by Brad Meltzer
I clutch the guardrail around the stained glass, struggling to get to my feet. “Nora, don’t!” I call out.
She doesn’t even hesitate. Letting go of Lamb’s hair, she reaches down for it. That’s all the time Lamb needs. He lashes out with a backhanded fist and the barrel of the gun catches her in the side of the head. “How dare you touch me!” he screams in a mad rage. “I raised you! Not your father! Me!” Grabbing her by the front of her shirt, he pulls her in and pounds the butt of the gun against her face.
“Nora!” I shout. She falls to the floor and I hobble to her side.
“Don’t move!” Lamb threatens before I can take a step. Once again pointing his gun, he waves it back and forth between us. He looks at her, then jerks his head back to me. Then back to her. Then back to me. Never together. “I’ll kill her,” he warns. “You touch her again and I’ll kill her.” His shirt is charred black at the chest; a cut on his cheek is dripping blood. Looking into his frozen blue eyes, I know he means it.
“Larry, you don’t have t—”
“Shut up!” he shouts. “It’s up to her.”
Shaking off the blow, Nora’s still on the floor. Her right eye is already starting to swell.
“Are you okay?” Lamb asks.
“Drop dead, asshole,” she shoots back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“It’s not too late,” Lamb says, sounding almost excited. “We can still make it work—just like I said. We stop him; we’re heroes. We can do it, Nora. We can. All you have to do is say the words. That’s all I ask, honey. Tell me I’m not alone.”
I nod at her to play along. She won’t even look at me. She takes one final sniffle and the tears are gone. Her eyes burn at Lamb. She licks her lips. With the taste of freedom on her tongue, Nora Hartson wants out.
I make one last attempt to get her attention, but she turns away. This isn’t about me. It’s about them.
“We can do it, Nora,” Lamb says, as she climbs to her feet. “Just like always. Our secret.”
Staring straight at her family’s closest friend, Nora stays silent. She’s trying to hide it, but his argument’s wearing her down. I see it in the rise and fall of her chest. Hunched over, she’s still breathing heavily. It’d be so easy to give up. Surrender now and blame everything on me. Searching for an answer, she touches her swelling eye. Then slowly, right in front of her face, she raises a defiant middle finger. “Rot. In. Hell,” she snarls.
When I turn to Lamb, his eyes, cheeks, lips . . . all his features fall. I expect him to lash out, completely crazed. Instead, he’s silent. Even more silent than usual. Clenched jaw. Stabbing stare. I swear, the room gets colder. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he eventually says without a hint of emotion in his voice. “But I want to thank you, Nora. You just made the decision that much easier.” Without another word, he turns the gun toward me.
“Michael!” Nora screams as she starts running.
As Lamb’s gun swings across the horizontal plane, I barely register what’s happening. I’m gaping down the barrel of the gun, and the whole world hits Pause. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nora launching herself at me. Frozen solid, I struggle to turn. There’s a coughing fluorescent light right over her head and a clear plastic fork discarded on the floor. A silenced shot explodes just as she crashes into me, face-to-face. I raise my arms, trying to catch her. A second shot erupts. Then another. And another.
Her head jerks back as she’s hit from behind. One. Two. Three. Four. Her body jolts as each one connects. We’re both thrown back by the impact, crashing into the guardrail.
“Nornie?” Lamb cries out, lowering his gun.
Falling to the floor, I barely notice him. “Nora, are you . . .”
“I-I think I’m okay,” she whispers, struggling to raise her head. As she looks up, blood slowly creeps out of her nose and the corner of her mouth. “Is it bad?” she asks, reading the look on my face.
I shake my head, fighting against the tears that fill my eyes. “N-No—no. You’re gonna be fine,” I stutter.
Sinking in my arms, she ekes out a tiny smile. “Good.” She tries to say something else, but it gets lost. I cradle her head as she coughs blood all over my shirt.
Across the room, Lamb just stands there. Shaking. “Is she . . . is she . . .”
I look back down, unable to think. “Nora—Nora—Nora!” She’s like a sack in my arms, but she manages to glance up at me. “I love you, Nora.”
Her eyes are fading. I don’t think she hears me. “Michael . . .”
