Dead Politician Society (16 page)

Why don't you want a game?” He was bugging her, he knew, but Jonathan was restless. They were doing homework in the kitchen of his mom's café. Technically Jonathan was the on-duty cook, but this time of the afternoon, most people ordered from the prepared snacks and sandwiches out front.

Jessica barely glanced up from her chemistry text. “To be honest, I'm freaked out by all these murders.”

“To be honest.”

“Right.”

“Trust me.”

“Okay.”

“You know that I'm a religious man.”

“No, you're not. What are you talking about?”

“Things people say when they're lying.”

Jessica closed her text. “So what am I lying about?”

“You're not distracted by these murders. Why would you care?”

Jessica was quiet. “Of course I care.”

“You really want a game. But you're petrified that you can't win. Against me — some slacker who doesn't understand organic chemistry.”

“Jonathan, what are you talking about?” Jessica stuck her book in her bag and sat facing him. “Did you smoke one of your funny cigarettes?”

“No!” Jonathan wasn't sure why he bothered with indignation; her question wasn't unreasonable. “Hey, why don't we get away this weekend? Skip out on work and go to Niagara Falls.”

“What's in Niagara Falls?” She was still assessing him like he had two heads, but at least she was smiling now.

He wanted to get her drunk and marry her, but of course he couldn't tell her that. “Some grubby bars, some tacky wax museums, those scary haunted houses . . .”

“It sounds like fun, in a creepy kind of way. But how about next weekend? I don't want to miss work tomorrow night.”

Missing work was exactly what Jonathan wanted to do. “Next weekend's cool.” He put on an oversized smile. “So come on. How about a game?”

“Oh, fine. I'm obviously not destined to get any studying done.”

Jonathan ran upstairs to get his laptop, and Jessica pulled her netbook from her shoulder bag.

“Elly's going to kill me,” Jessica said when he returned. “I just remembered I have that dinner with my family tomorrow, and I'm pretty sure everyone I could call as a replacement waiter is already working.”

“Call in sick.”

“It's the same dinner I was supposed to be working. I'd like to keep my job if at all possible.”

“Why? You don't need the money.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You're, like, loaded.”

Jessica frowned. “My grandparents are loaded. I'm not.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it isn't. They'd give me anything I asked for — my brother feels no qualms about sponging off them indefinitely. But I'd way rather make my own money.”

“What about Brian, for your shift tomorrow?” Jon pulled out a stool and set up his computer on a giant wooden baking table.

“Does it matter that he's not a society member?” Jessica was leaning lazily into a large bag of flour.

“Not to Elly.” Jonathan opened the software for
Who's Got the Power?

“I think your mom's cool,” Jessica said. “Running this café, working hard and loving it. What does your dad do?”

Jonathan shrugged. “You want the real story, or one of the ones I made up for myself when I was a kid?” He made his opening move as Israel, which was to set up an army training camp in the Sudan.

“You did that too?” Jessica, as
USA
, countered by confirming South Africa as an ally. “After my parents died, I used to invent all kinds of crazy fantasies that meant they were still alive. Somewhere else. Waiting for the magic password or whatever to be allowed back into our lives.”

“Like what?” Jonathan's hands froze on his keyboard, and he looked at her.

“My dad loved to play the piano, so I'd sit at the piano in my grandparents' house — the same one he learned to play on as a kid. His sheet music was still in the bench, with pencil markings all over it. I told myself that if I played his old lessons in order, from his beginner books to the classical pieces he played as an adult, he would walk through the door and explain that there had been this huge mistake, that he wasn't really dead.”

Jonathan smiled sadly. “And when that didn't happen, were you crushed?”

Jessica shook her head. “I started again from the beginning. I told myself that I must have gotten the order wrong, or missed one note that made the whole thing not work. Like some magic spell that required perfection. I tried again, and again, and again, and — oh my god, you're going to think this is stupid.”

“You still do it sometimes?”

Jessica nodded. “It's your move.”

“I still do, too.” Jonathan patented a line of Kosher food, and organized international distribution. “Only in my case, it genuinely is stupid, because my dad left by choice. He's probably alive somewhere and thriving, with a family he actually cares about.”

“Is that your worst-case scenario?” Jessica made a broad move to the north, effectively commandeering the armies of Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique. It was a good start. If Jon didn't watch out, she might take this game.

“Of course. Much better he's dead in a ditch, or captured by terrorists, or basically anything that means he'd be here if he could.” Jon sent a group of intelligence officers down to Jessica's territory to garner as many mercenary soldiers as he could. “But my favorite scenario — the one I can't give up on, though I'm way too old and should put it the fuck out of my head — is of my dad in this old house, painting the walls, fixing things up, and after years of struggling to come to terms with what he did to us, he wants my mom and me to live in it with him.”

Jessica looked at him for a long time, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “I have no idea what move to make next.”

“So take your time.” Jon looked at her, gorgeous even lounging in the flour. “I could stare at you all night, and not get bored.”

Matthew walked through the hollow metal steel doors and heard the guard lock them shut behind him. He could see why prisons seldom succeeded in rehabilitating their inmates. The décor was depressing, and the hallway held the distinct aroma of urine.

