Zero Game (17 page)

The sweetness in her voice is at fairy godmother levels, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Over the past six months, Matthew and I spent countless hours trying to figure out which of our friends and coworkers were potentially playing the game. We narrowed it down to everyone—which is why the only person I trust anymore is a seventeen-year-old who’s terrified and hates me. So even though I’m sitting on a thirty-eight-million-dollar private airplane, it doesn’t change the fact that two of my closest friends in the world are gone forever, while some killer for hire is chasing after us, ready to make sure we join them. No question, there’s nothing to celebrate.

The plane rumbles forward, and I sink down in my seat. Outside the window, a man in blue cargo pants and a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt rolls up the red carpet, stands at attention, and salutes us as we leave. Even when he’s finished, he just stands there, frozen in place—which is why I notice the sudden movement over his shoulder. Back in the hangar. The thin man on the cell phone presses his open palms against the plate-glass window and watches us leave.

“Any idea who that is?” I ask the flight attendant, noticing that she’s staring at him, too.

“No idea,” she says. “I figured he was with you.”

30

T
HEY’RE ON A PLANE,”
Janos said into his phone as he stormed out of the Hotel George, signaling the doorman for a cab.

“How do you know?” Sauls asked on the other line.

“Believe me—I know.”

“Who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Actually, it does.”

Janos paused, refusing to answer. “Just be content with the fact that I know.”

“Don’t treat me like a schmuck,” Sauls warned. “Suddenly, the magician can’t reveal his tricks?”

“Not when the assholes backstage are always opening their mouths.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Sell any good Renoirs lately?” Janos asked.

Sauls stopped. “That was a year and a half ago. And it was a Morisot.”

“I’m well aware what it was—especially when it almost got me killed,” Janos pointed out. This wasn’t the first time he and Sauls had worked together. But as Janos knew, if they couldn’t get back in control soon, it easily could be their last.

“Just tell me how you—”

“Redial on Harris’s phone said he was talking to the mayor.”

“Aw, piss,” Sauls moaned. “You think he’s going to Dakota?”

As a cab stopped in front of him and the doorman opened the door, Janos didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe it,” Sauls added. “I got an embassy dinner tonight, and they’re fuckin’—” He cut himself off. “Where’re you now?”

“In transit,” Janos said as he tossed his leather duffel into the backseat.

“Well, you better get your ass to South Dakota before they—”

Janos hit the End button and slapped his phone shut. After his run-in with the Capitol Police, he already had one headache. He didn’t need another. Sliding inside the cab and slamming the door, he pulled a copy of
MG World
magazine from his duffel, flipped to a feature story on a restored 1964 MGB roadster, and lost himself in the details of adding a smaller steering wheel to complement the car’s diminutive size. It was the one thing that brought calm to Janos’s day. Unlike people, machines could be controlled.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Janos glanced up from the magazine for barely a moment. “National Airport,” he replied. “And do me a favor—try to avoid the potholes . . .”

31

T
HE
S
OUTH
D
AKOTA
sky is pitch black by the time our Chevy Suburban turns west onto Interstate 90, and the windshield is already covered with the rat-a-tat-tat of dead bugs kamikaze-ing toward the headlights. Thanks to FedEx, the Suburban was waiting for us when we landed, and since it’s their rental, we didn’t have to put down a license or credit card. In fact, when I told them that the Senator was trying to be more conscious of cultivating his farm-boy image, they were more than happy to cancel the private driver and just give us the car instead. Anything to keep the Senator happy. “Yessiree,” I say to Viv, who’s sitting in the passenger seat next to me. “Senator Stevens would much prefer to drive himself.”

Refusing to say a word, Viv stares straight out the front window and keeps her arms crossed in front of her chest. After four hours of similar treatment on the plane, I’m used to the silence, but the further we get from the lights of Rapid City, the more disconcerting it gets. And not just because of Viv’s mood. Once we passed the exit for Mount Rushmore, the bright lamps on the highway started appearing less and less frequently. First they were every hundred or so feet . . . then every few hundred . . . and now—I haven’t seen one for miles. Same with other cars. It’s barely nine o’clock local time, but as our headlights joust through the darkness, there’s not another soul in sight.

“You sure this is right?” Viv asks as we follow a sign for Highway 85.

“I’m doing my best,” I tell her. But as the road narrows to two lanes, I glance over and notice that her arms are no longer crossed in front of her chest. Instead, her hands grip the strap of her seat belt where it runs diagonally across her chest. Holding on for dear life.

