Dead Politician Society (12 page)

C
ancel?
Cocksucker. In a text, so she couldn't catch him off-guard by asking why.

Annabel:
Know what? Let's cancel indefinitely.

She'd left work at noon. Her cold had turned into a fever, and she couldn't see in straight lines. She'd snapped at her direct boss, the obituary editor, but at least he had a sense of humor about things, and no permanent damage had been done. Now this with Matthew — but he deserved it. He was likely cancelling to spend time with whatever student he was making a project of this year.

Her phone beeped.

Matthew:
Don't be angry. Swamped with work and have deadline with editor.

Bullshit. He would have known about his deadline, if he had one, when they were making plans the other day.

Annabel:
Don't let me hold you back.

Annabel stirred the pot on the stove. She could make her own damned chicken soup.

Her phone beeped again. She went to shut it off, but it wasn't Matthew. It was an instant message.

Utopia Girl:
Like my obituary this morning? In honor of Libby Leighton?

That was cute. Utopia Girl, hardened killer, needed external validation.

Death Reporter:
You didn't say anything about why you killed her.

Utopia Girl:
Course I did. She was a smug, useless bitch.

Death Reporter:
Most people don't have two separate reasons for killing two separate victims. Hypocrisy and inefficacy are just . . . different.

Utopia Girl:
Both fit fine with my mandate.

Death Reporter:
Your mandate?

Utopia Girl:
The reason I'm killing politicians. Duh. Create a better world, politicians who work for us, not against us. Very hurt, Annabel. Thought you understood me better.

Annabel got up to check on her soup. It was still only a bunch of bones, but it was beginning to get some nice flavor. At least she had a few taste buds left that were working.

She wanted to ask Utopia Girl how she gained access to the politicians. But at the same time, she didn't want to know, because if she had a clue she'd feel compelled to go to the police. The sooner she was caught, the less compelling Annabel's book would be to a publisher.

Jesus, was Annabel really thinking this way? Compromise the lives of a few politicians so she could leapfrog out of a life rut she'd created for herself. This whole plan seemed suddenly and amazingly selfish.

But she was sick; her temperature had been over
102
, before she'd taken pills to bring it down. Two days ago, when her head had been clear, this plan had been a good one. She'd stick with it until she felt better, and could make good decisions again.

Death Reporter:
How many more people are on your hit list? Is it every bad politician you can get your hands on until you're caught? Or is there a master plan? A bigger reason?

Utopia Girl:
You mean a smaller reason. Biggest reason would be the one you've outlined. Public altruism. Sacrificing my freedom for greater good.

Death Reporter:
Fine. Is there a smaller reason?

Her phone went quiet for at least a minute. Annabel wondered if Utopia Girl knew the answer. It would be disappointing if she was talking to some aimless crazy.

Utopia Girl:
Yes.

Death Reporter:
Will you share it?

Utopia Girl:
Not everything is free.

Death Reporter:
Meaning . . .

Utopia Girl:
Meaning work on it. Try to sort out the connection yourself.

Death Reporter:
The connection between Leighton and Pritchard?

Utopia Girl:
And the rest.

Death Reporter:
They were both city councilors.

Utopia Girl:
That's it. I'm aimlessly killing everyone who ever served on city council.

Death Reporter:
They were both socialists.

Utopia Girl:
Same notation, Nancy Drew. Every socialist, dead.

Death Reporter:
Work with me, then. I'm not inside your head.

Utopia Girl:
Precisely. When you can get inside me deep enough to know what my victims have in common, I'll confirm it for you.

Annabel clenched her hands around her BlackBerry as if she was wringing its neck. She was sick of being treated like everybody's bitch.

Death Reporter:
Fantastic. So once I've solved the case, you'll help me solve the case.

She was clipping her helmet to her motorcycle when Clare heard a frantic voice saying her name. She wasn't sure if it came from a woman or a man until she turned around.

“Brian? What's wrong?”

“You missed the Commies' lunchtime meeting.”

“And that's why you're so upset? I had a dentist's appointment. Trust me; I would have much preferred to have been with you guys.” Clare hoped he didn't ask to see her teeth.

“Are you in their club?” Brian stared at his freshly polished shoes. “Oh, what am I saying? Of course you are. You're perfect for them.”

“Perfect for what?” Clare was perversely flattered.

“The
SPU
.”

“What's that?” Clare pulled out her smokes from her knapsack. “Shit. You mean like on that card the cops were showing us this morning?”

“It's the Society for Political Utopia. Are you in it?”

“No,” Clare said. “Should I be? I mean, how do I sign up?”

“You can't sign up. It's a secret society.”

“Yeah?” Clare lit her cigarette. “Well, then I guess that's out.”

“Do you have any idea what it means?” Brian followed Clare as she began to walk toward her next class.

“Nope.” Clare offered her pack to Brian.

He wrinkled his nose at the cigarettes. “Do you really not care if you're in it or not?”

