The Zero

by Jess Walter

  “Remember him?”

  “No,” Remy said. But he did remember the blood on his shoes and he swallowed.

  “Oh, so you’ve never seen this guy before, is that it?”

  “No,” Remy said again. “Never.”

  “And I suppose the name Bobby al-Zamil doesn’t ring a bell?”

  Remy covered his mouth. The lunch reimbursement report, the man who’d had lunch with March before she died, the man Markham was going to work. Remy looked back at the photo again. “Is that him?”

  “Fuck you, Remy.” Buff sped off again and Remy fell back in his seat. “I told you we were working al-Zamil. So what? Then you happen to meet with an agency field supervisor, and the next thing we know al-Zamil gets depressed and takes a walk out his apartment window?” He caught Remy’s eyes in the rearview. “You tell your little friend at the agency that if he thinks this gets us off the case, he’s fucked in the head.”

  “I swear, I don’t know anything about this,” Remy said. “I saw his name on a piece of burned paper that looked like Australia. That’s all.”

  Buff spit laughter. “Australia. You’re a fuckin’ piece of work, Remy. You know that?” He stomped on the gas again and the car took off.

  Remy stared at the photograph and covered his mouth. “I swear—”

  “Look,” Buff said. “I’m gonna give you another chance—you’ve been getting us solid stuff, and we might need you.” He shrugged. “And we hadn’t turned al-Zamil yet anyway…. But you made me look like a horse’s ass. You gotta give me something to take back to the director.”

  “I don’t know what I can give you.”

  “Gimme your source.”

  “My source for…”

  “You’ve been one step ahead of us on this cell, Remy, and I need to know how. Give me the goddamn name of your source.”

  “What name?”

  “Yeah, and who’s on first, you smug son-of-a-bitch,” the man said. He put his sunglasses back on. “Okay, tough guy. Fine.”

  The car’s tires chirped again as they skidded around another corner, and then the brakes jammed and the car came to a shuddering stop against the same curb where they’d started. “Get out,” Buff said.

  Remy opened the car door.

  The man turned and faced Remy for the first time, his face wide and uneven. He spun his cap around so that it faced forward, so that Remy could see the word BUFF again. The man held up his right index finger, which bent sideways at a thirty-degree angle. “You go ahead, play your little games. But if I was you, you calm, cool motherfucker, I would keep this one thing in mind—”

  “HALLUCINATORY IMAGES,” Remy’s psychiatrist, Dr. Rieux was saying. “What you’re describing is textbook PTSD. Visions. Stress-induced delusions. Dissociative episodes. Maybe even Briquet’s syndrome. Look—” He laughed. “I’m pretty sure you’re not working for some top-secret department, investigating whether or not your girlfriend’s sister faked her death.”

  “I’m not?”

  “I don’t think so, Bri. Secret agents interrupting you on the toilet? Yelling at you in gypsy cabs, buying you lattes? Mysterious Arab men in wool coats?”

  “That’s all…hallucinations?”

  “Sure. Why not. It’s very common, Brian. I see it all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “Well…no, I haven’t personally seen it. But it’s all right there in the literature. Survivors can expect to experience delusions, persecution, paranoia. Delirium. Hell, after what some of you guys went through that day…I’m surprised you don’t have flying monkeys drive you to work.”

  “So…the paper? The blood on my shoes?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “I don’t know. It just…doesn’t feel like that. Are you sure?”

  “Am I sure?” He spun in his chair and pointed at the diploma hung on the wall. “Do you think they give these out for masturbating? Well…” He laughed again and then assumed a serious face. “Listen. I don’t mean to be condescending, but some of the real issues you’re describing—not this fantasy stuff, but your son growing away from you, your inability to commit to a monogamous relationship, concerns about the ethics of your profession, alcohol abuse…this is pretty standard stuff for a man your age.”

  “Are you saying,” Remy asked, “this is some kind of midlife crisis?”