“Is this right?” she repeats anxiously, turning toward me for the first time in five hours. She sits higher in the seat than I do, and as she says the words, her saucer-cup eyes practically glow in the darkness. Right there, the adolescent who’s mad I got her into this snaps back into the little girl who’s just plain scared.

It’s been a long time since I was seventeen, but if there’s one thing I remember, it was the need for simple reassurance.

“We’re doing fine,” I reply, forcing confidence into my voice. “No lie.”

She smiles faintly and looks back out the front window. I’m not sure if she believes it, but at this point—after traveling this long—she’ll take anything she can get.

Up ahead, the two-lane road swerves to the right, then back to the left. It’s not until my headlights bounce off the enormous cliff sides on either side of us that I realize we’re weaving our way through a canyon. Viv leans forward in her seat, craning her neck and looking up through the windshield. Her eye catches something, and she leans forward a bit further.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. The way her head’s turned, I can’t see her expression, but she’s no longer holding on to the seat belt. Instead, both hands are on the dashboard as she stares skyward.

“Oh . . .” she finally whispers.

I lean up against the steering wheel and crane my neck toward the sky. I don’t see a thing.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

Still staring upward, she says, “Are those the Black Hills?”

I take a second look for myself. In the distance, the walls of the cliff rise dramatically—at least four hundred feet straight toward the clouds. If it weren’t for the moonlight—where the outlined edges of the cliff are black against the dark gray sky—I wouldn’t even be able to see where they end.

I glance back at Viv, who’s still glued to the sky. The way her mouth hangs open and her eyebrows rise . . . At first, I thought it was fear. It’s not. It’s pure amazement.

“I take it they don’t have mountains like these where you’re from?” I ask.

She shakes her head, still dumbfounded. Her jaw is practically in her lap. Watching the sheer wonder in her reaction—there’s only one other person who looked at mountains like that. Matthew always said it—they were one of the only things that ever made him feel small.

“You okay there?” Viv asks.

Snapped back to reality, I’m surprised to find her staring straight at me. “O-Of course,” I say, turning back to the curving yellow lines at the center of the road.

She raises an eyebrow—too sharp to believe it. “You’re really not as great a liar as you think.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “It’s just . . . being out here . . . Matthew would’ve liked it. He really . . . he would’ve liked it.”

Viv watches me carefully, measuring every syllable. I stay focused on the blur of yellow lines snaking along the road. I’ve been in this awkward silence before. It’s like the thirty-second period right after I brief the Senator on a tough issue. Perfect quiet. Where decisions get made.

“Y’know, I . . . uh . . . I saw his picture in his office,” she eventually says.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Matthew. I saw his photo.”

I stare at the road, picturing it myself. “The one with him and the blue lake?”

“Yeah . . . that’s the one,” she nods. “He looked . . . he looked nice.”

“He was.”

She eventually turns back toward the dark skyline. I stay with the swerving yellow lines. It’s no different from the conversation with her mom. This time, the silence is even longer than before.

“Michigan,” she quietly whispers.

“Excuse me?”

“You said,
they don’t have mountains where you’re from.
Well, that’s where I’m from.”

“Michigan?”

“Michigan.”

“Detroit?”

“Birmingham.”

I tap my thumbs against the steering wheel as another bug splats against the windshield.

“That still doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Viv adds.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Up ahead, the walls of the cliff disappear as we leave the canyon behind. I hit the gas, and the engine grumbles toward the straightaway. Like before, there’s nothing on our right or left—not even a guardrail. Out here, you have to know where you’re going. Though it still always starts with that crucial first step.

“So do you like Birmingham?” I ask.

“It’s high school,” she replies, making me feel every year of my age.

“We used to go up for basketball games in Ann Arbor,” I tell her.

“Really? So you know Birmingham . . . you’ve been there?” There’s a slight hesitation at the back of her voice. Like she’s looking for an answer.

“Just once,” I say. “A guy in our fraternity let us crash at his parents’.”

She looks out her window at the side mirror. The canyon’s long gone—lost in the black horizon.

“Y’know, I lied,” she says, her tone flat and lifeless.

“Pardon?”

“I lied . . .” she repeats, her eyes still on the side mirror. “What I said up in the storage room—about being one of only two black girls in the school . . . ?”

“What’re you taking about?”

“I know I shouldn’t have . . . it’s stupid . . .”

