Zero Game (28 page)

62

. . . W
ENDELL
M
INING WAS
working with
Pasternak?
” I ask.

The words hit like a cannonball in my gut. If Pasternak was in on it from the start . . . “He knew all along,” I whisper.

“Knew what?” Barry asks.

“Hold on,” Viv says. “You think he set you up?”

“M-Maybe . . . I don’t know . . .”

“What’re you talking about?” Barry insists.

I turn toward Viv. Barry can’t see us. I shake my head at her.
Don’t say a word.

“Harris, what’s going on?” Barry asks. “Set you up for what?”

Still reeling, I look out through Barry’s door, into the rest of the office. It’s still empty—but it won’t be for long. Viv shoots me another look. She’s ready to get out of here. I can’t say I disagree. Still, I’ve been on the Hill long enough to know that you don’t start flinging accusations unless you can prove they’re true.

“We should leave,” Viv says. “Now.”

I shake my head. Not until we get some proof.

“Barry, where does the firm keep its billing records?” I ask.

Viv’s about to say something. She cuts herself off. She sees what I’m getting at.

“Our what?” Barry asks.

“Billing records . . . time sheets . . . anything that shows Pasternak was working with Wendell.”

“Why would you—?”

“Barry, listen to me—I don’t think Matthew was hit by that car accidentally. Now please . . . we’re running out of time . . . where are the billing records?”

Barry’s frozen. He turns his head slightly, listening to the fear in my voice. “Th-They’re on-line,” he mumbles.

“Can you get them for us?”

“Harris, we should call the—”

“Just get them, Barry. Please.”

He pats the air, feeling for his desk chair. As he slides into place, his hands leap for his keyboard, which looks like a regular keyboard except for the thin two-inch plastic strip that’s just below the space bar and runs along the bottom. Thanks to the hundred or so pin-sized dots that pop up from the strip, Barry can run his fingers across it and read what’s on-screen. Of course, he can also use the screen reader.

“JAWS for Windows is ready,”
a computerized female voice says through Barry’s computer speakers. I remember the screen-reading software from college. The computer reads whatever comes on screen. The best part is, you can choose the voice.
Paul
is the male;
Shelley’s
the female. When Barry first got it, we used to play with the pitch and speed to make her sound more slutty. We all grew up. Now the voice is no different from a robotic female secretary.

“Log-in user name? Edit,”
the computer asks.

Barry types in his password and hits
Enter
.

“Desktop,”
the computer announces. If Barry’s monitor were on, we’d see his computer’s desktop. The monitor’s off. He doesn’t need it.

A few quick keystrokes activate prewritten computer scripts that take him directly where he’s going.
“File menu bar. Menu active.”
Finally, he hits the letter
B.

“Billing Records,”
the computer says.
“Use F4 to maximize all windows.”

I stand behind Barry, watching over his shoulder. Viv’s by the door, staring up the hallway.

“Leaving menu bar. Search by—”
Barry hits the
Tab
key.
“Company name? Edit,”
the computer asks.

He types the words
Wendell Mining.
When he hits the space bar, the computer announces whatever word he types, but his fingers are moving so fast, it comes out
Wen
—
Mining
.

The computer beeps, like something’s wrong.

“Client not found,”
the computer says.
“New search? Edit.”

“What’s going on?” Viv asks.

“Try just
Wendell,
” I add.

“Wendell,”
the computer repeats as Barry types the word and hits
Enter
. There’s another beep.
“Client not found. New search? Edit.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Barry says. His hands are a blur of movement.

The female voice can’t keep up.
“Ne— Sys— Wen— Min— Searching database . . .”

He’s widening the search. I stare intensely at the computer screen even though it’s all black. It’s better than watching Viv panic by the door.

“Harris, you still there?” Barry asks.

“Right here,” I reply as the computer whirs.

“Client not found in system,”
the mechanized voice replies.

Barry respells it.

“Client not found in system.”

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“Hold on a second.”

