The First Counsel

* * *

"Pay attention," Nora says, "because this's the best part." She heads up a steep carpeted ramp and leads us toward the room directly above the Yellow Oval. "Voila," she says with a bow. "The Solarium."

Resembling a small greenhouse on top of the mansion, the Solarium's outside walls are made entirely of green-tinted glass. Inside, wicker furniture and a glass-top card table give it the feel of a Palm Beach den. On the left is a kitchenette, on the right, an overstuffed white sofa and large-screen TV. Scattered around the room are dozens of family photos.

On my far right is a short bookcase filled with what looks like homemade arts-and-crafts projects. There's a purple and blue birdhouse that looks like it was made by a seventh-grader--on the side of it are the initials "N.H." in peeling orange paint. There's also a papier-mache duck or swan--it's too warped to tell which--a ceramic ashtray or cupholder, and a flat piece of brown-painted wood with fifty or so protruding nails that're set up to spell the initials "N.H." To make sure the letters stand out, all the nailheads are painted yellow. On the bottom of the shelf, I even spot a few trophies--one for soccer, one for field hockey. In all, you can trace the quality of the projects from first grade all the way up to about seventh or eighth. After that, there's nothing new.

Nora Hartson was twelve years old when her father first announced he was running for Governor. Sixth grade. If I had to date it, I'd say that's the same year she made the swan-duck. After that, I'd bet the birdhouse came next. And that's where her childhood ends.

"C'mon, you're missing the good stuff," she says, motioning for me to join her by the enormous window.

Crossing the room, I notice the VCR on top of the TV. "Can I ask you a question?" I begin as I move next to her.

"If it's about the history of the house, I don't really know my--"

"What's your favorite movie?" I blurt.

"Huh?"

"Your favorite movie--simple question."

Without pause, she says, "Annie Hall."

"Really?"

She lets out the sweetest of smiles. "No," she laughs. After today, it's not as easy to lie.

"So what is it?"

She stares out the window as if it's a big deal. "Moonstruck," she finally offers.

"The old Cher film?" I ask, confused. "Isn't that a love story?"

Shaking her head, she shoots me a look. "What you don't know about women . . . is a lot."

"But I--"

"Just enjoy the view," she says, pointing me back toward the window. When I oblige, she adds, "So whattya think?"

"Sure beats the Truman Balcony," I say, pressing my forehead against the glass. From here, I have a full view of the South Lawn and the Washington Monument.

"Wait until you see it face-to-face." She opens a door in the right corner and steps outside.

The balcony up here is a small one, and although it curves like a giant letter C around the length of the Solarium, there's just a white concrete guardrail to protect you. By the time I get outside, Nora's leaning over the edge. "Time for some fun--let loose and fly!" With her stomach pressed against the railing, she extends her arms and leans forward until her legs are lifted in the air.

"Nora . . . !" I shout, grabbing her by the ankles.

Lowering herself back to earth, she grins. "You're afraid of heights?"

Before I can say another word, she takes off, darting farther around the long, curved balcony. I try to grab her, but she slips through my hands, turns the corner, and disappears. Trying to catch up and trying even harder not to look over the edge, I dash along the far end of the balcony. But as I make my way around the corner, Nora's nowhere in sight. Undeterred, I plow forward, assuming she slipped through another door and went back into the Solarium. There's only one problem. On this side of the balcony, no other door exists. Reaching the corner, I hit a dead end. Nora's gone.

"Nora?" I call out. There aren't many places to hide. From where I'm standing, the balcony runs flush against the mansion.

I press my hands against the wall, using my nails to search for cracks. Maybe there's another secret door. Within thirty seconds, it's obvious there's nothing there. Nervously, I glance toward the edge. She wouldn't dare . . . Rushing forward, I lock my hands tight around the railing. "Nora?" I call out as my eyes scan the ground. "Where are--"

"Shhhhhhh--lower your voice."

Spinning around, I follow the sound.

"A little higher, Sherlock."

I look up and finally find her. Sitting on the roof of the mansion, she's dangling her feet over the edge. She's low enough that I can touch her swinging legs, but everything else is out of reach.

"How'd you get up there?"

"Does that mean you want to join me?"

"Just tell me how you got there."

