The First Counsel

* * *

Back in the halls of the basement, I keep my head down as I lope past a group of janitors pushing mop buckets. I'm not taking any chances. The moment I'm spotted, it's over. Following the hallway around another turn, I duck under a vent pipe and ignore two separate sets of stairs. Both are empty, but both also lead to crowded hallways.

A quarter-way down the hall, I slam on the brakes and push the call button for the service elevator. It's the one place I know I won't run into any fellow staffers. No one in the White House thinks of themselves as second-class.

Waiting, I anxiously check up and down this oven of a hallway. It's got to be ninety degrees. The armpits of my shirt are soaked. The worst part is, I'm out in the open. If anyone comes, there's nowhere to hide. Maybe I should duck into a room--at least until the elevator gets here. I look around to see what's--Oh, no. How'd I miss that? It's right across from the elevator, staring me straight in the face--a small black-and-white sign that reads "Room 072--USSS/UD." The United States Secret Service and the Uniformed Division. And here I am, standing right in front of it.

Looking up, I search the ceiling for a camera. Through the wires, behind the pipes. It's the Secret Service--it's got to be here somewhere. Unable to spot it, I turn back to the elevator. Maybe no one's watching. If they haven't come out yet, the odds are good.

I pound my thumb against the call button. The indicator above the door says it's on the first floor. Thirty more seconds--that's all I need. Behind me, I hear the worst kind of creak. I spin around and see the doorknob starting to turn. Someone's coming out. The elevator pings as it finally arrives, but its doors don't open. Over my shoulder, I hear hinges squeak. A quick look shows me the uniformed agent stepping out of the room. He's right behind me as the elevator opens. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grab me. I inch forward and calmly step into the elevator, praying he doesn't follow. Please, please, please, please, please. Even as the doors close, he can stick his hand in at the last second. Keeping my back turned, I squint with apprehension. Finally, I hear the doors close behind me.

Alone in the rusty industrial elevator, I turn, push the button marked 5, and let my head sag back against the beat-up walls. Approaching each floor, I tense up just a bit, but one after another, we pass them without stopping. Straight to the top. Sometimes there're benefits to being second-class.

When the doors open on the highest floor of the OEOB, I stick out my head and survey the hallway. There're a couple young suits at the far end, but otherwise, it's a clear path. Following Pam's instructions, I dart straight for the door to the left of the Indian Treaty Room. Unlike most of the rooms in the building, it's unmarked. And unlocked.

"Anyone here?" I call out as I push open the door. No answer. The room's dark. Stepping inside, I see that it's not even a room. It's just a tiny closet with a metal-grated staircase leading straight up. That must be the attic. I hesitate as I put my foot on the first step. In any building with five hundred rooms, there're always gonna be a few that inherently seem off-limits. This is one of them.

I grab the iron handrail and feel a layer of dust under the palm of my hand. As I climb higher up the stairs, I'm encased in another sauna caused by the lack of air-conditioning. I thought I was sweating before, but up here . . . proof positive that heat rises. Every breath in is like a full gulp of sand.

As I continue up the stairs, I notice two deflated Winnie-the-Pooh mylar balloons attached to the banister. Both of them read "Happy Birthday" on them. Whoever was up here last, it must've been a hell of a private party.

At the top, I turn around and get my first good look at the long, rectangular attic. With high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams, it gets all its light from a few skylights and a set of miniature windows. Otherwise, it's a dim, crowded room filled with leftovers. Discarded desks in one corner, stacked-up chairs in another, and what looks like an empty swimming pool cut into the center of the floor. As I get closer, I realize that the recessed part of the floor is actually the casing for a section of stained glass that's surrounded by a waist-high guardrail.

As soon as my eyes hit it, I know I've seen it before. Then I remember where I am. Directly above the most ornate room in the building--the Indian Treaty Room. Looking down, I can see its outline through the huge sections of stained glass. The marble wall panels. The intricate marquetry floor. I was there for the AmeriCorps reception, when I first met Nora. The attic runs right over it. Their stained glass ceiling; my stained glass floor.

Deeper into the room, I finally find what I'm after. Beyond the guardrail, in the far left corner, are at least fifty file boxes. Right in the front, in a horizontal stack, are the six I'm looking for. The ones marked Penzler. My stomach constricts.

I grab the top box from the pile and rip off the cardboard lid. R through Sa. This is it. I pull out each file as I go. Racial Discrimination . . . Radio Addresses . . . Reapportionment . . . Request Memos.

The folder is at least three inches thick, and I tear it out with a sharp yank. Flipping it open, I see the most recent memo on top. It's dated August 28th. A week before Caroline was killed. Addressed to the White House Security Office, the memo states that she "would like to request current FBI files for the following individual(s):" On the next line is a single name, Michael Garrick.

It's not much in the way of news--I've known she requested my file since the day I saw it on her desk. Still, there's something odd about seeing it in print. After everything that's happened--everything I've been through--this is where it started.

