The First Counsel

* * *

I give Pam another half-hour to answer two more pages. She doesn't. At this point, I should call it a night, but instead, I flip on CNN for one last look at today's news. All day, the lead story's been the Dateline interview, but as the picture blooms into focus, I'm staring at a clip from today's Bartlett rally. Wherever it is, the place is going crazy--jumping, shouting, screaming with excitement and home-painted signs. When a graphic comes on that reads MIAMI, FLORIDA, I almost fall over. Hartson's home state. That's a ballsy move by Bartlett, but it looks like it's paying off. Not only is he getting press for the confrontation, but compared to last week, his music's louder, his crowd's bigger, and, as the anchorwoman says, "When it was all over, he stayed and shook hands for almost a full hour." Now I know we're in trouble. Candidates only stay when the getting's good.

Flicking off the TV, I decide to head over to the Dip Room, where Trey's Dateline opus is getting ready to roll. Whatever else Bartlett's up to, tonight's interview is still the biggest game in town. So why watch it on TV when Trey can clear me in to see it in person? Besides, after what Nora said earlier, she can use the support.

From the west end of the Ground Floor Corridor, I see that, as usual, I'm not the only one who had the idea--a small crowd of staffers is already gathering. Going live in the White House is no small task, and the way everyone's running around, it's got its usual circus feel. Peering over the shoulder of the guy in front of me, I get my first look at the set.

With the room's wallpaper--nineteenth-century landscapes of North America--as the warm-fuzzy backdrop, the whole thing's set up around two sofas and an antique chair. But instead of the cold, wood-back sofa that's usually in the Dip Room, they've replaced it with two plush, comfy sofas that, if memory serves, are from the second floor of the Residence. It's gotta look like a real family. No one--not the parents, not the kids--sits alone.

Surrounding the makeshift living room are five separate cameras that're set up in a wide semicircle--the twenty-first-century firing squad. Beyond the cameras, on the other side of the reams of black wiring that zigzag across the floor, the President and Mrs. Hartson are schmoozing with Samantha Stulberg and a stylish, late-thirties woman dressed all in black and wearing a headset. The producer. Hartson lets out a hearty laugh--he's putting in his final bid to keep the interview on soft focus. I look at my watch and realize they have a full ten minutes to go. This is big for him. If it weren't, he'd never be down here this early.

In the background, amid the sound people, cameramen, and makeup artists, I spot Trey talking on the phone. Looking anxious and almost panicked, he walks over to Nora's brother, Christopher, who has taken his seat on the sofa. It's not until Trey starts whispering in his ear that it hits me. The President, Mrs. Hartson, Christopher, their staff, the TV crew, the producer, the interviewer, the satellite experts . . . everyone's here. Everyone but Nora.

Finished with Christopher, Trey gingerly tiptoes behind the First Lady and taps her on the shoulder. As he pulls her aside, I can't hear what he's saying. But the First Lady's face says it all. For one slight, barely noticeable nanosecond, she lapses into a red rage, then--just as quickly--it's back to a smile. She knows those cameras are on her; there's a guy with a handheld taping for a local newscast. She has to keep it cool. Still, I can read the growl on her lips from here.

"Find her."

Holding his head high, Trey walks calmly out of the room, shoving his way past us. No one really pays much attention--they're all watching POTUS--but as soon as Trey sees me, he shoots me that look. That this-is-gonna-cause-me-sexual-dysfunction-I'm-so-scared look. I leave the crowd and fall in right behind him. The farther he gets down the hallway, the faster he goes.

"Please tell me you know where she is," he whispers, still in speed walk.

"When was the last time you--"

"She said she was going to the bathroom. No one's seen her since."

"So she went to the--"

"That was a half hour ago."

I stare silently at Trey. As we blow through the doors to the West Colonnade, he starts to run. "Have you checked her room?" I ask.

"That's who I was on the phone with. The guards by the elevator said she never went upstairs."

"What about the Service? Have you notified them?"

"Michael, I'm trying to convince a fifteen-person Dateline crew and one hundred million viewers that Hartson and his family are Ozzie-Harriet clones. If I tell the Service, it'll be a manhunt. Besides, I called my friend at the Southeast Gate--according to him, Nora hasn't left the grounds."

"Which means she's either in the OEOB or on the first two floors of the mansion."

"Do me a favor and check your office," Trey says.

"I was just there. She's not--"

"Just check it!" he hisses, his forehead covered with beads of sweat.