She points with her foot. "See where the railing runs into the wall? Stand on that and boost yourself up."

I take a quick look at the concrete railing, then look up at Nora. "Are you out of your mind? That's lunacy."

"To some it's lunacy. To others it's fun."

"C'mon down here--I promise, it'll be more fun."

"No, no, no," she says, wagging a finger. "You want it, you got to come get it."

I take another look at the railing. It's not even that high--it's just my fear I can't conquer.

"You're inches away from climbing the mountain," Nora sings. "Think of the rewards."

That's it. Fear conquered. Straddling the concrete railing, I hold on to the wall for balance. Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down, I tell myself. Slowly, cautiously, I attempt to climb to my feet. First one knee, then the other. As dizziness sets in, my cheek's pressed against the wall and my fingers scurry up the marble like startled spiders. What a stupid way to die.

"Just stand up--you're almost there," Nora says.

Only a few more inches. Balancing on the railing and leaning into the wall, I let my hands scramble for the roof. Within seconds, I lock on to the marble molding and grab that sucker with everything in me. Then, anchored in place, I slowly stand up. Nora's no longer out of my reach. A hop and quick boost finish the job.

As I prop myself up on the ledge, I hear Nora's hushed clapping. Her feet are still dangling over the edge, and she's hiding behind a tall marble structure that looks like an exhaust duct.

"What're you--"

"Shhhhhh," she whispers, motioning across the roof. As she waves me next to her, I realize who she's trying to avoid. On the other side of the roof is a man wearing a dark baseball cap and dark blue fatigues. In the moonlight, I see the outline of the long-distance rifle that's hanging from his shoulder. A countersniper--the executive branch version of Rambo.

"Are you sure this is safe?"

"Don't worry," Nora says. "They're harmless."

"Harmless? That guy can kill me with a roll of Scotch tape and a highlighter. I mean, what if he thinks we're spies?"

"Then he'll stick us down and color us bright yellow."

"Nora . . ."

"Relax . . ." she moans, mimicking my whine. "He knows who we are. As soon as I got up here, he took off to the other corner. As long as we keep it quiet, they won't even report it."

Struggling to act relieved, I scooch next to her and lean against the marble air vent.

"Still worried?" she asks as her shoulder rubs against mine.

"No," I say, enjoying her touch. "But I'm warning you--if I get shot, you better avenge me."

"I think you should be okay. All the times I've been up here, no one's ever shot at me."

"Of course not--you're the crown jewel. I'm the one who's target practice."

"That's not true. They won't shoot at you without a good reason."

"And what kind of reason is that?"

"You know," she says, turning my way. "Assaulting the complex, threatening my parents, attacking one of the First Kids . . ."

"Wait, wait, wait--define attack."

"Oh, that's a hard one," she says as her hand flits across my chest. "I think it's one of those know-it-when-you-see-it things."

"Like pornography."

"Actually, that's not such a bad analogy," she tells me.

I reach over and put my hand on her hip. "Does this qualify?"

"As what? Pornography or an attack?"

I take an immensely long look into her eyes. "Either."

She seems to like that one.

"So does it qualify?" I repeat.

She doesn't glance down. "Hard to say."

I slide my hand a little higher, slowly making my way to her untucked shirt. As I sneak beneath it, my fingers dip inside the waistband of her jeans and brush against the edge of her underwear. Her skin is so tight it makes me miss college. As smoothly as possible, I make my way up her stomach.

"Not there," she says, grabbing my hand.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."

"No worries," she says as she offers me a smile. Pointing to her lips, she adds, "Just start a little higher."

I'm about to lean in when I see her pull something from her mouth.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Just getting rid of my gum." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a tiny sheet of paper. As she turns her back to me, she wraps her gum in it and throws in a new piece.

"Want to take out your retainer as well?" I mutter.

Facing me, Nora's sucking on her pointer finger. Pulling it from her mouth, she lets outs a sharp kissing sound. "Come again?"

I don't have a single response that'll do her justice. Instead, I just sit there for a second, enjoying.

