Black Heart (26 page)

I check my phone. It’s seven forty in the morning. Patton’s speech isn’t until nine. I have a little time.

I depress the flimsy lock on the doorknob, then rattle the door a little. It seems to hold, but I don’t trust the lock. I could probably pick it blindfolded.

There’s a crackle in the headphones, and then Agent Brennan’s voice. “Cassel? Are you in?”

“Yeah, everything’s perfect here,” I say into the mouthpiece. “Never better. How about you?”

She laughs. “Don’t get cocky, kid.”

“Duly noted. I guess I just watch TV and wait.”

“You do that. I’ll check with you in fifteen minutes.”

I take off the headset and rest it on the table. It’s hell to just sit here and do nothing, especially when I have so much
to do. I want to get started, but I also know that they’re going to be paying attention now. Later they’ll get bored. For now I take out the index cards and pen and amuse myself by figuring out where in the room a camera could be hidden. Not that I am sure there is one. But I figure that if I stick to being as paranoid as possible, I can’t go wrong.

Finally I hear the headset crackle again. “Anything to report?”

“Nada,” I say, picking it up and speaking into the mic. “All good.”

It’s nearly eight. An hour isn’t a lot of time.

“I’ll check in with you in another fifteen,” she says.

“Make it twenty,” I say, hopefully just as casually. Then I find the switch on the headset and turn it off. Since they didn’t specifically tell me not to do that, I figure that even though they probably won’t be happy, they probably won’t come looking for me either.

If they’ve got some kind of GPS tracking thing on me, it’s in the ID tag, the hoodie, or the headset. I’m betting it’s not the ID tag, since it has to be scanned. I take off the hoodie and leave it on the table. Then I go into the bathroom and turn on the taps to muffle any sounds.

I strip off my clothes. I fold them and rest them on the small table with the towels and antibacterial glove soap. I take out and unfold my pictures. Then, naked, I crouch down on my knees and rest my bare hands on my thighs. The floor is cold. I dig my fingers into my skin.

I concentrate on everything I learned over the past week, every detail I know. I concentrate on the photos in
front of me and the videos I saw. I bring Governor Patton into my mind’s eye. Then I become him.

It hurts. I can feel everything shift, bones crack, sinews pull, flesh reshape itself. I try very hard not to scream. I mostly succeed.

Just as I’m starting to stand up, the blowback hits.

My skin feels like it’s cracking open, my legs melting. My head feels like it’s the wrong shape and my eyes are at first closed, then wide, seeing everything through a thousand different lenses, as though I am covered in unblinking eyes. Everything is so bright, and all the different textures of pain unfold around me, pulling me under.

It’s so much worse than I remembered.

I don’t know how much time passes before I’m able to move again. It feels like a while. The sink’s flooded, splashing over onto the floor. I wobble to my feet and turn the taps, grabbing for my clothes. The T-shirt and boxers fit badly. I can’t get into the jeans at all.

I look at myself in the mirror, at my bald head and lined face. It’s jarring. It’s him. With my comb and gel I groom the few silver hairs on my head to be just like in the photos.

My hands are shaking.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a transformation worker because it was rare. It was special. If you were one,
you
were special. That’s all I knew. I never really thought about the actual power much. And then, when I figured out that I
was one
, I still didn’t really understand. I mean, I knew it was unique and powerful and cool. I knew it was dangerous. I knew it was rare. But I still didn’t really comprehend
why it scared powerful people so deeply. Why they wanted me on their side so much.

Now I know why people are afraid of transformation workers. Now I know why they want to control me. Now I get it.

I can walk into someone’s house, kiss their wife, sit down at their table, and eat their dinner. I can lift a passport at an airport, and in twenty minutes it will seem like it’s mine. I can be a blackbird staring in the window. I can be a cat creeping along a ledge. I can go anywhere I want and do the worst things I can imagine, with nothing to ever connect me to those crimes. Today I might look like me, but tomorrow I could look like you. I could
be
you.

Hell, I’m scared of myself right now.

Holding my phone in one hand and my index cards in the other, edging past where I guess cameras might be so as not to be caught on film, I walk out of the trailer.

