Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“We went to school together?”

“She was a neighbor. When you were nine,” I explain, reading from the sheet. When it comes to fundraising, federal law says you can’t make calls from your government office or a government phone — which is why every day, this close to elections, half of Congress leaves the Capitol to make calls from somewhere else. The average Member goes three blocks away to the phone rooms in Republican and Democratic campaign headquarters. Smarter Members hire a fundraising consultant to help build a personal database of reliable supporters and potential donors. And a dozen or so mad-genius Members kiss the ring and hire Len Logan, a fundraising expert so organized, the “Comments” sections of his call sheets have details like: “She just finished treatment for breast cancer.”

“Yup, yup — I got her,” Stevens says as the phone rings in my ear.

“Hello…” a female voice answers.

The Senator slides me the yellowtail; I slide him the receiver. We’ve got it running smoother than a ballet.

“Hey, there, Virginia, how’s my favorite fighter?”

I nod, impressed. Don’t reintroduce yourself if you’re supposed to be old friends. As Stevens takes a two-minute gallop down memory lane, one of my two cell phones vibrates in my pocket. The one in my right pocket is paid for by the Senator’s office. The one in my left is paid by me. Public and private. According to Matthew, in my life, there’s no distinction. What he doesn’t understand is, if you love your job like I do, there shouldn’t be.

Checking to see that Stevens is still busy, I reach for my left pocket and check the tiny screen on my phone. Caller ID blocked . That’s everyone I know.

“Harris,” I answer.

“Harris, it’s Cheese,” my assistant says, his voice shaking. I already don’t like the tone. “I–I don’t know how to… It’s Matthew… he…”

“Matthew what?”

“He got hit by a car,” Cheese says. “He’s dead. Matthew’s dead.”

Every muscle in my body goes limp, and it feels as if my head’s floating away from my shoulders. “ What ?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“From who? Who said it?” I ask, going for the source.

“Joel Westman, who got it from his cousin in the Capitol Police. Apparently, someone in Carlin’s office forgot their parking pass and had to park out by stripperland. On their way back, they saw the bodies…”

“There was more than one?”

“Apparently, the scumbag who hit him took off in a panic. Smacked into a pole and died instantly.”

Shooting to my feet, I run my hand through my hair. “Why didn’t… I can’t believe this… When’d it happen?”

“No idea,” Cheese stutters. “I just… I just got the call. Harris, they said Matthew might’ve been trying to buy drugs.”

“Drugs? Not a chance…”

The Senator looks my way, wondering what’s wrong. Pretending not to notice, I do the one thing you never do to a Senator. I turn my back to him. I don’t care. This is Matthew… my friend…

“Everything alright?” the Senator calls out as I stumble for the doorknob.

Without answering, I throw the door open and rush from the room. Straight into the stairwell.

“The weird part is, some guy from the FBI was here looking for you,” Cheese adds.

The walls of the stairway close in from every side. I tear at my tie, unable to breathe.

“Excuse me?”

“Said he had a few questions,” Cheese explains. “Wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.”

My sweat-soaked palm slides against the handrail, and my footing gives way. I slide down the top few stairs. A well-placed grasp prevents the fall.

“Harris, you there?” Cheese asks.

Jumping down the last three steps, I shove my way outside, gasping for fresh air. It doesn’t help. Not when my friend’s dead. My eyes well up with tears, and the words ricochet through my skull. My friend’s dead. I can’t believe he’s-

“Harris, talk to me…” Cheese adds.

I tighten my jaw and try to bury the tears in my throat. It doesn’t work. Checking the street, I scout for a cab. Nothing’s in sight. Without even thinking, I start jogging up the block. Better to get information. Back by Union Station, the cab line’s too long. No time to waste.

“Harris…” Cheese asks for the third time.

“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.