The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  “Just tell me where it happened.”

  “Listen, don’t do anything rash—”

  “Where’d the damn accident happen?!”

  “D-Down on New Jersey. By the strip club.”

  “Cheese, listen to me. Don’t tell anyone what happened. This isn’t office gossip—it’s a friend. Understand?”

  Before he can answer, I shut my phone, turn the corner, and pick up the pace. My jog accelerates into a run, which accelerates into a full-on sprint. My tie flaps over my shoulder, waving in the wind. A noose around my neck. I should be so lucky.

  Rushing toward the overpass on New Jersey Avenue, I see flashing lights spinning in the distance. But the moment I realize they’re yellow instead of red, I know I’m too late. Up by the gravel driveway, the driver’s-side door of a flatbed tow truck slams shut, and the engine coughs itself awake. On the back of the flatbed is a black Toyota with a smashed-in front end. The driver hits the gas, and the tow truck rumbles deeper into southeast D.C.

  “Wait!” I shout, chasing it up the block. “Please, wait!” I don’t have a chance. Even I’m not that fast. But on the back of the truck, the front of the Toyota’s still facing me. I keep running full-speed, staring hard at the grille, which taunts me with its jack-o’-lantern grin. It’s a twisted smile, with a deep indentation on the driver’s side. Like it hit something. Then I catch the dark smudge toward the bottom of the grille. Not just something. Someone.

  Matthew . . .

  “Wait . . . waaaait!” I scream until my throat begins to burn. It still doesn’t bury the pain. Nothing does. It’s like a corkscrew in my chest, tightening with every second that passes. I’m still running as fast as I can, looking around at the world, searching for something . . . anything that’ll make sense. It never does. My toes curl. My feet sting. And the corkscrew continues to tighten.

  The tow truck kicks back a black cloud of exhaust and fades up the block. I run out of gas just beyond the gravel driveway—where the truck picked up the Toyota.

  Two weeks ago, a seventeen-year-old Asian delivery boy was the victim of a hit-and-run a few blocks from my house. The cops kept police tape around the scene for almost six hours so they could get paint samples from the other vehicles the car collided with. Bent over and covered in sweat, I scan up and down the block. There’s not a strand of police tape in sight. Whoever worked this scene . . . whoever cleaned it up . . . they found all the answers they needed right here. No suspects. No loose ends. Nothing to worry about.

  Lost in a haze, I kick a loose pebble from the street. It skips across the pavement and clinks against the sidewalk. Just shy of the telephone pole. There’s some glass from the headlights scattered at the base and some torn-up grass patches from where they dragged the car out. Otherwise, the pole’s untouched. I crane my neck up. Maybe off by ten degrees.

  Tracing it backward, it’s not hard to follow. Tire tracks in the gravel show me where the Toyota’s wheels started to spin. From there, the trail goes straight up the driveway. Dead-ending at the Dumpster.

  I kick another pebble through the gravel, but as it hits the Dumpster, the metal sound is different from before. Hollow. Completely empty.

  There’s a dent in the base of the Dumpster, and a dark puddle right below it. I tell myself not to look, but . . . I have to. Lowering my chin, I squint with a hesitant peek. I expect it to be red, like some bad slasher sequel. It’s not. It’s black. Just a shallow black stain. All that remains.

  My stomach cartwheels, and a snakebite of acid slithers up my throat. I clench my teeth to fight the vomit. My head again floats from my shoulders, and I stagger backwards, grasping for balance. It doesn’t come. Crashing on my ass, I slam against the gravel driveway, my hands slicing across the rocks. I swear, I can’t move. I roll on my side, but all it does is bring me back to the dent in the Dumpster. And the black stain. And the crush of rocks surrounding it. I’m not sure why I came. I thought it’d make me feel better. It doesn’t. With my cheek against the ground, I’ve got an ant’s-eye view of the thin crawl space below the Dumpster. If I were small enough, I’d hide underneath, tucked behind the gum wrappers, empty beer bottles, and . . . and the one thing that’s clearly out of place . . . It’s really buried back there—I only see it when the sun hits it just right . . .