For Nora, it's a second too long. In one quick movement, she rolls over, straddles my legs, and, with a slight tug, pulls me toward her and glides her tongue between my lips. Right there, it all comes rushing back. Over the past two weeks, I've had dreams about her smell. Its bittersweetness--almost narcotic. As soon as we kiss, she slides her gum into my mouth. My girlfriend in fifth grade used to do that. I go to chew it, but it feels like it's still wrapped in paper. Caught off guard, I pull away in mid-cough. It's too solid. Unable to pry the gum loose with my tongue, I shove two fingers to the back of my throat, but before I can pull it out, it's gone, accidentally swallowed.

"You okay?" she asks.

"I think so--it's just . . . I wasn't ready for it."

"Don't worry," she says with a sweet laugh. "I don't mind starting over." Once again, she leans forward and slips me her tongue. My fingers run through her hair; her kisses grow more forceful. Eventually, we find each other's flow. From there, it takes me a few minutes of kissing to nerve myself back into exploratory mode, but I eventually smooth my hands along the back of her shirt and feel around for her bra. She's not wearing one. Lost in her kiss, I feel time disappear. It could be fifteen minutes or fifty--but we're starting to burn.

Still on top of me, she pushes me back and slides her hands under my shirt. Unlike her, I don't fight it--I just lie back on my elbows and close my eyes. Her close-cropped nails bite their way up the sides of my chest and behind my shoulders. Where she straddles my legs, I feel her heat up against me. It's a slow rhythm at first, a nearly invisible grind. Slowly, she picks up the pace. In an instant, however, it's all torn away.

Feeling light-headed, I'm hit with a sudden onset of nausea. I try to stop myself from coughing and dry heaving, but the whole world is suddenly blinking on and off. As I look up, everything starts sliding to the right. Across the yellow sky, I see one plane become four. The Washington Monument becomes the neck of a swan. "What's happening?" I ask, though I hear no sound. It's all static.

Struggling to stay conscious, I stand up and stagger to the edge of the roof. It's not that high anymore. Just a small step down. I go to take it, but something pulls me back. Back against the chimney. It hurts, but it doesn't. Sinking down in my seat, I'm having a hard time keeping my head up. My neck keeps sagging, like it's stuffed with grape jelly. In the back of my throat, I still feel the tickle of the swallowed gum. How long ago was that? Twenty minutes? Thirty? The static's getting louder. Unable to hold my head up, I let it crash back against the chimney. I look over at Nora, but all she's doing is laughing. Her mouth's wide open and she's laughing. Laughing. A mouthful of teeth. And fangs.

"Son of a bitch," I mumble as the world goes black. She drugged me.

Chapter 19

Michael, are you okay?" Nora asks as I pry open my eyes. "Can you hear me?" When I don't answer, she repeats the original question. "You okay? You feeling okay?" Each time she says it, it sounds less like a question and more like an order.

Blinking my way back to consciousness, I'm trying to figure out how I got tucked into this bed. I pull the cold washcloth from my forehead and take a quick look around. The antique armoire and the built-in bookshelves tell me I'm not in a hospital. The Princeton diploma on the far wall tells me the rest. Nora's room.

"How're you doing?" she asks, her voice racing with concern.

"Shitty," I reply as I sit up in bed. "What the hell happened?" Before she can answer, a wave of vertigo sweeps up from the base of my skull. Reeling from the sudden onslaught, I close my eyes and grit my teeth. My vision goes gray, then comes back again.

"Michael, are you--"

"I'm fine," I insist as I feel it pass. Slowly, my fists tighten. "What the hell did you put in my mouth?"

"I'm so sorry . . ."

"Just tell me, Nora."

"I shouldn't have done that to you--"

"Stop fuckin' apologizing. I felt the paper in the gum!"

Surprised by the outburst, she slinks backwards, moving farther toward the foot of the bed. "I swear, it wasn't supposed to make you pass out," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant for that to happen."

"Just tell me what it was."

Staring down at the stark white blanket, she doesn't answer. She can barely face me.

"Dammit, Nora, tell me what it--"

"Acid," she finally whispers. "Just a single tab of acid."

"Just a . . . Are you completely out of your head? Do you even realize what you just did?"

"Please don't be mad, Michael--I didn't mean to--"

"You put it in my mouth, Nora! It didn't just get there by itself!"

"I know--and I'm so sorry I did that to you. I shouldn't have violated our trust like that . . . especially after today . . . I just thought . . ." Her voice trails off.

