The First Counsel

* * *

It takes about ten minutes before I realize we're lost. In the span of a few blocks, the immaculate brownstones of Dupont Circle have faded into the run-down tenements on the outskirts of Adams Morgan. "We should've turned on 16th," I say.

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're absolutely right; I'm two hundred percent clueless. And you want to know how I know that?" I pause for effect. "Because I trusted you to drive! I mean, what the hell was I thinking? You barely live here; you're never in a car; and when you are, it's usually in the backseat."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Just as she asks the question, I realize what I've said. Three years ago, right after her father got elected, during Nora's sophomore year at Princeton, Rolling Stone ran a scathing profile of what they called her college "Drug and Love Life." According to the article, two different guys claimed that Nora went down on them in the backseats of their cars while she was on Special K. Another source said she was doing coke; a third said it was heroin. Either way, based on the article, some horny little Internet-freak used Nora's full name--Eleanor--and wrote a haiku poem entitled "Knee-Sore Eleanor." A few million forwarded e-mails later, Nora gained her most notorious sobriquet--and her father saw his favorability numbers fall. When the story ran, President Hartson called up the editor of Rolling Stone and asked him to leave his daughter alone. From then on, they did. Hartson's numbers went back up. All was well. But the joke was already out there. And obviously, from the look on Nora's face, the damage had already been done.

"I didn't mean anything," I insist, backing away from my unintended insult. "I just meant that your family gets the limo treatment. Motorcades. You know, other people drive you."

Suddenly, Nora laughs. She has a sexy, hearty voice, but her laugh is all little girl.

"What'd I say?"

"You're embarrassed," she answers, amused. "Your whole face is red."

I turn away. "I'm sorry . . ."

"No, it's okay. That's really sweet of you. And it's even sweeter that you blushed. For once, I know it's real. Thank you, Michael."

She said my name. For the first time tonight, she said my name. I turn back to her. "You're welcome. Now let's get out of here."

Turning around on 14th Street and still searching for the small strip of land known as Adams Morgan, home to Washington's most overrated bars and best ethnic restaurants, we find ourselves weaving our way back from the direction we came. Surrounded by nothing but deserted buildings and dark streets, I start worrying. No matter how tough she is, the First Daughter of the United States shouldn't be in a neighborhood like this.

When we reach the end of the block, though, we see our first indication of civilized life: Around the corner is a small crowd of people coming out of the only storefront in sight. It's a large brick building that looks like it's been converted into a two-story bar. In thick black letters, the word "Pendulum" is painted on a filthy white sign. A hip, midnight blue light surrounds the edges of the sign. Not at all my kind of place.

Nora pulls into a nearby parking spot and turns off the ignition.

"Here?" I ask. "The place is a rathole."

"No, it's not. People are well dressed." She points to a man wearing camel-colored slacks and a tight black T-shirt. Before I can protest, she adds, "Let's go--for once, we're anonymous." She pulls a black baseball hat from the shoulder strap of her purse and lowers the brim over her eyes. It's a terrible disguise, but she says it works. Never been stopped yet.

We pay ten bucks at the door, step inside, and take a quick look around. The place is packed with the typical D.C. Thursday night crowd--most still in their suits, ties undone; some already in their Calvin Klein V-necks. In the corner, two men are playing pool. By the bar, two men are ordering drinks. Next to them, two men are holding hands. That's when I realize where we are: Besides Nora, there's not a woman in this place. We're standing in the middle of a gay bar.

Behind me, I feel someone grab my ass. I don't even bother to turn around. "Oh, Nora, how I wish you were a man."

"I'm impressed," she says, stepping forward. "You don't even look uncomfortable."

"Why should I be uncomfortable?"

From the gleam in her eye, I can tell she's setting up another test. She needs to know if I can hang with the cool kids. "So it's okay if we stay?"

"Absolutely," I say with a grin. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

She stares me down with that sexy look. For the moment, I pass.

We squeeze up to the bar and order drinks. I get a beer; she gets a Jack and Ginger. Following her lead, we head to the far end of the L-shaped bar, where it runs perpendicular to the wall. In a move that's been honed by years of being hounded and gawked at, Nora motions me into the last seat and puts her back to the crowd. For her, it's pure instinct. With her baseball cap covering her hair, there isn't a chance she's going to be recognized. The way she's set us up, the only one who can even see her is me. She takes one last overview of the room, then, satisfied, goes for her drink. "So have you always hugged your serious side?"

"What do you mean? I'm not--"

"Don't apologize for it," she interrupts. "It's who you are. I just want to know where it comes from. Family issues? Bitter divorce? Dad abandoned you and your m--?"

