Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [31]
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.
My stomach cartwheels, and a snakebite of acid slithers up my throat. I clench my teeth to fight the vomit. My head again floats from my shoulders, and I stagger backwards, grasping for balance. It doesn’t come. Crashing on my ass, I slam against the gravel driveway, my hands slicing across the rocks. I swear, I can’t move. I roll on my side, but all it does is bring me back to the dent in the Dumpster. And the black stain. And the crush of rocks surrounding it. I’m not sure why I came. I thought it’d make me feel better. It doesn’t. With my cheek against the ground, I’ve got an ant’s-eye view of the thin crawl space below the Dumpster. If I were small enough, I’d hide underneath, tucked behind the gum wrappers, empty beer bottles, and . . . and the one thing that’s clearly out of place . . . It’s really buried back there—I only see it when the sun hits it just right . . .
Cocking my head sideways, I slide my arm under the Dumpster and pull out the bright blue plastic nametag with the white writing:
Senate Page
Viv Parker
My mouth sags open. My fingers go numb. There’s some dirt on the lettering, but it brushes right off. The nametag shines—it hasn’t been out here long. I look back at the dent and the dark stain. Maybe just a few hours.
Oh, damn.
There was only one reason for Matthew to interact with a Senate page. Today was the day. Our stupid fucking bet . . . If they were both out here, maybe someone—
My phone rings in my pocket, and I jerk backwards from the vibration against my leg.
“Harris,” I answer, flipping the phone open.
“Harris, it’s Barry—where are you?”
I look around the empty lot, wondering the same thing