The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  “You’ll never make it!” he calls out.

  Again with the mental game. I don’t listen. I don’t think. I just run. Straight for the edge. I tell myself not to look at the gap, but as I barrel toward it, I don’t see anything else. Four stories up. Seven feet wide . . . maybe six if I’m lucky . . . Please let it be six.

  Staring dead ahead and sprinting across the terra-cotta pavers, I clench my teeth, step up on the concrete parapet, and launch myself into the air. When I first met Matthew in college, he told me he was tall enough to hurdle the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. Let’s hope the same is true for me.

  As I clear the six-foot canyon, I hit the roof of the adjacent building on the heels of my feet and skid forward until I fall back on my ass-bone. A hot lightning bolt of electricity shoots up my spine. Unlike the patio, the roof over here is tar—it burns as I hit. The impact alone kicks a miniwhirlwind of rooftop dust into my lungs, but there’s no time to stop. I look back across to the other building. Hangdog is racing at me, about to match my jump.

  Scrambling to my feet, I look around for a doorway or stairwell. Nothing in sight. On the opposite ledge, the metal tendrils of a fire escape creep over the parapet like the legs of a spider. Making a mad dash for it, I hop over the ledge, slide down the rusted ladder, and collide with a clang as I hit the top landing of the fire escape. Holding the railing and circling downward, I leap down the stairs half a flight at a time. By the time I’m on the second floor, I hear a loud scratch and feel the whole fire escape vibrate. Up above, the man hits the top landing. He glares down through the grating. I’ve got a three-floor head start.

  With a kick, I unhinge the metal ladder, sending it sliding down toward the sidewalk in the alley. Following right behind it, I shuffle down, my shoes smacking against the concrete. On my left is a dead end. On my right, across the street, is Bullfeathers, one of Capitol Hill’s oldest bars. They should be in the heart of happy hour—the perfect time to get lost in a crowd.

  As I race into the street, a horn screams, and a silver Lexus screeches to a stop, almost plowing into me. At Bullfeathers, I spot Dan Dutko—easily the town’s nicest lobbyist—holding open the door for his entire party.

  “Hey, Harris, saw your boss on TV—you’re cleaning him up real nice,” he calls out with a laugh.

  I force a strained grin and elbow my way in front of the group, almost knocking over a woman with dark hair.

  “Can I help you?” the hostess asks as I stumble inside.

  “Where’re the bathrooms?” I blurt. “It’s an emergency.”

  “B-Back and to the right,” she says. I’m clearly creeping her out.

  Without slowing down, I rush past the bar, toward the back. But I never make a right toward the bathrooms. Instead, I run straight through the swinging doors of the kitchen, squeeze past the chef at the fryer, duck past a waiter balancing a serving tray full of hamburgers, and leap up the few steps in the very back. With a shove, I ram into the back door and burst outside into the restaurant’s back alley. I’ve eaten here once a week for over a decade. I know where the bathrooms are. But if I’m lucky, when the man bursts into the restaurant and asks the hostess where I went, she’ll send him back and to the right. Stuck in the rest rooms.

  I jog backward up the alley, my gaze locked on Bullfeathers’s back door. Dead silent. Even he’s not good enough t—

  The door swings open, and the man bounds outside.

  We both freeze. Shaking his head at my predictability, he readjusts his windbreaker. Listening carefully, I notice the jingling of keys on my left. Diagonally behind me, a twenty-year-old kid with a pair of headphones is opening the back door to his apartment building.

  Hangdog leaps toward me. I leap toward Headphones.

  “’Scuse me, kid—sorry,” I say, cutting in front of him. As I slide into the building, I grab his keys from the lock and take them inside with me.

  “Jackass!” the kid calls out.

  Nodding another apology, I slam the thick metal door shut. He’s outside with Hangdog. I’m alone in the building. I already hear him pounding his shoulder against the door. Like before, this isn’t gonna last.