“Yeah?” I ask, leaning over.
Her voice isn’t even a whisper. Her breathing’s down to a low wheeze. “I . . .” Her body heaves and the words stop. I shut my eyes and pretend to hear every syllable.
Trying to make it easier for her to breathe, I carefully lower her to the floor.
“I-Is she okay?” a voice cries out.
I slowly look up and my fists tighten. Straight ahead, all I see is Lawrence Lamb. Paralyzed, he’s still just standing there. His gun dangles from his fingertips. His mouth gapes open. Rooted in place, he looks devastated, like his whole world just evaporated. But the moment our eyes meet, his brow contorts in an angry furrow. “You killed her!” he growls.
Inside my chest, a volcano of rage explodes. I freight-train toward him as fast as I can. He raises his gun, but I’m already there. My good shoulder collides with his chest and sends him crashing into the wall. The gun goes flying.
Refusing to let up, I slam him back against the wall and punch him in the stomach. Lashing out, he takes a wild swing that connects with my jaw, but I’m way beyond the pain. “You think that’s gonna hurt me?” I shout as my fist crashes against his face. Over and over, I pound at the cut Nora opened on his cheek. Again. And again. And again.
Older and far slower, Lamb knows he can’t win a fight with someone half his age. Realizing he’s trapped, he circles away from the wall, back toward the center of the room. His eyes search wildly for the gun. They don’t find it. Gone is the stiff-jawed confidence that comes with being the President’s best friend. He looks like he’s about to fall over. The gash on his face is a bloody mess. “She never loved you,” he says, holding his cheek.
He’s trying to distract me. I ignore it and hit him in the jaw.
“She didn’t even pick you,” he adds. “She would’ve dated Pam if I said so—”
Cutting him off, I pound him again in the stomach. And the ribs. And the face. Anything to shut him up. Bent over in pain, he staggers back toward the recessed section of stained glass. I know it’s time to stop, but . . . next to the railing is Nora’s nearly lifeless body—she’s on her back, a pool of her own blood still growing below her. That’s all it takes. Barely able to see through the tears, I throw everything I have into one last punch. It connects with a thunderclap and knocks Lamb backwards a good four to five feet.
He hits the guardrail completely off balance, and like a human seesaw, flips over the railing and heads straight for the enormous stained glass panels that are built into the ceiling of the room below. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of shattering glass. But all I hear is a dull thud.
Confused, I rush over to the guardrail and look down. Lamb, dazed, is lying across the wide-paneled glass flower at the center of the glass. It didn’t break. Directly below him, on the other side of the glass, the crystal chandelier is swaying from the impact.
“Hhhh.” He lets out a haunting sigh as a cold chill runs down my back. He’s going to get away with this.
Suspended above the Indian Treaty Room, he cautiously rolls over, turns himself around, and slowly, carefully, crawls back on the glass toward the guardrail.
Desperately, I look around for the gun. There it is—right next to Nora’s shoulder. Soaked in blood. I run and grab it, whirling back to point it straight at Lamb.
He stops in his tracks. Our eyes are locked; neither of us moves. Suddenly, he purses his lips.
I pull back on the hammer.
“Spare me the dramatics, Michael. You pull that trigger, no one’ll ever believe you.”
“They’re not going to believe me anyway. At least this way, you’re dead.”
“And that’s going to make it all better? Some quick revenge for your imaginary girlfriend?”
I look over at Nora, then back at Lamb. She’s not moving.
“Come on, Michael, you don’t have it in you—if you did, we never would’ve picked you.”
“We? You destroyed her . . . controlled her . . . She never took part in the planning.”
“If that’s what makes you feel better . . . but ask yourself this: Who do you think that gun’s registered to? Me—the confidant trying to protect his goddaughter? Or you—the killer I had to stop?”
My hands are shaking as I slide a finger around the trigger.
“And let’s not forget what happens to your dad when they put you in jail. Think he’ll make it on his own?”
A single shot—that’s all it takes.
“It’s over, Michael. I can already see tomorrow’s paper: Garrick Kills President’s Daughter.”
