Brad Meltzer - The Zero Game

“So when’s the next-?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Janos said as he shoved his way outside and noticed a sky blue 1965 Mustang convertible passing by. The grille emblem was from a ’67, but the tonneau cover looked original. Nice work.

“Janos…”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his eyes still on the red taillights of the convertible as they faded into the night. “As soon as they wake up, I’ll be standing on their chests.”

There are few things more instantly depressing than the stale, mildewed smell of an old motel room. The sour, mossy whiff is still in the air as I wake up. Enjoy your stay at the Gold House , a plastic placard on the nightstand reads. There’s a dot-matrix cartoon drawing of a pot of gold at the bottom corner of the sign, which looks like it was made the same year they last changed these sheets.

Last night, we didn’t get in until after midnight. Right now, the digital lights on the alarm clock tell me it’s five in the morning. I’m still on East Coast time. Seven A.M. it is. Kicking the thin, fuzzy blanket aside (I might as well’ve covered myself with a gauze pad), I look back at the pancake pillow and count seventeen black hairs. Already I know it’s gonna be a bad day.

Next to me, the other bed is still made. When we checked in last night, I made Viv wait in the car as I told the woman at the front desk that I needed one room for myself and one for my kids. I don’t care how tall and mature Viv looks. A white guy in his thirties checking into a motel with a younger black girl — and no luggage. Even in a big town, that’ll get people chatting.

On my left, the seventies-era flower-patterned curtains are closed, but I can still see a sliver of the dark sky outside. On my right, the sink is right next to the bed, and as I grab the toothbrush and toiletries we bought in the gas station, I plug in the iron I borrowed from the front desk. With all the running around, our suits look like we played baseball in them. If we plan on pulling this off, we’re gonna have to look the part and get the sharp corners back.

As the iron heats up, I turn to the phone on the nightstand and dial Viv’s room. It rings over and over. No answer. I’m actually not surprised. After what we went through yesterday, she has to be exhausted. I hang up and dial again. Still nothing. I was the same way in high school. The clock radio could scream for an hour, but nothing got me up until Mom banged on the door.

Putting on my slacks, I again check my watch. Even the earliest flight won’t get Janos in for another ten minutes, not including the two hour drive to get here. We’re okay. Just go knock and get her up.

Undoing the chain lock, I tug the door open. A puff of fresh air shoves back at the mustiness — but as I step out and head to my right, I immediately feel something smack into my ankles. I plummet face first toward the concrete breezeway. It’s impossible. He can’t be here yet…

My cheek scrapes against the ground, even as my hands try to break my fall. I turn over as fast as I can. I can already picture Janos’s face… Then I hear the voice behind me.

“Sorry… sorry,” Viv says, sitting on the floor of the concrete breezeway, tucking her long legs out of the way. “You alright?”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I don’t sleep… at least not that well,” she says, looking up from a small brochure. “I don’t mind, though… My mom says some things just are . I’m a bad sleeper. That’s the way I was built.”

“What’re you doing out here?”

“My room stinks. Literally. Like a geriatric barn. Think about it: old people mixed with animals — it’s a good description.”

Climbing to my feet, I roll my tongue inside my cheek. “So you’re always up this early?”

“Page school starts at six-fifteen. The woman at the front desk… she’s all talky, but in a cool way, y’know? I’ve been chatting with her for the past half hour. Can you believe she had two people in her graduating class? This town’s in trouble.”

“What’re you — ? I told you not to speak to anyone.”

Viv shrinks down, but not by much. “Don’t worry — I told her I’m the au pair… taking care of the kids.”

“In a blue business suit?” I ask, pointing to her outfit.

“I didn’t wear the jacket. Don’t worry — she believed it. Besides, I was hungry. She gave me an orange,” she explains, pulling it from her pocket. “One for you, too.”

She hands me a plastic Baggie with an already peeled orange inside.

“She peeled it for you?”

“Don’t ask. She insisted. I didn’t want to upset her. We’re the first guests they’ve had since… since the actual gold rush.”

“So she’s the one who gave you the brochures?”

She looks back down at a faded pamphlet entitled The Homestead Mine — Staking a Claim in Our Future . “I just thought I should read up on it. That’s okay, right…?”

There’s a faint noise by the stairwell door. Like a crash.

“What was…”

“Shh,” I say.

We both check the breezeway, following the sound up the walkway. The stairwell’s at the far end. No one’s there. There’s another crashing sound. That’s when we see the source of the noise. An ice machine dumping ice. Just ice, I tell myself. It doesn’t make me feel any calmer. “We should…”

“… get out of here,” Viv agrees.

We head for our respective doors. Four minutes of ironing later, I’m dressed to go. Viv’s already waiting outside, her head once again buried in one of the old tourist pamphlets.

“All set?” I ask.

“Harris, you really gotta look at this place — you’ve never seen anything like it.”

I don’t need to read the pamphlet to realize she’s right. We have no idea what we’re getting into, but as I run up the walkway — as Viv chases right behind me — there’s no slowing us down. Whatever Wendell’s digging for, we need to know what’s going on.

From the stairwell, Viv and I rush out into the Gold House’s main lobby. Even considering the time, it’s emptier than I expected. The front desk is vacant, the soda machines have black tape over the coin slots, and the USA Today vending machine has a handwritten sign in it that says, Buy newspapers at Tommy’s (across street) . Looking out onto Main Street, we see the signs in every window. Out of Business , it says at the gas station; Lost Lease , it says at Fin’s Hardware. Naturally, my eyes go straight to the barber shop: Gone to Montana — God Bless .

Across the lobby, I spot a metal display rack filled with the tourist brochures Viv picked up. See How a Real Gold Bar Is Made! Visit the Leed Theater! Explore the Mining Museum ! But from the faded, yellowed paper, we already know the museum’s closed, the theater’s shut down, and the gold bars haven’t been seen in years. It was the same way when I had to clean out the house after my dad passed. Sometimes you can’t bring yourself to throw stuff away.

When we were heading here, I thought I’d be in my element. I’m not even close. This isn’t a small town. It’s a dead one.

“Pretty sad, huh?” a female voice asks.

I spin around, and a young woman with short black hair enters the lobby from the back room and steps behind the front desk. She can’t be more than twenty-five, and while her complexion identifies her as Native American, even without it, her high cheekbones would be a clear giveaway.

“Hiya, Viv,” she calls out, wiping some sleep from her eyes.

I shoot Viv a look. You gave her your name ?

Viv shrugs and steps forward. I shake my head, and she steps back. “I’ll go check on the kids,” she says, moving for the front door.