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