Barry hits the
W,
then the downward arrow key.
“Waryn Enterprises,”
the computer says.
“Washington Mutual . . .
Washington Post
. . . Weiner & Robinson . . .”
It’s searching alphabetically.
“Wong Pharmaceuticals . . . Wilmington Trust . . . Xerox . . . Zuckerman International . . . End of record,”
the computer finally says.

“You kidding me?” Barry says, still searching.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“End of record,”
the computer repeats.

Barry hits the keyboard once more.

“End of record.”

“I don’t understand,” Barry says. His hands move faster than ever.
“Full— Sys— Searching . . .”

“Barry, what the hell is going on?”

“Search error,”
the female mechanized voice interrupts.
“Client name not in system.”

I stare at the blank screen; Barry stares down at his keyboard.

“They’re gone,” Barry says. “Wendell Mining’s gone.”

“What’re you talking about? How can it be gone?”

“It’s not there.”

“Maybe someone forgot to enter it.”

“It already
was
entered. I checked it myself when I did the lobbying forms.”

“But if it’s not there now . . .”

“Someone took it out . . . or deleted the file,” Barry says. “I checked every spelling of Wendell . . . I went through the entire database. It’s like they were never clients.”

“Morning . . .” a short man in an expensive pinstriped suit says to Viv as he walks past the door to Barry’s office.

She turns my way. People are starting to arrive. “Harris, the longer we’re here . . .”

“I got it,” I say to Viv. My eyes stay on Barry. “What about hard copies? Is there anything else that might show that Pasternak worked with Wendell?”

Barry’s been blind for as long as I’ve known him. He knows panic when he hears it. “I-I guess there’s Pasternak’s client files . . .”

A loud chirp screeches through the air. All three of us wince at the sharpness of the sound.

“What in the hell—?”

“Fire alarm!” Viv calls out.

We give it a few seconds to shut itself off. No such luck.

Viv and I once again exchange glances. The alarm continues to scream. If Janos is here, it’s a perfect way to empty the building.

“Harris, please . . .” she begs.

I shake my head. Not yet.

“Does Pasternak still keep his files in his office?” I shout to Barry over the noise.

“Yeah . . . why?”

That’s all I need. “Let’s go,” I call to Viv, motioning her out into the hallway.

“Wait . . . !” Barry says, shooting out of his seat and following right behind us.

“Keep going,” I say to Viv, who’s a few steps in front of me. If Barry’s not involved, the last thing I want to do is suck him in.

As Barry steps into the hallway, I look back to make sure he’s okay. The short man in the pinstriped suit comes by to help him make his way outside. Barry brushes him off, rushing after us. “Harris, wait!”

He’s faster than I thought.

“Oh, crap,” Viv calls out as we turn the corner. Forcing our way out to the bank of elevators, we see this isn’t just a drill.

All three elevator doors are closed, but now there’s a chorus of three elevator alarms competing with the main fire alarm. A middle-aged man shoves open the metal emergency door to the stairs, and a wisp of dark gray smoke swims into the hall. The smell tells us the rest. Something’s definitely burning.

Viv looks at me over her shoulder. “You don’t think Janos—”

“C’mon,” I insist, rushing past her.

I dart for the open door of the stairs—but instead of heading down, I go straight up, toward the source of the smoke.

“What’re you doing?” Viv calls out.

She knows the answer. I’m not leaving without Pasternak’s records.

“Harris, I’m not doing this anymore . . .”

An older woman with jet black dyed hair and reading glasses around her neck comes down the stairs from the fourth floor. She’s not running. Whatever’s burning up there is more smoke than threat.

I feel a sharp tug on the back of my shirt.

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Viv asks.

Again I stay silent, pulling away from Viv and continuing up the stairs. The thought of Pasternak working against us . . . Is that why they killed him? He was already involved? Whatever the answer, I need to know.

Leaping up the stairs two at a time, I quickly reach the top, where I squeeze between two more lobbyists just as they enter the stairwell.

“Hey there, Harris,” one calls out with a friendly laugh. “Wanna grab some breakfast?”

Unreal. Even in a fire, lobbyists can’t help but politic.