My eyes go dark. The gun’s pointed right at his forehead. Just like he did to Vaughn—and blamed on me.
Watching me twist, Lamb flashes a cold smile. It digs straight into my shoulder. I tighten my grip on the trigger. Every muscle in my body tenses. My eyes narrow. The chandelier sways.
“Say good night, Larry,” I say. Holding the gun at arm’s length, I use both hands to steady it. I sight along the barrel. There he is. For the first time, he loses the grin. His mouth gapes open. My finger twitches against the trigger. But the harder I pull . . . the more my hand shakes . . . and the more I realize . . . I can’t. Slowly, I lower the gun.
Lamb lets out a deep cackle that rips through me. “That’s why we picked you,” he taunts. “Forever the Boy Scout.”
That’s all I need to hear. Lost in adrenaline, I raise the gun. My hands are still shaking, but this time, I pull the trigger.
The gun hiccups with a hollow little click. I squeeze it again, hard. Click. Empty. I can’t believe it’s empty!
Lamb laughs, low and then louder. Crawling toward the railing, he adds, “Even when you try, you can do no wrong.”
Enraged, I hurl the empty gun at him. He lowers his shoulder at the last second, and the gun just misses, skipping across the stained glass like a flat rock across a wide pond. Slamming into the recessed glass casing, it eventually lands on the far side of the enormous mosaic. Lamb’s sick giggle is replaying in my head. It’s all I hear. And then . . . there’s something else.
It starts where the gun first hit the glass floor. A small pop—like an ice cube dropped into warm soda. Then it gets louder, more sustained. A slowly growing crack on a windshield.
Lamb looks over his shoulder. We both see it at the same time—a fracture moving like lightning across the wide panels of glass.
The whole moment plays in slow motion. Almost sentient in its movement, the crack zigzags from the gun toward Lamb, who’s still at the center of the rosette. Panicking, he scrambles toward the railing. Behind him, the first piece of glass shatters and falls away. Then another. Then another. The weight of the chandelier does the rest. Like a giant glass sinkhole, the center of the mosaic crumbles. The chandelier plummets into the Indian Treaty Room. Piece by piece, thousands of shards follow. As the shock wave widens from ground zero, Lamb scrambles to avoid the undertow. He reaches up and begs me to help him.
“Please, Michael . . .”
It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do, and both of us know it. Below us, the chandelier hits the floor with a wrenching crash.
Once again, our eyes meet. Lamb’s not laughing anymore. This time, his eyes are filled with tears. The glass rains down. His floor disappears. And gravity grabs him by the legs. Sucked down into the ever-widening hole, he still struggles to claw his way up. But you can’t avoid the epicenter.
“Miiiaaaaaeeeeeee—” he screams the entire way down.
Then he meets the chandelier. The crunching sound alone will give me nightmares for years.
As the last shards fall, a high-pitched alarm screams out of the Indian Treaty Room. I lean forward over the railing. The stained glass is almost completely gone, leaving a gaping hole. It’ll take forever to fill. On the floor below, amid the shattered glass, are the broken remains of the man responsible. For Caroline. For Vaughn. And most of all, for Nora.
Behind me, I hear a soft moan. Spinning around, I rush to her side and drop to my knees. “Nora, are you . . .”
“I-I-Is he gone?” she whispers, barely able to get the words out. She shouldn’t be conscious. Her voice gurgles with blood.
“Yeah,” I say, once again fighting back tears. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”
She fights to smile, but it’s too much of a strain. Her chest convulses. She’s fading fast. “M-M-Michael . . . ?”
“I’m here,” I tell her, gently lifting her in my arms. “I’m right here, Nora.”
The tears roll down my face. She knows this is it. Her head sags and she slowly gives in. “P-P-Please . . . ,” she coughs. “Please, Michael . . . don’t tell my dad.”
I take a sharp gulp of air to keep myself together. Nodding vigorously, I pull her close to my chest, but her arms just dangle behind her. Her eyes begin to roll back in her head. Tailspinning, I furiously brush her hair from her face. There’s a final twitch in her torso—and then—she’s gone.
“No!” I shout. “NO!” I grab her head, kissing her forehead over and over. “Please, Nora! Please don’t go! Please! Please!” None of it does any good. She’s not moving.
