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“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 2 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.
Agent Jones gets into the driver’s seat and guns the engine. Flashes go off through the window as we start to pull away from the crowd.
I lean back, letting my muscles relax as much as possible. The cuffs are too tight to get out of, but I’m not worried. Not anymore. They can’t arrest me—not for this, not when now they can arrest Patton without difficulty. Simple lies are always better than a complicated truth.
Explaining that the Patton on television, the one that confessed, wasn’t really Patton, but the real Patton had actually committed those crimes, is too confusing.
They might scream at me, they might not want me to be a member of the LMD anymore, but they’ll eventually have to admit that I solved the problem. I took down Patton. Not the way that they wanted, but no one got hurt, and that has to be worth something.
“Where’s Yulikova?” I ask. “Are we going back to the hotel?”
“No hotel,” Jones says.
“Want to tell me where we are going?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps driving for a few more moments.
“Come on,” I say. “I’m sorry. But I had some information that there was a plan to set me up for working Patton. You can deny it if you want to—and maybe my information was wrong—but I got cold feet. Look, I know I shouldn’t have done what I did, but—”
He pulls abruptly onto the shoulder of the road. Cars are whizzing by us on one side, and there is a dark patch of trees on the other.
I stop talking.
He gets out and comes around to open my door. When he does, he’s pointing a gun at me.
