Zero Game (8 page)

“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

N
ICE 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

N
ICE 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

D
O 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 chair. 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.

“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.