"You just thought what? I want to hear the twisted logic behind this one."

"I don't know . . . I figured . . . y'know, outside--while we fooled around--I thought it'd be fun."

"Fun? That's your idea of fun? Drugging me against my will?"

"Believe me, Michael, if you hadn't gotten sick, you would've thanked me for it. It's not like normal sex--it's a life-changing event."

"Damn right it's life-changing--I step off the roof, I die! I could've been killed!"

"But you weren't. When you got near the edge, I pulled you back. And when you got sick, I had Countersniper bring you down here. All I wanted was to keep you safe."

"Safe!? Nora, what happens if I get called for a drug test? Did you even spend a second thinking about that!? They still randomly test the staff! What do I do then?"

Her eyes narrow. "Is that what it's always about? How it's gonna affect your job?"

Throwing the covers aside, I shut my eyes tight at the head rush, hobble out of bed, and grab my pants from the back of the antique chair.

"Where're you going?" she asks as I pull them on.

Wobbling to pick up my shoes, I refuse to answer. She jumps in front of me, assuming I'll stop. She's wrong. Lowering my shoulder, I'm about to plow into her. She stands her ground. I tell myself that I should knock her over. That I should teach her a lesson. That I shouldn't care. But I do. Just short of impact, I stop myself. "Get out of the way," I growl.

"C'mon, Michael, what else do you want me to say? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it happened. To work that fast, you must've got a bad one or something."

"Obviously I got a bad one! That's not the damn point!"

"I'm trying to apologize--why're you getting so upset?"

"You want to know why?" I shout. "Because you still don't get it. This isn't about the acid--this isn't even about our trust--it's about the fact that you're a grade-A quality psycho! Rationalize all you want, this puts you in a whole new league!"

"Don't you dare judge me!"

"Why not? You drug me; I judge you. The least I can do is return the favor."

She's starting to boil. "You don't know what it's like, asshole--compared to me, you've had it easy."

"Oh, so now you're an expert on my entire childhood?"

"I met your dad. I get the picture," she tells me. "He's retarded. It's frustrating. The end."

Right now I'd love to smack her across the face. "You really think it's that simple, don't you?"

"I didn't mean--"

"No, no, no, don't back down," I interrupt. "You saw Rain Man--sure, that was autism, but you know how it works. I just wish you could've had more than a few hours with dear old Dad. Then you would've got the real highlights--like when his medication's messed up and you have to keep him from swallowing his tongue. Or that time in fourth grade when he ran away because he realized I was smarter than he was. Or when he shit his pants for a full month because he was worried about being abandoned if I went off to college. Or how 'bout when an evil little scumbag named Charlie Stupak convinced him that it's okay to take other people's cars as long as you promised to bring them back? Armed with a clueless public defender, Dad can show you just how well the legal system works. Oh, yeah, you saw everything today."

"Listen, I'm sorry your dad's retarded. And I'm sorry your mom ran away . . ."

"She didn't run away--she was gone for treatments. And when those didn't work, she died. Three months after she entered the clinic. She was trying to spare us the pain of watching her deteriorate--she was scared it would slow me down. Now try explaining that to a man with a sixty-six IQ. Or better yet, try protecting him from everything else that's ready to rip him apart in this world."

"Michael, I know it was hard . . ."

"No. You don't. You have no idea what it's like. Your parents are both alive. Everyone's healthy. Besides reelection, you've got nothing to worry about."

"That's not true."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot about your secret horrors: the state dinners, meeting all the bigshots, attending the college of your choice . . ."

"Stop it, Michael."

". . . and let's not forget all the ass-kissing: staffers, reporters, even Johnny Public and Suzy Creamcheese--everyone's got to love the First Daughter . . ."

"I said stop it!"

"Uh-oh, she's getting mad. Alert the Service. Send a memo to her dad. If she throws a fit in public, there'll be some bad press . . ."

"Listen, dickhead . . ."

"We have cursing! The story goes national! That's really as bad as it gets, isn't it, Nora? Bad press that goes national?"

"You don't fucking know me!"