  Cocking my head sideways, I slide my arm under the Dumpster and pull out the bright blue plastic nametag with the white writing:

  Senate Page

  Viv Parker

  My mouth sags open. My fingers go numb. There’s some dirt on the lettering, but it brushes right off. The nametag shines—it hasn’t been out here long. I look back at the dent and the dark stain. Maybe just a few hours.

  Oh, damn.

  There was only one reason for Matthew to interact with a Senate page. Today was the day. Our stupid fucking bet . . . If they were both out here, maybe someone—

  My phone rings in my pocket, and I jerk backwards from the vibration against my leg.

  “Harris,” I answer, flipping the phone open.

  “Harris, it’s Barry—where are you?”

  I look around the empty lot, wondering the same thing myself. Barry may be blind, but he’s not stupid. If he’s calling me here, he . . .

  “Just heard about Matthew,” Barry says. “I can’t believe it. I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Cheese. Why?”

  I shut my eyes and curse my assistant.

  “Harris, where are you?” Barry adds.

  It’s the second time he’s asked that question. For that reason alone, he’s not getting an answer.

  Climbing to my feet, I brush the dust from my pants. My head’s still spinning. I can’t do this now . . . but . . . I have to. I need to find out who else knows. “Barry, have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No one. Almost no one. Why?”

  He knows me too well. “Nothing,” I tell him. “What about Matthew’s office mates—they heard yet?”

  “Actually, that’s who I just hung up with. I called to pass the word, but Dinah . . . Trish from the Senate . . . they already knew. Somehow, they got the news first.”

  I look down at the page’s nametag in the palm of my hand. In all the time we were playing the game, it was never important who we were betting against. That was the fun of it. But right now, I’ve got a bad feeling it’s the only thing that matters.

  “Barry, I gotta go.”

  I press the End button and dial a new number. But before I can finish, there’s a soft crunch of gravel behind the Dumpster. I race around to the back of it, but no one’s there.

  Keep it together, I tell myself.

  I take a deep breath and let it wash down to my abdomen. Just like my dad used to do when the bills came. My finger once again dives for the keypad. Time to go to the source. And when it comes to the game, the only source I know is the person who brought me in.

  “Bud Pasternak’s office—how can I help you?” a female voice answers. Barry’s boss. My mentor.

  “Melinda, it’s me. Is he in?”

  “Sorry, Harris. Conference call.”

  “Can you get him out?”

  “Not this one.”

  “C’mon, Melinda . . .”

  “Don’t even try with the charm, pumpkin. He’s pitching a big client.”

  “How big?”

  “Rhymes with Bicrosoft.”

  Behind me, there’s another crunch of gravel. I spin around to follow the sound. Farther up the driveway, behind a scrubby bunch of bushes.

  That’s it. I’m gone.

  “Wanna leave a message?” Melinda asks.

  Not about this. Matthew . . . the FBI . . . It’s like a tidal wave, arched above my head, ready to crash down. “Tell him I’m coming by.”

  “Harris, you’re not interrupting this meeting . . .”

  “Wouldn’t even think it,” I say as I shut the phone. I’m already jogging back toward the overpass. It’s only a few blocks to First
Street. Home of Pasternak & Associates.

  10

  NICE TO SEE YOU,” Janos said, blowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing a quick wave to the female security guard.

  “Can I have you sign in for me?” the guard asked, tapping her finger on the three-ring binder that was open on her desk.

  Janos stopped midstep and slowly turned back to the guard. This wasn’t the time to make a scene. Better to play it quiet.

  “Absolutely,” he replied as he approached the desk. With a flick of his pen, he scribbled the name Matthew Mercer onto the sign-in sheet.

  The guard stared up at the letters FBI on Janos’s blue and yellow windbreaker. To seal the deal, Janos quickly flashed a shined-up sheriff’s badge he got in an old Army-Navy store. When Janos made eye contact, the guard looked away.

  “Nice day outside, huh?” the guard asked, staring out through the lobby’s enormous plate-glass window.

