by Brad Meltzer
“Don’t you dare judge me!”
“Why not? You drug me; I judge you. The least I can do is return the favor.”
She’s starting to boil. “You don’t know what it’s like, asshole—compared to me, you’ve had it easy.”
“Oh, so now you’re an expert on my entire childhood?”
“I met your dad. I get the picture,” she tells me. “He’s retarded. It’s frustrating. The end.”
Right now I’d love to smack her across the face. “You really think it’s that simple, don’t you?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, no, no, don’t back down,” I interrupt. “You saw Rain Man—sure, that was autism, but you know how it works. I just wish you could’ve had more than a few hours with dear old Dad. Then you would’ve got the real highlights—like when his medication’s messed up and you have to keep him from swallowing his tongue. Or that time in fourth grade when he ran away because he realized I was smarter than he was. Or when he shit his pants for a full month because he was worried about being abandoned if I went off to college. Or how ’bout when an evil little scumbag named Charlie Stupak convinced him that it’s okay to take other people’s cars as long as you promised to bring them back? Armed with a clueless public defender, Dad can show you just how well the legal system works. Oh, yeah, you saw everything today.”
“Listen, I’m sorry your dad’s retarded. And I’m sorry your mom ran away . . .”
“She didn’t run away—she was gone for treatments. And when those didn’t work, she died. Three months after she entered the clinic. She was trying to spare us the pain of watching her deteriorate—she was scared it would slow me down. Now try explaining that to a man with a sixty-six IQ. Or better yet, try protecting him from everything else that’s ready to rip him apart in this world.”
“Michael, I know it was hard . . .”
“No. You don’t. You have no idea what it’s like. Your parents are both alive. Everyone’s healthy. Besides reelection, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot about your secret horrors: the state dinners, meeting all the bigshots, attending the college of your choice . . .”
“Stop it, Michael.”
“. . . and let’s not forget all the ass-kissing: staffers, reporters, even Johnny Public and Suzy Creamcheese—everyone’s got to love the First Daughter . . .”
“I said stop it!”
“Uh-oh, she’s getting mad. Alert the Service. Send a memo to her dad. If she throws a fit in public, there’ll be some bad press . . .”
“Listen, dickhead . . .”
“We have cursing! The story goes national! That’s really as bad as it gets, isn’t it, Nora? Bad press that goes national?”
“You don’t fucking know me!”
“Do you even remember what a bad day’s like anymore? I’m not talking bad press—I’m talking bad day. There really is a difference.” She looks like she’s about to snap, so I push a little harder. “You don’t even have them anymore, do you? Oh, my, to be the First Daughter. Tell me, what’s it like when everything’s done for you? Can you cook? Can you clean? Do you do your own laundry?”
Her eyes are welling up with tears. I don’t care. She asked for this one.
“C’mon, Nora, don’t be shy. Put it out there. Do you sign your own checks? Or pay your own bills? Or make your own b—”
“You want a bad day?” she finally explodes. “Here’s your fuckin’ bad day!” Lifting her shirt, she shows me a six-inch scar, running down toward her navel, still red where the stitches used to be.
Dumbfounded, I can’t muster a syllable. So that’s why she wouldn’t let me touch her stomach.
Lowering her shirt, she finally falls apart. Her face contorts in a silent sob and the tears flood forward. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Nora cry.
“Y-You d-don’t know . . .” she sobs as she staggers toward me. I cross my arms and put on my best heartless scowl.
“Michael . . .”
She wants me to open up . . . to pull her close. Just like she did with my dad. I close my eyes and that’s all I see. Without another thought, I reach out and take her in. “Don’t cry,” I whisper. “You don’t have to cry.”
“I-I swear, I never wanted to hurt you,” she says, still sobbing uncontrollably.
“Shhhhhh, I know.” As she collapses against me, I feel the little girl return. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”
A full minute goes by before we say another word. As she catches her breath, I feel her pull away. She’s wiping her eyes as quickly as possible.