  “I don’t mean to minimize it. But you are a certain age. You’ve been through this severe trauma. Lost friends. Coworkers. And then, when you should be coming out of it, you had to suddenly abandon a successful career with the city because of back problems—”

  “No, it’s not my back,” Remy protested weakly. “It’s my eyes.”

  “No. I don’t think so.” The psychiatrist spun in his chair, opened a drawer, flipped through his files, and came up with a short report. “See, it’s right here.” He handed over the report, which read clearly Disability due to chronic back pain.

  “No, this is a cover story,” Remy said. “For the work I’m doing.”

  But Dr. Rieux pulled a prescription pad from his desk and scribbled something on it. He tore the sheet out and held it up for Remy. “Here.”

  Remy read the prescription. “What’s this?”

  “This will help,” he said.

  Remy held up the medical report on him. “How come there’s nothing in here about the gaps?” he said.

  “Gaps?” Dr. Rieux held out the prescription. “What gaps?”

  “The gaps,” Remy said, as he reached for the prescription sheet and—

  A MIST hung in the air, fine droplets suspended as if on strings from the sky, distorting distance so that the grand house seemed miles away, across rollers of wet mounds and wild grasses. The house sat between two massive oaks; at three stories it was half their full height, with shutters and a wraparound front porch—a beautiful colonial country house with a fenced horse corral and barn beyond it. Remy stared at the house through the mist, which flattened everything and made the world appear sluggish and slow. Two hundred yards beyond the house Remy could see cars crawling along a narrow highway, slowing to make the switchback like mourners pausing over a coffin. It was dawn and he was sitting alone in this field two hundred yards from the house. He looked down. There were binoculars in his hands. He held them up and zeroed in on the top floor of the house. An attractive woman in her thirties was eating a cup of yogurt. Remy had a headset on—a small earpiece and mike—but he couldn’t hear anything. He watched the woman walk around the top floor, from window to window. She was wearing workout clothes, bicycle tights maybe, with a collared shirt.

  At one corner of the house he could see her turn from side to side, as if checking herself in a mirror, the cup of yogurt in her hand.

  Remy dropped the binoculars and looked down at himself. He was wearing camouflage pants and a black jacket. He pulled a black stocking cap off his head and stared at it. Did he own a black stocking cap? A green camo backpack was spread out in the grass. Remy opened the backpack and began flipping through it. He found a notebook and pen, gloves, a semiautomatic handgun, and a box of Dolly Madison Zingers, like Twinkies with yellow frosting. Remy opened the box, took one out, and had a bite. It was good: spongy yellow cake with filling and frosting. Then he cracked the notebook. There were two listings written in the notebook, in his handwriting: 0645—light on. Subject Herote awake. Alone. 0724—Subject out of shower, dressing in workout clothes. He glanced over at the backpack and saw, at the bottom…a full prescription bottle. Remy set the Zinger down, looked around the field, and then pulled out the bottle. He opened it and swallowed two of the capsules. He closed his eyes and curled up on the ground, hoping his psychiatrist knew what he was talking about and that this hallucination would dissolve. But with his eyes closed Remy could only see streaks and floaters, and when he opened his eyes he was still in the field. He fell back in the grass, discouraged.

  “Fresca Two. This is Fanta One. Do you copy?”

  Remy wedged himself into the deep g
rass, hoping the medication would kick in and this would all go away.

  “I’m gonna make the call now.” It was Markham’s voice. “Wish me luck.”

  Remy raised his head and looked all around the field. It was all still there, the house, the oak trees, the barn and corral, the highway behind, a creek bed to the right, lined with bushes, and on his left, a ridge, its base ringed by shade trees whose branches moved in the soft wind like fingers on a piano.

  A few seconds later, Remy could hear a telephone ringing in his earpiece. He held the binoculars to his eyes and saw the woman in the big house skip across a room and pick up the phone on the second ring.

  “Helloo,” her voice chirped in his ear.

  “I’m looking for Lisa Herote,” he heard Markham say.

  “This is she.” He watched her through the binoculars, her lips moving just slightly ahead of the words.