  “Absolutely,” Janos repeated as he headed for the elevators. “Pretty as a peach.”

  11

  NICE TO SEE YOU, BARB,” I say, plowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing an air kiss to the security guard.

  She grabs the kiss and tosses it aside. Always the same joke. “How’s Stevens?” she asks.

  “Old and rich. How’s . . . how’s your hubby?”

  “You forgot his name, didn’t you?”

  “Sorry,” I stutter. “Just one of those afternoons.”

  “Everybody has ’em, sweets.” It doesn’t make me feel any better. “You here to see Barry?”

  I nod as the elevator dings. Barry’s on the third floor. Pasternak’s on the fourth. Stepping inside, I hit the button marked 4. The moment the doors close, I slump against the back wall. My smile’s gone; my shoulders sag. In my pocket, I fiddle with the page’s nametag. The elevator rattles upward. All the way to the top.

  With a ping, the doors slide open on the fourth floor, and I squeeze outside into the modern hallway with its recessed lighting. There’s a receptionist on my right. I go left. Pasternak’s assistant’ll never buzz me through. There’s no choice but to go around. The hallway ends at a frosted-glass door with a numeric keypad. I’ve seen Barry enter it a hundred times. I punch in the code, the lock clicks, and I shove my way inside. Just another lobbyist making the rounds.

  Decorated like a law firm but with a bit more attitude, the halls of Pasternak & Associates are covered with stylish black-and-white photos of the American flag waving over the Capitol, the White House, and every other monument in the city—anything to show patriotism. The message to potential clients is clear: Pasternak lobbyists embrace the system—and work within it. The ultimate inside job.

  Wasting no time, I avoid all offices and make a sharp right toward the back, past the kitchenette. If I’m lucky, Pasternak will still be in the conference room, away from his—

  “Harris?” a voice calls out behind me.

  I spin back and paint on a fake grin. To my surprise, I don’t recognize the face.

  “Harris Sandler, right?” he asks again, clearly surprised. His voice creaks like a loose floorboard, and his green hangdog eyes have a silent darkness to them. They lock on to me like a bear trap. Still, the only thing I’m concerned with is the blue and yellow FBI windbreaker he’s wearing.

  “Can I talk to you a moment?” the man asks as he points me back toward the conference room. “I promise . . . it’ll only take a second.”

  12

  DO I KNOW YOU?” I ask, searching for info.

  The man in the FBI windbreaker puts on his own fake smile and rubs his hand along his buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. I know that move. Stevens does it when he meets constituents. A poor attempt to warm things up. “Harris, maybe we should find a place to talk.”

  “I-I’m supposed to see Pasternak.”

  “I know. Sounds like he’s been a good friend to you.” His body language switches in the most imperceptible way. He’s smiling, but his chin pitches toward me. I make my living in politics. Most people wouldn’t see it. I do.

  “Now, do you want to have this discussion in the conference room, or would you rather discuss it in front of the whole firm?” he asks. Ramming his point home, he nods a quick hello to a middle-aged redhead who steps into the kitchenette for some coffee. Talking without saying. Whoever this guy is, he’d be a great Congressman.

  “If this is about Matthew . . .”

  “It’s about more than Matthew,” the man interrupts. “What surprises me is Pasternak trying to keep your name out of it.”

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

  “Please, Harris—even a nongambling man would bet against that.”

  The reference is as subtle as lighting my chest on fire. He doesn’t just know about Matthew. He knows about the game. And he wants me to know it.

  I stare at him coldly. “Pasternak’s in the conference room?”

  “Right this way,” he says, motioning up the hallway like a fine maître d’. “After you . . .”

  I lead the way. He falls in right behind me.

  “Sounds like you two have known each other a long time,” he says.

  “Me and Pasternak, or me and Matthew?”

  “Both,” he says as he straightens a black-and-white photo of the Supreme Court that’s hanging in the hall. He’s asking questions, but he doesn’t care about the answers.

  I glance over my shoulder and give him a quick once-over. Windbreaker . . . gray slacks . . . and chocolate brown calfskin shoes. The pewter logo says they’re Ferragamo. I turn back toward the hallway. Nice shoes for government pay.