No matter how ruthless Caroline was or how many people she blackmailed, even she knew it was impossible to get an FBI file without a request memo. Thinking about it, she probably didn't see it as that big a deal--as Ethics Officer for the White House, she had fifty ways to justify each request. And if anyone tried to use a request against her . . . well, every one of us was guilty of something. So who cares about a little paper trail?

Remembering that Caroline had fifteen folders on her desk, I flip to the next memo and take a closer look at the other files she'd requested. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Those are the two nominees Nora told me about in the bowling alley. Including me, that's three. Twelve more to go. The next eight are presidential appointees. That brings it to eleven. Pam's was requested a while back. That's twelve. Thirteen and fourteen are both judicial nominees--people I've never heard of. That leaves only one more name. I turn the page and look down, expecting it to be Simon. Sure enough, he's there. But he's not the only one. There's an extra name on the last sheet.

My eyes go wide. I can't believe it. I sit down on a box, the sheet trembling in my hand. Simon was right about one thing. I had it all backwards. That's why Simon was clueless when I quizzed him about Nora. And why I couldn't rip a hole in his alibi. And why . . . all this time . . . I had the wrong guy. Vaughn hit it right on the money. Nora was sleeping with the old man. I just had the wrong old man.

Caroline had requested a sixteenth file--a file that must've been snatched from her desk--snatched by the killer--so it was never seen by the FBI. That's why he was never a suspect. I reread his name half a dozen times. The calmest among us. Lawrence Lamb.

A fit of nausea punches me in the throat and my chest caves in. The folder I'm holding sags to the floor. I don't . . . I don't believe it. It can't be. And yet . . . that's why I--And he---

I shut my eyes and clench my teeth. He knew I'd buy it--all he had to do was open the inner circle and wave a few perks. Fudge outside the Oval. Briefing the President. The chance to be the bigshot. Lamb knew I'd lick up every last drop. Including Nora. That was the cherry on top. And the more I relied on him, the less likely it became that I'd search things out for myself. That's all he needed. That's all I had. Blind faith.

Bent over, I'm still struggling to digest what's running through my head. That's why she brought me to see him. They gave me the list of suspects; I took it as fact. Without Vaughn, I never would've questioned it. There's only one problem with the picture--it's all coming together a bit too easily. From the box being up here, to the file being in its exact place . . . I can't put my finger on it, but it feels a little too force-fed. It's almost as if someone's trying to help me. As if they want to be found out.

"I never meant to hurt you, Michael," a voice whispers behind me.

I spin around, recognizing it immediately. Nora. "Is that the lie of the moment? Some maudlin disclaimer?"

She walks toward me. "I wouldn't lie to you," she says. "Not anymore."

"Not anymore? That's supposed to make me feel better? The first fifty things you told me were bullshit, but from here on in, it's all sunshine?"

"It wasn't bullshit."

"It was, Nora! All of it was!"

"That's not--"

"Stop lying!"

"Why're you--"

"Why'm I what? Shattered? Enraged? Devastated? Why do you think, Nora!? That night we outran the Service, you weren't lost! You knew where that bar was, and you knew Simon'd be waiting inside for the drop point!"

"I wasn't--"

"You knew, Nora. You knew. After that, all you had to do was sit back and watch it play out. I follow; you leave the ten grand in my car; the next day, once Caroline's dead, you've got an instant scapegoat."

"Michael . . ."

"You're not even denying it! Trey was right, wasn't he? That's why you took the money--to plant on me! That's all you had to do!"

For once, she decides not to fight back.

I take a second, catching my breath. "Must've been a real monkey-wrench when we got pulled over by the cops. You may've lost the Service, but now you had a witness."

"It was more than that," she whispers.

"Oh, that's right--when I said the money was mine, it was also the first time anyone was ever nice to you. How'd you put it that night? People don't do nice things for you? Well, no offense, Sybil, but I finally understand why."

"You don't mean that," she says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Get the hell off me!" I shout, pulling away. "Dammit, Nora, don't you get it? I was on your side! I looked past the drugs; I ignored every rumor. I took you to see my father, for chrissakes! I loved you, Nora! Do you have any idea what that means?" I can't help it--I start choking up.

She looks at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen. "I love you too."

I shake my head. Too little. Too late. "Are you at least gonna tell me why?"

All I get is silence.

"I asked you a question, Nora. Why'd you do it?" My shoulders are shaking. "Tell me! Are you in love with him?"

"No!" Her voice cracks with that one.

"Then why're you sleeping with him?"

"Michael . . ."

"Don't Michael me! Just give me an answer!"

"You wouldn't understand."

"It's sex, Nora! There are only so many reasons to do it--you're in love . . ."

"It's more complicated th--"

". . . you're horny . . ."

"This isn't about you."

". . . you're desperate . . ."

"Stop it, Michael."

". . . you're bored . . ."

"I said stop it!"

". . . or it's against your will."

Nora falls dead silent.

Oh, God.

Crossing her arms, she wraps them around her torso and tucks her chin toward her chest.

"Did he . . ."

She raises her eyes just enough for me to see the first tears. They stream down her face and slowly trickle down her thin neck.

"He molested you?"

She turns away.

