by Brad Meltzer
“I don’t understand.”
“You want me to ask in Latin? The two of you went on a date. Before you left, you swore you’d give me every last detail. In fact, I think the quote was, ‘I’m gonna check out the underwear on the First Daughter.’ You were all primed for the locker room debriefing—so let’s hear it. What actually happened? How’d she kiss? Throw me some play-by-play.”
Once again, I’m silent.
“Don’t hold back,” Trey adds. “Was she good or tongue-sloppy?”
My mind is flooded with images of her in my arms . . . and the way she slid her hand across my thigh . . . Oh, man, Trey would die if he heard tha—I stop myself and look down at the muted blue industrial carpet.
“So?” Trey asks. “Tell me what happened.”
I’m sure every guy who’s ever dated her has been put in this position. My answer comes in a whisper. “No.”
“What?”
“No,” I repeat. “It’s no one’s business. Not even yours.”
Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms against his chest, Trey leans back in his seat. “Just because you’ve seen her on the TV in your living room, doesn’t mean she’s been there, Michael. Besides, even if the whisperings are wrong, first and foremost, she’s Hartson’s daughter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means she’s got politics in her blood. So if the two of you get pinned against the wall, well . . . she’ll be the one slithering away.”
CHAPTER 11
The first thing I do when I get home is open the tiny metal mailbox for apartment 708, collect my newest pile of mail, and head over to the front desk. “Anything down there?” I ask Fidel, who’s been the building’s doorman since before I moved in.
He looks below the counter, where they keep the packages.
“Can you also check for Sidney?” I add.
He stands up holding a cardboard box with a FedEx sticker on it and slaps it on the counter. It rattles like a Spanish maraca. “Nothing for you; pills for Sidney,” Fidel says, flashing his wide smile.
With my briefcase in one hand and mail in the other, I wedge the package under my armpit, slide it off the desk, and head for the elevator. “Have a good night, Fidel.”
Angling the corner of the oversized box to press the elevator button marked 7, I stare at the name on the package. Sidney Gottesman. Apartment 709. Celebrating his ninety-sixth birthday in October, Sidney’s been my neighbor for the past two years. And bedridden for two months.
When I first moved in, on a Superbowl Sunday, he was nice enough to invite me over to watch the game—he was asleep by the second quarter. When his doctors amputated his right leg because of diabetes complications, I did my best to return Sidney’s favor. In his wheelchair, he can handle the mail—he just hates taking packages.
Balancing the package in one arm and my briefcase in the other, I knock on his door. “Sidney! It’s me!” He doesn’t answer. He never answers.
Knowing the routine, I leave the box on his rubber doormat and cross the hall to my apartment. As I turn, the hallway’s quiet. More quiet than when I arrived. The building’s air-conditioning hums. The dryer in the laundry room tumbles. Behind me, I hear the clunky arrival of the elevator. I spin around to see who’s there, but no one gets out. The door slides shut. The hallway’s still silent.
Searching for my keys, I reach into my right pocket, then my left. They’re not there. Damn. Don’t tell me I . . . Did I leave them downstairs with the . . . No—here—in my hand. Wasting no time, I shove the key into my front door and twist the lock. “Looking for a new job?” a man’s voice asks from down the hall.
Startled, I turn to my right and see Joel Westman, my next-door neighbor, coming out of his apartment. “Excuse me?” I ask.
“Some guy knocked on my door this afternoon and asked me a few quick questions about you. Last time that happened, it was the FBI.”
My briefcase slips from my hand and falls to the floor. As it hits, the locks pop open, releasing my papers all along the front of my door.
“You okay there?” Joel asks.
“Y-Yeah. Of course,” I say, struggling to sweep the papers back into place. When I started at the White House, the FBI talked to my neighbors as part of the background check. Whatever they’re up to, it’s faster than I expected.
“So you’re not looking for a new job?”
“No,” I say with a forced laugh. “They’re probably just updating their files.” As Joel heads up the hall, I add, “What’d they ask anyway?”
