The First Counsel (47 page)

"Just guess."

"I don't want to guess."

"Why? Afraid to be wrong? Afraid to compete? Afraid to--"

"Nineteen," I blurt. "Nineteen said yes. Eighty-one would rather keep their souls."

She throws the paper aside. "Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday . . ."

"This isn't about yesterday!"

"Then why're you acting like I stole your Big Wheel?"

"Nora, this isn't the time for jokes!" I seize her by the wrist. "Come with--"

Once again, the phone rings. She freezes. I refuse to let go. We look at each other.

"Are you sleeping with Edgar Simon?" I blurt.

"What?" Behind her, the phone continues to ring.

"I'm serious, Nora. Say it to my face."

Nora crosses her arms and stares blankly at me. The phone finally quits. Then, out of nowhere, Nora laughs. She laughs her heartfelt, deep, little-girl laugh--as honest and free as they come.

"I'm not playing around, Nora."

She's still laughing, panting, slowing down. Now she looks into my eyes. "C'mon, Michael, you can't be--"

"I want an answer. Are you sleeping with Simon?"

Her mouth clamps shut. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"What's your answer?"

"Michael, I swear to you, I'd never . . . I'd never do that to you. I'd rather die than be with someone like that."

"So that means no?"

"Of course it means no. Why would I--" She cuts herself off. "You think I'm working against you? You really think I'd do that?"

I don't bother to reply.

"I'd never hurt you, Michael. Not after all this."

"What about before all this?"

"What're you saying? That I had my own reason to kill Caroline? That I set this whole thing up?"

"You said it, not me."

"Michael!" She grabs me by both hands. "How could you think that . . . I'd never . . . !" This time, she's the one who won't let go. "I swear to you, I've never touched him--I'd never want to touch him"--her voice cracks--"in my life." She drops my hands and turns away.

"God," she says. "How'd you even get that in your head?"

"It just seemed to make sense," I say.

She stops where she is. Her whole body locks up. Facing just her back, I can tell that one hurt. I didn't mean to--

"Is that what you think of me?" she whispers.

"Nora--"

"Is that what you think?" she repeats, her voice quivering. Before I can answer, she turns back to me, searching for the answer. Her eyes are all red. Her shoulders sag. I know that stance--it's the same one my mom had when she left. The posture of defeat. When I don't answer, the tears trickle down her cheeks. "You really think I'm that much of a whore?"

I shake my head and go to reach out. When I'd thought about how she'd react, I always assumed it'd be raging anger. I never expected a breakdown. "Nora, you have to understand . . ."

She's not even listening.

Stepping into my arms, she curls into a ball and presses her face against my chest. Her body's shaking. Unlike with Pam, I can't argue. Nora's different.

"I'm sorry," she sobs, her voice once again cracking. "I'm sorry you even had to think it."

As her fingers brush against the back of my neck, I hear the hurt in her voice and see the loneliness in her eyes. But as she nuzzles in close, for once, I hold back. Unlike before, I'm not as easily convinced. Not yet. Not until I talk to Vaughn.

* * *

Although my destination is the Woodley Park Metro stop, I hop off the train at Dupont Circle. Throughout the twenty-minute walk between the two, I weave through sidestreets, cut across traffic, and race against the grain of every one-way I can find. If they're following me in a car, they're lost. If they're on foot . . . well, at least I have a chance. Anything to avoid a rerun of the zoo.

Walking past the restaurants and cafes of Woodley Park, I finally feel at home. There's Lebanese Taverna, where Trey and I came to celebrate his third promotion. And the sushi place where Pam and I ate when her sister came to town. This is where I live--my turf--which is why I notice the unusually clean garbage truck that's coasting up the block.

As it stops on the corner, I barely give it a second glance. Sure, the driver and the guy emptying the nearby trash cans look a little too chiseled, but it's not a weak man's job. Then I notice the sign on the side of the truck--"G & B Removal." Below the company's name is its phone number, which starts with a 703 area code. Virginia. What's a Virginia truck doing this far in D.C.? Maybe the work's contracted out. Knowing D.C.'s public services, it's certainly possible. But just as I turn away, I hear the broken-glass-raining-bottle-sliding-garbage sound of the metal-can being emptied into the back of the truck. Sound of the city. A sound I hear every night, just as I go to b--My legs cramp up. At night. That's when I hear it. That's when they come. Never during the day.