A sharp fire rips a hole in my stomach. I'm not sure if it's rage or pain. All I know is it hurts. "When did it happen?" I ask.

"You don't underst--"

"Was it more than once?"

"Please, Michael, please don't do this," she begs.

"No," I tell her. "You need this."

"It's not what you think--it's only since--"

"Only!? How long has it been going on?"

Once again, dead silence. A piece of wood creaks in the corner. She keeps her eyes locked on the floor. Her voice is tiny. "Since I was eleven."

"Eleven?" I cry. "Oh, Nora . . ."

"Please--please don't tell anyone!" she begs. "Please, Michael!" Floodgates open. The tears come fast. "I . . . I have to . . . I don't have money!"

"What do you mean you don't have money?"

She's breathing heavily--panting through her sobs. "For the drugs!" she sobs. "It's just the drugs!"

As she says the words, I feel the blood drain from my face. That sick dominating bastard. He keeps her trapped by drugs in exchange for--

"Please, Michael, promise you won't say anything! Please!"

I can't stand hearing her beg. Sobbing uncontrollably, with her arms still wrapped around herself, she just stands there--in her self-made cocoon--afraid to reach out.

Since the day we met, I've seen a side of Nora Hartson that she'd never reveal to the public. As a friend and a liar, a lunatic and a lover. As a bored rich kid, a fear-nothing thrill-seeker, an odds-defying gambler, and even, for the briefest of moments, as a perfect daughter-in-law. I've seen her everywhere in between. But never as a victim.

I won't let her go through this alone. There's no need for alone. I cover her with my embrace.

"I'm sorry," she cries as she crumbles in my arms. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I tell her, rubbing her back. "It's all going to be okay." But even as I say the words, both of us know it's not. However it started, Lawrence Lamb has ruined her life. When someone steals your childhood, you never get it back.

Rocking back and forth, I use the same technique I use on my dad. She doesn't need words; she just needs soothing.

"Y-You should . . ." Nora begins, her head buried against my shoulder. "You should get out of here."

"Don't worry. No one knows we're--"

"He's coming," she whispers. "I had to tell him. He's on his way."

"Who's on his way?"

There's a steady thunk as he bounds up the stairs. I spin around and the answer comes from the deep, calm voice in the corner of the room. "Get away from her, Michael," Lawrence Lamb says. "I think you've already done enough."

Chapter 39

At the sound of his voice, I feel every muscle in Nora's back tense. First, I think it's anger. It's not. It's fear.

Like a child caught stealing from her mother's purse, she pulls away from me and wipes her face. Lightning speed. Like nothing ever happened.

I turn toward Lamb, wondering what she's so afraid of.

"I tried to stop him," Nora blurts, "but he--"

"Shut up," Lamb snaps.

"You don't understand, Uncle Larry, I--"

"You're a liar," he says in a low monotone. Moving toward her, his shoulders are pitched, barely restrained in his flawlessly tailored Zegna suit. He glides like a panther. Slow, calculating, as his ice blue eyes drill into Nora. The closer he gets, the more she shrinks backwards.

"Don't touch her!" I warn.

He doesn't stop. Straight at Nora. That's all he sees.

She races to the files, pointing down at the open box. She's shaking uncontrollably. "S-See . . . here it is--j-j-just like I . . ."

He points at her, extending a single, manicured finger. His voice is a whispered roar. "Nora--"

She shuts up. Dead silent.

Thrusting his hand at her throat, he grabs her by the neck, holds her at arm's length, and scans the pile of files at her feet. Her arms go ragdoll; her legs are quivering. She can barely stand up.

I'm paralyzed just watching it. "Get off her!"

Once again, he doesn't even look my way. All he does is glare at Nora. She tries to squirm free, but he grips her tighter. "What did I tell you about fighting?" She goes back to ragdoll, her head lowered, refusing to face me. Lamb looks to the floor and smiles that thin, haunting grin. I can read it in the smug look on his face. He's seen the files. He knows what I found. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a silver Zippo lighter with the presidential seal on it. "Take this," he says to Nora. She stands frozen. "Take it!" he shouts, forcing it into her hands. "Listen to me when I talk to you! Do you want to be unhappy? Is that what you want?"

That's it. Enough melodrama. I race toward them at full speed. "I said, get the hell off h--"

He spins around and pulls out a gun. A small pistol. Pointed right at me. "What'd you say?" he asks.

I stop in my tracks and raise my hands.

"Exactly," Lamb growls.

Next to him, Nora's trembling. But for the first since Lamb arrived, she's looking at me.

Lamb yanks her chin, jerking her head back toward him. "Who's talking to you!? Me or him? Me or him!?" Grabbing her by the throat, he pulls her close and whispers in her ear. "Remember what you told me? Well, it's time to keep the promise." He slides his hand to her shoulder and pushes down, trying to force her to her knees. Her legs are buckling, but at least she's resisting.

"Fight him, Nora!" I call out, only a few feet away.