"Do you even remember what a bad day's like anymore? I'm not talking bad press--I'm talking bad day. There really is a difference." She looks like she's about to snap, so I push a little harder. "You don't even have them anymore, do you? Oh, my, to be the First Daughter. Tell me, what's it like when everything's done for you? Can you cook? Can you clean? Do you do your own laundry?"

Her eyes are welling up with tears. I don't care. She asked for this one.

"C'mon, Nora, don't be shy. Put it out there. Do you sign your own checks? Or pay your own bills? Or make your own b--"

"You want a bad day?" she finally explodes. "Here's your fuckin' bad day!" Lifting her shirt, she shows me a six-inch scar, running down toward her navel, still red where the stitches used to be.

Dumbfounded, I can't muster a syllable. So that's why she wouldn't let me touch her stomach.

Lowering her shirt, she finally falls apart. Her face contorts in a silent sob and the tears flood forward. It's the first time I've ever seen Nora cry.

"Y-You d-don't know . . ." she sobs as she staggers toward me. I cross my arms and put on my best heartless scowl.

"Michael . . ."

She wants me to open up . . . to pull her close. Just like she did with my dad. I close my eyes and that's all I see. Without another thought, I reach out and take her in. "Don't cry," I whisper. "You don't have to cry."

"I-I swear, I never wanted to hurt you," she says, still sobbing uncontrollably.

"Shhhhhh, I know." As she collapses against me, I feel the little girl return. "It's okay," I tell her. "It's okay."

A full minute goes by before we say another word. As she catches her breath, I feel her pull away. She's wiping her eyes as quickly as possible.

"Want to tell me about it?" I ask.

She pauses. That's her instinct. "New Year's Eve, this past year," she finally says as she sits on her bed. "I'd read that stabbing yourself in the stomach was a great way to kill yourself, so I decided to test the theory for myself. Needless to say, it's no jugular."

Frozen, I'm not sure how to respond. "I don't understand," I eventually stutter. "Didn't they take you to a hospital?"

"Remember where we are, Michael. And know your perks. My dad's doctors are here around the clock--and they all make house calls." Sending the point home, she taps her hand against her mattress. "Didn't even have to leave my room."

"But to make sure no one found out . . ."

"Oh, please. They hid my dad's cancer for ten months--you think they can't hide his junkie daughter's suicide attempt?"

I don't like the way she says that. "You're not a junkie, Nora."

"Says the guy I just tried to drug."

"You know what I mean."

"I appreciate the thought, but you're working with only half the information." Picking at the lace on her pillowcase, she asks, "Do you have any idea why I'm home?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's not a trick question. I graduated college in June. It's now September. What am I still doing here?"

"I thought you were waiting to hear from grad schools."

Without a word, she heads to her desk and pulls a stack of papers from the top drawer. Returning to the bed, she throws them on the mattress. I take a seat next to her and flip through the pile. Penn. Wash U. Columbia. Michigan. Fourteen letters in all. Every one of them an acceptance. "I don't get it," I finally say.

"Well, it depends who you want to believe. Either I'm still holding out for that final grad school, or my parents are worried I'm going to take another crack at myself. Which do you think is more likely?"

Listening to her explain it, it's not hard to figure out. The only question is: What do I do now? Hunched over on the edge of her bed, Nora's waiting for my reaction. She's trying not to look at me, but she can't help herself. She's worried I'm going to leave. And the way she's rubbing the side of her bare foot over and over against the carpet, it wouldn't be the first time someone's walked out on her.

I pick up the letters and toss them to the floor. "Tell me the truth, Nora--where're your other drugs?"

"I don't--"

"Last chance," I bark.

Without a word, she looks down at the letters, then over to the slightly opened door of her closet. Her voice is soft, beaten. "On the floor is a can of tennis balls. They're inside the middle ball."

I walk to the closet and quickly find the can. Emptying it in my hand, I let the other two balls fall to the floor, then take the middle ball and give it a tight squeeze. Sure enough, like a fish opening its mouth, it spreads wide where the seam is sliced open. Inside is a brown medication vial--there're a few pills at the bottom and, on top, what looks like a roll of seven or eight stamps, but with yellow smiley-faces on them. That's the acid. "What're the pills?" I ask.

"Just some Ecstasy--they're old, though. I haven't taken them in months."

"Months or weeks?"