As we enter the West Wing, Trey darts for the Oval. I keep going--taking off for the OEOB and checking my watch. Eight minutes to go. Turning around to run backwards, I ask, "How long is the--"

"There's a one-minute intro, thirty seconds for credits, and two minutes of B-roll footage from the birthday party." His voice is shaking. "Michael, you know the numbers. If this turns into a crisis . . ."

"We'll find her," I say as I start to run. "I promise."

Chapter 27

I throw open the door to the anteroom and it slams into the wall. "Nora? Are you here?"

No answer.

I keep going, flinging open the door to my office. "Nora?" Again there's no response. I check for myself. Couch, desk, fireplace, couch. Nowhere in sight. Seven minutes to go.

Spinning around, I race through Julian's and Pam's offices. "Nora?" Julian's is empty. So is Pam's--though her light is on. That's means she's still in the . . . No, not now. If Nora's not here and she's not upstairs, where could she . . . ? Yeah. Maybe.

Tearing back into the hallway, I run full speed to the exit, burst out onto West Exec, and descend the stairs in a few large jumps. But as I squeeze past Simon's car in the parking lot, I don't head for the usual entrance under the awning. Instead, I snake around to the north side of the mansion, along the length of the West Wing, past the kitchen, and into the tradesmen's entrance. My blue pass gets me past the guard, and I take a sharp left, down toward the one place we've never been interrupted.

I reach for the knob of the heavy metal door, knowing it's supposed to be locked. When I turn it, there's a thunk. And it gives. It's open. I pull open the door and leap inside.

My eyes quickly scan the length of the bowling alley. Lane, pins, rack of balls. "Nora, are you--"

My heart stops and I take a step back, bumping into the door just as it slams me from behind. There. On the floor. Hidden behind the scorekeeper's table--her legs dangle out and I see the edge of her skirt. Her body's motionless. Oh, God.

"Nora!"

I race around the table, slide down on my knees, and scoop her into my arms. From her nose, two thin streams of blood run down her face, collecting on her top lip. Her face is white. "Nora!" I lift her head and shake her. She lets out a soft moan. Unsure of my CPR, I slap her on the cheek. Again. And again. "Nora! It's me!" Out of nowhere, she starts to laugh--a dark little giggle that sends a cold chill down my back. She flips her right arm wildly through the air, crashing it down over her head and slamming her wrist into the polished floor. Before I can say another word, her laugh turns into a cough. A wet, hacking wheeze that comes straight from the lungs.

"C'mon, Nora, pull it together." Frantically, I grab the front of her blouse, including her bra straps, and pull her up straight. As she flops forward, a wave of clear vomit shoots out of her mouth, all over my shirt. Startled, I let go, but as her coughing gets louder, she's able to sit up by herself.

I wipe her insides from my tie, and she looks up, her eyes half closed, her neck bobbing and sagging uncontrollably. Her whole body is in slow motion.

She starts talking, but nothing makes sense. Just mumbles and slurred words. Slowly, it starts coming back. "Then . . . I'm not . . . you gotta be . . . Special K . . . Just some K . . ."

Special K. Ketamine. Congrats to Rolling Stone. I remember the article like it was yesterday. Snort it like cocaine and, depending on how much you take, you're gone from ten to thirty minutes.

"How much did you do, Nora?"

She doesn't answer.

"How much, Nora? Tell me!"

Nothing.

"Nora!"

Right there, she looks at me--and for the first time, I see recognition in her eyes. Blinking twice, she cocks her head. "Did we fool 'em?"

"How much did you take!?"

She closes her eyes. "Not enough."

Okay, that's a response--she's coming back. I glance down at my watch--five minutes to start, plus four minutes of intro. I race to the phone, call the operator, and ask her to beep Trey with a message. Rushing back to Nora, I help her to her feet.

"Lemme alone," she says, pulling away.

I grab her by the shoulders. "Don't fight me on this! Not now!" Seeing that she's about to fall, I shove her onto the seat at the scorekeeper's table and slap her again on the cheek--not too hard--I don't want to hurt her. Just enough to . . .

"Please don't hate me for this, Michael. Please."

"I don't want to talk about it," I shoot back.

On the scorekeeper's table, I see her open purse. I dump out its contents as fast as I can. Keys, tissues, and a small metal lipstick tube that, thanks to the incline of the table, is now rolling toward me. I catch it just as it falls. Looks like lipstick, but . . . I pull off the lid and see the white powder. How can she simultaneously be so smart and so stupid? Unable to answer, I reseal the tube and shove it into the small groove that holds pencils. Right now, there are more important things to deal with.