"Last warning," he says as he points the gun at me. Turning back to Nora, he makes sure I get a good look. With a tight grip on her throat, he slides his gun toward her mouth. "Do you want me to get mad at you? Is that what you want?" As he presses the barrel against her lips, she shakes her head no. He pushes harder. The tip of the gun scratches against her gritted teeth. Her knees start to give way. "Please, Nora . . . it's me. It's just me. We can . . . we can fix it--like it was." She looks up and all she sees is him. Slowly, she lets the gun slip between her lips. A tear runs down her cheek. Lamb smiles. And Nora gives in. One final push sends her crumbling to her knees.

Slumped down, she's sitting next to the loose files. Lamb steps back and leaves her alone on the floor.

"You know what to do," he says.

Nora looks down at the lighter, then over at the files.

"Here's your chance," he adds. "Make it right."

"Don't listen to him!" I shout.

Without warning, Lamb turns to me and fires. The gun goes off with a silent hiss. Next thing I know, something bites through my shoulder. I slap myself like I'm going after a ten-ton mosquito. But when I pick my hand up, it's covered in blood. Warm. It's so warm. And sticky. There are dark red speckles all over my arm. Without thinking, I go to touch it. My finger goes straight in the bullet hole. Up to my knuckle. That's when I notice the pain. Sharp. Like a thick needle jammed in my shoulder. It pulses down my arm with an electric shock. I've been shot.

"See what he made me do?" Lamb says to Nora. "It's just like I told you--once it gets out, it all falls apart."

I want to scream, but the words don't come.

"Don't let him confuse you," Lamb adds. "Ask yourself what's right. Would I ever put you at risk? Would I ever do anything to hurt our family?"

From the blank look on her face, I can tell Nora's lost. As shock sets in, the throbbing in my shoulder is excruciating.

Continuing to hammer away, Lamb motions to the lighter in her hand. "I can't do it without you, Nora. Only you can fix it. For us. It's all for us."

She looks at the lighter, her eyes filled with tears.

Lamb's voice stays cold and steady. "It's in your hands, honey. Only yours. If you don't finish it now, they take it all away. Everything, Nora. Is that what you want? Is that what we worked for?"

Her answer is a trained whisper. "No." Refusing to look up, Nora opens the lighter and flicks on the flame. She holds it for a moment, staring at the fire as it shakes in her hand.

"Keep--your--promise," Lamb says with his teeth clenched.

"Don't!" I call out.

It's too late. She picks up the folder and brings it slowly toward the flame.

"That's it," Lamb says. "Keep your promise."

"Nora, you don't have to--" Before I can finish, she dips the corner of the folder into the orange flame. The thin file catches fire easily, and within seconds, the entire edge is lit up like a torch . . . Wait a second. The Request Memos file was an inch thick. This one's---

Nora shoots me a look, and with a flick of her wrist, hurls the burning file straight at Lamb. A blazing rocket, it hits him square in the chest as fiery pages fly everywhere. His tie, his jacket--both start to catch fire. Screaming at the small flame, he pats down his chest and fights his way out of his jacket. The flames go out quickly. The file folder, smacked through the air, lands near the guardrail surrounding the stained glass. Right at my feet. I'm still lying on the floor, but if I scooch forward . . . I can just about . . . There. Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I stamp out the flame, pick up the charred remains of the folder, and read the label. Radio Addresses.

I look up at Nora, who, with tears streaming down her face, is already racing at Lamb. "You fucking asshole!" she screams as her fingernails slash a deep cut into his cheek. "I'll kill you! You understand me, you vampire? I'll kill you!" Clawing and punching in every direction, she's like an animal unleashed. But the louder she screams, the more the tears flow--launched through the air as her head whips back and forth. Every few seconds, she sniffles it all in, but moments later, a burst of shrieks and saliva sends it right back out. She grabs him by the hair and pounds him in the ear. Then she lifts his head and jabs him in the throat. Blow after blow, she goes straight for the soft spots.

As always, though, Nora takes it too far. Looking down, she realizes Lamb is still somehow holding on to his gun.

I clutch the guardrail around the stained glass, struggling to get to my feet. "Nora, don't!" I call out.

She doesn't even hesitate. Letting go of Lamb's hair, she reaches down for it. That's all the time Lamb needs. He lashes out with a backhanded fist and the barrel of the gun catches her in the side of the head. "How dare you touch me!" he screams in a mad rage. "I raised you! Not your father! Me!" Grabbing her by the front of her shirt, he pulls her in and pounds the butt of the gun against her face.

"Nora!" I shout. She falls to the floor and I hobble to her side.

"Don't move!" Lamb threatens before I can take a step. Once again pointing his gun, he waves it back and forth between us. He looks at her, then jerks his head back to me. Then back to her. Then back to me. Never together. "I'll kill her," he warns. "You touch her again and I'll kill her." His shirt is charred black at the chest; a cut on his cheek is dripping blood. Looking into his frozen blue eyes, I know he means it.

"Larry, you don't have t--"

"Shut up!" he shouts. "It's up to her."

Shaking off the blow, Nora's still on the floor. Her right eye is already starting to swell.

"Are you okay?" Lamb asks.