"Nobody did anything," I say. "What you see is me." By the tone of my answer, she thinks it's an issue. She's right. And it's not something she's getting on a first date. Searching for a smooth segue, I try to steer us back to safer subjects. "So tell me what you thought of Princeton. Enjoyable or Muffyville snob factory?"

"I didn't know you wanted to do an interview."

"Don't give me that. College tells you a lot about a person."

"College tells you jack squat--it's a rationalized decision based on nothing more than a vacuous campus visit and a prefigured range of SAT scores. Besides, you're almost thirty," she says with a lick-it-up grin, "that's ancient history for you. What've you done in between?"

"After law school? A quick clerkship, then off to a local law firm. To be honest, though, it was just a way to fill time between campaigns. Barth in the Senate, a few local council guys--then three months as the Hartson Campaign's Get-Out-the-Vote Chairman, Great State of Michigan." She doesn't respond and I get the sense she's judging me. Quickly, I add, "You know what a zoo it is to do it nationally--if I wanted any real responsibility, it was better for me to stay in-state."

"Better for you or better for your ego?"

"All of us. The headquarters was only twenty minutes from my house."

She sees something in my answer. "So you wanted to be in Michigan?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I don't know . . . smart guy like you . . . working in the Counsel's Office. Usually you guys run away from the hometowns."

"As a volunteer, it was a financial decision. Nothing more."

"And what about college and law school? Michigan for both, right?"

It's really incredible--when it comes to weaknesses, she knows exactly where to look. "School was a different story."

"Something with your parents?"

Once again, we've reached my limit. "Something personal. But it wasn't their fault."

"You always so forgiving?"

"You always so pushy?"

She rests an elbow on the bar, leans in close, and forces me back against the wall. "What you see is me," she says with a dark smile.

"Exactly," I tease back. "That's exactly my point." I hop off my stool and head toward her. In the Counsel's Office, it's the first rule they teach you: Never let them pin you down.

"Where you going?" she asks, blocking my way.

"Just to the restroom." I squeeze past her and everything between my chest and my thighs brushes against her. She grins. And doesn't give up an inch.

"Don't be too long," she purrs.

"Do I look that stupid?"

I return from the restroom just in time to see Nora taking a sip of my beer. I put a hand on the back of her shoulder. "You can order your own--they have plenty for everyone."

"I just needed it to take some aspirin," she explains, placing a small brown prescription vial back into her purse.

"Everything okay?"

"Just a headache." Pointing to the vial, she adds, "Want some?"

I shake my head.

"Suit yourself," she says with a grin. "But when you see this one, I think you're going to need it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

As I take my seat against the wall, Nora leans in close. "When you were on your way to the restroom, did you happen to see any familiar faces walk in?"

I look over her shoulder and scan the bar. "I don't think so. Why?"

Her grin goes wide. Whatever's going on, she's enjoying herself. "Far left corner of the room. By the video screen. White button-down. Saggy khakis."

My eyes follow her instructions. There's the video screen. There's the . . . I don't believe it. Across the room, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, is Edgar Simon. White House Counsel. Lawyer to the President himself. My boss.

"Guess who just got the best office gossip?" Nora sings.

"This isn't funny."

"What's the big deal? So he's gay."

"That's not the point, Nora. He's married. To a woman. At his level, if this gets out, the press'll . . ."

Nora's smile falls away. "He's married? Are you sure?"

"For something like thirty years," I say nervously. "He's getting ready to send his first kid off to college." I lower my head to make sure he doesn't see me. "I just met his wife at that reception for AmeriCorps. Her name's Ellen. Or Elena. Something with an E."

"Dumb-ass, that's where you met me."

"Before you got there. Right when it started. Simon introduced me to her. They seemed really happy."

"And now he's here hoping for some extra tricks on the side. Man, when it comes to adulterers, my dad can pick 'em."

In the two weeks since we met, it's the fourth time Nora's made a reference to her father. And not just her father. The father. The father of the American people. The President of the United States. I have to admit, no matter how many times she says it, I don't think I'll ever get used to it.

Bent forward, with a sweaty hand grasping the edge of the bar, I'm frozen in position. Facing me, Nora has her back to Simon. "What's he doing now?" she asks.

Using her head to run interference, I refuse to look. If I can't see Simon, he can't see me.

"Tell me what he's doing," she insists.

"No way. He sees me, I'm meat. I won't get another assignment until I'm ninety."

"The way you're acting, that's not too far off." Before I can react, Nora grabs me by the collar and ducks her head down. As she holds me up, I get a good look at Simon.

"He's talking to someone," I blurt.

"Anyone we know?"

The stranger has curly black hair and is wearing a denim shirt. I shake my head. Never seen him before.

