The First Counsel

* * *

Although my destination is the Woodley Park Metro stop, I hop off the train at Dupont Circle. Throughout the twenty-minute walk between the two, I weave through sidestreets, cut across traffic, and race against the grain of every one-way I can find. If they're following me in a car, they're lost. If they're on foot . . . well, at least I have a chance. Anything to avoid a rerun of the zoo.

Walking past the restaurants and cafes of Woodley Park, I finally feel at home. There's Lebanese Taverna, where Trey and I came to celebrate his third promotion. And the sushi place where Pam and I ate when her sister came to town. This is where I live--my turf--which is why I notice the unusually clean garbage truck that's coasting up the block.

As it stops on the corner, I barely give it a second glance. Sure, the driver and the guy emptying the nearby trash cans look a little too chiseled, but it's not a weak man's job. Then I notice the sign on the side of the truck--"G & B Removal." Below the company's name is its phone number, which starts with a 703 area code. Virginia. What's a Virginia truck doing this far in D.C.? Maybe the work's contracted out. Knowing D.C.'s public services, it's certainly possible. But just as I turn away, I hear the broken-glass-raining-bottle-sliding-garbage sound of the metal-can being emptied into the back of the truck. Sound of the city. A sound I hear every night, just as I go to b--My legs cramp up. At night. That's when I hear it. That's when they come. Never during the day.

I spin around and look down the block. On the far corner, there's a trash can overflowing with garbage. That's where the truck was coming from. A full trash can. Behind the truck. Pretending not to notice, I dart into the video store midway up the block.

"Can I help you?" a girl wearing head-to-toe black asks.

"No." Holding imaginary binoculars in front of my eyes, I press them against the plate glass window, block out the glare of the sun, and stare out at the truck. Neither of the two men has given chase. They're just sitting there. While the loading guy fidgets with something in the back, the driver twists open his thermos, as if he's suddenly decided to take a break.

The video clerk is getting anxious. "Sir, are you sure I can't--"

Before she can finish, I rush out of the video store and into the dry cleaners next door. There's no one at the counter, and I don't ring the bell for service. Instead, I dash to the window and stare outside. Still haven't moved. This time, I wait a full minute before I bolt next door to the coffee bar.

A girl wearing an "Eat the Rich" T-shirt asks, "Can I help you with something?"

"No thanks." Glued to the front window, I give it two minutes and a third "Can-I-help-you?" before I race out the door and into the storefront on my left. I keep it going for two more stores--dart inside, wait, then out and to the left; dart inside, wait, then out and to the left. That's how I make my way up the block. Each one I go into, I wait a little longer. Let them think it's a pattern. One more store to go.

At the end of the block I run for the local drugstore, CVS. The way I figure it, I'm up to about a five-minute wait. But this time, after I push open the doors, I just keep running. Straight up the cosmetics aisle. Shampoos on my left, shaving cream on my right. Pharmacy-whiff floats through the air. Without stopping, I dash to the back of the store, around a bend, and down an undecorated back hall. That's when I spot my destination--it's what only a local would know, and what the guys in the garbage truck would never guess--that this CVS is the only store on the block with two entrances. Smiling to myself, I throw open the back door and blow out of there like a cannonball. I look back only once. No one's in pursuit.

Crossing 24th Street, I'm a rage of adrenaline. My body's flushed with the raw energy of victory. Around the corner is the side entrance of the Woodley Park Marriott. Nothing's going to get in my way.

Inside the lobby, I reach into my pants pocket, looking for the note with the exact location. Not there. I reach into my left pocket. Then inside my jacket. Oh, crap, don't tell me it's . . . Frantically, I pull apart each of my back pockets and pat myself down. It's not in my wallet or my . . . I close my eyes and retrace my steps. I had it this morning; I had it with Nora . . . but when I got up to leave . . . Oh, no. My lungs collapse. If it fell out of my pocket, it could still be sitting on her bed.

Struggling to stay calm, I remember the operator's instructions from when I called this morning. Somewhere on the Ballroom Level. As I approach the Information Desk, I stare suspiciously at the three bellmen in the front corner of the lobby. Dressed in starched black vests, they look right at home, but something seems off. Just as the tallest one turns my way, I notice the closing elevator on my immediate right. A quick burst of speed lets me squeeze through the doors just as they're about to slam shut. Whipping around, the last thing I see is the tall bellman. He's not even watching. I'm still okay.

"You got a favorite floor?" a man with a bolo tie and cowboy hat asks.

"Ballrooms," I say, studying him carefully. He hits the appropriate button. He's already pressed 8 for himself.

"You okay there, son?" he quickly asks.

"Yeah. Just great."

"You sure about that? Looks like you can use a little . . . commune with the spirits . . . if you know what I mean." He throws back an imaginary shot of whiskey.

I nod in agreement. "Just one of those days."

"Loud and clear; loud and clear."

The doors slide open on the ballroom level. "Have a good one now," the man with the cowboy hat says.

"You too," I mutter, stepping out. Behind me, the doors slam shut. Straight ahead, at the end of the long corridor, I cross over into the Center Tower of the hotel, where there's an escalator marked "Up to First Floor Ballrooms." I hop on.