"Drop dead, asshole," she shoots back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"It's not too late," Lamb says, sounding almost excited. "We can still make it work--just like I said. We stop him; we're heroes. We can do it, Nora. We can. All you have to do is say the words. That's all I ask, honey. Tell me I'm not alone."

I nod at her to play along. She won't even look at me. She takes one final sniffle and the tears are gone. Her eyes burn at Lamb. She licks her lips. With the taste of freedom on her tongue, Nora Hartson wants out.

I make one last attempt to get her attention, but she turns away. This isn't about me. It's about them.

"We can do it, Nora," Lamb says, as she climbs to her feet. "Just like always. Our secret."

Staring straight at her family's closest friend, Nora stays silent. She's trying to hide it, but his argument's wearing her down. I see it in the rise and fall of her chest. Hunched over, she's still breathing heavily. It'd be so easy to give up. Surrender now and blame everything on me. Searching for an answer, she touches her swelling eye. Then slowly, right in front of her face, she raises a defiant middle finger. "Rot. In. Hell," she snarls.

When I turn to Lamb, his eyes, cheeks, lips . . . all his features fall. I expect him to lash out, completely crazed. Instead, he's silent. Even more silent than usual. Clenched jaw. Stabbing stare. I swear, the room gets colder. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he eventually says without a hint of emotion in his voice. "But I want to thank you, Nora. You just made the decision that much easier." Without another word, he turns the gun toward me.

"Michael!" Nora screams as she starts running.

As Lamb's gun swings across the horizontal plane, I barely register what's happening. I'm gaping down the barrel of the gun, and the whole world hits Pause. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nora launching herself at me. Frozen solid, I struggle to turn. There's a coughing fluorescent light right over her head and a clear plastic fork discarded on the floor. A silenced shot explodes just as she crashes into me, face-to-face. I raise my arms, trying to catch her. A second shot erupts. Then another. And another.

Her head jerks back as she's hit from behind. One. Two. Three. Four. Her body jolts as each one connects. We're both thrown back by the impact, crashing into the guardrail.

"Nornie?" Lamb cries out, lowering his gun.

Falling to the floor, I barely notice him. "Nora, are you . . ."

"I-I think I'm okay," she whispers, struggling to raise her head. As she looks up, blood slowly creeps out of her nose and the corner of her mouth. "Is it bad?" she asks, reading the look on my face.

I shake my head, fighting against the tears that fill my eyes. "N-No--no. You're gonna be fine," I stutter.

Sinking in my arms, she ekes out a tiny smile. "Good." She tries to say something else, but it gets lost. I cradle her head as she coughs blood all over my shirt.

Across the room, Lamb just stands there. Shaking. "Is she . . . is she . . ."

I look back down, unable to think. "Nora--Nora--Nora!" She's like a sack in my arms, but she manages to glance up at me. "I love you, Nora."

Her eyes are fading. I don't think she hears me. "Michael . . ."

"Yeah?" I ask, leaning over.

Her voice isn't even a whisper. Her breathing's down to a low wheeze. "I . . ." Her body heaves and the words stop. I shut my eyes and pretend to hear every syllable.

Trying to make it easier for her to breathe, I carefully lower her to the floor.

"I-Is she okay?" a voice cries out.

I slowly look up and my fists tighten. Straight ahead, all I see is Lawrence Lamb. Paralyzed, he's still just standing there. His gun dangles from his fingertips. His mouth gapes open. Rooted in place, he looks devastated, like his whole world just evaporated. But the moment our eyes meet, his brow contorts in an angry furrow. "You killed her!" he growls.

Inside my chest, a volcano of rage explodes. I freight-train toward him as fast as I can. He raises his gun, but I'm already there. My good shoulder collides with his chest and sends him crashing into the wall. The gun goes flying.

Refusing to let up, I slam him back against the wall and punch him in the stomach. Lashing out, he takes a wild swing that connects with my jaw, but I'm way beyond the pain. "You think that's gonna hurt me?" I shout as my fist crashes against his face. Over and over, I pound at the cut Nora opened on his cheek. Again. And again. And again.

Older and far slower, Lamb knows he can't win a fight with someone half his age. Realizing he's trapped, he circles away from the wall, back toward the center of the room. His eyes search wildly for the gun. They don't find it. Gone is the stiff-jawed confidence that comes with being the President's best friend. He looks like he's about to fall over. The gash on his face is a bloody mess. "She never loved you," he says, holding his cheek.

He's trying to distract me. I ignore it and hit him in the jaw.

"She didn't even pick you," he adds. "She would've dated Pam if I said so--"

Cutting him off, I pound him again in the stomach. And the ribs. And the face. Anything to shut him up. Bent over in pain, he staggers back toward the recessed section of stained glass. I know it's time to stop, but . . . next to the railing is Nora's nearly lifeless body--she's on her back, a pool of her own blood still growing below her. That's all it takes. Barely able to see through the tears, I throw everything I have into one last punch. It connects with a thunderclap and knocks Lamb backwards a good four to five feet.

