The Zero Game

by Brad Meltzer

  Just as Janos turns the corner, his legs slam into the wiring. At his speed, the thin metal slices into his shins. For the first time, he yells out in pain. It’s not much more than a muted roar, but I’ll take it. Tumbling forward, he skids face first against the ground. The sound alone is worth it.

  Before he can get up, I leap toward him, gripping him by the back of his head and pressing his face against the burning-hot green copper floor. As his cheek hits, he finally screams—a guttural rumble that vibrates against my chest. It’s like trying to pin a bull. Even as I grab the back of his neck, he’s already on his knees, climbing to his feet. Like a trapped panther, he lashes out, swiping a meaty paw at my face. I duck back, and his knuckles barely connect with a spot below my shoulder, just under my armpit. It doesn’t hurt—but as my entire right arm tingles and goes numb, I realize that’s where he was aiming all along.

  “Harris, run!” Viv shouts from the catwalk.

  She’s right about that. I can’t beat him one-on-one. I spin back toward Viv and sprint as fast as I can. My arm’s dead, flapping lifelessly at my side. Behind me, Janos is still on the ground, clawing at the wires. As I race toward the metal staircase that leads up to the roof, a half-dozen more staples pop through the air. He’ll be loose in seconds.

  “C’mon!” Viv yells, standing on the edge of the top step and waving me up.

  Using my good arm to hold the railing, I scutter up the stairs to the catwalk that zigzags across the roof. From here, with the dome at my back, the flat roof of the Senate wing is spread out in front of me. Most of it’s covered with air ducts, vents, a web of electrical wiring, and a handful of scattered rounded domes that rise like waist-high bubbles from the rooftop. Weaving through all of it, I follow the catwalk as it curves around the edge of the small dome that’s right in front of us.

  “You sure you know where you’re—?”

  “Here,” I say, cutting to the left, down an offshoot of metal stairs that takes us off the catwalk and back down to a different section of the balcony. Thank God neoclassical architecture is symmetrical. Along the wall on my left, there’s a corresponding window that’ll take us back into the building.

  I kick the window frame as hard as I can. The glass shatters, but the frame holds. Pulling some glass out to get a good handhold, I yank as hard as I can. I can hear the pounding of Janos’s feet up on the catwalk.

  “Pull harder!” Viv yells.

  The wood splinters in my hands, and the window flies open, swinging toward me. The pounding’s getting closer.

  “Go . . .” I say, helping Viv slide inside. I’m right behind her, landing hard as I hit the gray-carpeted floor. I’m in someone’s office.

  A stocky coworker comes rushing to the door. “You can’t be in here—”

  Viv shoves him aside, and I fall in right behind her. As a page, Viv knows the inside of this place as well as anyone. And the way she’s running—sharp turns without a pause—she’s not trailing anymore. She’s leading.

  We cut through the main welcoming area of the Senate curator’s office and fly down a curving narrow staircase that echoes as we run. Trying to stay out of sight, we jump down the last three steps and duck out on the third floor of the Capitol. The closed door in front of us is marked Senate Chaplain. Not a bad place to hide. Viv tries the doorknob.

  “It’s locked,” she says.

  “So much for your prayers.”

  “Don’t say that,” she scolds.

  There’s a loud thud from above. We both look up just in time to see Janos at the top of the staircase. The left side of his face is bright red, but he never says a word.

  Viv jackrabbits to her left, up the hallway and toward another flight of stairs. I head for the elevator, which is a bit further, just around the corner.

  “Elevator’s faster . . .” I tell her.

  “Only if it’s—”

  I hit the call button and hear a high-pitched ping. Viv quickly catches up. As the doors slide open, we hear Janos lumbering down the stairs. Shoving Viv in the elevator, I follow her inside, frantically trying to pull the door shut.

  Viv jabs wildly at the Door Close button. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon . . .”

  I wedge my fingers in the door’s metal molding and pull as hard as I can, trying to tug the door shut. Viv ducks under me and does the same. Janos is a few feet away. I see the tips of his outstretched fingers.

  “Get ready to pull the alarm!” I shout at Viv.

  Janos lunges forward, and our eyes lock. He jabs his hand toward us just as the door clicks, thunks, and slides shut.

  The elevator rumbles downward, and I can barely catch my breath.