I spin around and look down the block. On the far corner, there's a trash can overflowing with garbage. That's where the truck was coming from. A full trash can. Behind the truck. Pretending not to notice, I dart into the video store midway up the block.

"Can I help you?" a girl wearing head-to-toe black asks.

"No." Holding imaginary binoculars in front of my eyes, I press them against the plate glass window, block out the glare of the sun, and stare out at the truck. Neither of the two men has given chase. They're just sitting there. While the loading guy fidgets with something in the back, the driver twists open his thermos, as if he's suddenly decided to take a break.

The video clerk is getting anxious. "Sir, are you sure I can't--"

Before she can finish, I rush out of the video store and into the dry cleaners next door. There's no one at the counter, and I don't ring the bell for service. Instead, I dash to the window and stare outside. Still haven't moved. This time, I wait a full minute before I bolt next door to the coffee bar.

A girl wearing an "Eat the Rich" T-shirt asks, "Can I help you with something?"

"No thanks." Glued to the front window, I give it two minutes and a third "Can-I-help-you?" before I race out the door and into the storefront on my left. I keep it going for two more stores--dart inside, wait, then out and to the left; dart inside, wait, then out and to the left. That's how I make my way up the block. Each one I go into, I wait a little longer. Let them think it's a pattern. One more store to go.

At the end of the block I run for the local drugstore, CVS. The way I figure it, I'm up to about a five-minute wait. But this time, after I push open the doors, I just keep running. Straight up the cosmetics aisle. Shampoos on my left, shaving cream on my right. Pharmacy-whiff floats through the air. Without stopping, I dash to the back of the store, around a bend, and down an undecorated back hall. That's when I spot my destination--it's what only a local would know, and what the guys in the garbage truck would never guess--that this CVS is the only store on the block with two entrances. Smiling to myself, I throw open the back door and blow out of there like a cannonball. I look back only once. No one's in pursuit.

Crossing 24th Street, I'm a rage of adrenaline. My body's flushed with the raw energy of victory. Around the corner is the side entrance of the Woodley Park Marriott. Nothing's going to get in my way.

Inside the lobby, I reach into my pants pocket, looking for the note with the exact location. Not there. I reach into my left pocket. Then inside my jacket. Oh, crap, don't tell me it's . . . Frantically, I pull apart each of my back pockets and pat myself down. It's not in my wallet or my . . . I close my eyes and retrace my steps. I had it this morning; I had it with Nora . . . but when I got up to leave . . . Oh, no. My lungs collapse. If it fell out of my pocket, it could still be sitting on her bed.

Struggling to stay calm, I remember the operator's instructions from when I called this morning. Somewhere on the Ballroom Level. As I approach the Information Desk, I stare suspiciously at the three bellmen in the front corner of the lobby. Dressed in starched black vests, they look right at home, but something seems off. Just as the tallest one turns my way, I notice the closing elevator on my immediate right. A quick burst of speed lets me squeeze through the doors just as they're about to slam shut. Whipping around, the last thing I see is the tall bellman. He's not even watching. I'm still okay.

"You got a favorite floor?" a man with a bolo tie and cowboy hat asks.

"Ballrooms," I say, studying him carefully. He hits the appropriate button. He's already pressed 8 for himself.

"You okay there, son?" he quickly asks.

"Yeah. Just great."

"You sure about that? Looks like you can use a little . . . commune with the spirits . . . if you know what I mean." He throws back an imaginary shot of whiskey.

I nod in agreement. "Just one of those days."

"Loud and clear; loud and clear."

The doors slide open on the ballroom level. "Have a good one now," the man with the cowboy hat says.