  Behind me, the gray industrial stairwell can take me up or down. From the view at the banister, up leads to the main lobby and the rest of the building. Down goes down one flight and dead-ends at a bike rack. Logic says to go up. It’s the clear way out. More important, every instinct in my gut tells me to go up. Which is exactly why I go down. Screw logic. Whoever this psychopath is, he’s been in my head long enough.

  Descending toward the dead end, I find two empty mop buckets and seven bikes, one with training wheels and rainbow streamers on the handlebars. I’m not MacGyver. Nothing I can use as a weapon. Hopping over the metal grating of the bike rack, I curl down into a tight ball and glance up toward the banister. From this angle, I’m as hidden as I get.

  Up above, the door crashes into the concrete wall, and he enters the stairwell.

  He’s at the foot of the stairs, making his decision. No time to check both—for both of us, every second counts.

  I hold my breath and shut my eyes. His suede shoes tickle the concrete as he takes a slight step forward. There’s a swish from his windbreaker. His fingernail taps quietly against the banister. He’s peering over the edge.

  Two seconds later, he races for the stairs . . . but with each step, the sound gets fainter. In the distance, another metal door slams into a wall. Then silence. He’s gone.

  But as I finally raise my head and take a breath, I quickly realize my problems are just beginning.

  I try to stand up, but vertigo hits fast. I can barely keep my balance—adrenaline has long since disappeared. As I sink back into the corner, my arms sag like rubber bands at my side. Like Pasternak. And Matthew.

  God . . .

  Again I shut my eyes. Again they both stare back at me. They’re all I see. Matthew’s soft smile and gawky stride . . . the way Pasternak always cracked his middle knuckle . . .

  Curled into a ball, I can’t even look up. I’m right where I deserve to be. Matthew always put me up on a pedestal. So did Pasternak. But I was never that different. Or any less afraid. I was just more skilled at hiding it.

  I turn away toward the training-wheel bike, but all it does is remind me of Pasternak’s two-year-old son . . . his wife, Carol . . . Matthew’s parents . . . his brothers . . . their lives . . . all ruined . . .

  I lick my upper lip, and the taste of salt stings my tongue. It’s the first time I notice the tears running down my face.

  It was a game. Just a stupid game. But like any other game, all it took was a single dumb move to stop play and remind everyone how easy it is for people to get hurt. Whatever Matthew saw . . . whatever he did . . . the man chasing me is clearly trying to keep it quiet. At any cost. He’s not a novice, either. I think back to how he left Matthew. And Pasternak . . . That’s why he scooped up the pieces of the black box. When they find his body, there’s no reason for anyone to cock an eyebrow. People die at their desks every day.

  I shake my head at my new reality. That creepy nut . . . the way he set it all up . . . and that black box, whatever the hell it was. He may not be FBI, but the guy’s clearly a professional. And while I’m not sure if he’s shutting down the entire game or just our branch, it doesn’t take a genius to spot the trend. Pasternak brought me in, and I brought in Matthew. Two down, one to go. And I’m wearing the bull’s-eye in the middle.

  I curl my knees to my chest and pray it’s all a dream. It’s not. My friends are dead. And I’m next.

  How the hell did this happen? I look around and catch my reflection in the chrome handlebars of the kid’s bicycle. It’s like staring into a spoon. The whole world’s warped. I can’t get out of this myself—not without some help.

  Racing up the stairs and out the back door, I run five blocks without stopping. Still not sure it’s far enough, I flip open my phone and dial the number for information.

  “What city?” t
he female recorded voice asks.

  “Washington, D.C.”

  “What listing?”

  “The U.S. Department of Justice.”

  I press the phone to my ear as they give me the number. Seven digits later, I have to go through three secretaries before I get through.

  They pulled their big gun. Time for me to pull mine.

  As always, he picks up on the first ring. “I’m here,” he answers.

  “It’s Harris,” I tell him. “I need some help.”

  “Just tell me where and when. I’m already on my way . . .”

  13

  YOU LOST HIM?”

