drops open, and she puts both hands on her head. She’s primed to explode.

“You were betting?” she asks.

“I know it sounds nuts . . .”

“That’s what you were doing? Gambling on Congress?”

“I swear, it was just a stupid game.”

“
Candyland
’s a stupid game!
Mad Libs
is a stupid game! This was real!”

“It was just on the small issues—nothing that ever mattered . . .”

“It all matters!”

“Viv, please . . .” I beg, looking around as a few tourists stop and stare.

She lowers her voice, but the anger’s still there. “How could you do that? You told us we should—” She cuts herself off as her voice cracks. “That entire speech you gave . . . Everything you said was crap.”

Right there, I realize I’ve been reading her wrong. It’s not anger in her voice. It’s disappointment—and as her shoulders sag even lower than usual, it’s already bleeding into sadness. I’ve been on the Hill for a decade, but Viv’s barely been here a month. It took me three years of getting backstabbed to get the look she’s wearing right now. Her eyes sag with a brand new weight. No matter when it happens, idealism always dies hard.

“That’s it—I’m out,” she announces, shoving me aside and rushing past me.

“Where’re you going?”

“To deliver some Senator’s mail . . . and gossip with friends . . . and check on our running tally of Senators with bad hair and no rear end—there’re more than you think.”

“Viv, wait,” I call out, chasing after her. I put a hand on her shoulder, and she tries to yank herself free. I hold tight, but unlike before, it doesn’t calm her down.

“Get.
Off!
” she shouts. With one final shove, she slaps me away. She’s not a small girl. I forget how strong she is.

“Viv, don’t be stupid . . .” I call out as she storms through the exhibit.

“I’ve already been stupid—you’re my quota for the month!”

“Just wait . . .”

She doesn’t slow down. Marching through the main section of the exhibit hall, she cuts in front of a couple trying to get their photo taken with Archie Bunker’s chair.

“Viv, please . . .” I beg, quickly racing after her. “You can’t do this.”

She stops at the ultimatum. “What’d you say?”

“You’re not listening—”

“Don’t you
ever
tell me what to do.”

“But I—”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?!”

“Viv, they’ll kill you.”

Her finger’s frozen in midair. “What?”

“They’ll kill you. They’ll snap your neck and make it look like you tripped down some stairs. Just like they did with Matthew.” She’s silent as I say the words. “You know I’m right. Now that Janos knows who you are—you saw what he’s like; he doesn’t care if you’re seventeen or seventy. You think he’s just gonna let you go back to refilling Senators’ water glasses?”

She tries to respond, but nothing comes out. Her brow unfurrows, and her hands start to shake. Like before, she starts to pick anxiously at the back of her ID. “I-I need to make a call,” she insists, rushing for the pay phone in the ice cream parlor. I’m a step behind her. She won’t say it, but I see the way she’s clutching her ID. She wants Mom.

“Viv, don’t call her . . .”

“This isn’t about you, Harris.”

She thinks I’m only looking out for myself. She’s wrong. The guilt’s been swirling through my gut since the moment I first asked her for that one little favor. I was terrified it’d come to this.

“I wish I could take it back . . . I really do,” I tell her. “But if you’re not careful—”

“I
was
careful! Remember, I’m not the one who caused this!”

“Please, just stop for a minute,” I beg as she once again takes off. “Janos is probably drilling through your life right now.”

“Maybe he’s not. Ever think of that?”

She’s getting too riled. It breaks my heart to do this, but it’s the only way to keep her safe. As she’s about the enter the ice-cream store, I cut in front of her. “Viv, you make that call and you’re putting your whole family at risk.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I don’t? Out of thirty pages, you’re the only five-foot-ten black girl. He’ll find your name in two seconds. That’s what he does. Now, I know you hate me right now—and you should—but please . . . just listen . . . If you go in there and call your parents, that’s two more people Janos has to clean up to make this mess go away.”

That’s all it takes. Her shoulders rise, revealing her full height, while the tears in her eyes give away her age. It’s so easy to forget how young she is.

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, ner-vous—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?”