Free Save the Enemy by Arin Greenwood

business card sending us here, is something other than just a weird coincidence.
    “Okay,” I say, taking in a deep breath. I want Pete to ask what we are doing, coming to this odd house in Georgetown late at night. He puts his hand on my shoulder.
    I can see in the front window, as I stand ringing the doorbell. Leather couches. Rows and rows of books. Dark portraits of severe men in military uniforms. No sign of my brother.
    “Whose house is this?” Pete asks as the door starts to open. I wish I knew. No one answered the door here when I came by looking for Roscoe.
    Before me is a short guy, about five four, with dark hair gelled into rows of crispy waves and wire-rim glasses. He appears to be in his mid-thirties, maybe. It’s hard to tell given his clothes: schlumpy white button-down shirt, wrinkled khaki pants with pleating at the hips that makes it look like he’s got hips made for birthing. If the guy at the Postal Museum looked nerdy, this guy looks like the dude that guy would call a nerd.
    “Is my brother here?” I ask the guy. I am still feeling slightly woozy. I may ask this more loudly than intended.
    “You must be Zoey,” he says in a nasal voice. “I’m P.F. Greenawalt. Political Consultant. Come in. Please. I’m anxious to speak with you. I knew your mother.”
    “I’m Pete,” says Pete in his easy way, following. “Should I call you P.F.?”
    P.F. Greenawalt pauses for a second and looks Pete over. “Mhm,” he then says, nodding and leading us toward the back of the house, into a big kitchen.
    My mother. How does this guy know my mother? Why is he anxious to talk to me? My brother is sitting at a farm table. I feel a surge of the sweetest relief I think I’ve ever felt. Just as quickly, it’s gone. The gun is in the middle of the table. Perhaps not
the
gun. Maybe it’s just
a
gun.
    “Sit down,” P.F. says, pointing at the table. “I was making your brother some eggs.”
    I sit next to Ben. I whisper to him, “Are you okay?” He shrugs and pulls away.
    “So,” says P.F. “How do you like your eggs?”
    “Scrambled,” says Pete.
    “How do you know my mother?” I ask.
    “We met when your family moved here,” he says, as if that somehow explains anything at all. My mind whirls. Ben stares. P.F. cooks. Pete asks him questions about being a Political Consultant—who does he do it for, how long has he been doing it, etc. P.F. says he’s got his own small firm. He has a variety of clients. He does some consulting on elections. And some other things, which is how he met my mom.
    “Do you spend a lot of time on the road?” Pete asks. “My mom used to do that. Hard on the family.”
    “I enjoy most of the travel,” P.F. says.
    “Have you ever come across something called a ‘J-File’ in your work?” I ask. My brother gives me a look.
    “Zoey, can you help me carry something in from the other room?” P.F. asks, putting three plates of scrambled eggs on the table.
    I follow him up a flight of stairs. We go into a room with a harpsichord in it.
    “I’ve always been interested in the Renaissance,” he says by way of explanation. Then he points to a well-worn leatherchair in a corner, underneath a framed Harvard diploma. I sit down.
    “J-File,” P.F. begins. “What do you know about a J-File?”
    “What do
you
know about it?” I ask him.
    He closes his eyes a moment, then pulls the bench from underneath the harpsichord and sits on it.
    “Your brother came to my house tonight asking why my business card was in the pocket of a man who accosted you the other night,” P.F. says. “I didn’t tell him. Though when he pulled out a gun …”
    “Why was it there? The business card, why was it in that man’s pocket?”
    “How old are you?” he asks.
    “Seventeen,” I say.
    “You are too young,” he says, “to have to be hearing any of this—”
    “I haven’t heard anything yet,” I interrupt.
    “Your mom,” he begins, “was coming to see me when she