"You too," I mutter, stepping out. Behind me, the doors slam shut. Straight ahead, at the end of the long corridor, I cross over into the Center Tower of the hotel, where there's an escalator marked "Up to First Floor Ballrooms." I hop on.

At the top, there must be at least three hundred people, mostly women, milling around the hallway. They all have name tags on their shirts and canvas bags dangling from their arms. Convention-goers. Just in time for lunch.

As fast as I can, I weave my way through the crowd of women smiling, boasting, and waving their arms in excitement. Draped across the wall of the main corridor hangs an enormous banner: "Welcome to the 34th Annual Meeting of the American Federation of Teachers." Underneath the banner, I spot the hotel directory. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, excuse me," I say, trying to get there as quickly as possible. Squinting to read the directory, I find the words "Warren Room" followed by an arrow pointing right.

Warren Room. That's it.

I turn to the right so fast I slam into a woman with a small rhinestone-encrusted chalkboard pinned to her blouse. "Excuse me," I say, racing past her.

Outside the entrance to the room, a crowd of teachers is gathered around an oversized corkboard that's resting on a wooden easel. At least a hundred folded-up sheets of paper are tacked to the board--each of them with a different name written on it. Miriam, Marc, Ali, Scott. As I stand there, a flurry of notes are added and retrieved. Anonymous and untraceable. Message board. Warren Room. No doubt about it; this is the place.

As I fight my way through the crowd and toward the board, I'm blocked by a fake redhead who smells like a hairspray bomb went off. Craning my neck to check out the messages, I try to be as systematic as possible. My eyes skim across the notes, scrutinizing names. There it is: Michael. I wedge a fingernail behind the pushpin and pull off the note. Inside, it reads, "Dinner's bad tonight. How about tomorrow at Grossman's?" It's signed Lenore.

Scanning names on the message board, I find it again. Michael. I stick the first note back on the corkboard and pull out this one. "Breakfast is great. Eight it is. See you then, Mary Ellen."

Frustrated, I jam the note to the board and continue the search.

I find three more notes addressed to Michaels. The only one that's remotely interesting is one that reads "I shaved for you," from a woman named Carly.

Maybe he put it under another name, I think as I stare at the board. Starting over in the top left-hand corner, I take another pass, this time looking for something familiar: Nora, Vaughn, Pam, Trey--none of them come up. Desperate, I open one that's addressed with nothing more than a smiley face. Inside it reads, "Made you look."

I crumple it in a sweaty fist. Teachers. Biting my bottom lip, I scour the board. All around me, dozens of people are adding and removing notes . . . This is no time to lose it . . . I'm sure he's just being careful . . . which means there's something on here that makes sense---

I don't believe it. There it is, right in the center of the board. The name is written with a pen that looks like it's running out of ink. In thin, capital letters. L.H. Oswald. The ultimate patsy. That's me.

I pull the note off as fast as I can and step away from the lunchtime crowd. Rushing down the hallway, I head straight for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. As I alternate between jogging and speed-walking, I unfold the Oswald note one crease at a time. At the top of the page it reads, "How long before you picked up this one?" Always the smart-ass. Right below that it reads "1027." Exactly what I expected. A room number. When I subtract seven, it's Room 1020.

Inside the elevator, I go straight for the button marked 10. Over and over, my finger attacks it woodpecker-style.

Clamping the elevator's brass rail in tight fists, I can barely contain myself. Nine floors to go. My eyes are glued to the digital display, and the moment I hear the ping of arrival, I push forward. The doors are still sliding open when I squeeze through and step out on the tenth floor. Almost there, almost there. But as I trace the logical ascent of room numbers to 1020, I feel the hallway closing in. It starts with a sharp pain in my shoulders and works its way up the back of my neck. For better or worse, Vaughn's going to tell me the truth about Nora. And I'm finally going to get my answer. Of course, I'm not sure what he has, but he said it was worth it. It better be--because I'm counting on taking it straight to Adenauer. No matter how deep it cuts. My stomach starts making noises that are usually reserved for major illnesses. A cold chill slithers up my rib cage and I curse the hotel's air-conditioning. It's freezing in here.