“It was just one guy this time. Late twenties. Boston accent. Heavy on the gold chains.”
I look up at Joel, but stifle my reaction. Since when does the FBI wear gold chains?
“I know, kinda weird, but . . . hey, whatever keeps the nation safe,” Joel continues. “Don’t sweat it, though—he didn’t ask anything special: what I knew about you; when you were home; what kind of hours you kept. Similar to last time.” Joel starts to read the nervousness on my face. “Was I not supposed to say anything?”
“No, no, not at all. They do this every couple of years. Nothing to worry about.”
As Joel heads toward the elevator, I’m left trying to figure out who he was talking to. A minute ago, I was panicked by the FBI. Now I’m praying for them.
Opening the door to my apartment, I notice a sheet of paper folded in half. Someone slipped it under the door while I was gone. Inside is a three-word message: “We Should Talk.” It’s signed “P. Vaughn.”
P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn. I roll the name through my subconscious, but nothing comes up. Behind me, the front door to my apartment slams shut. I jump from the bang. Although the sun hasn’t set, the apartment feels dark. As quickly as possible, I turn on the lights in the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room. Something still feels wrong.
In the kitchen, I hear the measured pings of the leaky faucet. Two days ago, it was a sound I had long since internalized. Today, all it does is remind me of finding Caroline. The puddle of coffee that ran to the floor. One eye straight, one eye cockeyed.
I pull a sponge from the counter and stuff it in the drain. It doesn’t stop the leaking, but it muffles the sound. Now all I notice is the muted humming of the central air-conditioning. Desperate for silence, I head toward the living room and shut it off. It fades with an awkward cough.
I look around the apartment, studying its details. My desk. The rented furniture. The posters. It all looks the same, but something’s different. For no reason whatsoever, my eyes focus on the black leather couch. The two beige throw-pillows are exactly where I left them. The middle cushion still bears the imprint from where I watched TV last night. A single bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck. Without the air conditioner, the room is stifling. I look back at the name in the note. P. Vaughn. P. Vaughn. The faucet’s still dripping.
I step out of my shoes and take off my shirt. Best thing to do is lose myself in a shower. Clean up. Start over. But as I head to the bathroom, I notice, right by the edge of the couch, the pen that’s sitting on the floor. Not just any pen—my red-white-and-blue-striped White House pen. With a tiny presidential seal and the words “The White House” emblazed in gold letters, the pen was a gift during my first week at work. Everyone has one, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treasure it—which is exactly why I wouldn’t leave it on the floor. Once again looking around, I don’t see anything out of place. It could’ve just fallen from the coffee table. But as I reach down to pick it up, I hear a noise from the hall closet.
It’s not anything loud—just a quiet click. Like the flick of two fingers. Or someone shifting their weight. I spin around, watching for movement. Nothing happens. I put on my shirt and stuff my pen in my pocket, as if that’s going to help. Still nothing. The apartment is so quiet, I notice the sound of my own breathing.
Slowly, I move toward the closet door. It’s barely ajar. I feel the adrenaline rushing. There’s only one way to deal with this. Time to stop b
eing a victim. Before I can talk myself out of it, I race at the door, ramming it shoulder first. The door slams shut and I grab the handle with everything in me.
“Who the hell are you?” I scream in my most intimidating voice.
With my weight against the door, I’m braced for impact. But no one fights back. “Answer me,” I warn.
Once again, the apartment’s silent.
Looking over my shoulder, I peer into the kitchen. A wooden block full of knives is on the counter. “I’m opening the door, and I have a knife!”
Silence.
“This is it—come out slowly! On three! One . . . two . . .” I pull open the door and race for the kitchen. By the time I turn around, there’s a six-inch steak knife in my hand. The only thing I see, though, is a closetful of coats.
Wielding the knife in front of me, I take a step toward the closet. “Hello?” In a teen slasher pic, this is the moment when the killer jumps out. It doesn’t stop me.