Nora can't help herself. She takes a quick peek and turns back around, just as the stranger hands Simon a small sheet of paper. "What was that?" Nora asks. "Are they exchanging numbers?"

"I can't tell. They're--" Just then, Simon looks my way. Right at me. Oh, shit. I drop my head before we make eye contact. Was I fast enough? With our foreheads touching, Nora and I look like we're searching for lost change under the bar.

Suddenly, a male voice says, "Can I help you?"

My heart sinks. I look up. It's just the bartender. "No, no," I stutter. "She just lost an earring."

When the bartender leaves, I turn back to Nora. She has an almost giddy look on her face. "Quick on your feet, macho man."

"What're you--"

Before I can finish, she says, "Where's he now?"

I raise my head and glance in his direction. The problem is, there's no one there. "I think he's gone."

"Gone?" Nora picks her head up. We're both scanning the bar. "There," she says. "By the door."

I turn to the door just in time to see Simon leave. I take another look around the bar. Pool table. Video screen. Along the wall by the restrooms. The guy in the denim shirt is gone too.

Nora responds like a lightning bolt. She grabs my hand and starts pulling. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"We should follow him."

"What? Are you nuts?"

She's still pulling. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"Fun? Stalking your boss is fun? Getting caught is fun? Getting fired's f--"

"It'll be fun and you know it. Aren't you dying to know where he's going? And what was on the paper?"

"My guess is he got the address for a nearby motel, where Simon and his denim-man can play Buy Me a Blowjob to their heart's content."

Nora laughs. "Buy Me a Blowjob?"

"I'm making a few assumptions--you know what I mean."

"Of course I know what you mean."

"Good. Then you also know there's nothing gained from a little gossip."

"Is that what you think? That I'm in it for the gossip? Michael, think about it for a second. Edgar Simon is the White House Counsel. Lawyer to my father. Now if he gets caught with his lasso out, who do you think's going to be publicly embarrassed? Besides Simon, who else do you think is going to take the black eye?"

Reference number five hits me where it hurts. Reelection's only two months away and Hartson's having a hard enough time as it is. Another black eye'll start the jockeying.

"What if Simon's not in it for the sex?" I ask. "What if he was meeting here for something else?"

Nora stares me down. Her let-me-drive eyes are working overtime. "That's the best reason of all to go."

I shake my head. She's not talking me into this.

"C'mon, Michael, what're you gonna do--sit around here and spend the rest of your life playing what-if?"

"Y'know what--after everything else that happened tonight, sitting here is more than enough."

"And that's all you want? That's your big goal in life? To have enough?"

She lets the logic sink in before she goes for the kill. "If you don't want to follow, I understand. But I have to go. So give me your keys and I'll be out of your way."

No question about it. She'll be gone. And I'll be here.

I pull the keys from my pocket. She opens her hand.

I once again shake my head and tell myself I won't regret it. "You really think I'm going to let you go alone?"

She shoots me a smile and darts for the door. Without pause, I follow. The moment we get outside, I see Simon's black Volvo pull out from a spot up the street. "There he goes," I say.

We run down the block in a mad dash for my Jeep. "Throw me the keys," she says.

"Not a chance," I reply. "This time, I drive."

Chapter 2

It takes a couple of blocks of speeding to regain sight of Simon's car and his "Friend of the Chesapeake" Virginia license plate. "Are you sure that's him?" Nora asks.

"It's definitely him." I drop back and put about a block between us. "I recognize the plates from West Exec."

Within a few minutes, Simon's woven his way through Adams Morgan and is heading up 16th Street. Still a block behind him, we hit Religion Row and pass the dozens of temples, mosques, and churches that dot the landscape.

"Should we get closer?" Nora asks.

"Not if we want to be inconspicuous."

She seems amused by my answer. "Now I know how Harry and Darren feel," she says, referring to her Secret Service agents.

"Speaking of which, do you think they put out an APB on you? I mean, don't they call this stuff in?"

"They'll call the night supervisor and the agent in charge of the House detail, but I figure we've got about two hours before they make it public."

"That long?" I ask, looking at my watch.

"Depends on the incident. If you were driving when we took off, they'd probably treat it as a kidnapping, which is the primary threat for a First Family member. Beyond that, though, it also depends on the person. Chelsea Clinton got a half hour at the most. Patti Davis got days. I get about two hours. Then they go nuts."

I don't like the sound of that. "What do you mean, nuts? Is that when they send out the black helicopters to hunt us down?"

"There're already trying to hunt us down. In two hours, they'll put us on the police scanners. If that happens, we make the morning news. And every gossip columnist in the country will want to know your intentions."