"Months . . . at least three . . . not since graduation. I swear, Michael."

I stare down at the vial, which is still inside the ball, and let the seam close. Gripping it in a tight fist, I hold it out to Nora. "This is it," I tell her. "No more games. From now on, it's all in your control. If you want to be a headcase, do it on your own. But if you want to be a friend"--I stop and stuff the ball in my pocket--"I'm here to help you, Nora. You don't have to be alone, but if you want to earn my trust, you do have to get it together."

She looks absolutely stunned. "So you're not going to leave?"

I once again picture her cradling my dad in her arms. Identifying with what's missing. "Not yet--not now." As my words sink in, I expect to see her smile. Instead, her brow furrows in distress. "What's wrong?" I ask.

She looks at me, her chin down, her eyes completely lost. "I don't understand. Why're you acting so nice?"

From the foot of the bed, I move in toward her. "Don't you get it yet, Nora? I'm not acting."

Lifting her head, she can't hold back. Her eyes well up and out comes the smile. The real smile.

I lean in and give her a light kiss on the forehead. "I'm just telling you one thing--if you ever do anything like this again . . ."

"I won't. I promise."

"I'm serious, Nora. I see any more drugs, I'll personally put it in a press release."

She looks me straight in the eye. "I swear on my life--you have my word."

Chapter 20

Sometimes in my dreams, I'm real small. Six inches small. Simon reaches down and I step into the palm of his hand. He raises me to his cracked lips and whispers in my Barbie Doll-size ears, "It'll all be okay, Michael--I promise it'll be okay." Slowly, his deep voice gets louder, like a churning siren. "Don't cry, Michael--only babies cry!" Then suddenly, he's screaming, his voice thundering as his hot breath blows me back: "Dammit, Michael, why didn't you listen! All you had to do was listen!"

I shoot up in bed, startled by the silence. My body's covered in a film of cold sweat--so cold, I'm shivering. The alarm clock says it's only four-thirty in the morning, so I lie back and try to lose myself in Nora. Not the drugs or the scar. The real her. The one underneath; or at least the one I think is underneath. Last night . . . and the day--my God--the roof alone'll keep me going for the rest of my life. NASCAR drivers, paratroopers, even . . . even pirates don't have that much excitement. Or that much fear.

Noticing that I'm gripping my sheets, I go for my best fall-back-asleep trick: I put things in perspective. Whatever else is going on, I still have my health, and my dad's, and Trey's, and Nora . . . and Simon, and Adenauer, and Vaughn, who I still can't figure out. Part of me's worried he's trying to set me up, but if he was in this with Simon . . . and he's now running from the FBI . . . enemy of my enemy and all that. If Simon deserted him, maybe he's got something to offer me. Regardless, I'll have the answer in a few hours. Today's the day we're supposed to meet. Somewhere in the Holocaust Museum.

After twenty minutes of staring at my stucco ceiling, it's obvious I'm not falling back asleep. I kick off the covers and head straight for the coffeemaker. As the smell of caffeine invades my small kitchenette, I pull a map of the museum from my briefcase. Five floors of exhibit space, a research library, two theaters, a learning center . . . How am I ever going to find this guy?

Behind me, there's a noise at the door. It's small--easy to miss--like a tap. Or a thud. "Hello?" I call out. The noise stops. Outside, I hear the pounding of muffled footsteps moving up the hallway. Chucking the map, I fly at the door, flip open the locks, and rip it open. There's another thud. And another. I leap into the hall, anxious to face my attacker. All I find is a teenage delivery boy dropping the first of the day's newspapers. He leaps back from the shock, almost dropping his handful of papers.

"Cono!" he curses in Spanish.

"Sorry," I whisper. "My bad." Picking up my own paper, I slink back into my apartment and shut the door.

Unnerved, I peel off the top section of the paper, hoping to lose myself in current events. But just as I fold back the front page, a small white envelope falls to the floor. Inside is a handwritten note: "Registry of Survivors. Second Floor." I speed back to the museum map, which is still on my linoleum floor. Finally, an exact location.

He's not stupid, I decide. It's a small room tucked away in a corner of the museum. He'll see everyone coming and going. The meeting's not until one o'clock, but I still look at my watch. Seven more hours.