People turn their heads, wide-eyed, at Governor Patton in his underwear, standing in the open air. “Wrong damn trailer,” I growl, and push open the door to Patton’s.

There, just like I hoped, hangs the suit I ordered from Bergdorf Goodman, zipped up in a cloth storage bag and tailored to his measurements. A new pair of shoes and socks and a fresh white shirt, still in plastic. A silk tie is hanging around the hanger holding the suit.

Other than that the trailer looks a lot like mine. Couch, dressing area. Television monitor.

Seconds later an assistant comes in the door without knocking. She looks panicked. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t realize
you had arrived. They’re ready for you in makeup, Governor. No one saw you come in, and I didn’t—Well, I’ll let you finish getting ready.”

I glance at my phone. It’s eight thirty. I lost about half an hour being unconscious and missed checking in with Agent Brennan on top of it. “Come back and get me in ten minutes,” I say, trying to keep my voice inflections as like his as I can. I watched all those videos and I practiced, but it’s not easy to sound entirely unlike yourself. “I have to finish getting dressed.”

When she leaves, I call Barron.

Please,
I say to the universe, to whatever’s listening.
Please pick up the phone. I’m trusting you. Pick up the phone.

“Hey, little brother,” Barron says, and I slump onto the couch with relief. Until that moment I wasn’t sure he would come through. “One government drone to another, how are you doing?”

“Just tell me you’re actually—,” I start.

“Oh, I am. Oh,
definitely
. I’m here with him now. I was just explaining how our mother’s a federal agent and how this was all a government conspiracy.”

“Oh,” I say. “Uh, good.”

“He already knew most of it.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “I’m just filling in details. But go ahead and let everyone know that Governor Patton is going to need to delay that press conference by a half hour, okay?”

I guess that if you tell a compulsive liar to stall a guy who’s completely paranoid, then wild conspiracy theories are the way he’s going to do it. I should be glad that
Barron isn’t explaining how the governor of Virginia is aiming a laser at the moon and they all need to proceed to underground bunkers immediately. I grin too. “I can definitely do that.”

Hanging up, I grab the suit pants and shove my foot into the leg hole. They’re nicer clothes than I’ve ever worn before. Everything about them feels expensive.

By the time the assistant comes back, I’m tying my tie and ready to go to makeup.

You might wonder what I’m doing. I kind of wonder that myself. But someone has to stop Patton, and this is my chance.

There are tons of people on the governor’s support staff, but luckily, most of them are still at his mansion, waiting for the real Patton to leave. I only have to deal with the ones who came ahead. I sit on a director’s chair outside and let a girl with short, spiky hair spray foundation on my borrowed face. People ask me a lot of questions about interviews and meetings that I can’t answer. Someone brings me a coffee with cream and sugar that I don’t drink. Once, a judge calls, asking to talk to me. I shake my head.

“After the speech,” I say, and study my mostly blank index cards.

“There’s a federal agent here,” one of my aides tells me. “She says there could be a security breach.”

“I’d expect them to try to pull a trick like that. No—I’m going on. They can’t stop me,” I say. “I want one of our security
officers to make sure she doesn’t disrupt me when I’m onstage. We’re going out live, right?”

The aide nods.

“Perfect.” I don’t know what Yulikova and the rest of them suspect or don’t, but in a few minutes it won’t matter.

That’s when Agent Brennan comes around the side of the trailer I’m supposed to be in, holding up her badge.

“Governor,” she says.

I stand and do the only thing I can think of. I walk up onto the stage, in front of the small crowd of supporters waving signs and the larger crowd of press correspondents with video cameras pointed at me. It might not be that many people, but it’s enough. I freeze.

My heart thumps in my chest. I can’t believe I am really doing this.

It’s too late to stop.

I clear my throat and reshuffle my index cards, walking until I’m standing behind the lectern. I can see Yulikova, talking frantically into a radio.