"No--no way." Since we met, my encounters with Nora have been limited to a reception, a bill-signing ceremony, and the Deputy Counsel's birthday party--all of them White House staff events. At the first, we were introduced; at the second, we spoke; at the third, she asked me out. I think there're only ten people on this planet who would've refused the offer. I'm not one of them. But that doesn't mean I'm ready for the magnifying glass. As I've seen so many times before, the moment you hit that glare of publicity is the exact same moment they burn your ass.

I look back at my watch. It's almost a quarter to twelve. "So that means you have an hour and a half until you become the pumpkin."

"Actually, you're the one who becomes the pumpkin."

She's right about that one. They'll eat me alive.

"Still worried about your job?" she asks.

"No," I say, my eyes locked on Simon's car. "Just my boss."

Simon puts on his blinker, makes a left-hand turn, and weaves his way onto Rock Creek Parkway, whose wooded embankments and tree-shaded trails have favorite-path status among D.C. joggers and bike riders. At rush hour, Rock Creek Parkway is swarming with commuters racing back to the suburbs. Right now, it's dead-empty--which means Simon can spot us easily.

"Shut off the lights," Nora says. I take her suggestion and lean forward, straining to see the now barely visible road. Right away, the darkness leaves an eerie pit in my stomach.

"I say we just forget it and--"

"Are you really that much of a coward?" Nora asks.

"This has nothing to do with cowardice. It just doesn't make any sense to play private eye."

"Michael, I told you before, this isn't a game to me--we're not playing anything."

"Sure we are. We're--"

"Stop the car!" she shouts. Up ahead, I see Simon's brake lights go on. "Stop the car! He's slowing down!"

Sure enough, Simon pulls off the right-hand side of the road and comes to a complete stop. We're about a hundred feet behind him, but the curve of the road keeps us out of his line of vision. If he looks in his rearview mirror, he'll see nothing but empty parkway.

"Shut the car off! If he hears us . . ." I turn off the ignition and am surprised by the utter silence. It's one of those moments that sound like you're underwater. Staring at Simon's car, we float there helplessly, waiting for something to happen. A car blows by in the opposite direction and snaps us back to the shore.

"Maybe he has a flat tire or--"

"Shhhhh!"

We both squint to see what's going on. He's not too far from a nearby lamppost, but it still takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to the dark.

"Was there anyone in the car with him?" I ask.

"He looked alone to me, but if the guy was lying across the seat . . ."

Nora's hypothesis is interrupted when Simon opens his door. Without even thinking about it, I hold my breath. Again, we're underwater. My eyes are locked on the little white light that I can see through the back window of his car. In silhouette, he fidgets with something in the passenger seat. Then he gets out of the car.

When you stand face-to-face with Edgar Simon, you can't miss how big he is. Not in height, but in presence. Like many White House higher-ups, his voice is charged with the confidence of success, but unlike his peers, who're always raging over the latest crisis, Simon exudes a calmness honed by years of advising a President. That unshakable composure runs from his ironing-board shoulders, to his always-strong handshake, to the perfect part in his perfectly shaded salt-and-pepper hair. A hundred feet in front of us, though, all of that is lost in silhouette.

Standing next to his car, he's holding a thin package that looks like a manila envelope. He looks down at it, then slams the door shut. When the door closes, the loss of the light makes it even harder to see. Simon turns toward the wooded area on the side of the road, steps over the metal guardrail, and heads up the embankment.

"A bathroom stop?" I ask.

"With a package in his hand? You think he's bringing reading material?"

I don't answer.

Nora's starting to get fidgety. She unhooks her seatbelt. "Maybe we should we go out and check on--"

I grab her by the arm. "I say we stay here."

She's ready to fight, but before she can, I see a shadow move out from the embankment. A figure steps back over the guardrail and into the light.

"Guess who's back?" I ask.

Nora immediately turns. "He doesn't have the envelope!" she blurts.

"Lower your voi--" I fall silent when Simon looks our way. Nora and I are frozen. It's a short glance and he quickly turns back to his car.

"Did he see us?" Nora whispers. There's a nervousness in her voice that turns my stomach.

"If he did, he didn't react," I whisper back.

Simon opens the door and gets back in his car. Thirty seconds later, he pumps the gas and peels out, leaving a cloud of dust somersaulting our way. He doesn't put his lights on until he's halfway up the road.

"Should we follow him?" I ask.

"I say we stay with the envelope."

"What do you think he has in there? Documents? Pictures?"

"Cash?"

"You think he's a spy?" I ask skeptically.

"I have no idea. Maybe he's leaking to the press."

"Actually, that wouldn't be so bad. For all we know, this is his drop-off."