  “Just for the moment,” Janos said into his cell phone as he rounded the block outside Bullfeathers. “But he won’t—”

  “That’s not what I asked. What I asked was: Did. You. Lose. Harris?”

  Janos stopped midstep, standing in the middle of the street. A man in a maroon Oldsmobile punched his horn, screaming for him to move. Janos didn’t budge. Turning his back toward the Oldsmobile, he gripped the phone and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said into his cell. “Yes, Mr. Sauls. I lost him.”

  Sauls let the silence sink in.

  Asshole, Janos thought to himself. He’d seen this last time he worked with Sauls. Big people always felt the need to make big points.

  “Are we done?” Janos asked.

  “Yes. We’re done for now,” Sauls replied.

  “Good—then stop worrying. I had a long talk with your inside man. I know where Harris lives.”

  “You really think he’s dumb enough to go home?”

  “I’m not talking about his house,” Janos said into the phone. “I’ve studied him for six months. I know where he lives.”

  As Janos finally stepped toward the sidewalk, the man in the Oldsmobile let go of his horn and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward, then skidded to a stop right next to Janos. The man inside lowered the passenger-side window about halfway. “Learn some manners, dickface!” he yelled from inside.

  Craning down toward the car, Janos calmly leaned his arm against the half-open window, which gave slightly from the pressure. His jacket slid open just enough for the man to see Janos’s leather shoulder holster and, more important, the nine-millimeter Sig pistol held within it. Janos raised the right corner of his mouth. The man in the Oldsmobile hit the gas as fast as he could. As the wheels spun and the car took off, Janos kept his arm pressed tightly in place, letting his ring scrape against the Oldsmobile as it zipped away.

  14

  CAN I GET YOU anything?” the waitress asks.

  “Yeah . . . yeah,” I say, looking up from the menu, which she thinks I’ve been reading for far too long. She’s only partially right. I have been sitting here for fifteen minutes, but the only reason the menu’s up is to hide my face.

  “I’ll take a Stan’s Famous,” I tell her.

  “Howdaya like it?”

  “Rare. No cheese . . . and some grilled onions . . .”

  The quote on the menu says, “the best damn drink in town,” but the only reason I picked Stan’s Restaurant is because of its clientele. Located down the block from the offices of the Washington Post, Stan’s always has a few reporters and editors lurking around. And since most of the deadlines have already passed, the bar’s practically packed. I learned my lesson. If something goes wrong, I want witnesses with access to lots of ink.

  “Can I take that from you?” the waitress asks, reaching for the menu.

  “Actually, I’d rather hold on to it . . . if that’s okay.”

  She smiles and cocks her head at me. “God, your eyes are so green.”

  “Th-Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, catching herself. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “My wife says the same thing.”

  She looks down at my hand but doesn’t spot a ring. Annoyed, she walks away. This trip isn’t about making new friends—it’s about seeing old ones . . .

  I glance at my wrist and study the front door. I asked him to meet me at nine. Knowing his schedule, I figured he’d be here at nine-fifteen. It’s almost nine-thirty. I pick up my phone just to—

  The door swings open, and he strolls inside with the limp he got from an old skiing injury. He keeps his head down, hoping to keep a low profile, but at least four people turn and pretend to look away. Now I know who the reporters are.

  When I first met Lowell Nash, I was a second-year staffer in charge of the pen-signing machine; he was the chief of staff who wrote my recommendation for Georgetown Law’s night division. Three years later, when he went into private practice, I returned the favor by steering a few big donors his way as clients. Two years back, he returned the favor by having his law firm raise fifty thousand dollars for the Senator’s reelection campaign. Last year, when the President nominated him as Deputy Attorney General, I returned the favor again by making sure the Senator—a longtime member of the Judiciary Committee—made the confirmation process as smooth as possible. That’s how Washington works. Favors returning favors.

  Lowell’s now the number two person at Justice—one of the highest law enforcement positions in the country. I’ve known him for over a decade. The favor was last in his court. I need it returned.

  “Congressman,” he says with a nod.