  “My . . . my hand . . .” Viv whispers, picking something from her palm, which is bright red with blood. She pulls out a piece of glass from one of the broken windows.

  “You okay?” I ask, reaching out.

  Focused on her palm, she doesn’t answer. I’m not even sure she hears the question. Her hand shakes uncontrollably as she stares down at the blood. She’s in shock. But she’s still sharp enough to know she’s got far more important things to worry about. She grips her wrist to stop the shaking. “Why’s the FBI chasing you?” she asks, her voice cracking.

  “He’s not FBI.”

  “Then who the hell is he?”

  This isn’t the time for an answer. “Just get ready to run,” I tell her.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You think he’s not sprinting down the stairs right now?”

  She shakes her head, trying to look confident, but I can hear the panic in her voice. “It’s not a continuous staircase—he’ll have to stop and cross the hallway at two of the landings.”

  “Only at one,” I correct her.

  “Yeah, but . . . he still has to stop at each floor to make sure we didn’t get out.” She’s trying hard to convince herself, but even she’s not buying it. “There’s no way he’ll beat us down . . . right?”

  The elevator bobs to a stop in the basement, and the door slowly slides open. Sprinting out, I barely get two steps before I hear a loud click-clack on the metal treads of the staircase that rises directly in front of us. I crane my neck up just in time to see Janos whipping around the corner of the top step. He’s still silent, but the smallest of grins spreads across his lips.

  Son of a bitch.

  Viv takes off to the left, and I’m again right behind her. Janos storms down the stairs. We’ve got nothing more than a thirty-step head start. Viv makes a sharp left so we’re not in his direct line of sight, then a quick right. Down here, the basement’s got low ceilings and narrow halls. We’re like rats in a maze, twisting and turning as the cat licks his chops behind us.

  Dead ahead, the long hallway widens. At the end, a bright shot of sunlight glows through the glass in the double doors. There’s our way out. The west exit—the door the President uses as he steps out for his inauguration. From here, it’s a straight shot.

  Viv looks back for a half second. “You know what’s . . .”

  I nod. She understands.

  Pouring on the speed, Viv clenches her fists and heads for the light. A few drops of blood drip to the floor.

  Behind us, Janos is galloping like a racehorse, slowly closing the gap. I can hear him breathing—the closer he gets, the louder it grows. We all dig in hard, and the pounding of our shoes echoes through the hallway. I’m neck and neck with Viv, who’s slowly losing steam. She’s now a half step behind. C’mon, Viv . . . Only a few feet to go. I study her face. Wide eyes. Mouth open. I’ve seen that look on people at mile twenty-five in the marathon. She’s not gonna make it. Sensing her pain, Janos shifts a bit to the left. Right behind Viv. He’s so close, I can almost smell him. “Viv . . . !” I shout.

  Janos reaches out, raising his hand for the final grab. He lunges forward. The door’s straight ahead. But just as he swipes down, I grip Viv’s shoulder and make a sharp right, whipping us both around the corner, away from the door.

  J
anos skids across the polished floor, struggling to follow us through the turn. It’s too late. By the time he’s back in pursuit, Viv and I shove our way through a set of black vinyl double doors that look like they lead to a restaurant kitchen.

  But as the doors swing shut, we find fourteen armed policemen milling around the hallway. The office on our right is the internal headquarters of the Capitol Police.

  Viv’s already got her mouth open. “There’s a guy back there who’s trying to—”

  I shoot her a look, shaking my head. If she blows the whistle on Janos, he’ll blow the whistle on me—and right now, I can’t afford to be taken in. From the confused look on her face, Viv doesn’t understand, but it’s still enough to let me take the lead.

  “There’s a guy back there who’s muttering to himself,” I say to the three nearest officers. “He started following us for no reason, saying we were the enemy.”

  “I think he snuck off his tour,” Viv adds, knowing just how to rile these guys. Pointing to the ID badge around her neck, she says, “He doesn’t have an ID.”

  Janos shoves open the black vinyl doors. Three Capitol policemen move in.

  “Can I help you with something?” one of them asks. He’s unimpressed with the FBI windbreaker, which he knows can be bought in the gift shop.

  Before Janos can even make up a lame excuse, Viv and I continue further up the hallway that’s spread out in front of us.

  “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

  RIDING 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.