“Want to tell me about it?” I ask.
She pauses. That’s her instinct. “New Year’s Eve, this past year,” she finally says as she sits on her bed. “I’d read that stabbing yourself in the stomach was a great way to kill yourself, so I decided to test the theory for myself. Needless to say, it’s no jugular.”
Frozen, I’m not sure how to respond. “I don’t understand,” I eventually stutter. “Didn’t they take you to a hospital?”
“Remember where we are, Michael. And know your perks. My dad’s doctors are here around the clock—and they all make house calls.” Sending the point home, she taps her hand against her mattress. “Didn’t even have to leave my room.”
“But to make sure no one found out . . .”
“Oh, please. They hid my dad’s cancer for ten months—you think they can’t hide his junkie daughter’s suicide attempt?”
I don’t like the way she says that. “You’re not a junkie, Nora.”
“Says the guy I just tried to drug.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I appreciate the thought, but you’re working with only half the information.” Picking at the lace on her pillowcase, she asks, “Do you have any idea why I’m home?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not a trick question. I graduated college in June. It’s now September. What am I still doing here?”
“I thought you were waiting to hear from grad schools.”
Without a word, she heads to her desk and pulls a stack of papers from the top drawer. Returning to the bed, she throws them on the mattress. I take a seat next to her and flip through the pile. Penn. Wash U. Columbia. Michigan. Fourteen letters in all. Every one of them an acceptance. “I don’t get it,” I finally say.
“Well, it depends who you want to believe. Either I’m still holding out for that final grad school, or my parents are worried I’m going to take another crack at myself. Which do you think is more likely?”
Listening to her explain it, it’s not hard to figure out. The only question is: What do I do now? Hunched over on the edge of her bed, Nora’s waiting for my reaction. She’s trying not to look at me, but she can’t help herself. She’s worried I’m going to leave. And the way she’s rubbing the side of her bare foot over and over against the carpet, it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s walked out on her.
I pick up the letters and toss them to the floor. “Tell me the truth, Nora—where’re your other drugs?”
“I don’t—”
“Last chance,” I bark.
Without a word, she looks down at the letters, then over to the slightly opened door of her closet. Her voice is soft, beaten. “On the floor is a can of tennis balls. They’re inside the middle ball.”
I walk to the closet and quickly find the can. Emptying it in my hand, I let the other two balls fall to the floor, then take the middle ball and give it a tight squeeze. Sure enough, like a fish opening its mouth, it spreads wide where the seam is sliced open. Inside is a brown medication vial—there’re a few pills at the bottom and, on top, what looks like a roll of seven or eight stamps, but with yellow smiley-faces on them. That’s the acid. “What’re the pills?” I ask.
“Just some Ecstasy—they’re old, though. I haven’t taken them in months.”
“Months or weeks?”
&n
bsp; “Months . . . at least three . . . not since graduation. I swear, Michael.”
I stare down at the vial, which is still inside the ball, and let the seam close. Gripping it in a tight fist, I hold it out to Nora. “This is it,” I tell her. “No more games. From now on, it’s all in your control. If you want to be a headcase, do it on your own. But if you want to be a friend”—I stop and stuff the ball in my pocket—“I’m here to help you, Nora. You don’t have to be alone, but if you want to earn my trust, you do have to get it together.”
She looks absolutely stunned. “So you’re not going to leave?”
I once again picture her cradling my dad in her arms. Identifying with what’s missing. “Not yet—not now.” As my words sink in, I expect to see her smile. Instead, her brow furrows in distress. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
She looks at me, her chin down, her eyes completely lost. “I don’t understand. Why’re you acting so nice?”
From the foot of the bed, I move in toward her. “Don’t you get it yet, Nora? I’m not acting.”
Lifting her head, she can’t hold back. Her eyes well up and out comes the smile. The real smile.
I lean in and give her a light kiss on the forehead. “I’m just telling you one thing—if you ever do anything like this again . . .”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“I’m serious, Nora. I see any more drugs, I’ll personally put it in a press release.”