Twisting and turning through the hallway, I head toward Pasternak’s office and follow the smoke, which is now a thick dark cloud that fills the narrow hallway. I’m blinking as fast as I can, but it’s burning my eyes. Still, I’ve been coming this way for years. I could make it here in pitch dark.

As I make a sharp right around the last corner, there’s a crackle in the air. A wave of heat punches me hard in the face—but not nearly as hard as the hand that reaches out and clutches my arm. I can barely see him through the smoke.

“Wrong way,” a deep voice insists.

I jerk my arm to the side, quickly freeing myself. My fist is clenched, ready to take the first swing.

“Sir, this area’s closed. I need you to make your way to the stairs,” he says over the screaming alarm. On his chest is a gold-and-blue
Security
badge. He’s just a guard.

“Sir, did you hear what I said?”

I nod, barely paying attention. I’m too busy staring over his shoulder at the source of the fire. Up the hallway . . . through the thick oak door . . . I knew it . . . I knew it the moment the alarm went off. A tiny burst of flame belches through the air, licking the ceiling tiles in Pasternak’s office. His desk . . . the leather chair . . . the presidential photos on the wall—they’re all on fire. I don’t stop. If the file cabinet’s fireproof, I can still . . .

“Sir, I need you to exit the building,” the guard insists.

“I need to get in there!” I call out, trying to rush past him.

“Sir!”
the man shouts. He extends his arm, blocking my way and ramming me in the chest. He’s got four inches and over a hundred pounds on me. I don’t let up. And neither does he. As I shove him aside, he pinches the skin on the side of my neck and gives it a ruthless twist. The pain’s so intense, I almost fall to my knees.

“Sir, are you listening to me?!”

“Th-The files . . .”

“You can’t go in there, sir. Can’t you see what’s happening?”

There’s a loud crash. Up the hallway, the oak door to Pasternak’s office collapses off its hinges, revealing the file cabinets that run along the wall just behind it. There are three tall cabinets side by side. From the looks of it, all of them are fireproof. The problem is, all of them have their drawers pulled wide open.

The papers inside crackle and burn, charred beyond recognition. Every few seconds, a sharp pop kicks a few singed black scraps somersaulting through the air. I can barely breathe through all the smoke. The world blurs through the flames. All that’s left are the ashes.

“They’re gone, sir,” the guard says. “Now, please . . . head down the stairs.”

I still don’t move. In the distance, I can hear the orchestra of approaching sirens. Ambulances and fire engines are on their way. Police won’t be far behind.

The guard reaches out to turn me around. That’s when I feel the soft hand on the small of my back.

“Ma’am . . .” the guard starts.

Behind me, Viv studies the burning file cabinets in Pasternak’s office. The sirens slowly grow louder.

“C’mon,” she tells me. My body’s still in shock, and as I turn to face her, she reads it in an instant. Pasternak was my mentor; I’ve known him since my first days on the Hill.

“Maybe it’s not what you think,” she says, tugging me back up the hallway and toward the stairs.

The tears run down my face, and I tell myself it’s from the smoke. Sirens continue to howl in the distance. From the sound of it, they’re right outside the building. With a sharp tug, Viv drags me into the dark gray fog. I try to run, but it’s already too hard. I can’t see. My legs feel like they’re filled with Jell-O. I can’t do it anymore. My run slows to a lumbering walk.

“What’re you doing?” Viv asks.

I can barely look her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Viv . . .”

“What? Now you’re just giving up?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough! You think that takes the guilt off your plate? You got me into this, Harris—you and your dumb frat-boy, I-own-the-world-so-let’s-play-with-it egoism!
You’re
the reason I’m running for my life, and wearing the same underwear for three days, and crying myself to sleep every night wondering if this psychopath is gonna be standing over me when I open my eyes in the morning! I’m sorry your mentor tricked you, and that your Capitol Hill existence is all you have, but I’ve got an entire life in front of me, and I want it back! Now! So get your rear end moving, and let’s get out of here. We need to figure out what the hell we saw in that underground lab, and right now we’ve got an appointment with a scientist that you’re making me late for!”

Stunned by the outburst, I can barely move.

“You’ve really been crying yourself to sleep?” I finally ask.