Snatching the tissues, I rip them open, spit into one of them, and like every mother does to every kid, wipe Nora's face. The blood from her nose is fresh. It rubs away easily. With my right hand, I brush the hair from her face, but it falls right back. I brush it again and tuck it behind her ear. Anything to make it stay. Once the hair is out of the way, I hold up her chin and get a better look. The edge of my shirtsleeve takes the last bit of throw-up from the corner of her mouth. The way her lips are sagging, I know she's still not there. But appearance-wise, as I check the rest of her, it's not too bad. She's leaning forward, with her elbows resting on her knees. Crash position. Still, all the vomit's on me. She's clean. And Dateline's waiting.

I run back to the phone and once again call the operator. She tells me my message was sent to Trey. He still hasn't responded. They must be starting. "Nora, get up!" I shout, rushing to her side. I grab her by her wrists and try to pull her to her feet. She won't help; she just sits there. "C'mon!" I yell, pulling harder. "Get up!" She still won't budge.

Circling around to the back of the scorekeeper's seat, I throw my tie over my shoulder, slide my arms under her armpits, and when I have her in full Heimlich, I lift as hard as I can. She's all deadweight. There's a sharp pop in my back, but I ignore it. Sure, I'm tempted to just leave her and let her hang--fourteen strikes and you're out. The thing is, if I don't get her on this show . . . Shit. Sometimes I hate myself in this place. It's a damn TV show. All this bullshit for a TV show. "Nora, for Godssakes, stand up!"

With one final yank, she's up and out. We can still make it, I tell myself, but the second I get her upright, her legs give out under her. We tumble forward, completely off-balance. With a thud, she's back on the floor--both of us flat on our asses.

As I watch her, we're both breathing heavily. However we got here, our chests rise and fall at the exact same pace. Searching for distinction, I slow my breathing and break away. For the next thirty seconds, I keep her sitting upright, watching the color come back to her face. I don't have a choice--if we want to get out of here, she needs a minute. Slowly, she picks her head up. "I mean it, Michael--I didn't mean to break my promise to you."

"So this just happened by itself?"

"You don't understand."

"I don't understand? You're the one who--"

Before I can finish, the door to the bowling alley swings open and Trey steps in carrying a compact and a blush brush. I'm tempted to be relieved--until I see who's following him. Susan Hartson. Despite the atomic hairspray, her light brown hair bobs angrily against her shoulders, and in the fluorescent light of the bowling alley, her facecake of makeup no longer hides her sharp features. Refusing to touch anything, she steps into the room like a mother stepping into a fraternity house.

"Can she make it?" she barks.

"They just hit the intro," Trey tells me, rushing forward. "We've got three minutes."

I pull Nora to her feet, but she's still off-balance. Catching her, I let her take a second. She's propped against my shoulder with her arms hooked around my neck. It takes her a moment, and she's still leaning, but she quickly wins the battle to stand up straight.

At the same time, the First Lady fights her way past Trey, stepping forward until she's face-to-face with her daughter. And me. Without a word, Mrs. Hartson licks her thumb and angrily spit-shines the last remnants of blood from Nora's nose.

"Sorry, Mom," Nora says. "I didn't mean to--"

"Shut up. Not now."

I feel Nora tense up. Within a breath, she's standing on her own. She lifts her chin and looks her mother in the eye. "Ready to go, Mom."

Following the acidic smell, the First Lady glares down at the vomit on my shirt, then, without moving her head, lifts her steady gaze to look me straight in the eyes. I'm not sure if she's blaming me or just studying my face. Eventually, she blurts, "Think she can do it?"

"She's been doing it for years," I shoot back.

"Mrs. Hartson," Trey jumps in, "we can still--"

"Tell them we're on our way," the First Lady says, her eyes never leaving me.

Trey darts for the exit. Turning back to her daughter, the First Lady grasps Nora's arm and pulls her toward the door. There's no time for goodbyes. Nora leaves first and Mrs. Hartson follows. I just stand there.

When they're gone, I look over my shoulder and see Nora's purse on the scorekeeper's table. So damn stupid. Shoving the keys and tissues back inside, I notice the silver metal tube that looks like lipstick. If I leave it out, someone'll find it. Good--maybe that's the best way to help her. For a full minute, I don't move, my mind playing through the consequences. This isn't a rumor about a backseat in Princeton. This would be drugs in the White House. My eyes focus on the shiny metal tube, watching it gleam as the ceiling lights bounce off it. It's so polished, so perfect--in its convex curve, I see a warped version of myself. Me. It's all up to me. All I have to do is hurt her.

Right.

Like a little kid playing jacks, I scoop up Nora's tube, grip it in my fist, and with a short prayer, shove it deep down in my pants pocket, praying this isn't the moment I'll forever look back on with regret.