She looks me straight in the eye. “I swear on my life—you have my word.”
CHAPTER 20
Sometimes in my dreams, I’m real small. Six inches small. Simon reaches down and I step into the palm of his hand. He raises me to his cracked lips and whispers in my Barbie Doll–size ears, “It’ll all be okay, Michael—I promise it’ll be okay.” Slowly, his deep voice gets louder, like a churning siren. “Don’t cry, Michael—only babies cry!” Then suddenly, he’s screaming, his voice thundering as his hot breath blows me back: “Dammit, Michael, why didn’t you listen! All you had to do was listen!”
I shoot up in bed, startled by the silence. My body’s covered in a film of cold sweat—so cold, I’m shivering. The alarm clock says it’s only four-thirty in the morning, so I lie back and try to lose myself in Nora. Not the drugs or the scar. The real her. The one underneath; or at least the one I think is underneath. Last night . . . and the day—my God—the roof alone’ll keep me going for the rest of my life. NASCAR drivers, paratroopers, even . . . even pirates don’t have that much excitement. Or that much fear.
Noticing that I’m gripping my sheets, I go for my best fall-back-asleep trick: I put things in perspective. Whatever else is going on, I still have my health, and my dad’s, and Trey’s, and Nora . . . and Simon, and Adenauer, and Vaughn, who I still can’t figure out. Part of me’s worried he’s trying to set me up, but if he was in this with Simon . . . and he’s now running from the FBI . . . enemy of my enemy and all that. If Simon deserted him, maybe he’s got something to offer me. Regardless, I’ll have the answer in a few hours. Today’s the day we’re supposed to meet. Somewhere in the Holocaust Museum.
After twenty minutes of staring at my stucco ceiling, it’s obvious I’m not falling back asleep. I kick off the covers and head straight for the coffeemaker. As the smell of caffeine invades my small kitchenette, I pull a map of the museum from my briefcase. Five floors of exhibit space, a research library, two theaters, a learning center . . . How am I ever going to find this guy?
Behind me, there’s a noise at the door. It’s small—easy to miss—like a tap. Or a thud. “Hello?” I call out. The noise stops. Outside, I hear the pounding of muffled footsteps moving up the hallway. Chucking the map, I fly at the door, flip open the locks, and rip it open. There’s another thud. And another. I leap into the hall, anxious to face my attacker. All I find is a teenage delivery boy dropping the first of the day’s newspapers. He leaps back from the shock, almost dropping his handful of papers.
“Coño!” he curses in Spanish.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “My bad.” Picking up my own paper, I slink back into my apartment and shut the door.
Unnerved, I peel off the top section of the paper, hoping to lose myself in current events. But just as I fold back the front page, a small white envelope falls to the floor. Inside is a handwritten note: “Registry of Survivors. Second Floor.” I speed back to the museum map, which is still on my linoleum floor. Finally, an exact location.
He’s not stupid, I decide. It’s a small room tucked away in a corner of the museum. He’ll see everyone coming and going. The meeting’s not until one o’clock, but I still look at my watch. Seven more hours.
• • •
Bolting out the door of my office, I rush over to the West Wing. I used to pride myself on being early for Simon’s staff meetings, but lately, I can’t seem to get there on time. And while it’s easy to blame it all on forgetfulness, I have to tip my hat to subconscious avoidance.
Inside the West Wing, Phil’s at his usual security desk, clearing people in. As soon as I see him, I turn my ID forward and lower my head. It’s not that I even care about him calling the elevator—I just hate when he pretends not to know me.
“Hey, Michael,” he says as I walk by.
“H-Hey,” I reply. “Hi.”
“Staff meeting today?”
Before I can even answer, he reaches below his desk and returns my most favorite of privileges. On my left, the elevator door slides open and I step inside. I’m not sure what caused the turnaround, but as the door slides shut, I’m happy to take the favor.