He hits the guardrail completely off balance, and like a human seesaw, flips over the railing and heads straight for the enormous stained glass panels that are built into the ceiling of the room below. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of shattering glass. But all I hear is a dull thud.

Confused, I rush over to the guardrail and look down. Lamb, dazed, is lying across the wide-paneled glass flower at the center of the glass. It didn't break. Directly below him, on the other side of the glass, the crystal chandelier is swaying from the impact.

"Hhhh." He lets out a haunting sigh as a cold chill runs down my back. He's going to get away with this.

Suspended above the Indian Treaty Room, he cautiously rolls over, turns himself around, and slowly, carefully, crawls back on the glass toward the guardrail.

Desperately, I look around for the gun. There it is--right next to Nora's shoulder. Soaked in blood. I run and grab it, whirling back to point it straight at Lamb.

He stops in his tracks. Our eyes are locked; neither of us moves. Suddenly, he purses his lips.

I pull back on the hammer.

"Spare me the dramatics, Michael. You pull that trigger, no one'll ever believe you."

"They're not going to believe me anyway. At least this way, you're dead."

"And that's going to make it all better? Some quick revenge for your imaginary girlfriend?"

I look over at Nora, then back at Lamb. She's not moving.

"Come on, Michael, you don't have it in you--if you did, we never would've picked you."

"We? You destroyed her . . . controlled her . . . She never took part in the planning."

"If that's what makes you feel better . . . but ask yourself this: Who do you think that gun's registered to? Me--the confidant trying to protect his goddaughter? Or you--the killer I had to stop?"

My hands are shaking as I slide a finger around the trigger.

"And let's not forget what happens to your dad when they put you in jail. Think he'll make it on his own?"

A single shot--that's all it takes.

"It's over, Michael. I can already see tomorrow's paper: Garrick Kills President's Daughter."

My eyes go dark. The gun's pointed right at his forehead. Just like he did to Vaughn--and blamed on me.

Watching me twist, Lamb flashes a cold smile. It digs straight into my shoulder. I tighten my grip on the trigger. Every muscle in my body tenses. My eyes narrow. The chandelier sways.

"Say good night, Larry," I say. Holding the gun at arm's length, I use both hands to steady it. I sight along the barrel. There he is. For the first time, he loses the grin. His mouth gapes open. My finger twitches against the trigger. But the harder I pull . . . the more my hand shakes . . . and the more I realize . . . I can't. Slowly, I lower the gun.

Lamb lets out a deep cackle that rips through me. "That's why we picked you," he taunts. "Forever the Boy Scout."

That's all I need to hear. Lost in adrenaline, I raise the gun. My hands are still shaking, but this time, I pull the trigger.

The gun hiccups with a hollow little click. I squeeze it again, hard. Click. Empty. I can't believe it's empty!

Lamb laughs, low and then louder. Crawling toward the railing, he adds, "Even when you try, you can do no wrong."

Enraged, I hurl the empty gun at him. He lowers his shoulder at the last second, and the gun just misses, skipping across the stained glass like a flat rock across a wide pond. Slamming into the recessed glass casing, it eventually lands on the far side of the enormous mosaic. Lamb's sick giggle is replaying in my head. It's all I hear. And then . . . there's something else.

It starts where the gun first hit the glass floor. A small pop--like an ice cube dropped into warm soda. Then it gets louder, more sustained. A slowly growing crack on a windshield.

Lamb looks over his shoulder. We both see it at the same time--a fracture moving like lightning across the wide panels of glass.

The whole moment plays in slow motion. Almost sentient in its movement, the crack zigzags from the gun toward Lamb, who's still at the center of the rosette. Panicking, he scrambles toward the railing. Behind him, the first piece of glass shatters and falls away. Then another. Then another. The weight of the chandelier does the rest. Like a giant glass sinkhole, the center of the mosaic crumbles. The chandelier plummets into the Indian Treaty Room. Piece by piece, thousands of shards follow. As the shock wave widens from ground zero, Lamb scrambles to avoid the undertow. He reaches up and begs me to help him.

"Please, Michael . . ."

It's too late. There's nothing I can do, and both of us know it. Below us, the chandelier hits the floor with a wrenching crash.

Once again, our eyes meet. Lamb's not laughing anymore. This time, his eyes are filled with tears. The glass rains down. His floor disappears. And gravity grabs him by the legs. Sucked down into the ever-widening hole, he still struggles to claw his way up. But you can't avoid the epicenter.

"Miiiaaaaaeeeeeee--" he screams the entire way down.

Then he meets the chandelier. The crunching sound alone will give me nightmares for years.

As the last shards fall, a high-pitched alarm screams out of the Indian Treaty Room. I lean forward over the railing. The stained glass is almost completely gone, leaving a gaping hole. It'll take forever to fill. On the floor below, amid the shattered glass, are the broken remains of the man responsible. For Caroline. For Vaughn. And most of all, for Nora.

Behind me, I hear a soft moan. Spinning around, I rush to her side and drop to my knees. "Nora, are you . . ."

"I-I-Is he gone?" she whispers, barely able to get the words out. She shouldn't be conscious. Her voice gurgles with blood.