"It's definitely a drop-off," Nora says. She checks over her shoulder to make sure we're alone. "What I want to know is what they're picking up." Before I can stop her, she's out the door.

I reach to grab her, but it's too late. She's gone--running up the road, headed for the embankment. "Nora, get back here!" She doesn't even pretend to care.

I start the car and pull up alongside her. Her pace is brisk. Determined.

She's going to hate me for this, but I don't have a choice. "Let's go, Nora. We're leaving."

"So leave."

I clench my teeth and realize the most obvious thing of all: She doesn't need me. Still, I give it another go. "For your own sake, get in the car." No response. "Please, Nora, it's not funny--whoever he dropped it for is probably watching us right now." Nothing. "C'mon, there's no reason to--"

She stops in her tracks and I slam on the brakes. Turning my way, she puts her hands on her hips. "If you want to leave, then leave. I need to know what's in the envelope." With that, she climbs over the guardrail and heads up the embankment.

Alone in the car, I watch her disappear. "See you later," I call out.

She doesn't answer.

I give her a few seconds to change her mind. She doesn't. Good, I finally say to myself. This'll be her lesson. Just because she's the First Daughter, she thinks she can--There it is again. That pain-in-the-ass title. That's who she is. No, I decide. Screw that. Forget the title and focus on the person. The problem, however, is it's impossible to separate the two. For better or worse, Nora Hartson is the President's daughter. She's also one of the most intriguing people I've met in a long time. And much as I hate to admit it, I actually like her.

"Dammit!" I shout, pounding the steering wheel. Where the hell is my spine?

I rip open the glove compartment, pull out a flashlight, and storm out of the car. Scrambling up the embankment, I find Nora wandering around in the dark. I shine the light in her face and the first thing I see is that grin. "You were worried about me, weren't you?"

"If I abandoned you, your monkeys would kill me."

She approaches me and pulls the flashlight from my hands. "The night's young, baby."

I glance down at my watch. "That's what I'm worried about."

Up the hill, I hear something move through the brush and quickly realize that Simon could've been meeting someone up there. Someone who's still here. Watching us. "Do you think . . ."

"Let's just find the envelope," Nora says, agreement in her voice.

Cautiously walking together, we zigzag up the embankment, which is overflowing with trees. I look up and see nothing but jagged darkness--the treetops hide everything from the sky to the parkway's lamps. All I can do is tell myself that we're alone. But I don't believe it.

"Shine it over here," I tell Nora, who's waving it in every direction. As the flashlight rips through the night, I realize we're going to have to be more systematic about this. "Start with the base of each tree, then work your way upward," I suggest.

"What if he stuffed it high in a tree?"

"You think Simon's the tree-climbing type?" She has to agree with that one. "And let's try to do this fast," I add. "Whoever he left it for--even if they're not here now, they're going to be here any minute." Nora turns the flashlight toward the base of the nearest tree and we're once again encased in underwater silence. As we move up the hill, my breathing gets heavier. I'm trying to look out for the envelope, but I can't stop checking over my shoulder. And while I don't believe in mental telepathy or other paranormal phenomena, I do believe in the human animal's uncanny and unexplainable ability to know when it's being watched. Racing to the top of the embankment, it's a feeling I can't shake. We're not alone.

"What's wrong with you?" Nora asks.

"I just want to get out of here. We can come back tomorrow with the proper--" Suddenly, I see it. There it is. My eyes go wide and Nora follows my gaze. Ten feet in front of us, at the base of a tree with a Z carved into it, is a single manila envelope.

"Son of a bitch," she says, rushing forward. Her reaction is instantaneous. Pick it up and rip it open.

"No!" I shout. "Don't touch . . ." I'm too late. She's got it open.

Nora shines the flashlight down into the envelope. "I don't believe it," she says.

"What? What's in there?"

She turns it upside down and the contents fall to the ground. One. Two. Three. Four stacks of cash. Hundred dollar bills.

"Money?"

"Lots of it."

I pick up a stack, remove the First of America billfold, and start counting. So does Nora. "How much?" I ask when she's done.

"Ten thousand."

"Me too," I say. "Times two more stacks is forty thousand." Noticing the crispness of the bills, I again flip through the stack. "All consecutively numbered."

We nervously look at each other. We're sharing the same thought.

"What should we do?" she finally asks. "Should we take it?"

I'm about to answer when I see something move in the large bush on my right. Nora shines the flashlight. No one's there. Yet I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched.

I pull the envelope from Nora's hands and stuff the four stacks of bills back inside.

"What're you doing?" she asks.

"Throw me the flashlight."

