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“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.