"Yeah," I say, once again fighting back tears. "He's gone. You're safe."

She fights to smile, but it's too much of a strain. Her chest convulses. She's fading fast. "M-M-Michael . . . ?"

"I'm here," I tell her, gently lifting her in my arms. "I'm right here, Nora."

The tears roll down my face. She knows this is it. Her head sags and she slowly gives in. "P-P-Please . . . ," she coughs. "Please, Michael . . . don't tell my dad."

I take a sharp gulp of air to keep myself together. Nodding vigorously, I pull her close to my chest, but her arms just dangle behind her. Her eyes begin to roll back in her head. Tailspinning, I furiously brush her hair from her face. There's a final twitch in her torso--and then--she's gone.

"No!" I shout. "NO!" I grab her head, kissing her forehead over and over. "Please, Nora! Please don't go! Please! Please!" None of it does any good. She's not moving.

Her head slumps against my arm and a rasping, ghostly wheeze releases the final air from her lungs. With the lightest touch I can muster, I carefully close her eyes. It's finally over. Self-destruction complete.

Chapter 40

They don't let me out of the Sit Room until a quarter past midnight, when the empty halls of the OEOB are nothing more than a bureaucratic ghost town. In some ways, I think they planned it on purpose--this way, no one's around to ask questions. Or gossip. Or point at me and whisper, "He's the one--that's him." All I have is silence. Silence and time to think. Silence and . . . Nora . . .

I lower my head and shut my eyes, trying to pretend it never happened. But it did.

As I make my way back to my office, there're two sets of shoes echoing through the cavernous hallway: mine, and those of the Secret Service agent directly behind me. They may have patched up my shoulder, but when we reach Room 170, my hand still shakes as I open the door. Watching me carefully, he follows me inside. In the anteroom, I flip on the lights and once again face the silence. It's too late for anyone to be here. Pam, Julian--they both left hours ago. When it was still light out.

I'm not surprised that the place is empty, but I have to admit I was hoping someone would be here. As it is, though, I'm on my own. It's going to be like that for a while. Opening the door to my office, I try to tell myself otherwise, but in a place like the White House, there aren't many people who'll--

"Where the hell've you been?" Trey asks, bounding off my vinyl sofa. "Are you okay? Did you get a lawyer? I heard you didn't have one, so I called my sister's brother-in-law, Jimmy, who put me in touch with this guy Richie Rubin, who said he'd--"

"It's okay, Trey. I don't need a lawyer."

He looks up at the Secret Service agent who just stepped in behind me. "You sure about that?"

I shoot a look to the agent. "Do you think we can . . ."

"I'm sorry, sir. My orders are to wait until you're--"

"Listen, I'm just looking for a few minutes with my friend. That's all I ask. Please."

He studies both of us. Eventually, he says, "I'll be out here if you need me." He heads back to the anteroom, closing the door as he leaves.

When he's gone, I expect another onslaught of questions. Instead, Trey stays quiet.

On the windowsill, I glance at the toaster. Nora's name is gone. I stare down at the remaining digital green letters, almost as if it's a mistake. Praying it's a mistake. Slowly, each line of glowing letters seems to stare back--blinking, blazing--their flickering more pronounced now that it's dark. So dark. Oh, Nora . . . My legs give way, and I lean back on the corner of my desk.

"I'm sorry, Michael," Trey offers.

I can barely stand.

"If it makes you feel any better," he adds, "Nora wouldn't have . . . It wouldn't have been a good life. Not after this."

I shake my head unresponsively. "Yeah. Right." With a deep swallow, it once again all goes numb.

"If there's anything I can . . ."

I nod a thank-you and search for control. "You heard that Lamb . . ."

"All I know is he died," Trey says. "It's all over the news, but no one has the hows and whys--FBI scheduled the briefing for first thing tomorrow." He's about to say something else, but his voice trails off. I'm not surprised. He's too connected to be in the dark. He knows what the rumors are; he just doesn't want to ask. I stare at him across the room, watching him fidget with his tie. He can barely make eye contact. And even though he's right in front of the sofa, he refuses to sit down. But he still won't ask. He's too good a friend.

"Say it, Trey. Someone's got to."

He looks up, measuring the moment. Then he clears his throat. "Is it true?"

Again, I nod.

Trey's eyebrows go from arched curiosity to rounded shock. He lowers himself to the couch. "I-I waited in my office for her--just like you said. While you and Pam were digging through files, I had all these different ways to keep her busy--fake folders to search through, fake phone records to check--it would've been perfect. But she never showed."

"She knew what we were up to--she knew all along."

"So Lamb . . ."

"Lamb deleted the request from Caroline's computer, but he didn't know she was anal enough to keep a hard copy. And the FBI didn't need them--they had the actual files. To be honest, I think Nora knew where they were. Maybe it was her insurance, maybe it was . . . maybe it was something else."

Trey watches me carefully. "It was definitely something else."

I grin, but it quickly disappears.

"Was she . . ." he stutters. "Was it . . ."