“Fellow citizens, distinguished guests, members of the press, thank you all for extending me the courtesy of your attendance today. We stand on the very spot where hundreds of New Jersey citizens were detained after the ban passed, during a dark period in our nation’s history—and we stand here looking ahead to legislation that, if it passes, may again take us in directions we don’t anticipate.”

There is applause, but it’s cautious. This isn’t the tone that the real Patton would take. He’d probably say some crap about how testing workers will keep them safe. He’d
talk about what a glorious day we are at the dawn of.

But today I’m the one with the microphone. I toss my index cards over my shoulder and smile at my audience. I clear my throat. “It was my plan to read a short prepared statement and take questions, but I am going to diverge from my usual procedure. Today is not a day for politics as usual. Today I plan to speak to you from the heart.”

I lean against the lectern and take a deep breath. “I’ve killed
a lot of people
. And when I say ‘a lot,’ I mean—really—a lot. I’ve lied, too, but honestly, after hearing about the killing, I doubt you care about a little lying. I know what you’re asking yourself. Does he mean he killed people directly or merely that he ordered their deaths? Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to tell you—I mean both.”

I look out at the reporters. They’re whispering back and forth. Cameras flash. Signs sag.

“For example, I killed Eric Lawrence, of Toms River, New Jersey, with my own hands. Gloved hands, mind you. I’m not some kind of pervert. But I did strangle him. You can read the police report—well, you could have if I hadn’t suppressed it.

“Now you might ask yourself, why would I do such a thing? And what does this have to do with my crusade against workers? And what in the world made me say any of this out loud, no less in public? Well, let me tell you about a very special lady in my life. You know how sometimes you meet a girl and you go a little crazy?”

I point at a tall guy in the front. “
You
know what I mean, don’t you? Well, I want to come clean with regard
to Shandra Singer. I might have exaggerated some things there. If your girlfriend breaks up with you, sometimes you get upset—and you might be tempted to phone her up twelve times in a row to beg her to take you back . . . or maybe spray paint something obscene on her car . . . or
maybe
you frame her for a massive conspiracy . . . and try to have her gunned down in the middle of the street. . . . And if you’re really upset, maybe you try to wipe out all workers in the state.

“The more you love her, the crazier you get. My love was great. My crimes were greater.

“I’m not here asking for forgiveness. I don’t expect forgiveness. In fact, I expect a media circus of a trial followed by a lengthy incarceration.

“But I tell you this today because you, my fellow citizens, deserve my honesty. Hey, better late than never—and I’ve got to say, it does feel really good to get it all off my chest. So in summary, I killed people. You probably shouldn’t put too much stock in other stuff I said before right now, and—oh, yeah. Proposition two is a terrible idea that I supported mostly to distract you from my other crimes.

“So, any questions?”

For a long moment there is only silence.

“Okay, then,” I say. “Thank you. God bless America, and God bless the great state of New Jersey.”

I stumble off the stage. There are people with clipboards and aides in suits all staring at me as if they’re afraid to approach me. I smile and give them the thumbs-up sign.

“Good speech, huh?” I say.

“Governor,” one of them says, heading in my direction. “We have to discuss—”

“Not now,” I tell him, still smiling. “Have my car brought around, please.”

He opens his mouth to say something—maybe that he has no idea where my car
is
, since it’s probably still with the real Patton—when my arm is jerked behind me and I nearly lose my balance. I yelp as metal comes down on my wrist. Handcuffs.

“You’re under arrest.” It’s Jones in his sharp black federal agent suit.
“Governor.”

Cameras flash. Reporters are streaming toward us.

I can’t help it. I start to laugh. I think about what I just did, and I laugh even harder.

Agent Jones marches me away from the crowd of shouting people, to a cleared spot of street where police cars and television vans are parked. A few of the cops come over to try to push back the rush of news cameras and paparazzi.

“You really dug your own grave,” he mutters. “And I’m going to bury you in it.”

“Say that louder,” I tell him, under my breath. “I dare you.”

He gets me to a car, opens the door, and pushes me inside. Then I feel something go over my head, and I look down. Three of the amulets I made—the ones that prevent transformation, the ones I gave to Yulikova—are hanging around my neck.

Before I can say anything, the door slams.