The First Counsel (59 page)

Then he meets the chandelier. The crunching sound alone will give me nightmares for years.

As the last shards fall, a high-pitched alarm screams out of the Indian Treaty Room. I lean forward over the railing. The stained glass is almost completely gone, leaving a gaping hole. It'll take forever to fill. On the floor below, amid the shattered glass, are the broken remains of the man responsible. For Caroline. For Vaughn. And most of all, for Nora.

Behind me, I hear a soft moan. Spinning around, I rush to her side and drop to my knees. "Nora, are you . . ."

"I-I-Is he gone?" she whispers, barely able to get the words out. She shouldn't be conscious. Her voice gurgles with blood.

"Yeah," I say, once again fighting back tears. "He's gone. You're safe."

She fights to smile, but it's too much of a strain. Her chest convulses. She's fading fast. "M-M-Michael . . . ?"

"I'm here," I tell her, gently lifting her in my arms. "I'm right here, Nora."

The tears roll down my face. She knows this is it. Her head sags and she slowly gives in. "P-P-Please . . . ," she coughs. "Please, Michael . . . don't tell my dad."

I take a sharp gulp of air to keep myself together. Nodding vigorously, I pull her close to my chest, but her arms just dangle behind her. Her eyes begin to roll back in her head. Tailspinning, I furiously brush her hair from her face. There's a final twitch in her torso--and then--she's gone.

"No!" I shout. "NO!" I grab her head, kissing her forehead over and over. "Please, Nora! Please don't go! Please! Please!" None of it does any good. She's not moving.

Her head slumps against my arm and a rasping, ghostly wheeze releases the final air from her lungs. With the lightest touch I can muster, I carefully close her eyes. It's finally over. Self-destruction complete.

Chapter
40

They don't let me out of the Sit Room until a quarter past midnight, when the empty halls of the OEOB are nothing more than a bureaucratic ghost town. In some ways, I think they planned it on purpose--this way, no one's around to ask questions. Or gossip. Or point at me and whisper, "He's the one--that's him." All I have is silence. Silence and time to think. Silence and . . . Nora . . .

I lower my head and shut my eyes, trying to pretend it never happened. But it did.

As I make my way back to my office, there're two sets of shoes echoing through the cavernous hallway: mine, and those of the Secret Service agent directly behind me. They may have patched up my shoulder, but when we reach Room 170, my hand still shakes as I open the door. Watching me carefully, he follows me inside. In the anteroom, I flip on the lights and once again face the silence. It's too late for anyone to be here. Pam, Julian--they both left hours ago. When it was still light out.

I'm not surprised that the place is empty, but I have to admit I was hoping someone would be here. As it is, though, I'm on my own. It's going to be like that for a while. Opening the door to my office, I try to tell myself otherwise, but in a place like the White House, there aren't many people who'll--

"Where the hell've you been?" Trey asks, bounding off my vinyl sofa. "Are you okay? Did you get a lawyer? I heard you didn't have one, so I called my sister's brother-in-law, Jimmy, who put me in touch with this guy Richie Rubin, who said he'd--"

"It's okay, Trey. I don't need a lawyer."

He looks up at the Secret Service agent who just stepped in behind me. "You sure about that?"

I shoot a look to the agent. "Do you think we can . . ."

"I'm sorry, sir. My orders are to wait until you're--"

"Listen, I'm just looking for a few minutes with my friend. That's all I ask. Please."

He studies both of us. Eventually, he says, "I'll be out here if you need me." He heads back to the anteroom, closing the door as he leaves.

When he's gone, I expect another onslaught of questions. Instead, Trey stays quiet.

On the windowsill, I glance at the toaster. Nora's name is gone. I stare down at the remaining digital green letters, almost as if it's a mistake. Praying it's a mistake. Slowly, each line of glowing letters seems to stare back--blinking, blazing--their flickering more pronounced now that it's dark. So dark. Oh, Nora . . . My legs give way, and I lean back on the corner of my desk.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Trey offers.

I can barely stand.

"If it makes you feel any better," he adds, "Nora wouldn't have . . . It wouldn't have been a good life. Not after this."

I shake my head unresponsively. "Yeah. Right." With a deep swallow, it once again all goes numb.

"If there's anything I can . . ."

I nod a thank-you and search for control. "You heard that Lamb . . ."

"All I know is he died," Trey says. "It's all over the news, but no one has the hows and whys--FBI scheduled the briefing for first thing tomorrow." He's about to say something else, but his voice trails off. I'm not surprised. He's too connected to be in the dark. He knows what the rumors are; he just doesn't want to ask. I stare at him across the room, watching him fidget with his tie. He can barely make eye contact. And even though he's right in front of the sofa, he refuses to sit down. But he still won't ask. He's too good a friend.

"Say it, Trey. Someone's got to."

He looks up, measuring the moment. Then he clears his throat. "Is it true?"

Again, I nod.

Trey's eyebrows go from arched curiosity to rounded shock. He lowers himself to the couch. "I-I waited in my office for her--just like you said. While you and Pam were digging through files, I had all these different ways to keep her busy--fake folders to search through, fake phone records to check--it would've been perfect. But she never showed."

"She knew what we were up to--she knew all along."

"So Lamb . . ."

"Lamb deleted the request from Caroline's computer, but he didn't know she was anal enough to keep a hard copy. And the FBI didn't need them--they had the actual files. To be honest, I think Nora knew where they were. Maybe it was her insurance, maybe it was . . . maybe it was something else."

Trey watches me carefully. "It was definitely something else."

I grin, but it quickly disappears.

"Was she . . ." he stutters. "Was it . . ."