"As bad as you think, it was worse. You should've seen her . . . when Lamb walked in . . . he'd been doing it since she was eleven. Sixth grade, Trey. You know what kind of monster you have to be? Sixth-fucking-grade! And when Hartson got elected--Lamb was there full-time! They thought he was doing them a favor!" My voice picks up speed, blurring, rambling, flying through the rest of the story. From Lamb's gun, to the stained glass; from being grilled in the Sit Room, to Adenauer's overlong apology, it all comes vomiting out. Trey doesn't interrupt once.

When I'm done, both of us just sit there. It takes everything I have not to look at the toaster, but the silence is starting to hurt. She's no longer there.

"So what happens now?" Trey eventually asks.

I head for the fireplace and slowly remove my diploma from the wall.

"They're scapegoating! Even though you didn't do it, they're hanging you out to--"

"They're not hanging me anywhere," I say. "For once, they believe me."

"They do?" He pauses, cocking his head. "Why?"

"Thanks a lot," I say as I lower my diploma to the floor and rest it against the mantel.

"I'm serious, Michael. With Nora and Lamb both dea--Without them, all you have is a file request with Lamb's name on it. Where'd they get the rest? Debits in Lamb's bank accounts?"

"Yeah," I shrug. "But they also . . ." My voice trails off.

"What?"

I don't say a word.

"What?" Trey repeats. "Tell me."

I take a deep breath. "Nora's brother."

"Christopher? What about him?"

My voice is dry monotone. "He may be in boarding school now, but he was around for junior high. And for every summer."

The stunned look on Trey's face tells me this is the first he's heard of it. "So he . . . Oh, sick--Does that mean we'll--"

"The press'll never hear it. Hartson's personal request. However she lived, Nora Hartson's going to die a hero--giving her life to catch Caroline's killer."

"So she and Lamb . . ."

"You only heard it because you're a friend. Understand what I'm saying?"

Trey nods his head and gives me the rub. A quick one. More unnerved than upset. Unless I bring it up, that's the last I'll hear of it.

Turning back to the wall above the fireplace, I stand on my tiptoes to reach the court artist's rendition of me at the moot court finals. Trapped behind a huge piece of glass, it's even bigger than it first appears. Deeper too. It takes me a second to get both hands around it.

Trey rushes to my side, helping me get control of it. "So what'd they do?" Trey asks as we lean it against my diploma. "Fire you or force you to resign?"

I stop where I am. "How'd you know?"

"You mean besides the oh-so-subtle clue of you dismantling your office? It's a crisis, Michael. Lamb and Nora are dead, and you were sleeping with her. When it gets that hot, this place goes running for shade."

"They didn't fire me," I tell him.

"So they asked you to leave."

"They didn't say the words, but . . . I have to."

He stares out the window. There're still a few reporters doing stand-ups on the lawn. "If you want, I can help you with some media coaching."

"That'd be great."

"And I can still get you into all the really cool events--State of the Union, Inaugural Ball--whatever you want."

"I appreciate it."

"And I'll tell you what else--wherever you apply for your next job--you better believe you're getting a recommendation on White House stationery. Hell, I'll steal a whole pack of it--we can write letters to all the people we hate: meter maids, men who call everybody 'Big Guy,' people in retail who act like they're doing you a favor, those bitchy stewardesses on the airplane who always lie and say they're out of those Chicklet pillows--'One per person' my neck-cramped little ass--like I'm denying them a patio on their pillow fort."

For the first time in two days, I laugh. Actually, it's more like a cough and a smile. But I'll take it.

Catching his breath, Trey follows me to my desk. "I'm not joking, though, Michael. You name it; I'll get it for you."

"I know you will," I say as I quickly flip through the piles of paper on my desk. Memos, presidential schedules, even my wiretap file--none of it's important. It all stays. In my bottom left drawer, I find an old pair of running shorts. Those I'll take. Otherwise, drawer after drawer, I don't need it.

"You sure you're gonna be okay?" Trey asks. "I mean, what're you gonna do with your time?"

I pull open the top right drawer and see a handwritten note: "Call me and I'll bring Chinese." Below it is a tiny heart, signed by Pam.

I stuff the note in my pocket and close the drawer. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"It's not a question of being fine--it's bigger than that. Maybe you should speak to Hartson . . ."

"Trey, the last thing the President of the United States needs right now is a constant reminder of his family's worst tragedy walking the halls. Besides, even if he asked me to stay . . . it's not for me . . . not anymore."

"What're you talking about?"

With one swift tug, I pull the photo of me and the President off the wall behind my desk. "I'm done," I tell him, handing Trey what's left of my ego wall. "And no matter how much you moan and groan, you know it's for the best."

He looks down at the photo and pauses a second too long. End of discussion.

Reaching down for my diploma and moot court sketch, I slide my fingers under the picture frame wire, and with a half-fist, lift them up and head for the door. As I walk, they bang against my calves. It may be the last time I'm ever in this place, but as I leave the office, Trey's right behind me.

Shooting him a quick look, I ask, "So you still going to call me every morning to tell me what's going on?"

"Six A.M. tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's Sunday."

"Monday it is."