“What—”

“I said there were two, but there’re actually fourteen of us. Fourteen black kids. Swear to God. I guess . . . yeah . . . fourteen.”

“Fourteen?”

“I’m sorry, Harris . . . I just wanted to convince you I could handle myself . . . Don’t be mad . . .”

“Viv . . .”

“I thought you’d think I was strong and tough and—”

“It doesn’t matter,”
I interrupt.

She finally turns toward me. “Wha?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reiterate. “I mean, fourteen . . . out of how many? Four hundred? Five hundred?”

“Six hundred and fifty. Maybe six-sixty.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Two . . . twelve . . . fourteen . . . You’re still pretty outnumbered.”

The smallest of smiles creeps up her cheeks. She likes that one. But the way her hands once again grip the seat belt across her chest, it’s clearly still an issue for her.

“It’s okay to smile,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “That’s what my mom always says. Right after
rinse and spit.
”

“Your Mom’s a dentist?”

“No, she’s a . . .” Viv pauses and offers a slight shrug. “. . . she’s a dental hygienist.”

And right there I spot it. That’s where her hesitation comes from. It’s not that she’s not proud of her mom . . . but she knows what it feels like to be the one kid who’s different.

Again, I don’t remember much from when I was seventeen, but I do know what it’s like to have Career Day at school when you secretly hope your dad’s not invited. And in the world of Ivy League Washington, I also know what it’s like to feel second-class.

“Y’know, my dad was a barber,” I offer.

She shyly glances my way, rechecking me up and down. “You serious? Really?”

“Really,” I say. “Cut all my friends’ hair for seven bucks apiece. Even the bad bowl cuts.”

Turning toward me, she gives me an even bigger grin.

“Just so you know, I’m not embarrassed of my parents,” she insists.

“I never thought you were.”

“The thing is . . . they wanted so bad to get me in the school district, but the only way to afford it was by buying this tiny little house that’s literally the last one on the district line. Right on the line. Y’know what that’s like? I mean, when that’s your starting point . . .”

“. . . you can’t help but feel like the last man in the race,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Believe me, Viv, I still remember why I first came to the Hill. I spent my first few years trying to right every wrong that was done to my parents. But sometimes you have to realize that some fights are unwinnable.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t fight them,” she challenges.

“You’re right—and that’s a great quote for all the Winston Churchill fans out there—but when the sun sets at the end of the day, you can’t win ’em . . .”

“
You can’t win ’em all?
Nuh-uh, you really think that?” she asks with complete sincerity. “I figured that was just in bad movies and . . . I don’t know . . . people say the government is faceless and, y’know, broken, but even if you’re here a long time . . . like when I saw you . . . that speech . . . You really think that?”

I grip the steering wheel as if it were a shield, but it doesn’t stop her question from stabbing through my chest. Next to me, Viv waits for her answer—and single-handedly reminds me what I’d forgotten long ago. Sometimes you need a slap in the face to realize what’s coming out of your mouth.

“No . . .” I finally say. “That’s not what I’m saying at all . . .”

Viv nods, content that everything’s right in at least that part of her world.

“But let me tell you something,” I quickly add. “There’s something else that goes along with feeling like you’re last in the race—and it’s not a bad thing. Being last means you’ve got a hunger in your gut no one else’ll ever be able to comprehend. They couldn’t buy it with all their money. And know what that hunger gives you?”

“Besides my big butt?”

“Success, Viv. No matter where you go, or what you do. Hunger feeds success.”

We sit in silence for a full minute as my words fade beneath the hum of the engine. She lets the quiet sink in—and this time, I think she’s doing it on purpose.

Staring out the front window, Viv studies the long, angled road in front of us and, to her credit, never lets me know what she’s thinking. She’s gonna be a ruthless negotiator one day.

“How much further till we get there?” she finally asks.

“Fifteen miles until we hit Deadwood . . . then this town called Pluma . . . then it’s at least a good hour or so after that. Why?”

“No reason,” she says, pulling her legs up so she’s sitting Indian-style in the passenger seat. With her pointer and middle fingers, she opens and closes an imaginary pair of finger-scissors. “I just wanna know how much time we have for you to tell me about your barber shop.”

“If you want, I bet we can grab a bite to eat in Deadwood. Even out here, they can’t mess up grilled cheese.”

“See, now we got something,” Viv says. “Grilled cheese in Deadwood sounds great.”