By nine o'clock, I've seen the story run four times. By ten, it's double that. I'm not sure why I'm still watching it, but I can't help myself. It's like I'm waiting for it to change--for the newscaster to come on and say, 'This just in--Nora Hartson admits drug problem; Counsel's Office is completely corrupt; Garrick innocent.' So far, it hasn't happened.
When the neon lights of the restaurant blink off, I take the hint and limp out toward the boarding gates. My ankle's better, but it's still stiff. Adjusting my glasses, and with my garment bag trailing behind me, I sink into a corner seat and crane my neck to see the televisions suspended from the ceiling. Three more hours of CNN brings the total up to twenty. Each time, the words are identical. Sure, there're some permutations--the anchorperson changes adjectives and intonations just to keep things lively--'. . . this man, Michael Garrick . . .' '. . . this man, Michael Garrick . . .' '. . . this man, Michael Garrick . . .'--but the message is always the same. It's my face up there; my life; and as long as I sit here in my own little pity party, it's only going to get worse.
* * *
At two-fifteen in the morning, a delayed flight from Chicago arrives at the US Airways terminal. When the crowd clears off the plane, two security guards approach and tell me that the terminal is now closed.
'I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave,' the second guard says.
Trying to make sure they don't get a good look at my face, I keep my head down and give them nothing but Dolphins logo. 'I thought you were open twenty-f--'
'The gates close for security purposes. The main terminal's open all night. If you want to wait out there, you're welcome to.'
Refusing to look up, I take my paper-thin garment bag and leave CNN behind.
By three A.M., I'm spread out on a small bench next to the information booth, with the garment bag draped over my chest. In the past fifteen minutes, the guards have chased away two homeless men. I'm wearing a suit. They leave me alone. It's not the best hiding spot, but it's one of the few that'll let me sleep. Unlike New York, the subway here closes at midnight. Besides, if the authorities are searching, they're looking for someone trying to leave. I want to stay.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I'm having a hard time keeping my head up, but I can't calm myself enough to actually welcome sleep. Naturally, I'm wondering about Nora and how she's going to react, but the real truth is, I can't stop thinking about my dad. By now, the press is already bulldozing through the rest of my life. It's not going to take long to find him. I don't care how independent he is, he's not built for something like this. None of us are. Except maybe Nora.
Fading out, my mind trips back to Rock Creek Parkway. Trailing Simon. Getting caught with the money. Saying it was mine. That's where the snowball started. Barely two weeks ago. From there, the images rush forward. Vaughn dead in the hotel room. Nora on the White House roof. Caroline's eyes, one straight, one cockeyed. The moments blur together, and I mentally sketch how it could've been different. There was always a simple way out, I just . . . I didn't want to take it. It wasn't worth it. Until now.
In Washington . . . No. In life . . . there're two separate worlds. There's the perception of what's important, and then there's what actually is. It's been too long since I realized there's a difference.
As my eyelids sway shut, I pull the garment bag all the way up to my chin. It's going to be a cold night, but at least I've made my decision. I'm sick of being stuck in a phone booth.
Chapter 36
Simon wakes up at four-thirty in the morning and hustles through a quick shower and shave. On most days, he sleeps until at least five-thirty, but if he wants to beat the press today, he's going to have to get out early. Naturally, there's no paper on his doorstep yet, but he checks anyway.
Outside, where I'm sitting, it's still completely dark, so as he goes from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen, I follow the trail of lights. As near as I can tell, he's got a tasteful house in a tasteful neighborhood. It's not the best of Virginia's sprawling suburbs, but that's why he chose it. I remember him telling the story during the last staff retreat. The day he and his wife were going to bid on the house, their Realtor called about a brand-new home in a coveted section of McLean. Sure it was more expensive, Simon's wife argued, but they could afford it. Simon wanted nothing to do with it. If he was going to teach his kids proper values, they had to have something to shoot for. There's nothing gained by always being on top.
Looking back, the story's probably bullshit. Up until a few weeks ago, Simon was a man to be taken at his word. Which, in a strange way, is precisely why I'm now sitting in the passenger seat of his black Volvo.
* * *
It's still pitch dark as Simon steps out the back door of his house. I watch him lock up and check the yard. It's still early. No reporters in sight. Moving toward the driveway, he's wearing the strut of a man without a care. More like a careless man to me. He doesn't even see me as he heads to the driver's side of his car. He's too busy thinking he got away with it.
Tossing his briefcase into my lap, he slides into the leather seat like it's just another day.
'Morning, Mr. Worm--I'm the early bird,' I announce.
Startled, he clutches his chest and drops his keys. Still, I have to hand it to him. Within seconds, his ironing- board shoulders rise in irritation. As he brushes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, his unshakable calm flows back even faster than it left. He turns my way, and the light in the car shines in his face. With an angry tug, he slams the door shut and darkness falls.
'I thought you'd wait until I got to the office,' he says in a voice that's pure gravel.
'You think I'm that stupid?' I ask.
'You tell me--who's the one sleeping in my car?'
'I didn't sleep here, I was . . .'
'. . . just stalking your boss at five in the morning? C'mon,' Simon adds. 'You didn't really think you were going to get away with it, did you?'
'Get away with--?'
'It's over, Michael. Better to plead insanity than innocence.' Laughing to himself, he adds, 'I was right, though, wasn't I? Caroline set it up; you collected the cash?'
'What?'
'I wouldn't have even thought it if I hadn't spotted you that night. Then when I heard what happened to my payment--when the cops confiscated the ten grand, that's where it all fell apart, isn't it? She thought you were holding out on her. That's why you did it, right? That's why you killed her?'
'I killed her?'
'It's a fool's way out, Michael--it was then and it is now. You'll never pull it off twice.'
'Twice?' I don't know what he's talking about, but it's clear he's got his own version of reality. Time to call bullshit. 'I'm not a moron, Edgar. I saw you at Pendulum that night. I was there.'
'There's a good expla--'
'Spin it whichever way you want, you were still paying the blackmail. Forty grand to keep a lock on the closet.' He shoots me a look. 'Does your wife know? Have you--'
'Are you wearing a wire?' he interrupts. 'Is that why you're here?' Before I can react, his arm springs out, slapping an open palm against my chest.
'Get the hell off me!' I shout, pushing him away.
Realizing there's nothing in my shirt, he sits back in his seat.
I shake my head at the man who used to be my boss. 'You haven't even told her yet, have you? You're out playing around and she still doesn't know. What about your kids? You lying to them too?' Realizing I have his attention, I motion over my shoulder toward his house. 'They're the ones who pay for it, Edgar.'
Once again, he runs his hand through his hair. For the first time since I met him, the salt-and-pepper doesn't go back in place. 'I have to tell you, I didn't think you had it in you, Michael.' The way his voice slowly lingers on each word, I assume he's talking out of shock. Maybe even fear.
But it's not. It's disappointment. 'All this time, I always figured Caroline as the ruthless one. Now I know