"Tell me why--"

"Now!" I shout. She gives in, tossing it to me. I shine the light on the envelope, looking to see if there's any writing on it. It's blank. There's a throbbing pain kicking at the back of my neck. My forehead's soaked. Feeling like I'm about to pass out, I quickly return the envelope to the base of the tree. The late summer heat isn't the only thing that's got me sweating.

"You okay?" Nora asks, reading my expression.

I don't answer. Instead, I reach up and pull some leaves from the tree. Putting the flashlight aside, I fold the leaves and scrub them against the edges of the envelope.

"Michael, you can't wipe off fingerprints. It doesn't work like that."

Ignoring her, I keep scrubbing.

She kneels next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Her touch is strong, and even in the midst of it all, I have to admit it feels good. "You're wasting your time," she adds.

Naturally, she's right. I toss the envelope back toward the tree. Behind us, a twig snaps and we both turn around. I don't see anyone, but I can feel a stranger's eyes on me.

"Let's get out of here," I say.

"But the people who're going to pick up the package . . ." I take another glance around the darkness. "To be honest, Nora, I think they're already here."

Looking around, Nora knows something's wrong. It's too quiet. The hairs on my arm stand on edge. They could be hiding behind any tree. On our left, another twig snaps. I grab Nora by the hand and we start walking down the embankment. It doesn't take ten steps for our walk to turn into a jog. Then a run. When I almost trip on a wayward rock, I ask Nora to turn on the flashlight.

"I thought you had it," she says.

Simultaneously, we look over our shoulders. Behind us, at the top of the embankment, is the faint glow of the flashlight. Exactly where I left it.

"You start the car; I'll get the light," Nora says.

"No, I'll get the--"

Once again, though, she's too fast. Before I can stop her, she's headed back up the embankment. I'm about to yell something, but I'm worried we're not alone. Watching her run up the hill, I keep my eyes on her long, lithe arms. Within seconds, though, she fades into the darkness. She said I should get the car, but there's no way I'm leaving her. Slowly, I start heading up the embankment, walking just fast enough to make sure she's in sight. As she gets farther away, I pick up speed. My jog again quickly turns into a run. As long as I can see her, she'll be okay.

Next thing I know, I feel a sharp blow against my forehead. I fall backwards and hit the ground with an uneven thud. Feeling the dampness of the grass seep into the seat of my pants, I look for my attacker. As I prop myself up on an elbow, I feel a slick wetness on my forehead. I'm bleeding. Then I look up and see what put me down: a thick branch from a nearby oak tree. I'm tempted to laugh at my slapstick injury, but I quickly remember why I wasn't looking where I was going. Squinting toward the top of the embankment, I climb to my feet and search for Nora.

I don't see anything. The faint glow of the flashlight is in the same spot, but there's no one moving toward it. I look for shadows, search for silhouettes, and listen for the quiet crunching of broken sticks and long-dead leaves. No one's there. She's gone. I've lost the President's daughter.

My legs go weak as I try to fathom the consequences. Then, without warning, the light moves. Someone's up there. And like a knight with a luminescent lance, the person turns around and barrels straight at me. As the figure approaches, I feel the piercing glow of the light blinding me. I turn away and stumble through the black woods, hands out in front, feeling for trees. I can hear him hopping through bushes, gaining on me. If I drop to the ground, maybe I can trip him up. Suddenly, I slam into a thicket as strong as a wall. I turn toward my enemy as the glaring light hits me in the eyes.

"What the hell happened to your forehead?" Nora asks.

All I can muster is a nervous laugh. The trees still surround us. "I'm fine," I insist. I give her a reassuring nod and we head for my car.

"Maybe we should stay here and wait to see who picks it up."

"No," I say, holding her tightly by the hand. "We're leaving."

At full speed, we race out of the wooded area. When we emerge, I hurdle the guardrail and make a mad dash for my Jeep, which is up the road. If I were alone, I'd probably be there by now, but I refuse to let go of Nora. Slowing myself down, I swing her in front of me, just to make sure she's safe.

The first one to reach the car, she jumps in and slams the door shut. A few seconds later, I join her. Simultaneously, we punch the switches to lock the doors. When I hear that click of solitude, I take an overdue deep breath.

"Let's go, let's go!" she says as I start the car. She sounds scared, but from the gleam in her eyes, you'd think it was a thrill ride.

I hit the gas, turn the wheel, and tear out of there. A sharp U-turn causes the wheels to scream and sends us back toward the Carter Barron/16th Street exit. As I fly forward, my eyes are glued to the rearview mirror. Nora's staring at her sideview.

"No one's there," she says, sounding more wishful than confident. "We're okay."