He was led to the room where he would be allowed a half-hour meeting with Elise. It smelled, not displeasingly, of curry. Matthew wondered if an earlier visitor had brought a family member a meal, or if the prison cafeteria planned to serve Indian food for supper. Luckily for him, the question was academic.

Elise was pale. Her light brown hair, once vibrant, hung dank and lifeless past her shoulders. She'd put on weight around her middle and in her face, though her upper body remained thin. Gone was the springy step of the optimistic undergrad; it had been replaced by an apathetic shuffle.

“Look who finally came.” Elise lifted her eyebrows in Matthew's direction, and took a seat on the other side of the metal table.

“I brought you these.” Matthew reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small gift box, the contents of which had cost him almost fifty dollars.

“Are those . . . ?” Elise's eyes lit up involuntarily.

“William Ashley champagne truffles,” Matthew said.

Her eyes clouded over and went dull again. “You think I can be bought.”

Matthew set the box on the table in front of her. He'd had to unwrap it to let the guard on reception take a look inside, and he'd re-wrapped the box crudely, as well as he could in the awkward space of the entry hall. “All I want from you is conversation.”

“And to remind me of the life I can't have back. Thanks. I'll be sure to call you next time I'm beginning to come to terms with my surroundings.”

Matthew stared at her with pity. How could anyone come to terms with these surroundings?

“It's not as bad here as you think. There are no men, which can be pleasant.”

“I'm sorry, Elise.” Reluctantly, Matthew pushed back his chair and picked up his briefcase. “I did the wrong thing four years ago, and I guess I'm doing the wrong thing now.”

“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself and sit down.” Elise challenged him with her eyes.

“So you
are
glad to see me?”

“I'm not sure. On the one hand, you're a visitor. This beats lying on my bunk writing letters I'm never going to send. On the other hand, where the fuck have you been for four years?”

“Did you not get my letters?”

“Both of them? Yeah, thanks. You didn't come to my trial.”

“I know,” Matthew said. “I was a coward. I want to change that.”

“You want to rewrite history?”

“I have a student who may be in trouble. The same kind of trouble you were in. Only this time it might be worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“There's no gray area morally,” Matthew told her. “These victims don't want to die.”

“Are you helping with the crime?”

“I don't think so.”

“Are you sleeping with the student?”

“I sure hope not.”

“Do you even know which student you're talking about?”

“No.”

“So how is it the same?”

Matthew told Elise about the society card found in Libby Leigh-ton's personal effects. “I'm right in assuming you're not involved?”

“From inside these hallowed walls?” Elise gestured at the concrete and steel around her. “I'm not a fucking magician, am I?”

“I used to think you were.”

“You and your innuendo.” Elise snorted.

Matthew smiled sadly, tried to remember when and how he had once found Elise attractive. Would anyone find her that way again? Maybe Bubba at the prison mixer.

“So how can I find this person? What should I be looking for?” Matthew asked.

“Anger.”

Elise began to tear the wrapping paper from the expensive little box. She'd always enjoyed this step. Matthew was glad he'd taken the time to wrap it up again.

“But you weren't demonstrably angry,” Matthew said. “Not until all of this.”

“I was an idealist. This person is nuts.”

“Do you regret killing those patients?” He had never asked her this before.

“That's so complex.” Elise finished removing the gift wrap and sat staring at the chocolates. “Yes? No? Morally, I think what I did was fine.” She opened the chocolates and took a small bite from one. She didn't offer one to Matthew, and he didn't ask. “I'm not eaten up with guilt, which is why I'll never be eligible for parole.”

“You could lie to the parole board.”

“And have done all that for nothing? For a grassroots underground leader, you kind of really don't get it.”

Elise popped the rest of the truffle into her mouth, and glared silently at Matthew as she let it dissolve.

“Will you explain ‘it' to me, then?”

“I can't. Our time is up.”

“We still have twenty minutes.” Matthew glanced at the clock on the wall.

“I mean
your
time is up. I've given you enough of me today.”

“Can I come back?” Matthew didn't understand why she suddenly wanted to be rid of him.

“If you bring chocolates.”

Matthew was worried. “Um, I can't afford to always . . . you know . . .”

“Relax. I was joking. But maybe you need to reassess how deep that remorse is.”

“You can't put a price tag on guilt,” Matthew said. “Which is why I won't try.”

“Oh, Matthew.” Elise threw back her head in mocking laughter. “One thing I don't miss about you is how fucking cheap you are.”

Elise put her hand up for the guard, and Matthew watched her shuffle away.

On the drive home from Kingston, he played the
CD
Elise had made for him, back in the early days of their relationship. The Beatles' “Revolution” was Track One. He tried to sing along, but he ended up with tears falling violently from his eyes. He had to turn the music off so he could see the road.

He'd screwed up so badly. He had led Elise, encouraged her in all her crazed passion, then dropped her when it had mattered most. Pretended not to know her. Dissociated for the sake of his career. Who the hell had he become?

When he got back to the city, though it was Friday evening and no one was around, Matthew decided to stop by his office. He let himself in, and opened the secret drawer where he kept the
SPU
paperwork. But something was wrong. It was the smallest of details — the box of society cards he kept on top of the papers was only slightly askew — but someone had been in this drawer. Had Shirley — the only other person in the department with a key to Matthew's office — been poking around for information? Or had Clare — crafty little whore — not had a headache at all?