Mae-Ying Allen ~ 3-17-2029 6:52 PM EST
The following Saturday night, Mae-Ying is making her way through a crowd of fellow staffers to the bar. She’s been at work all day, even though it’s the weekend, and now it’s time to convince herself she still has something resembling a life, even though she’s here alone, even though half the people here wouldn’t talk to her if she paid them.
Most of Mae-Ying’s ex-friends still work for a senator named Jane Paulus; in fact, Mae-Ying herself used to work for Senator Paulus. Leaving Paulus’ staff two years ago had nothing to do with the senator herself; it was just the smart thing to do. No one would have turned down the kind of offer Walsh had made. Regardless, ever since then, everyone on Paulus’ staff has acted as if Mae-Ying had made a pact with Satan himself.
Since then she’s had practically no time to socialize. Over time Walsh’s personal life, his sphere of influence and his circle of friends, has steadily subsumed her own, and going out on her own on nights like this is getting more and more awkward.
She arrives at the bar and leans forward on it, trying to get the bartender’s attention, but he’s caught up with a group at the opposite end. After a minute or so she gives up and eyes the exit. She could go back to her apartment right now. There is alcohol back at her apartment.
Someone sidles up next to her on her blind side. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
Mae-Ying turns to look. Shoulder-length black hair and flat bangs and that sharp but almost cute face under lidded eyes; Lydia Snyder, Mae-Ying’s ex… something. Not quite girlfriend; in the years before Walsh, they’d hooked up a handful of times. Mae-Ying always felt like she was more into it than Lydia was.
“It’s been a while,” Mae-Ying says, smirking. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” Lydia says. “Boss is doing a big press junket with some people who are gonna be out a job after President Rollins’ latest jihad. I’ve been managing interviews.”
“Sounds brutal...”
“It’s the kids, mostly. They won’t stop bawling while you’re setting up. Then, when the camera rolls, they finally get it together.” Lydia rolls her eyes a little. “If we could only get it on film…”
Mae-Ying’s eyebrows rise. “You’ve been conducting interviews with the families present?”
“Yeah,” Lydia says. “More of an emotional impact.”
“Is it working?”
“No, it’s shit and no one will pay attention. We’ll use it for B-roll at the national convention, maybe.”
The bartender finally makes his way over to Mae-Ying. “Yes?”
“I’ll have a bourbon,” Mae-Ying says. “Neat.”
He pulls down the well bottle and pours her a shot.
“How’ve you been?” Lydia asks. “Your boy’s flying pretty high right now…”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Something wrong?”
Mae-Ying shrugs. “You know how I am. I never like to say things are going well.”
“Come on, people have started to say he’s a primary contender.”
“Yeah, but I’m always waiting for… I don’t know, shoes to drop.”
Lydia nods. She leans against the bar and swirls the stirrer in her drink. “Got any names for those shoes?”
“Well… I had this weird interview a few days ago with the LA Times. Their journalist asked me about one of his major donors, a company I’d never heard of before.”
“Yeah? What’s it called?”
“Synesis,” Mae-Ying says. “They’re based in Montana.”
Lydia’s eye twitches. She glances around, trying to look casual, but Mae-Ying can tell she’s hit on something.
“Maybe we should talk about that some time,” Lydia says. “Somewhere else. More private.”
Mae-Ying nods. “Yeah. I’d appreciate that.”
Lydia downs the rest of her drink. “I gotta go.”
“Oh--all right--”
“Have you talked to your boy about this?”
“Yeah…?”
Lydia’s expression goes flat. “Okay. Look, just… keep an eye on your rear.”
“Right,” Mae-Ying says, and watches as Lydia disappears into the crowd.
#
Shortly after Lydia leaves, Mae-Ying she decides it’s time to go. She takes the bus back to her neighborhood, then keeps her keys out as she walks back to her apartment building. Her feet hurt. Maybe when she turns thirty she’ll give in and stop wearing heels--although, Lydia’s thirty-five by now and she apparently hasn’t quit yet.
This Synesis thing is making her anxious. All politicians are scum, but Walsh isn’t usually this bold of a liar. And the way that Lydia just vanished? She’s usually so blasé.