"As bad as you think, it was worse. You should've seen her . . . when Lamb walked in . . . he'd been doing it since she was eleven. Sixth grade, Trey. You know what kind of monster you have to be? Sixth-fucking-grade! And when Hartson got elected--Lamb was there full-time! They thought he was doing them a favor!" My voice picks up speed, blurring, rambling, flying through the rest of the story. From Lamb's gun, to the stained glass; from being grilled in the Sit Room, to Adenauer's overlong apology, it all comes vomiting out. Trey doesn't interrupt once.

When I'm done, both of us just sit there. It takes everything I have not to look at the toaster, but the silence is starting to hurt. She's no longer there.

"So what happens now?" Trey eventually asks.

I head for the fireplace and slowly remove my diploma from the wall.

"They're scapegoating! Even though you didn't do it, they're hanging you out to--"

"They're not hanging me anywhere," I say. "For once, they believe me."

"They do?" He pauses, cocking his head. "Why?"

"Thanks a lot," I say as I lower my diploma to the floor and rest it against the mantel.

"I'm serious, Michael. With Nora and Lamb both dea--Without them, all you have is a file request with Lamb's name on it. Where'd they get the rest? Debits in Lamb's bank accounts?"

"Yeah," I shrug. "But they also . . ." My voice trails off.

"What?"

I don't say a word.

"What?" Trey repeats. "Tell me."

I take a deep breath. "Nora's brother."

"Christopher? What about him?"

My voice is dry monotone. "He may be in boarding school now, but he was around for junior high. And for every summer."

The stunned look on Trey's face tells me this is the first he's heard of it. "So he . . . Oh, sick--Does that mean we'll--"

"The press'll never hear it. Hartson's personal request. However she lived, Nora Hartson's going to die a hero--giving her life to catch Caroline's killer."

"So she and Lamb . . ."

"You only heard it because you're a friend. Understand what I'm saying?"

Trey nods his head and gives me the rub. A quick one. More unnerved than upset. Unless I bring it up, that's the last I'll hear of it.

Turning back to the wall above the fireplace, I stand on my tiptoes to reach the court artist's rendition of me at the moot court finals. Trapped behind a huge piece of glass, it's even bigger than it first appears. Deeper too. It takes me a second to get both hands around it.

Trey rushes to my side, helping me get control of it. "So what'd they do?" Trey asks as we lean it against my diploma. "Fire you or force you to resign?"

I stop where I am. "How'd you know?"

"You mean besides the oh-so-subtle clue of you dismantling your office? It's a crisis, Michael. Lamb and Nora are dead, and you were sleeping with her. When it gets that hot, this place goes running for shade."

"They didn't fire me," I tell him.

"So they asked you to leave."

"They didn't say the words, but . . . I have to."

He stares out the window. There're still a few reporters doing stand-ups on the lawn. "If you want, I can help you with some media coaching."

"That'd be great."

"And I can still get you into all the really cool events--State of the Union, Inaugural Ball--whatever you want."

"I appreciate it."

"And I'll tell you what else--wherever you apply for your next job--you better believe you're getting a recommendation on White House stationery. Hell, I'll steal a whole pack of it--we can write letters to all the people we hate: meter maids, men who call everybody 'Big Guy,' people in retail who act like they're doing you a favor, those bitchy stewardesses on the airplane who always lie and say they're out of those Chicklet pillows--'One per person' my neck-cramped little ass--like I'm denying them a patio on their pillow fort."

For the first time in two days, I laugh. Actually, it's more like a cough and a smile. But I'll take it.

Catching his breath, Trey follows me to my desk. "I'm not joking, though, Michael. You name it; I'll get it for you."

"I know you will," I say as I quickly flip through the piles of paper on my desk. Memos, presidential schedules, even my wiretap file--none of it's important. It all stays. In my bottom left drawer, I find an old pair of running shorts. Those I'll take. Otherwise, drawer after drawer, I don't need it.

"You sure you're gonna be okay?" Trey asks. "I mean, what're you gonna do with your time?"

I pull open the top right drawer and see a handwritten note: "Call me and I'll bring Chinese." Below it is a tiny heart, signed by Pam.

I stuff the note in my pocket and close the drawer. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"It's not a question of being fine--it's bigger than that. Maybe you should speak to Hartson . . ."

"Trey, the last thing the President of the United States needs right now is a constant reminder of his family's worst tragedy walking the halls. Besides, even if he asked me to stay . . . it's not for me . . . not anymore."

"What're you talking about?"

With one swift tug, I pull the photo of me and the President off the wall behind my desk. "I'm done," I tell him, handing Trey what's left of my ego wall. "And no matter how much you moan and groan, you know it's for the best."

He looks down at the photo and pauses a second too long. End of discussion.

Reaching down for my diploma and moot court sketch, I slide my fingers under the picture frame wire, and with a half-fist, lift them up and head for the door. As I walk, they bang against my calves. It may be the last time I'm ever in this place, but as I leave the office, Trey's right behind me.

Shooting him a quick look, I ask, "So you still going to call me every morning to tell me what's going on?"

"Six A.M. tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Monday it is."

A week and a half later, my car turns off I-95 and heads back to the quiet, rural roads of Ashland, Virginia. The sky is crystal blue, and the early-fall trees blush in yellow, orange, and green. At first glance, it's just like before--then I take a quick peek in the rearview. No one's there. That's when I feel it the most.

Every time I come out to horse country, I notice the sweet smell of wildflowers. But as my car twists and turns past an amber thicket, I realize it's the first time I've actually seen them. It's amazing what's right in front of your face.

Taking in every yellow stalk in every wide-open field, I wind my way past the farms and toward the familiar wooden fence. A quick left takes me the rest of the way. The thing is, the gravel parking lot, the ranch house, even the always-open screen door--for some reason, they all look bigger. That's the way it should be, I decide.