  “Right in here,” he says, pointing to the door on my right. Like the one by the elevators, it’s frosted glass, which only shows me the blurry outline of Pasternak as he sits in his favorite black leather chair at the center of the long conference table. It’s one of Pasternak’s first lessons: better to be at the center than the head of the table—if you want something done, you need to be close to all the players.

  I grab the doorknob and give it a twist. I’m not surprised Pasternak picked this conference room—it’s the biggest one in the firm—but as the door swings open, I am surprised to find that the lights are off. I didn’t notice it at first. Except for the fading sunlight from the large bay windows, Pasternak’s sitting in the dark.

  The door slams behind me, followed by a slight electrical hum. Like a transistor radio being turned on. I spin around just in time to see the man with the hangdog eyes lunging at me. In his hand is a small box that looks like a black brick. I lean back at the last second and raise my arm as a shield. The box slams into my forearm and burns with a sharp bite. Son of a bitch. Did he just stab me?

  He expects me to pull away. Instead, I keep the box in my arm and tug him even closer. As he tumbles toward me off balance, I pivot off my back leg and punch him square in his eye. His head snaps back, and he stumbles, crashing into the closed frosted-glass door. The black box flies from his hand and shatters on the floor, scattering batteries along the carpet. The man doesn’t go down as easy. Patting his eye with his fingertips, he looks up at me with an admiring grin, almost like he’s enjoying himself. You don’t get a face like that without taking a few punches, and he’s clearly taken better ones than mine. He licks the corner of his mouth and sends me the message. If I plan on doing any damage, I have to do better than that.

  “Who taught you how to punch?” his voice creaks as he scoops up the pieces of the black box and slides them in his pocket. “Your dad or your uncle?”

  He’s trying to show off some knowledge . . . get me emotional. He doesn’t have a chance. I’ve spent over a dozen years on Capitol Hill. When it comes to mental boxing, I’ve taken on a Congressful of Muhammad Alis. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna risk it all in a fistfight.

  He climbs to his feet, and I look around for help. “Buddy!” I call out to Pasternak. He doesn’t move. Back by the conference table . . . he’s leaning back in his c
hair. One arm dangles over the armrest. His eyes are wide open. The world blurs as the tears swell in my eyes. I race toward him, then quickly stop short, raising my hands in the air. Don’t touch the body.

  “Always thinking, aren’t you?” Hangdog calls out.

  Behind me, I hear the hiss of his blue and yellow windbreaker as he slowly moves toward me. FBI, my ass. I turn to face him, and he tosses out another cocky grin, convinced he’s blocking my only way out. I spin back toward the bay window and the patio behind it. The patio. And the door that leads to it.

  I dart like a jackrabbit for the glass door at the back of the room. Like before, there’s a numeric keypad. Now Hangdog’s moving. My hands are shaking as they tap out Barry’s code. “C’mon . . .” I beg, waiting for the magnetic click. The man races around the conference table, ten steps behind me. The lock pops. I shove the door open, then spin around, trying to slam it shut. If I lock him in—

  He jams his hand into the doorway just as it’s about to close. There’s a sharp crunch. He grits his teeth at the pain but doesn’t let go. I slam the door tighter. He glares at me through the glass, his green eyes darker than ever. He still doesn’t let go. His knuckles turn purple, he’s squeezing the doorframe so tight. He wedges his shoe in the door and starts to push it open. This isn’t a stalemate I can win.

  I search over my shoulder at the rest of the patio, which is filled with teak Adirondack chairs and matching footrests. During the spring, the patio’s used mainly for high-end congressional fund-raisers. Why rent out a room when you can keep it in-house? On my right and left, wood lattices overrun with ivy create false walls for the rooftop. Straight ahead is a stunning view of the Capitol dome—and more important, the other four-story building that sits directly next door. The only thing between the buildings is the seven-foot alley that separates them.

  The man winds up for a final burst. As his shoulder pounds into the door, I step away and let it swing wide. He falls to the floor, and I run straight for the edge of the roof.