Mae-Ying lets herself into her apartment and turns on the lights in the kitchen. She puts her bag on the counter and stoops down to undo the ankle straps on her shoes. Down at floor level she notices something odd. The recycling by the trash can; she hasn’t moved it in over a month, too busy to take it down to the recycling bins. Dust has been collecting around the edges. Now there’s a sliver of clean linoleum between the edge of the bin and the perimeter of dust. Someone must have moved it--which means someone broke in.
Mae-Ying keeps her shoes on and walks over to inspect the offending slice of floor, just to make sure it’s really time to panic. It doesn’t look any less convincing close up. She swallows hard and goes to turn on all the lights in the living room. The apartment isn’t clean, but it’s tiny, so it doesn’t take her long to find another sign someone’s been through her stuff. On the top of a bookshelf rests a message in a bottle--something one of her numerous exes wrote for her while they were still dating, back in graduate school. Someone took out the cork and left the bottle open.
She shudders. Did they read the letter? It’s not like it said anything incriminating, or even all that interesting, but the prospect still makes her feel violated.
Her eyes flick through her contacts on her glasses and her fingers twitch as she texts Walsh: Someone broke into my apartment and went through my stuff.
She sits down on her couch, stares into space, and prepares to wait. She knows he won’t answer right away; he’s in a late committee meeting, hashing out their strategy for the next Supreme Court nominee hearings. The door to her bedroom is slightly ajar, she notices. Did she leave it that way? What if the burglar is still in there, right now, waiting for her?
She licks her lips and presses them together. That prospect isn’t likely, she doesn’t think, but she can’t get the idea out of her head. Should she go into the bedroom and look? Part of her wants to--part of her almost hopes she’d get a chance to confront whomever had the gall to do this. But the rest of her remembers she’s five-two, one hundred and ten pounds, unarmed and clueless. So she sits and waits, her heels still on, for the better part of an hour before Walsh finally calls back.
She picks up. “Hi.”
“What happened?”
She looks at the bedroom door. “Some things have been moved around,” she says, trying not to sound alarmed.
“I want you to come stay at my place tonight.”
“All right.”
“I’ll have some people go over your apartment,” he says. “Could be someone left something behind.”
Something? Like what, a bug? “Huh,” she says, still keeping her voice level. “Okay.”
“I’ll be home in about an hour. I’ll see you there.”
“Okay,” she says. “See you soon.”
Mae-Ying usually takes the bus everywhere, but right now she’s paranoid. What if these people--whomever they are--know her travel habits? So she hikes down to the metro station instead and takes the train to Walsh’s neighborhood. When she arrives it’s nearly deserted, but she feels like there are eyes everywhere, watching her, listening to her heels hammer the pavement.
She turns down Walsh’s street. An unfamiliar white sports car is parked at the curb beside Walsh’s flat, behind his beige sedan. Mae-Ying groans. In addition to all the other bullshit this evening has had to offer, now she’s going to have to deal with some random visitors? She’s not in the mood.
She’s still making her way down the street when Walsh’s front door opens and an unfamiliar man steps out. His bare scalp is tattooed with what looks like a huge snake coiled around the contours of his head. He’s wearing a white suit with a black tie and wire-rimmed sunglasses, and, despite lacking any obvious physical infirmity, he’s carrying a cane.
The bald man climbs down the half-flight of steps to the sidewalk and walks to the white car. Standing beside the driver’s side door, he pauses and turns directly towards Mae-Ying. His face breaks into a toothy smile that makes her skin crawl, but she keeps walking toward him, toward the flat. The tattooed stranger climbs inside the car; it starts with a powerful thrum, then peels off down the road. She opens Walsh’s front door without knocking. He’s waiting in the foyer; it looks like he’s been pacing. His tie is undone.
“What took you so long?” he asks.
“I took the train.”
“Jesus! I’m glad you weren’t mugged.”
“Who was that?” Mae-Ying points back at the door.
“Hmm?”
“Who was the man with the fucking tattoo on his skull who just came out your front door!”
“Oh. That was... an associate.”
“‘An associate’? Really, Jim?”
