plainclothes.
Following instructions, he relaxes just a bit.
'Now where's the fire?' Harry asks.
'I have to speak to her.'
'For personal reasons or official White House business?'
'C'mon, you know what it's about. You were there that night.'
He throws me the most subtle of nods.
'It's important, Harry. I wouldn't come like this if it weren't. Please.'
The other officers stare him down. They all know Nora's orders. She didn't want to be bothered. Still, it's all in his court. Finally, he says, 'We'll call her.'
I smile faintly.
He heads into the nearby Usher's Office and picks up the phone. I can't hear what he's saying, and to make sure we don't read his lips, he turns his back to us.
When he's done, he comes back into the stairwell. He looks at me deadpan. 'Today's your lucky day.'
I breathe deeply once and run for the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the officer with the black hair opening the visitors log to record my name. Shaking his head, Harry stops him. 'Not this one,' he says.
Chapter 31
As I enter Nora's room, I see her quickly close a desk drawer. Spinning around to face me, she puts on a big smile. It fades almost instantly. 'What's wrong?'
'Where've you been for the past two hours?'
'R-Right here,' she says. 'Signing letters. Now tell me what's--'
'Don't lie to me, Nora.'
'I'm not lying! Ask the Service--I haven't left once.'
It's a hard one to argue, but there's still . . . 'Have you seen a little scrap of paper?' I ask, scouring her bed.
'What're you--'
'A scrap of paper,' I repeat, raising my voice and checking the hand-sewn carpet. 'I think I dropped it this morning. It had the words 'Woodley Park Marriott' on it.'
'Michael, calm down. I don't know what you're talking about.'
'I'm not doing this anymore, Nora. That's it. It's over. I'm sorry if it's going to get you in trouble, but you're the only one who can back me up. All you have to say is Simon had the money, and then I can--'
She grabs me by the shoulders and stops me in my place. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'They killed him, Nora. Blew a hole straight through his forehead.'
'Who? Whose forehead?'
'Vaughn. They killed Vaughn.' As I say the words, a geyser of emotion erupts up my throat. 'His eyes . . .' I say. 'Why did he . . . He was helping me, Nora. Me!'
Her mouth quivers and she steps away from me.
'What're you . . .'
Before I can finish the thought, she backs into the bed and sits down on the mattress. Her hand is cupped over her mouth; her eyes well up with tears. 'Oh my God.'
'I'm telling you, they're going to come straight at me for this one . . .'
'Okay, hold on a second,' she says, her voice shaking. 'When did this . . . Oh, God . . . Where did it happen?'
'At the hotel . . . we were supposed to meet at the Marriott. But when I walked in the room--he was just lying there, Nora--no one to blame but me.'
'How did he . . .'
'A bullet. Right in his head. He probably opened the door and--one shot. That's all it took. Where he fell . . . everything . . . his brain . . . He was all over the carpet.'
'And you . . .'
'I fell over him . . . on him. They'll find my prints everywhere--the doorknob . . . his belt . . . all they need's a hair follicle. He was just lying there. Blood was foaming at his mouth . . . hardened bubbles . . . but he wouldn't move . . . couldn't. It was everywhere, Nora . . . my hands . . . my tie . . . everywhere . . .'
She quickly looks up. 'Did anyone see you?'
'I was worried the FBI was there, but I don't think I would've gotten this far if they--'
The sound of her telephone screams through the room. Both of us jump.
'Just let it ring,' she tells me.
'But what if it's . . .'
The two of us look at each other. Safe versus sorry.
Naturally, she's the first to react. 'I should . . .'
'. . . pick it up,' I agree.
Slowly, Nora heads for her desk. The ringing continues, insistently.
She lifts the receiver. 'Hello?' she says, hesitating. In an instant, she looks my way. Not good. 'Yeah. Yeah, he is,' she adds as she holds out the phone in an outstretched arm. 'It's for you.'
Anxiously, I take the phone. 'This is Michael,' I say, fighting vertigo.
'I knew you'd be there. I knew it! What the hell is wrong with you?' someone shouts. The voice is familiar.
'Trey?'
'I thought you were going to stay away from her.'
'I-I was . . . I just--'
'It doesn't matter. Get out of there.'
'You don't understand.'
'Trust me, Michael--you're the one who's missing it. I just got a call from--'
'They put a hole in Vaughn's head,' I blurt. 'He's dead.'
Trey doesn't even pause. After four years riding shotgun to the First Lady, he's used to bad news. 'Where did it happen? When?'
'Today. At the hotel. I walked in and found the body. I didn't know what to do, so I ran.'
'Well you better keep running. Get out of there, now.'
'What're you talking about?'
'I just got a call from a friend at the Post. They're breaking the story on their Web site--Caroline's murder, the tox reports, everything.'
'Are they naming a suspect?'
Trey gives me another long pause. 'He said you're gonna take a hit. I'm sorry, Michael.'
I close my eyes. 'Are you sure? Maybe he was fishing for--'
'He asked me how to spell your name.'
My legs go numb and I lean back on the desk. That's it. I'm dead.
'Are you okay?' Trey asks.
'What's he saying?' Nora demands.
'Michael, are you there?' Trey's voice squawks from the phone.
'Michael, are you okay?'
The whole world blurs in front of me. It's like that night on the roof--only this time, it's reality. My reality. My life.
'Listen to me,' Trey says. 'Get out of the Residence--get away from Nora. Come down here and we can--' He falls suddenly silent.
'What?' I ask.
'Oh, no,' he moans. 'I don't believe this.'
'What? Is it about the story?'
'How'd they--'