I stare at the mirror, praying she's right. Hoping to tip the odds in our favor, I give the gas another push. As we turn back onto 16th Street, we're flying. Once again, D.C.'s rugged roads are tossing us around. This time, though, it doesn't matter. We're finally safe.

"How'd I do?" I ask Nora, who's turned around in her seat and staring out the back window.

"Not bad," she admits. "Harry and Darren would be proud."

I laugh to myself just as I hear the screech of tires behind us. I turn to Nora, who's still looking out the back window. Her face is awash in the headlights of the car that's now gaining on us. "Get us out of here," she shouts.

I take a quick survey of the area. We're in the run-down section of 16th Street, not far from Religion Row. There're plenty of streets to turn on, but I don't like the looks of the neighborhood. Too many dark corners and burned-out streetlights. The side streets are filthy. And worst of all, desolate.

I gun the engine and swerve into the left lane just to see if the car follows. When it does, my heart drops. They're a half a block behind and closing fast. "Is it possible they're Secret Service?"

"Not with those headlights. All my guys drive Suburbans."

I check their lights in the rearview mirror. They've got their brights on, so it's hard to see, but the shape and the height tell me it's definitely not a Suburban. "Get down," I say to Nora. Whoever they are, I'm not taking any chances.

"That's not Simon's car, is it?" she asks.

We get our answer in the form of red and blue swirling lights that engulf our back window. "Pull over," a deep voice blares from a bullhorn mounted to the roof.

I don't believe it. Cops. Smiling, I slap Nora's shoulder. "It's okay. They're cops."

As I pull over, I notice Nora isn't nearly as relieved. Unable to sit still and in full frenzy, she checks the sideview mirror, then looks over her shoulder, then back to the mirror. Her eyes are dancing in every direction as she anxiously claws her way out of her seatbelt.

"What's wrong?" I ask as we come to a stop.

She doesn't respond. Instead, she reaches down for her clunky black purse, which is on the floor in front of her. When she starts rummaging through it, a cold chill runs down my back. This isn't the time to hold back. "Do you have drugs?" I ask.

"No!" she insists. In my rearview mirror, I see a uniformed D.C. police officer approaching my side of the Jeep.

"Nora, don't lie to me. This is--" The police officer taps on my window. Just as I turn around, I hear my glove compartment slam shut.

I lower my window with a forced smile on my face. "Good evening, Officer. Did I do something wrong?" He holds a flashlight above his shoulder and shines it right at Nora. She's still wearing her baseball cap and doing her best to remain unrecognizable. She won't look the cop in the face.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, hoping to divert his attention.

The officer is a thick black man with a crooked nose that gives him the look of a former middleweight boxer. When he leans into the window, all I see are his huge hairless forearms. He uses his chin to motion toward the glove compartment. "What're you hiding there?" he asks Nora.

Damn. He saw her.

"Nothing," Nora whispers.

The cop studies her answer. "Please step out of the car," he says.

I jump in. "Can you tell me wh--"

"Step out of the car. Both of you."

I look at Nora and know we're in trouble. When we were in the woods, she was nervous. But now . . . now Nora has a look I've never seen before. Her eyes are wide and her lips are slightly open. She tries to tuck a stray piece of hair between her ear and the edge of the baseball cap, but her hands are shaking. My world comes to an instant halt.

"Let's go!" the officer barks. "Out of the car."

Nora slowly follows his instructions. As she walks around to the driver's side, the officer's partner approaches the three of us. He's a short black man with an arrogant cop stride. "Everything okay?" he asks.

"Not sure yet." The first cop turns back to me. "Let's see 'em spread."

"Spread? What'd I do?"

He grabs me by the back of the neck and whips me against the side of the Jeep. "Open up!"

I do as he says, but not without protest. "You've got no probable cause to--"

"You a lawyer?" he asks.

I shouldn't have picked this fight. "Yeah," I say hesitantly.

"Then sue me." As he pats me down, he jabs a sharp thumb into my ribs. "Should've told her to calm down," he says. "Now she's going to have to miss work tomorrow."

I don't believe it. He doesn't recognize her. Keeping her head as low as possible, Nora stands next to me and spreads her arms across the side of the Jeep. The second officer pats Nora down, but she's not paying much attention. Like me, she's too busy watching the first officer head for the glove compartment.

From where I'm standing, I see him open the passenger door. As he climbs inside, there's a jingle of handcuffs and keys. Then a quiet click near the dashboard. My mouth goes dry and it's getting harder to breathe. I look over at Nora, but she's decided to look away. Her eyes are glued to the ground. It's not going to be much longer.

"Oh, baby," the officer announces. His voice is filled with shove-it-in-your-face glee. He slams the door shut and strides around to our side of the car. As he approaches, he's holding one hand behind his back.