  “Mr. President,” I nod back. It’s not entirely impossible. At forty-two years old, Lowell’s the youngest black man ever to hold his position. That alone gives him a national profile. Like the headline in Legal Times read: THE NEXT COLIN POWELL? Playing to the article, he keeps his hair cut short and always sits at perfect attention. He’s never been in the military, but he knows the value of looking the part. Like I said, Lowell’s on his way—that is, barring some personal disaster.

  “You look like crap,” he says, folding his black overcoat across the back of the chair and tossing his keys next to my matching phones.

  I don’t respond.

  “Just tell me what happened . . .”

  Again, no response.

  “C’mon, Harris—talk to me,” he pleads.

  It’s hard to argue. That is what I came for. Eventually, I look up. “Lowell, I need your help.”

  “Personal or professional help?”

  “Law enforcement help.”

  He folds his hands on the table with his pointer fingers extended up, church-steeple-style.

  “How bad is it?” he asks.

  “Pasternak’s dead.”

  He nods. News travels fast in this town. Especially when it’s your old boss. “I heard it was a heart attack,” he adds.

  “That’s what they’re saying?”

  This time, he’s the one to stay quiet. He turns back toward the reporters, taking a quick scan of the restaurant, then twists back to me. “Tell me about Matthew,” he eventually says.

  I start to explain but cut myself off. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know Matthew.

  Lowell and I lock eyes. He quickly looks away.

  “Lowell, what’s going on?”

  “Burger—rare,” the waitress interrupts, plopping my plate down in front of me with a clang. “Anything for you?” she asks Lowell.

  “I’m great . . . thanks.”

  She gives me one last chance to make good and offer her a smile. When I don’t, she drills me with a silent sneer and heads off to another table.

  “Lowell, this isn’t—” I stop and fight myself to bring it to a whisper. “Lowell, enough with the anxious silent-guy act—this is my life . . .”

  He still won’t face me. He’s staring at the tabletop, fidgeting with the keys on his key ring.

  “Lowell, if you know something—”

  “They marked you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re marked, Harris. If they find you, you’re dead.”

  “What’re you talking about? Who’s they? How do you know them?”

  Lowell looks over his shoulder. I thought he was studying the reporters. He’s
not. He’s studying the door.

  “You should get out of here,” he says.

  “I . . . I don’t understand. Aren’t you gonna help me?”

  “Don’t you get it, Harris? The game is—”

  “You know about the game?”

  “Listen to me, Harris. These people are animals.”

  “But you’re my friend,” I insist.

  His eyes drop back to his key ring, which has a small plastic picture frame on it. He rubs his thumb against the frame, and I give it a closer look. The photo inside the frame is of his wife and four-year-old daughter. They’re at the beach with the surf crashing behind them. “We’re not all perfect, Harris,” he eventually says. “Sometimes, our mistakes hurt more than just ourselves.”

  My eyes stay glued to the key ring. Whatever they have on Lowell . . . I don’t even want to know.

  “You should leave,” he says for the second time.

  The hamburger in front of me goes completely uneaten. Whatever appetite I had is gone. “Do you know the guy who killed Matthew and Pasternak?”

  “Janos,” he says as his voice cracks. “The man should be in a cage.”

  “Who does he work for? Are they law enforcement?”

  His hands begin to shake. He’s starting to unravel. “I’m sorry about your friends . . .”

  “Please, Lowell . . .”

  “Don’t ask me anymore,” he begs. Over his shoulder, the same four reporters turn around.

  I close my eyes and rest my palms flat against the table. When I open them up, Lowell’s staring at his watch. “Go now,” he insists. “Now.”

  I give him one last chance. He doesn’t take it.

  “I’m sorry, Harris.”

  Standing from my seat, I ignore the trembling in my legs and take a step toward the front door. Lowell grabs me by the wrist. “Not out the front,” he whispers, motioning toward the back.

  I pause, unsure whether to trust him. It’s not like I have a choice. For the second time today, I dart for the kitchen and push my way through the swinging door.

  “You can’t go back there,” the waitress snips at me.