  “Hi, this is Mike Brady, with Brady Florists here in town,” Markham continued. “We have an arrangement we’re trying to deliver for you from a…” Papers shuffled. “…Bishir Madain.”

  “Oh,” she said, and through the binoculars Remy could see the woman put a hand against her chest, as if she’d just received a compliment. “Bishir? Really?” Her head cocked and she said, “Oh,” again.

  “Yeah, sorry to ruin the surprise,” Markham said. “Unfortunately, our computer was down when he called and my kid wrote the information on a piece of paper and then spilled Dr Pepper on it…so we don’t have Mr. Madain’s credit card number or any contact information for him. We can’t deliver without—”

  “Oh, I’ll pay for it,” she offered quickly, as if she were used to paying for Bishir.

  Clearly, this hadn’t occurred to Markham, who coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s against our policy. But if you just could give us Mr. Madain’s phone number, we can clear this all up.”

  “I don’t have it,” she said. “I haven’t talked to Bishir in months. I have no idea where he is. That’s why it’s such a pleasant surprise that he’d send me flowers.”

  “Oh. No idea where he is?”

  “No. None. We had a difficult breakup,” she said. “He wasn’t exactly…committed to the relationship.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” Markham said over the earpiece. “And you have no idea—”

  “No, none. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I mean…I assume he’s still in San Francisco. Is that where the call came from?”

  “San Francisco,” Markham said, perking up. “Yes.”

  “That’s where he said he was moving.”

  “Okay, well—”

  “Do I get my flowers?”

  In his earpiece, Remy heard the line go dead and then:

  “Fresca Two, this is Fanta One. How was that? Pretty good, huh?”

  Remy ignored him.

  “Come on, Brian. I did okay, right? Come on. I know you’re down there. I’m staring right at you.”

  Remy wedged himself down in the grass again.

  “Hey, did you open those Zingers yet? I’m starving up here, man. I ate all my corn nuts already. You were right. I shouldn’t have gotten corn nuts. Can I have a Zinger?”

  Finally, Remy said, “They’re all gone.”

  “No they’re not,” Markham said. “No way you eat a whole box of Zingers before eight in the morning. It’s physically impossible. Come on, man.”

  “Leave me alone,” Remy said again. “This isn’t even real.” He took off the headset and threw it down in the grass.

  It was quiet in the field, but for the rustle of deep grass. Remy looked at the prescription bottle again; then ate another bite of Zinger instead. He couldn’t believe how good it was. He grabbed the box to see the ingredients. There was no mention of the things he could taste: cake, cream, and frosting…it was as if those things didn’t really exist, as if what he believed was a piece of frosted yellow cake was really nothing more than this list of sugars, acids, preservatives, sulfates, and yellow dyes.

  “I saw that, you stingy jerk.” Markham’s voice was a tiny whine from the headset lying in the wet grass. “I know you’re—”

  LYING NAKED on the queen-size bed, on top of the covers, Remy looked around the hotel room. It was a big room, with a window overlooking a park. He wasn’t sure where—it didn’t look like anyplace in the city he’d ever been. A grove of willows stood guard outside the window, above a meandering river. Remy’s clothes were piled on a chair and a wine bottle sat on the nightstand, half-full, next to a glass with nothing but the dark red rim around the stem. He sat up and poured himself another glass of wine.

  Then he heard the toilet flush. He looked at the bathroom door, which was closed. Behind the door, the water ran.

  Remy pulled the cover across his lap. A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom. It was Nicole, April’s boss.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Remy said.

  “That’s better,” she said. She was wearing a short, red silk robe, tied at the waist. She was holding a glass of wine, the same color as her painted finger and toenails.

  “Whew boy,” she said. “I’m not used to the sex taking that long. With Troy it’s more like getting a flu shot.” She took a slug of wine.

  “Oh, God,” Remy said. “I didn’t…did I?”

  “Oh, I think you did.” She smiled, and then cocked her head. “Oh, no. Are we having second thoughts, hon? I was afraid of that.”

  “No. I can’t do this,” Remy said.