At the top, there must be at least three hundred people, mostly women, milling around the hallway. They all have name tags on their shirts and canvas bags dangling from their arms. Convention-goers. Just in time for lunch.

As fast as I can, I weave my way through the crowd of women smiling, boasting, and waving their arms in excitement. Draped across the wall of the main corridor hangs an enormous banner: "Welcome to the 34th Annual Meeting of the American Federation of Teachers." Underneath the banner, I spot the hotel directory. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, excuse me," I say, trying to get there as quickly as possible. Squinting to read the directory, I find the words "Warren Room" followed by an arrow pointing right.

Warren Room. That's it.

I turn to the right so fast I slam into a woman with a small rhinestone-encrusted chalkboard pinned to her blouse. "Excuse me," I say, racing past her.

Outside the entrance to the room, a crowd of teachers is gathered around an oversized corkboard that's resting on a wooden easel. At least a hundred folded-up sheets of paper are tacked to the board--each of them with a different name written on it. Miriam, Marc, Ali, Scott. As I stand there, a flurry of notes are added and retrieved. Anonymous and untraceable. Message board. Warren Room. No doubt about it; this is the place.

As I fight my way through the crowd and toward the board, I'm blocked by a fake redhead who smells like a hairspray bomb went off. Craning my neck to check out the messages, I try to be as systematic as possible. My eyes skim across the notes, scrutinizing names. There it is: Michael. I wedge a fingernail behind the pushpin and pull off the note. Inside, it reads, "Dinner's bad tonight. How about tomorrow at Grossman's?" It's signed Lenore.

Scanning names on the message board, I find it again. Michael. I stick the first note back on the corkboard and pull out this one. "Breakfast is great. Eight it is. See you then, Mary Ellen."

Frustrated, I jam the note to the board and continue the search.

I find three more notes addressed to Michaels. The only one that's remotely interesting is one that reads "I shaved for you," from a woman named Carly.

Maybe he put it under another name, I think as I stare at the board. Starting over in the top left-hand corner, I take another pass, this time looking for something familiar: Nora, Vaughn, Pam, Trey--none of them come up. Desperate, I open one that's addressed with nothing more than a smiley face. Inside it reads, "Made you look."

I crumple it in a sweaty fist. Teachers. Biting my bottom lip, I scour the board. All around me, dozens of people are adding and removing notes . . . This is no time to lose it . . . I'm sure he's just being careful . . . which means there's something on here that makes sense---

I don't believe it. There it is, right in the center of the board. The name is written with a pen that looks like it's running out of ink. In thin, capital letters. L.H. Oswald. The ultimate patsy. That's me.

I pull the note off as fast as I can and step away from the lunchtime crowd. Rushing down the hallway, I head straight for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. As I alternate between jogging and speed-walking, I unfold the Oswald note one crease at a time. At the top of the page it reads, "How long before you picked up this one?" Always the smart-ass. Right below that it reads "1027." Exactly what I expected. A room number. When I subtract seven, it's Room 1020.

Inside the elevator, I go straight for the button marked 10. Over and over, my finger attacks it woodpecker-style.

Clamping the elevator's brass rail in tight fists, I can barely contain myself. Nine floors to go. My eyes are glued to the digital display, and the moment I hear the ping of arrival, I push forward. The doors are still sliding open when I squeeze through and step out on the tenth floor. Almost there, almost there. But as I trace the logical ascent of room numbers to 1020, I feel the hallway closing in. It starts with a sharp pain in my shoulders and works its way up the back of my neck. For better or worse, Vaughn's going to tell me the truth about Nora. And I'm finally going to get my answer. Of course, I'm not sure what he has, but he said it was worth it. It better be--because I'm counting on taking it straight to Adenauer. No matter how deep it cuts. My stomach starts making noises that are usually reserved for major illnesses. A cold chill slithers up my rib cage and I curse the hotel's air-conditioning. It's freezing in here.

Finally, I'm standing in front of Room 1020. I grasp the doorknob, but before I can turn it, I stop. For the past two days, my mind's been flooded with dozens of questions I couldn't wait to ask. Now, I don't know if I want the answers. I mean, how can they possibly help? Can I believe him? Maybe it's like Adenauer said. Maybe Vaughn can't be trusted.

I think back to our meeting behind the movie theater. His wrinkled clothes. His tired eyes. And the fear on his face. Over and over, I replay the question: If he was trying to set me up, why would he link his name to me--the one person he knew was going to look like the murderer? I still can't answer it. So am I ready to take the next step? As with everything lately, I don't have much choice. I wipe my hand on my pants and knock on the door.

To my surprise, it opens a crack when I hit it. I knock again, opening it a little more. "Vaughn, you in there?" There're some faint voices, but no one answers.

Down the hallway, I hear the return of the elevator. Someone's coming. This is no time to be shy. I push open the door. Blinding sunlight pours through the windows at the far end of the room. As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I notice the TV blaring. No wonder he didn't hear me.