Slowly, I pick my way through the rack of coats. When I’m done, though, I realize the truth: No one’s there.
My shirt now pressed with sweat against my chest, I return the knife to the kitchen and turn the air-conditioning back on. Just as the hum returns, I hit the play button on the answering machine. Time to get rid of the silence.
“You have one message,” the machine tells me in its mechanical voice. “Saturday, one-fifty-seven P.M.”
A second passes before a man’s voice begins, “Michael, this is Randall Adenauer with the FBI. We have an appointment on Tuesday, but I’d like to send some officers over tomorr—” He stops, distracted. “Then tell them I’ll call him back!” he shouts, sounding like he’s covering the receiver. Turning back to the phone, he adds, “I apologize, Michael. Please give me a call.”
Pulling the White House pen from my pocket, I jot down his number and breathe a quick sigh of relief. He sent them over—that’s who it was—gold chains or not, that must’ve been who Joel was talking to. FBI Agent Vaughn. I hit Erase on the answering machine and walk back to my bedroom. When I reach my nightstand, I stop dead in my tracks. There it is, on top of yesterday’s crossword puzzle—a red-white-and-blue-striped pen with the words “The White House” emblazed on it. I look down at the pen in my hand. Then back at the one on my nightstand. Rewinding twenty-four hours, I think about Pam’s visit with the Thai food. It could easily be Pam’s, I tell myself. Please let it be Pam’s.
• • •
Early Monday morning, on Labor Day, I’m sitting in the back row of a passenger van, still trying to convince myself that an FBI agent would communicate by sliding a note under my door. P. Vaughn. Peter Vaughn? Phillip Vaughn? Who the hell is this guy?
Driven by a sergeant in a gray sportcoat and a thin black tie, the van thunders down the highway, following the two identical vans in front of it. Sitting next to me is Pam, who hasn’t said a word since our six A.M. pickup in West Exec parking. The remaining eleven passengers are following her lead. It’s a minor miracle, really: thirteen White House lawyers packed in a van and no one’s bragging, much less talking. But it’s not just the early hour that’s keeping everyone quiet. It’s our destination. Today we bury one of our own.
Twenty minutes later, at Andrews Air Force Base, we check in with a uniformed guard at the gatehouse. At barely half past six, the sky’s still dark, but everyone’s wide awake. We’re almost there. It’s my first time on a military base, so I expect to see platoons of young men marching and jogging in step. Instead, as we weave across the winding paved road, all I can make out are a few low-lying buildings that I assume are barracks and a wide-open parking lot with tons of cars and a few scattered military jeeps. At the far end of the road, the van finally stops at the Distinguished Visitors Lounge, a mundane one-story brick building that evokes all the creativity of a 1950s sneeze.
Once inside, just about everyone strolls up to the wide glass window that overlooks the runway. They’re trying to look nonchalant, but they’re too anxious to pull it off. You can see it in the way they move. Like a kid sneaking an early peek at his birthday presents. What’s the big deal? I ask myself. For the answer, I head straight for the window, prepared to be unimpressed. Then I see it. The words “United States of America” are printed in enormous black letters across its blue and white body, and a huge American flag is painted on its tail. It’s the biggest plane I’ve ever seen. And we’re riding it to Minnesota for Caroline’s funeral: Air Force One.
• • •
“Have you seen it?” I ask Pam, who’s sitting alone on a bench in the corner of the room.
“No, I . . .”
“Go to the window. Trust me, you won’t be disappointed. It’s like a pregnant 747.”
“Michael . . .”
“I know—I sound like a tourist—but that’s not always such a bad thing. Sometimes you have to pull out the camera, put on the Hard Rock T-shirt, and let it all hang—”
“We’re not tourists,” she growls, her frozen glare stabbing me in the chest. “We’re going to a funeral.” As usual, she’s right.
I step back to stop myself. Head to toe, I feel about two feet tall. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, refusing to face me. “Just tell me when it’s time to go.”
