The First Counsel

* * *

I throw open the door to Trey's office and check his desk. He's nowhere in sight.

"Can I help you?" his officemate Steve asks.

"Have you seen Trey?" I shoot back, struggling to look like I'm not out of breath.

"No, I--"

"I saw him," a third officemate interrupts. "I think . . . uh . . . I think he had his head stuck up the First Lady's rear end."

"That's right," Steve says, laughing. "Hell of a photo-op. We brought in some kids. Put her in a living room setting. Fluffy throw pillows. Soft focus on the camera. Real deliverable."

Press secretaries. Always comedians.

I grab a Post-it, jot a quick note, and slap it against Trey's computer screen. "Find me. 911!"

"Great code," Steve says. "Way better than Morse." Storming back to the hallway, I slam the door as I leave. Once again, I'm drowning in silence. I have to talk to someone--even if it's just to figure out the next step. As I nervously check the marble hallway, the first person who comes to mind is Pam. I can go to her and . . . What am I thinking? I can't. Not after what happened. Not yet. Besides, with Vaughn dead, this whole thing's about to jackknife. Which means the last place I want to be is behind the wheel of the truck. I don't care if it's an election year--I've been avoiding it since I left the hotel--I need to go upstairs.