“Why would I?” Clare put the pack back in her knapsack. “I should let a group I've never heard of make me feel inadequate because I'm not a member?”

Brian's eyes watered; Clare worried that she couldn't push him far.

“Sorry, Brian. But why do you want in so badly?”

“My dad wants me in.”

“What does he care?”

“In my last year of high school,
SPU
cards started showing up at rallies, and at the scenes of some less legal political stunts.”

“So?”

“So my father is huge in the federal Communist Party.” Brian's chest puffed out as he spoke. “But the Party has never been able to get enough funding to run a good campaign, which is why his great ideas have been left floundering in the dark.”

“And he thinks that if you join the society,
you
can introduce his ideas, in a less legal, more active kind of way.”

“He doesn't want me to break the law.” Brian waved away the smoke from Clare's cigarette. “Just network, mostly. Maybe go less extreme in my choice of party, so I actually have a chance to get elected.”

“And that's what you want for your life.”

“Oh,” Brian said. “We don't all get to choose. My mom says I'm like Jesus.”

“Um.”

Brian smiled. “I know what you're thinking. But I'm not a nutcase. I don't think I'm a divine religious guru or anything like that.”

“Oh good.”

“Some of us are born with our destinies predetermined. I'm lucky, in a way. I don't have to go through all that angst my peers do — no offense — trying to figure out who I am and find my own identity.”

No offense taken. “Because your parents have already told you.”

Brian nodded.

Clare couldn't believe what she was hearing.

“And I'll get married, of course. To a woman. Even though I'm gay. But probably not a woman with a motorcycle,” he said apologetically.

Clare, once again, was not offended. “Your parents can't make you . . .”

“They're not making me. It's a sacrifice. I'm proud to make it. Proud that my life is going to mean something.”

Well, okay. Who was Clare to say whose dreams were valid and whose weren't?

“So you don't know
anyone
who's a member of the society?” she said.

“I'm sure I
know
them, but I don't know who they are.”

“We're not talking Bilderbergers, are we? How hard can it be to find out who the members are?”

“Thanks,” Brian said. “Maybe I'm as dumb as my father thinks I am. I've been trying for three years to get some kind of clue. Now I'm in my last year here, and I'm no closer to penetrating the society than I was when I first arrived.”

“You're not dumb, Brian.” Clare was outraged that any parent would try to make their kid feel otherwise. “You would have found a way in by now. The society's probably not even real. Just an elaborate compilation of rumors.”

“Rumors don't murder politicians.” Brian kicked at a pebble. “Of course the society is real.”

Laura fiddled with the radio until the cbc was loud and clear, broadcasting a beautiful new recording of a jazz trio from Vancouver. It was three p.m. Far too early to pour herself a Scotch, but there it was. The tumbler was the last of the set she and Hayden had registered for, when they were about to be married and crystal tumblers had been important. She couldn't remember the other glasses breaking, but they must have done, one by one, over time.

She wasn't bothered about the card she'd found at Hayden's house, nor even by what Penny had told her, about Laura being a suspect herself. What was under her skin was the second card; the one she'd found an hour earlier, as she was gathering clothes to take to the cleaners.

The Scotch was fabulous. It was a smoky blend that had been sitting in the cupboard since Susannah's parents' last visit. So maybe it wasn't solving her problem, but it was doing its best to make her forget that she had one. Laura reclined into the plush living room sofa and contemplated becoming an alcoholic.

The card in Susie's jacket didn't have that horrific message typed onto the back. But the rest was identical. A plain white background, with
SPU
printed inexpertly onto one side. Laura's mind went back and forth between coming out and asking Susie what it meant, or replacing the card — she hadn't made it to the cleaners — and not letting on that she'd found it.

She thumbed the card, flipped it over and back in her trembling hands. She needed a manicure. French would look nice. She needed to reverse the aging process. She didn't remember having this many wrinkles on her hands.

“What's that?”

Laura hadn't heard Susannah open the door.

“It's a Scotch. Can I pour you one?”

“I'm good.” Susannah lifted a corner of her mouth. “Is this what you do all day when I'm in school?”

“I think Hayden's death is affecting me more than I've acknowledged.” Laura smiled nervously. “Are you home for the day?”

“For a few hours.” Susannah kicked her shoes onto the mat by the door. “I'm supposed to go hear a speech tonight, on campus.”

“It's great to see you so into your schoolwork.” Laura tucked the card under a couch cushion.

“I was thinking of missing the speech.” Susannah gave her a sheepish glance. “I have tickets for the film festival. Someone gave them to me at the benefit — I think they were meant to be some kind of tip for my services. You want to come with me? That is, if you're not too drunk by then.”

“What's the movie?” Laura was stalling; she didn't know how she felt about spending the evening alone with Susannah.

“It's something foreign and subtitled, which is probably why the tickets were given away in the first place. But I asked a couple of classmates, and they say the film's supposed to be excellent.”

“Foreign and subtitled sounds perfect,” Laura said. Because while the movie was playing, at least she could let her mind wander.