Dead Politician Society (8 page)

Promise you won't be insulted.” Jessica Dunne caught up with Clare after their U.S. Politics class. Her blond hair flopped messily around her shoulders.

“Insulted?” Clare glanced down the long, immaculate corridor. Their classmates had all left for the day, and their words seemed to echo in the emptiness. “Why would I be?”

“Just promise.” Jessica hooked a thumb into the belt loop of her expensive-looking ripped jeans.

“Fine,” Clare said. “I promise.”

“So every year my grandpa gets me these tickets for my birthday. Sometimes it's an art opening, sometimes it's the opera. This year it's an environmental fundraiser at the St. Lawrence Hall.”

“Environmental fundraiser?” Clare tried to picture such an event.

“It's mainly corporations who sponsor it. You know, oil companies trying to appear green. Definitely not the save-a-tree-by- living-in-it crowd, but it should be interesting. The finance minister is opening the event, and the prime minister is the keynote speaker.”

“That's cool.” Clare was waiting for the insult.

“Yeah, it's cool. Except we have this family tradition. It's so condescending, and I totally hate it, but in principle I don't think it's that horrible.”

“Okay.” Clare took out her smokes. If she couldn't light one indoors, at least she could feel the pack in her hand.

“So this tradition started when I was a kid, and my grandma always made us invite poor kids on family outings.”

“Poor kids?” Was Clare's humble origin so obvious?

“Yeah. Well, not exactly poor, I guess.” Jessica shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. “We went to the neighborhood public school, but it was a pretty affluent part of town. Still, we had to make an effort to find someone whose parents couldn't or wouldn't expose them to things that Rory — my brother — and I had access to on a regular basis.”

“That sounds noble.” Clare was impatient for her cigarette. “Where does the mean part come in?”

“In the form of my brother. He started calling the tradition Educate a Fool, and despite my grandmother's wildest protests, the name kind of stuck with the rest of us.”

Clare started walking in the direction of the exit, and was pleased when Jessica followed suit.

“Anyway, I wouldn't call it by that name, except that my brother isn't subtle, and he thinks it's really funny to refer to invites as ‘fools' in front of them. I figure it's less insulting if I give you the context beforehand.”

Clare opened the heavy door leading to the stairwell.

“Am I your fool?”

“Um, if you want to be. I'm not saying I think you're poor, incidentally.” Jessica adjusted her shoulder bag. “Just, you seem like you're new to politics. It's a cross-party event, but half of the speakers are politicians, and the rest are environmental lobbyists.”

Politicians and lobbyists sharing the spotlight? “Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.”

“They stay civilized.” Jessica grinned. “Both sides want to look like the heroes. Since poli sci is your major now, I thought you might enjoy coming out and listening to some speeches.”

“I'd love to.” They arrived at the bottom of the stairs, and Clare pushed open the door to outside. “And by the way, I grew up in a trailer. Tell your grandma the opportunity isn't wasted.”

Shit. Clare wasn't supposed to be herself. At least she hadn't said which trailer park.

“Seriously?” Jessica's eyes grew wide. “What was that like?”

“Like anything else when it's all you know.” Clare lit her smoke and stood in the shelter by the doorway. Rain was pouring all around them. “I'd take a loving family over a wealthy one any day of the week.”

“So would I.” Jessica stood with Clare.

“Oh god! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that your family isn't loving.”

Jessica laughed. “It's okay. They are what they are. They grew up in a world that gave them a certain outlook. But I don't think it's their fault. They push their own boundaries, in a way. And in other ways they don't.”

“Like the rest of us,” Clare said.

“I guess.” Jessica frowned. “Hey, can I try a cigarette?”

“Have you ever smoked?” Clare reached into her pocket for her pack, and held it open, amused.

“At camp one year, this one girl had them. I snuck off with her a few times. It was fun.”

Clare lit Jessica's cigarette for her. Surprisingly, she didn't cough at all, but inhaled it like a natural.

“Yeah,” Jessica said, after exhaling her first drag. “I like this. Thanks.”

“Which day is this prime minister thing again?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday. Groovy.” Clare preferred to reserve Saturdays for drunken debauchery, but she supposed she could sacrifice this one for the cause.

Annabel was getting sick. She was cold in her bones, her nose was running, and — here was the real sign — she didn't crave alcohol as soon as she walked in her front door. She poured herself a glass of juice, popped a cold prevention pill — did those things actually work? — and changed into her fuzziest pair of sweatpants.

She called Matthew. No response, which generally meant he was with someone. Probably eating dinner. Somewhere nice, if she was new. Chinese takeout, if they'd been at it for awhile. Annabel remembered when she'd been new. Matthew had taken her to Lewiston for dinner and a play. Ha ha, he'd even paid.

She couldn't bother Kat. Her sister was off living her own life, cooking dinner for her daughter, exchanging loving banter with her husband, who adored Katherine and would never be off eating Chinese food with someone he was fucking on the side.

Maybe Utopia Girl would talk to her. Annabel pulled out her BlackBerry and toyed with the dial on the side. She could type more easily on her computer, but tonight she preferred to recline on the couch with sitcoms on
TV
.

Hey, Utopia Girl,
she typed.
Tell me something about your childhood.

