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I grin at him. “Not in my comic, you’re not.”
* * *
Killing someone is a lot like conning someone. You need to know a lot of the same things.
Maybe the Feds have to keep me in the dark, but I have to follow my own instincts. If something goes wrong with their plan, I’ll need to improvise. And to do that I need to study my victim.
Patton’s a public figure. Learning about him isn’t hard—every detail of his life has been analyzed by the press, all his faults enumerated by his opponents. I look at photos until I know every detail of his face, until I can spot the lines of pancake makeup at the edges of his neck when he’s camera-ready, until I see how he combs the few white hairs he’s got and how he dresses to match the tone of his speeches. I look at pictures of him in his home, at rallies, kissing babies. I pore over news reports and gossip columns and restaurant guides to see who he meets with (many, many people), his favorite food (spaghetti Bolognese), what he orders at the diner he frequents (eggs over easy, buttered white toast, turkey sausage), and even how he takes his coffee (cream and sugar).
I study his security, too. He always has two bodyguards who follow him everywhere. They aren’t always the same two guys, but they all have broken noses and smirking smiles. There are a few articles about Patton using funds to hire ex-cons to round out his security staff, men he personally pardoned. He never goes anywhere without them.
I watch several YouTube videos of him ranting about conspiracy theories, workers, and big government. I listen to the faint traces of his accent, the way he enunciates, and the way he pauses just before he says something he thinks is really important. I watch the way he gestures, reaching out to the audience like he’s hoping to wrap them in his arms.
I call my mother and get a few more particulars while pretending to be interested in how she edged herself into his life. I find out where he buys his suits (Bergdorf; they have his measurements so he can just call and have a suit tailored and overnighted to a speaking engagement). What languages he speaks (French and Spanish). The medicine he takes for his heart (Capoten and a single baby aspirin). The way he walks, heel to toe, so that the backs of his shoes always wear down first.
I watch and look and listen and read until I feel like Governor Patton is standing over my shoulder and whispering into my ear. It’s not a good feeling.
12
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, AS I’m coming back from classes, my phone buzzes in the pocket of my uniform pants. I take it out, but the number is blocked.
“Hello?” I say into the mouthpiece.
“We’re coming to get you tomorrow night,” says Yulikova. “Clear your schedule. We want to be moving by six p.m.”
Something’s wrong. Really, really wrong. “You said everything was happening next Wednesday, not this Saturday.”
“I’m sorry, Cassel,” she says. “Plans change. We have to be flexible right now.”
I lower my voice. “Look, that thing with the death worker and me tailing him—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the gun. I know you know. I just panicked. I still have it. I didn’t do anything with it. I could bring it to you.”
I shouldn’t bring it to her. I promised it to Gage.
I should bring it to her. I should have given it to her in the first place.
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. “That wasn’t your smartest move.”
“I know,” I say.
“Why don’t you turn the gun in tomorrow night and we’ll just call the whole thing a misunderstanding.”
“Right.” My feeling of disquiet grows, although I can’t say why. There’s just something not right about her tone. Something that makes me feel like she’s already distanced herself from this situation.
I’m surprised she’s letting me off so easy about the gun. Nothing about this sits right.
“I was reading about Patton,” I say, to keep her talking.
“We can talk about this when we pick you up.” She says it kindly, but I can hear the dismissal in her voice.
“He has private security with him at all times. Tough guys. I was just wondering how we were getting around that.”
“I promise you, Cassel, we’ve got good people handling this. Your part is significant but small. We’re going to take care of you.”
“Humor me,” I say, putting some of the anger I feel into my voice.
She sighs. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re concerned. We understand the risk you’re taking, and we appreciate it.”
I wait.