Walsh runs a hand through his hair. “Look. I can see I need to explain a few things.”
“No shit.”
“C’mon, Mae. I’ve never given you a reason to distrust me, have I?”
Mae-Ying’s mouth flattens. “What is it you want to tell me?”
"I just want to explain… look, that was a friend of mine. Mr. Garibaldi. He's going to look into what happened at your apartment."
“What part of that was so hard to tell me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t even want to acknowledge his presence a second ago!”
“You’re being awfully prosecutorial--”
“I’m not being prosecutorial, you’re being evasive.”
“No, I’m not.” Walsh starts walking back into his living room. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
Mae-Ying follows him, rolling her eyes. “Right.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No, I want you to tell me what the hell is happening.”
Walsh is starting to turn a little red. “Someone apparently broke into your apartment--I don’t know who--but I’m trying to fix it for you.”
“That’s not all. Don’t try to tell me that’s all.”
Walsh sighs. “Look, this reporter. Why’d you take the interview with her?”
“Fred said he got a message from your home office saying to book the meeting," Mae-Ying says, confused.
“Huh…” Walsh rubs his chin. "Maybe this is all some big misunderstanding."
"Maybe what is?”
"I think some people--overzealous people in the intelligence community--got the idea that you know something you don't. As soon as I can confirm that, I'll make a few calls and this will all be over..." Walsh walks over to a sideboard where he keeps a decanter of bourbon. He pours himself a glass. "Now, obviously I can't tell you what it is they think you know, because then you'd know it."
Mae-Ying gives him a flat look. “There are ways to keep me in the dark without being this shady about it.”
“I’m not trying to be shady,” Walsh says. “I didn’t even know there was a problem until tonight.”
He pours a second shot and hands it to her. She takes it, looks down at it, thinks about how she just said she didn’t want a drink.
"Now, I've already done some polite inquiries--made it clear that regardless of what people might think about you, you're solidly in my camp and you're no threat." He takes a sip of bourbon and looks at her.
"I had no idea anyone thought anything other than that," Mae-Ying says.
"People outside the beltway aren't up on the gossip like we are. Sometimes it can be jarring."
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
"I mean to people who aren't in the trenches, the fact that you and I are seeing each other seriously wouldn't be obvious. They might mistake you for a possible enemy agent.” Walsh takes another sip of his bourbon. “Which is absurd, but this is the world we live in. Latvia could fall tomorrow because of people who aren't who they say they are."
“An enemy agent,” Mae-Ying says, incredulous.
Walsh nods. “I’d imagine they suspect China.”
“What, because I’m Thai?”
"Racism is still a force in some corners of America--”
“I don’t even speak Chinese!”
"Mae-Ying, you don’t need to convince me. It's just, the people we're dealing with are reactionary. They're working on some pretty heavy stuff. They…” He pauses, frowns. He puts a hand to his chest, clears his throat. "They worry about…” Walsh coughs. He stares at Mae-Ying blankly and doesn’t continue.
“Jim?” Mae-Ying asks, alarmed.
Walsh’s eyes shift to her glass. He tries to step forward, stumbles, and falls to the ground, face first. His body convulses. Frantic, Mae-Ying drops the glass and makes the staccato quadruple tap gesture to her watch that triggers an emergency call. He must have been poisoned--the bourbon must have been poisoned--
“911 operator, what’s your emergency?”
“James Walsh has been poisoned,” she says, almost shouting.
“What is your name, ma’am?”
“Mae-Ying Allen, I’m his legislative director!”
“And what is your address?”
“19 Logan Circle Northwest!”
“You’re sure it’s poison?”
“Do not fuck with me right now. You need to send an ambulance to--”
A hand clamps over Mae-Ying’s mouth; another seizes her arm. She screams and flails, trying to free herself, but it’s no use; her attacker is absurdly strong. For a few moments Mae-Ying is sure she’s about to die--she’s certain that, in seconds, there will be a knife against her throat or the barrel of a gun against her temple. Instead, she feels a strange sucking sensation, starting at her feet and moving up her legs, as if her entire body is being vacuumed up, compressed into a stream of particles.
Before the sensation can make it to her skull, her consciousness slips.
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