  “Well, probably not for a few hours, no.”

  “Look, I’m sorry but this was wrong…I shouldn’t be here.”

  Nicole stood staring at him, and finally took a sip of wine. “Look, if it’s any consolation, no one wants to have done it right after they’ve done it.” She shrugged. “Except maybe teenagers.” She winked. “And women of a certain age.” She set her wine down on the nightstand. “I’ll tell you what…I’m going to go now…I’m not really into the whole…regret part.”

  She returned to the bathroom and began getting dressed. Remy caught flashes of her in the mirror, as she wrestled her way back into a pair of unlikely string underwear, and thrust her legs into a pair of black pants. She came out buttoning a pink suit jacket.

  Remy was trying to figure out how to explain himself. “Listen, I’m not myself these days. I shouldn’t have…I’m not…entirely in control.”

  “Right,” she said, and swilled her wine. “Isn’t that…kind of the point?”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt April. So…if I try to…sleep with you again…I would really appreciate it if you just ignored me.”

  She flinched. “Sure. Will do.” Then she smiled wistfully, slid her feet back into a pair of high heels, and looked back at him, her face red. “You fly me here, feel me up like goddamned airport security, and then, the minute the gun goes off, fall back in love with your girlfriend. I’ll tell you what—it’ll be a huge relief when everything down there finally dries up. Then maybe I can ignore assholes like you.”

  Remy put his head in his hands.

  She’d regained herself. “You can go back to being a good boyfriend now. I’ll see myself out.” She slipped out into the hall and the door eased closed behind her. After a minute, Remy got to his feet. He fumbled in his pants for the pills his psychiatrist had given him, wondering how long they took to kick in. He opened the bottle and took two more pills. Then he put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the hotel room doorknob, slid the deadbolt shut, and his head fell against the door.

  REMY DRIFTED down the jetway. He fell in behind a couple in matching cargo shorts and backpacks and a woman with a huge baby balanced on her hip, and they all spilled out into the clean terminal, which was mostly empty, a couple dozen travelers waiting at gates, furtive behind newspapers or hunched over cell phones and cups of coffee, as two soldiers moved like shepherds among them, M-16s aimed at the ground. Remy made eye contact with one of the soldiers, who looked him up and down, glance
d once more at his eyes, and finally moved on.

  Remy stood beneath the sign announcing forks for ground transportation, baggage claim, and ticketing. He chose a direction at random, walked down the stairs and out the door, and was relieved to see Guterak, leaning against his car, talking to a traffic cop. The sun was setting, the sky behind him a smear of humiliation.

  “You have a good time?” Paul asked, as the cop moved on.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You come back from vacation and you don’t know if you had a good time? What’s the matter with you? You got luggage?”

  Remy looked back at the airport. “I don’t think so.”

  “Doesn’t look like you got any sun to speak of,” Paul said. “Probably wore sunscreen. That’s the hardest thing for me now—putting on sunscreen. Or fastening my fuggin’ seat belt. All these things that used to seem like common sense…now…I mean…come on? I gotta slather on SP-fuggin’-80? I gotta stop for red fuggin’ lights? I gotta put on oven mitts to take out a hot pan? I mean, come on…oven mitts?” He showed Remy burns on the sides of his thumbs.

  They climbed into Paul’s unmarked. He swerved into the crowd of waiting taxis and gypsy cabs and curbside loaders and began angling away from the airport.

  “So how you doing?” Paul asked.

  “Not so good,” Remy said.

  “Back bothering you?”

  “My back? No. My back is—”

  “Did I tell you the agent sold my story?” Paul asked.

  “No,” Remy said. “That’s great.”

  “I suppose. I’m not gonna get rich anytime soon, but it’s still a good deal,” Guterak said. “They optioned my story, but it could really pay off if we actually go into production.”

  “So…a movie?” Remy asked.

  “Well, no…not exactly,” Paul said. He put on his blinker and looked over his shoulder, drifting across lanes. “This company makes all sorts of products. DVDs. Cigarettes. Food. Cereal.” He glanced over.