The response came in a few minutes, an instant message instead of an email.

Utopia Girl:
My childhood? Are you my shrink?

Death Reporter:
I want a sense of who you are, what you come from.

Utopia Girl:
If I said that I came from a happy loving home?

Annabel laughed, although she wasn't sure what she found funny. Maybe it was
Two and a Half Men
. Maybe it was the medication kicking in.

Death Reporter:
I'd ask how old you were when all that changed.

Utopia Girl:
When all that changed. Did you take Psych
101
when you were my age but decide to pursue journalism when you figured out you sucked at analysis?

Her age? Annabel tossed her blanket aside and got up off the couch. She found a notebook with some empty pages and jotted
Utopia Girl — university age?

Death Reporter:
Sorry if I upset you. You don't expect a killer to come from a happy home.

Utopia Girl:
I'll give you some details. But understand that this is the background picture I choose to give you. It may bear little resemblance to my actual childhood.

Death Reporter:
So let's start with the broad strokes. Did you grow up in Canada?

Utopia Girl:
Yes.

Death Reporter:
Small town or big city?

Utopia Girl:
No comment.

Death Reporter:
Are your parents Canadian? Did they grow up here, too?

Utopia Girl:
No offense, but these questions are boring even to me.

Why did people only say “no offense” right before they insulted you?

Death Reporter:
Did your childhood bore you?

Utopia Girl:
If only it had.

Death Reporter:
Was the environment abusive? Did one of your parents drink?

Utopia Girl:
No abuse, no drinking. We all got along, you know, loved each other.

Death Reporter: lol
. So how old were you when all that changed?

Utopia Girl: lol
right back to you. Glad you find my tragedy so comedic.

Death Reporter:
I was laughing at myself, too.

Utopia Girl:
Now we share jokes?

Death Reporter:
What's wrong with being light and pleasant?

Utopia Girl:
Think Hayden Pritchard's family is feeling light and pleasant?

A killer who was also sanctimonious?

Death Reporter:
Do you feel badly for having killed him?

Utopia Girl:
If that's how you write English, I can see why you haven't advanced as a reporter.

Death Reporter:
What?

Utopia Girl:
You just asked if killing Hayden Pritchard had diminished my ability to feel. Which I suppose is an interesting question in its own right, but not what you meant.

Annabel scanned her last couple of sent messages.

Death Reporter:
Fine. Do you feel
bad
for having killed Pritchard?

Utopia Girl:
Feel bad for his family. Think the world's a better place without him.

Death Reporter:
Can you talk about your motivation?

Utopia Girl:
I can talk about whatever I like.

Death Reporter: Will
you talk about your motivation?

Utopia Girl:
In time. For now, though, know that I am trying to right a wrong.

Death Reporter:
A personal wrong? Or do you have the common good at heart?

Utopia Girl:
Exactly. One or the other.

Death Reporter:
But there will be more deaths, right? In your letter, you said Pritchard was your first step.

Utopia Girl:
You sound almost hopeful. On that note, I'm out.

Annabel set down her phone, feeling no better than when she'd arrived home. Score one point for cold prevention pills being a fraud.

Finland: Who's got the power?

USA
:
You do, but it's temporary.

Jonathan looked around his bedroom. It was time to update the décor, if he planned to entertain Jessica here anytime soon. He still had
Star Wars
posters on the wall. He still had wizards on his bedsheets.

Finland:
Temporary? Really? I've taken over your oil interests worldwide, and you can't afford to arm your men. And — oh, look — I've secured China as an ally.

USA
:
Well if I sell all my women to Russia as mail-order brides . . . like so . . . that gives me enough money to train my soldiers and fully arm my military.

Jonathan took a gulp of iced tea. Maybe Jessica liked
Star Wars.

Finland:
Mail-order brides don't go
to
Russia.

USA
:
They just did. Now if I distract China by sending over some domestic trouble . . . like, say, poisoning all the rice fields . . . then their troops are occupied at home, and I can launch a full-on attack of Finland.

Poisoning the rice fields. That was clever. Jonathan considered how to fend off Jessica's American soldiers. Well, since she'd sent all their women to Russia . . .

Finland:
But look . . . your men are here trying to invade me, and they're so starved for love that all they want to do is Finnish women. A little attack of gonorrhea and — presto! — the American soldiers are toast. No money, no army. You're done. Good game. Again?

USA
:
You are so not funny.

Finland:
No, but I won as Finland. So now can we have that date?

USA
:
That was the deal.

Finland:
Don't sound so thrilled.

USA
:
Sorry. I'm looking forward to tomorrow.

Finland:
If I can win as Tanzania will you be nice on the date?

USA
:
I'm always nice. I just don't lose gracefully. Will I see you at work tonight?

Finland:
You're working tonight too? I'll polish my bow tie extra nice.

Jonathan got up from his computer desk and found that he was shaking. Things were going well, right? Okay, so nothing physical had happened yet, but that would come.

He went back to his desk and pressed Play on his iTunes. “The Neverending Story” started playing, and he smiled. The setting was on random, so the song had chosen itself. It was a good sign. He'd played this for Jessica, in his head, so many times before. Could she hear it, on some level? And when she heard the song, did she know it was from him?