• • •
As I step into Simon’s office, I expect to find the meeting already in progress. Instead, I see most of the staff swapping stories and sharing gossip. The empty chair at the head of the table tells me why.
I take a quick look around and notice Pam in her now regular spot on the couch. Ever since she’s moved up, she’s practically disappeared. “You’re a real honcho now, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” she asks, feigning innocence. It’s a classic White House power-move: Never acknowledge advantages.
Shaking my head, I make my way to an open seat in the back. “I see right through you, woman—you’re not fooling anyone.”
“I’m fooling you,” she calls out. Her downplaying days are over.
I’m about to shout something back when the door to the room opens. The whole place goes silent, then picks up again. It’s not Simon—just another associate—a WASPy, expensive-shoes, Yale-tie-clip-guy who just came over after clerking at the Supreme Court. I hate him. Pam said he’s been nice.
As he steps inside, the office is packed. The only open seat is the one next to mine. He takes a quick recon, looking right at me. I move my chair over to make sure he has room. But as he heads toward the back, he passes right by me, continues toward the corner, and leans up against one of the bookcases. He’d rather stand. I glance over at Pam, but she’s caught up with her new pals on the couch. No one likes a sinking ship.
With no one to talk to, I sit and wait until the door once again swings open. Simon enters the room and everyone’s quiet. As soon as we make eye contact, I look away. He doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight toward me and smacks a thick file folder against my chest. “Welcome back,” he growls.
I look down at the folder, then back at everyone else in the room. Something’s wrong. He’s too smart to lose his temper in front of a crowd.
“You whined for it; you got it,” he adds.
“I don’t even know who—”
He turns and walks away. “They’re voting on it Wednesday. Enjoy.”
Confused, I read the tab on the folder: “Roving Wiretaps.” Inside, I see all my old research. I don’t believe it—I’m back on the case.
Looking up, I search for a friendly face to share the news with, but there’s only one person looking my way. The person who walked in right behind Simon. Lawrence Lamb. He offers a warm smile and soft nod. That’s all he needs to say. C
halk one up for Nora.
• • •
“Are you sure Simon’s okay with this?”
“He shouldn’t have taken you off the case in the first place,” Lamb says matter-of-factly as we walk back to his office. Moving with the forcefulness of a man who’s always in demand, Lamb somehow still manages to never look rushed. Like the double–Windsor knot in his tie and his cufflinked shirt, he’s permanently set on high-sheen polish; the type of man who, when he’s in the airport, still looks put together even after a four-hour flight.
Trailing behind him, I’m a complete mess. “But what if Simon—”
“Stop worrying about it, Michael. It’s yours. Celebrate.”
Passing his secretary’s desk, I realize he’s right. The thing is, old habits die hard. As we step into his office, I take a seat in front of his desk.
“I don’t know what you did, but whatever it is, Nora’s happy,” he explains. “That alone grants you three wishes.”
“Is this my first?”
“If it is, here’re the other two.” He opens a file folder on his desk and hands me two documents. The first is a single-page memo from the FBI. “They finished investigating two people on Friday, and three more over the weekend,” he explains. “All of them appointees—all of them apparently innocent—which brings the total to ten. Only five more suspects to go.”
“So they still haven’t gotten to mine?”
“Best for last,” he says as he cleans his reading glasses with a monogrammed hankie. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
“What about getting an advance look at the last five names? Is there any way to do that?”
“Why would you . . . ? Oh, I see,” he interrupts himself. “Whoever is still on the list—that’ll tell us who else was potentially involved.”
“If Caroline had their files, she had their secrets.”
“Not a bad thought,” Lamb agrees. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll see what I can do.” As he makes a note to himself, the phone rings and he quickly picks it up. “This is Larry,” he announces. “Yes, he’s right here. I got it . . . I heard you the first fifteen times.” There’s a short pause. “Don’t yell at me! Did you hear me? Stop already!” After a quick goodbye, he hangs up and turns my way. “Nora says hello.”