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 . . .'