"Whattya doin'? Watching soaps?" I move forward to step into the room, but my foot catches on something and I lose my balance and lurch forward. Putting my hands out to stop my fall, I hit the carpet with a hard thud. And an unnerving squish. My legs are askew, lying over some obstacle.

"What the . . . ?" The whole carpet's soaked. Sticky. And dark red. My hands are covered in it. I roll back to see what I tripped over. No, not what. Who. Vaughn.

"Oh, God," I whisper. His mouth is slightly open. Red spit-bubbles collect in the gap between his teeth and his lower lip. Move, move, move! I scramble furiously to get up, pushing myself away from his body, but my hands slip, sending me straight back toward the floor. At the last second, I catch myself on my elbow, with my tie pinned underneath. Now it matches my hands. More blood.

Shutting my eyes, I let my legs do the rest. They scramble their way across Vaughn's rigid torso, my right knee rubbing against his rib cage. Staggering to my feet, I spin around and get a better look at him lying lengthwise in the entryway. His left forearm is tight against his chest, but his hand's still reaching upward, frozen in a half-open fist. The bullet hole is in his forehead--off center, above his right eye. It's a tight wound--dark and crusted. Blood mats his thick black hair to the bone gray carpet. On his face, one eye stares straight forward; the other skews cockeyed to the side. Like Caroline's. Just like Caroline's. And all I can think of is the gun inside that utility box by the movie theater. The gun and that damn note--sitting there on Nora's bed.

Chapter 30

Trying not to panic, I dart through the open door of the bathroom and yank a white towel from the wall rack. Anything to get rid of the blood. After two minutes of frantic scrubbing, my hands come as clean as they're going to get. I can turn on the faucet, but . . . no, don't be stupid . . . if even a tiny chip of my skin hits the sink . . . Don't give them anything else to trace you to it. Keeping the towel wrapped around my hand, I race out of the bathroom and step over Vaughn without looking down.

I'm at the door. No fingerprints, no physical evidence. All I have to do is leave. Just turn the knob and . . . No. Not like this.

Fighting every fear that's swirling through my gut, I turn around and take a step toward the body. Whatever he did, Vaughn died for this one. For me. For trying to help me. He deserves better than a knee in the ribs.

I squat down next to him and use my towel-wrapped hand to shut his eyes. Patrick Vaughn. The one person who was supposed to have all the answers. "Sleep well," I whisper. It's not the world's best eulogy, but it's better than nothing.

Through the door, I hear a group of voices up the hallway. Whoever did this knew Vaughn was going to be here. Which means they probably knew I was going to--Oh, crap . . . time to leave. I pull open the door and race outside. Two people are waiting for me. Startled, I jump back.

"Sorry, man," one of them says. "Didn't mean to freak you out."

The woman next to him starts to giggle. She's wearing a baby-doll white T-shirt with a little rainbow across her chest. They're just a young couple.

"I-It's okay," I say, trying to hide the towel that's still around my hand. "My mistake."

Brushing past them, I go straight for the elevators. All four are stuck at the lobby. Thirty seconds later, none has moved. "C'mon!" I shout, as I pound the call button. What the hell is taking so long? Down the hallway, I see the giggling couple coming back my way. That was a quick stop--maybe they just forgot something. Whatever it was, they're no longer laughing. As they get closer, there's a new purposefulness in their walk. I'm not sticking around to see what's causing it.

Scanning the hallway, I spot a red-and-white exit sign above what looks like the door to the stairs. On the door is a yellow sticker with bright red letters: "WARNING: Alarm will sound if fire door is opened."

Damn right it will. I shove the door open and hit the stairway. Two steps in, a shrill scream pierces through the horizontal cavern, echoing off the concrete. Most people aren't in their rooms, but I can already hear the results down the stairway, from the ballroom level. Leaving their convention behind, three hundred teachers flood the fire exit. That's what I was counting on: strength in numbers. Thundering down the circular stairs, the human wave of educators absorbs me as one of their own. There's no panic or screaming--these people wrote the book on fire drills. And by the time we pour into the lobby, I've got all the cover I need. Lost amid the canvas bags and colored name tags, I slide out the front door and, at a brisk walk, keep on going. I can't let anyone see me. The best-case scenario now is that they blame Vaughn's death on me. Worst-case . . . I can still see the dark and crusted hole above Vaughn's right eye.

I don't slow down until I'm at least four blocks away. There's a narrow alley with a phone booth in it. Catching my breath, I pull apart my pockets, searching for loose change. I gotta get some help. Trey, Pam, anyone. But just as I pick up the receiver, I slam it back down. What if someone's listening on the other end? No time to take a chance. Do it face-to-face. Keep going. Run.

I crane my neck out of the alley and check the span of the block. No one's there. Bad sign for a usually busy area. On the street, there's a cab stopped at a red light. I wait until the light's about to turn green, then make a mad dash for it. My dress shoes pound against the pavement, and just as the cab starts to inch forward, I reach out and grab the handle of the rear door. The driver slams on the brakes, and I slam into the door.

"Sorry," he says as I clamber inside. "I didn't see y--"

"The White House. Fast as you can go."