"What is it?" the second officer asks.

"See for yourself."

I look up, expecting to see Nora's brown prescription vial. Maybe even a stash of cocaine. Instead, the cop is holding a single stack of hundred dollar bills.

Son of a bitch. She took the money.

"Now either of you want to tell me what you're doing driving around with this kinda cash?"

Neither of us says a word.

I look at Nora, and she's paste white. Gone is the cocky and wild vitality that led us through the stop signs, out of the bar, and up the embankment. In its place is that look she's had since we got pulled out of the car. Fear. It's all over her face and it's still making her hands shake. She simply can't be caught with this money. Even if it's not against the law to have it, even if they can't arrest her, this isn't something that's going to be easy to explain. In this neighborhood. With this amount of cash. The drug stories alone will shred what's left of her reputation. Rolling Stone will be the least of her problems.

She turns to me and once again opens her soft side. Her usually tough eyes are welled up with tears. She's begging for help. And like it or not, I'm the only one who can save her. With a few simple words, I can spare her all that pain and embarrassment. Then she and the President . . . I catch myself. No. No, it's not about that. It's like I said before. It's not for her father. Or her title. It's for her. Nora. Nora needs me.

"I asked you a question," the officer says as he waves the pile of cash. "Whose is this?"

I take one last look at Nora. That's all I need. Shoving confidence back into my voice, I turn to the officer and say two words: "It's mine."

Chapter 3

Like a judge with a gavel, the officer slowly taps the wad of money in his right hand against the open palm of his left. "Where'd you get it?" he asks, annoyed.

"Excuse me?" I reply. Time to stall.

"Don't yank my chain, boy. Where's someone like you get ten grand in cash?"

"Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?"

He kicks the rusty bumper on the back of my Jeep. "No offense, but you're not exactly traveling in style."

I shake my head. "You don't know anything about me."

He smirks at my response and knows he's hit a sore spot. "You can't hide who you are--it's written all over your face. And your forehead."

Self-consciously, I touch the cut on my head. The blood's starting to dry. I'm tempted to fight back, but instead let it pass. "Why don't you give me my speeding ticket and I'll be out of your way."

"Listen, Smallville, I don't need to hear your attitude."

"And I don't need to hear your insults. So unless you have some reasonable suspicion of a crime taking place, you have no right to harass me."

"You have no idea what you're--"

"Actually, I have a really good idea. Far more than you're giving me credit for. And since there's no law against carrying money, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me my stuff and write up my ticket. Otherwise, you're risking a harassment suit and a letter to your sergeant that'll be a bitch to explain when you're up for promotion."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nora smile. The cop just stands there. The way he scratches his cheek, I can tell he's plenty pissed off. "Vate, do me a favor?" he eventually says to his partner. "They're doing a drug sweep on 14th and M. See if they've broadcasted any lookouts yet. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"It's not like that," I tell him.

He looks at me skeptically. "Let me tell you something, Smallville--pretty-boy, clean-cut white boys like you only come to this neighborhood for two reasons: drugs and whores. Now let's see that license and registration." I hand them over and he turns back to his partner. "Any word yet, Vate?"

"Nothing."

The cop walks away from me and heads back to his car. Five minutes go by and I climb into the driver's seat of my Jeep. Nora's next to me, but she's brutally quiet. She looks my way and offers a faint smile. I try to smile back, but she turns away. I could kill her for taking that cash. Why the hell would she be so stupid? I mean, what would she even use it for? My mind jumps back to her so-called aspirin, but I'm not ready to believe the worst. Not yet.

Staring vacantly out the window, she's resting her chin in the palm of her hand. The way her shoulders sag, I realize the eyes of the world are always on her. It never lets up. Eventually, the cop returns with a pink slip that's marked "Confirmation of Receipt."

"Where's my money?" I ask.

"As long as it's clean, you'll get every cent of it back." Reading my confused expression, he adds, "If our boys on the street are unavailable to make an ID, we can legally hold your cash as the likely proceeds of a criminal act." He's not smiling, but I can tell he's loving every minute of this. "Now does that check out with you, Mr. Attorney-at-Large, or do you want to speak to my sergeant yourself?"

I shake my head, calculating the consequences in my head. "When do I get it back?"

"Give us a call next week." He knows we're not selling drugs; he's just doing this to bust my chops. Leaning in toward the window, he adds, "And just so we're clear . . ." He motions to Nora, who's still sitting next to me. "I'm not blind, boy. I just don't need the headache that comes along with this."

Unnerved by the confidence in his voice, I shrink down in my seat. He knew who she was all along.

"And one last thing . . ." He reaches in the window and slaps a piece of paper against my chest. "Here's your speeding ticket."