Her head slumps against my arm and a rasping, ghostly wheeze releases the final air from her lungs. With the lightest touch I can muster, I carefully close her eyes. It’s finally over. Self-destruction complete.
CHAPTER 40
They don’t let me out of the Sit Room until a quarter past midnight, when the empty halls of the OEOB are nothing more than a bureaucratic ghost town. In some ways, I think they planned it on purpose—this way, no one’s around to ask questions. Or gossip. Or point at me and whisper, “He’s the one—that’s him.” All I have is silence. Silence and time to think. Silence and . . . Nora . . .
I lower my head and shut my eyes, trying to pretend it never happened. But it did.
As I make my way back to my office, there’re two sets of shoes echoing through the cavernous hallway: mine, and those of the Secret Service agent directly behind me. They may have patched up my shoulder, but when we reach Room 170, my hand still shakes as I open the door. Watching me carefully, he follows me inside. In the anteroom, I flip on the lights and once again face the silence. It’s too late for anyone to be here. Pam, Julian—they both left hours ago. When it was still light out.
I’m not surprised that the place is empty, but I have to admit I was hoping someone would be here. As it is, though, I’m on my own. It’s going to be like that for a while. Opening the door to my office, I try to tell myself otherwise, but in a place like the White House, there aren’t many people who’ll—
“Where the hell’ve you been?” Trey asks, bounding off my vinyl sofa. “Are you okay? Did you get a lawyer? I heard you didn’t have one, so I called my sister’s brother-in-law, Jimmy, who put me in touch with this guy Richie Rubin, who said he’d—”
“It’s okay, Trey. I don’t need a lawyer.”
He looks up at the Secret Service agent who just stepped in behind me. “You sure about that?”
I shoot a look to the agent. “Do you think we can . . .”
“I’m sorry, sir. My orders are to wait until you’re—”
“Listen, I’m just looking for a few minutes with my friend. That’s all I ask. Please.”
He studies both of us. Eventually, he says, “I’ll be out here if you need me.” He heads back to the anteroom, closing the door as he leaves.
When he’s gone, I expect another onslaught of questions. Instead, Trey stays qu
iet.
On the windowsill, I glance at the toaster. Nora’s name is gone. I stare down at the remaining digital green letters, almost as if it’s a mistake. Praying it’s a mistake. Slowly, each line of glowing letters seems to stare back—blinking, blazing—their flickering more pronounced now that it’s dark. So dark. Oh, Nora . . . My legs give way, and I lean back on the corner of my desk.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” Trey offers.
I can barely stand.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he adds, “Nora wouldn’t have . . . It wouldn’t have been a good life. Not after this.”
I shake my head unresponsively. “Yeah. Right.” With a deep swallow, it once again all goes numb.
“If there’s anything I can . . .”
I nod a thank-you and search for control. “You heard that Lamb . . .”
“All I know is he died,” Trey says. “It’s all over the news, but no one has the hows and whys—FBI scheduled the briefing for first thing tomorrow.” He’s about to say something else, but his voice trails off. I’m not surprised. He’s too connected to be in the dark. He knows what the rumors are; he just doesn’t want to ask. I stare at him across the room, watching him fidget with his tie. He can barely make eye contact. And even though he’s right in front of the sofa, he refuses to sit down. But he still won’t ask. He’s too good a friend.
“Say it, Trey. Someone’s got to.”
He looks up, measuring the moment. Then he clears his throat. “Is it true?”
Again, I nod.
Trey’s eyebrows go from arched curiosity to rounded shock. He lowers himself to the couch. “I-I waited in my office for her—just like you said. While you and Pam were digging through files, I had all these different ways to keep her busy—fake folders to search through, fake phone records to check—it would’ve been perfect. But she never showed.”
“She knew what we were up to—she knew all along.”
“So Lamb . . .”
“Lamb deleted the request from Caroline’s computer, but he didn’t know she was anal enough to keep a hard copy. And the FBI didn’t need them—they had the actual files. To be honest, I think Nora knew where they were. Maybe it was her insurance, maybe it was . . . maybe it was something else.”