I shoot out of my seat, barely able to control myself. She's pushing the wrong buttons. 'Leave him alone,' I growl. 'He has nothing to do with this.'
'Really? It looks like a clear conflict of interest to me.'
'The only reason I'm on that issue is because Simon put the reference memo on my desk.'
'So you never thought about the fact that your father benefits from the program?'
'He doesn't get the money; it goes straight to his facility!'
'He benefits, Michael! You can rationalize all you want, but you know it's true. He's your father, he's a criminal, and if the program gets overhauled, he'll lose his benefits.'
'He's not a criminal!'
'The moment you got this issue, you should've recused yourself. That's what the Standards of Conduct require and that's what you neglected to do! It's just like last time!'
'That was different!'
'The only thing different was that I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now I know better.'
'So now you think I'm lying about Simon and the money?'
'You know what they say: Like father, like son.'
'Don't you dare say that! You know nothing about him!'
'Is that what the money was for? Some sort of payout to keep him safe?'
'I wasn't the one with the money . . .'
'I don't believe you, Michael.'
'Simon was the one who--'
'I said, I don't believe you.'
'Why the hell won't you listen?' I shout as my voice booms through the room.
Her answer is simple. 'Because I know you're lying.'
That's it. I need help. I turn around and head for the door.
'Where do you think you're going?'
I don't say a word.
'Don't walk away from me!' she shouts.
I stop and turn around. 'Does that mean you're going to hear my side of the story?'
Locking her hands together, she drops them on her desk. 'I think I've already heard everything I need.'
I reach for the door and pull it open.
'If you walk out of here, Michael, I promise you, you'll regret it!'
It doesn't slow me down.
'Get back here! Now!'
I step into the hallway and my world goes red. 'Drop dead,' I say without turning around.
* * *
Ten minutes later, I'm sitting in my office, staring at the small television that rests on the ledge by the window. Every office in the OEOB is wired for cable, but I keep the set locked on channel twenty-five--where the menu for the White House Mess runs endlessly throughout the day.
Soup of the day: French onion.
Yogurt of the day: Oreo.
Sandwich selections: Turkey, roast beef, tuna salad.
One by one, they scroll up the screen; boring white letters against a royal blue background. Right now, it's about all I can handle.
By the third rerun of the Yogurt of the day, I've come up with thirteen unarguable reasons to rip Caroline's head off. From setting me up, to taking those potshots at my dad--what the hell is wrong with her? She knew what she was doing from the moment I walked in there. Slowly, surely, though, adrenaline fades into a quiet calm. And with that calm comes the realization that unless we have another conversation, Caroline's going to take Simon's version of the story and bury me with it.
For the fourth time in ten minutes, I check the toaster and dial Nora's number. It says she's in the Residence, but no one picks up. I hang up and dial another two extensions. Trey and Pam are just as hard to find. I beeped both of them as soon as I got back, but neither has checked in.
I scan the digital call log one last time, just to make sure they didn't call while I was on the line. Nothing. No one's there. No one but me. That's what it comes down to. A world of one.
Inside the White House, the heat, vent, and cooling systems keep the air pressure of the mansion higher than normal for one simple reason: If someone attacks with a bio weapon or nerve gas, the poison-filled air will be forced outward, away from the President. Of course, the joke among the staff is that this by definition makes the White House the most high-pressured place to work. Right now, sitting in my office, it's got nothing to do with air systems.
Feeling self-preservation surpass anger, I get up and head for the anteroom. As I open the door, I hear someone by the coffeemaker. If I'm lucky, it'll be Pam. Instead, it's Julian.
'Tastes like someone pissed in this,' he says, shoving his coffee mug toward my face.
'Well, it wasn't me.'
'I'm not blaming you, Garrick--I'm making a point. Our coffee sucks.'
This isn't the time to fight. 'Sorry to hear that.'
'What's wrong with you? You look like crap.'
'Nothing, just some stuff I'm working on.'
'Like what? Sucking up to more criminals? You were two for two this morning.'
I step past him and open the door. Although we tend to disagree on just about everything, I have to admit that our third officemate isn't a bad person--he's just a bit too intense for the general populace. 'Enjoy the coffee, Julian.'
Walking back to Caroline's office, I find the massive hallway longer than ever. When I first started working here, I remember being so impressed with how big everything seemed. Over time, it all became both manageable and comfortable. Today, I'm right back where I started.
Reaching Caroline's office, I grab the doorknob without knocking. 'Caroline, before you go nuts, let me expl--'
I come to a trainwrecking halt.
In front of me, Caroline is sunk low in her highback chair. Her head sags forward like an abandoned marionette's, and one arm is dangling over the armrest. She's not moving. 'Caroline?' I ask, moving closer.
No answer. Oh, God.
In her lap, her other hand is holding on to an empty coffee mug that has the words 'I Got Your State of the Union Right Here' written on it. Turned on its side and resting on her thigh, the mug is empty. 'Caroline, are you okay?' I ask. That's when I notice the slow dripping sound. It catches me by surprise and reminds me of the leaky faucet in my apartment. Following the sound, I realize it's running from the chair to the floor. Caroline's sitting in a puddle of coffee.
Instinctively, I reach out and touch her shoulder. Her head flops back and hits the edge of the chair with a sickly thud. The vacancy in Caroline's wide-open hazel eyes violently rips through me. One eye stares straight forward; the other slumps cockeyed to the side.
Around me, the room starts to spin. My throat contracts and it's suddenly impossible to breathe. Staggering backwards, I crash into the wall, knocking a framed thank-you note to the floor. Her life's work shatters. I open my mouth, but I can barely hear what comes out. 'Someone . . .' I cry, gasping for air. 'Please . . . someone help.'
Chapter 7
A uniformed Secret Service officer with a nasty hooked jaw helps me to my feet. 'Are you okay? Are you okay? Can you hear me?' he asks, shouting the questions until I nod yes. The phone and its wires are tangled around my ankles--from when I pulled the console off the desk. It was all I could think of, the only way to get help. He kicks the phone aside and helps me to the couch in the corner. I look back at Caroline, whose eyes are still wide