• • •
At a quarter to seven, they lead us out to the plane, where we line up single file. Dark suit, leather briefcase. Dark suit, leather briefcase. Dark suit, leather briefcase. One behind the other, the message is clear: It’s a funeral, but at least we’ll get some work done. I look down at my own briefcase and wish I’d never picked it up. Then I look over at Pam. She’s carrying nothing but a small black purse.
At the front of the line, by the base of the stairs that lead up to the plane, is the Secret Service agent who checks each of our names and credentials. Next to the agent is Simon. Dressed in a black suit and a the-President-wore-one-a-few-weeks-ago silver tie, he greets each of us as we arrive. It’s not often the Counsel gets to run such a public show, and from the dumb look on his face, he’s basking in the glory. You can see it in the way he puffs out his chest. As the line moves forward, Simon and I finally make eye contact. The moment he sees me, he turns around and walks over to his secretary, who’s standing a few feet away, clipboard in hand.
“Asshole,” I mutter to Pam.
When I reach the stairs, I give my name to the Secret Service agent. He searches the list he holds in the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry, sir, what was that name again?”
“Michael Garrick,” I say, pulling my ID from behind my tie.
He checks again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Garrick, I don’t have you here.”
“That’s impossi—” I cut myself short. Over the agent’s shoulder, I notice Simon looking our way. He’s wearing that same grin he was wearing the day he sent me home. That motherf—
“Call it in to Personnel,” Pam says to the agent. “You’ll see he’s on staff.”
“I don’t care if he’s on staff,” the agent explains. “If he’s not on this list, he’s not getting on this plane.”
“Actually, can I interrupt a moment?” Simon asks. Pulling a sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket, he steps back to the front of the line and passes it to the agent. “In our rush to get this together, I think I inadvertently left out a few people. Here’s an updated clearance sheet. I should’ve given this to you earlier, it’s just . . . with this terrible loss . . .”
The agent looks down at the list and checks the code on the clearance sheet. “Welcome aboard Air Force One, Mr. Garrick.”
I nod to the agent and shoot my coldest stare at Simon. Nothing needs to be said. To get on board, I better be on board. Anything else is going to have its consequences. He steps aside and motions me forward; I steel myself and climb the stairs.
On a normal day, staffers use the rear staircase—today, we get the front.
When I step into the cabin, I look around for a stewardess, but there’
s no one there. “First time?” a voice asks. To my left is a young guy in an immaculately starched white shirt. The patches on his shoulder tell me he’s Air Force.
“Is it open seating or . . .”
“What’s your name?”
“Michael Garrick.”
“Mr. Garrick, follow me.”
He heads straight down the main hallway, which runs along the right side of the plane and is lined with bolted-down plush couches and fake-antique side tables. It’s a flying living room.
As we enter the staff area, rather than shoving everyone into one big hundred-person cabin, the seating is broken into smaller ten-person sections. The seats face one another—five on five—with a shared Formica table between you and the person you’re facing. Everyone watches everyone else. Around here, it’s the easiest way to encourage work.
“Is it possible to get a window seat?” I ask.
“Not this time,” he says as he comes to a stop. He points to an aisle seat that faces forward. On the cushion is a folded white card with the presidential seal. Under the seal, it reads, “Welcome Aboard Air Force One.” Beneath that, it reads my name: “Mr. Garrick.”
My reaction is instantaneous. “Can I keep this?”
“I’m sorry, but for security purposes, we need it back.”
“Of course,” I say, handing him the card. “I understand.”
He does his best impression of a smile. “That’s a joke. I’m joking, Mr. Garrick.” As soon as I catch on, he adds, “Now would you like a tour of the rest of the plane?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love t—” Over his shoulder, I see Pam heading our way. “Y’know what, I’ll pass for now. I’ve got some work to do.”
Checking the card across from me, Pam finds her name and sits down.
I’m about to throw my briefcase on the table between us, but instead, I put it below my seat. “How’re you doing?” I ask.
“Ask me when it’s over.”
• • •