The First Counsel (48 page)

Finally, I'm standing in front of Room 1020. I grasp the doorknob, but before I can turn it, I stop. For the past two days, my mind's been flooded with dozens of questions I couldn't wait to ask. Now, I don't know if I want the answers. I mean, how can they possibly help? Can I believe him? Maybe it's like Adenauer said. Maybe Vaughn can't be trusted.

I think back to our meeting behind the movie theater. His wrinkled clothes. His tired eyes. And the fear on his face. Over and over, I replay the question: If he was trying to set me up, why would he link his name to me--the one person he knew was going to look like the murderer? I still can't answer it. So am I ready to take the next step? As with everything lately, I don't have much choice. I wipe my hand on my pants and knock on the door.

To my surprise, it opens a crack when I hit it. I knock again, opening it a little more. "Vaughn, you in there?" There're some faint voices, but no one answers.

Down the hallway, I hear the return of the elevator. Someone's coming. This is no time to be shy. I push open the door. Blinding sunlight pours through the windows at the far end of the room. As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I notice the TV blaring. No wonder he didn't hear me.

"Whattya doin'? Watching soaps?" I move forward to step into the room, but my foot catches on something and I lose my balance and lurch forward. Putting my hands out to stop my fall, I hit the carpet with a hard thud. And an unnerving squish. My legs are askew, lying over some obstacle.

"What the . . . ?" The whole carpet's soaked. Sticky. And dark red. My hands are covered in it. I roll back to see what I tripped over. No, not what. Who. Vaughn.

"Oh, God," I whisper. His mouth is slightly open. Red spit-bubbles collect in the gap between his teeth and his lower lip. Move, move, move! I scramble furiously to get up, pushing myself away from his body, but my hands slip, sending me straight back toward the floor. At the last second, I catch myself on my elbow, with my tie pinned underneath. Now it matches my hands. More blood.

Shutting my eyes, I let my legs do the rest. They scramble their way across Vaughn's rigid torso, my right knee rubbing against his rib cage. Staggering to my feet, I spin around and get a better look at him lying lengthwise in the entryway. His left forearm is tight against his chest, but his hand's still reaching upward, frozen in a half-open fist. The bullet hole is in his forehead--off center, above his right eye. It's a tight wound--dark and crusted. Blood mats his thick black hair to the bone gray carpet. On his face, one eye stares straight forward; the other skews cockeyed to the side. Like Caroline's. Just like Caroline's. And all I can think of is the gun inside that utility box by the movie theater. The gun and that damn note--sitting there on Nora's bed.

Chapter
30

Trying not to panic, I dart through the open door of the bathroom and yank a white towel from the wall rack. Anything to get rid of the blood. After two minutes of frantic scrubbing, my hands come as clean as they're going to get. I can turn on the faucet, but . . . no, don't be stupid . . . if even a tiny chip of my skin hits the sink . . . Don't give them anything else to trace you to it. Keeping the towel wrapped around my hand, I race out of the bathroom and step over Vaughn without looking down.

I'm at the door. No fingerprints, no physical evidence. All I have to do is leave. Just turn the knob and . . . No. Not like this.

Fighting every fear that's swirling through my gut, I turn around and take a step toward the body. Whatever he did, Vaughn died for this one. For me. For trying to help me. He deserves better than a knee in the ribs.

I squat down next to him and use my towel-wrapped hand to shut his eyes. Patrick Vaughn. The one person who was supposed to have all the answers. "Sleep well," I whisper. It's not the world's best eulogy, but it's better than nothing.

Through the door, I hear a group of voices up the hallway. Whoever did this knew Vaughn was going to be here. Which means they probably knew I was going to--Oh, crap . . . time to leave. I pull open the door and race outside. Two people are waiting for me. Startled, I jump back.

"Sorry, man," one of them says. "Didn't mean to freak you out."

The woman next to him starts to giggle. She's wearing a baby-doll white T-shirt with a little rainbow across her chest. They're just a young couple.

"I-It's okay," I say, trying to hide the towel that's still around my hand. "My mistake."

Brushing past them, I go straight for the elevators. All four are stuck at the lobby. Thirty seconds later, none has moved. "C'mon!" I shout, as I pound the call button. What the hell is taking so long? Down the hallway, I see the giggling couple coming back my way. That was a quick stop--maybe they just forgot something. Whatever it was, they're no longer laughing. As they get closer, there's a new purposefulness in their walk. I'm not sticking around to see what's causing it.

Scanning the hallway, I spot a red-and-white exit sign above what looks like the door to the stairs. On the door is a yellow sticker with bright red letters: "WARNING: Alarm will sound if fire door is opened."

Damn right it will. I shove the door open and hit the stairway. Two steps in, a shrill scream pierces through the horizontal cavern, echoing off the concrete. Most people aren't in their rooms, but I can already hear the results down the stairway, from the ballroom level. Leaving their convention behind, three hundred teachers flood the fire exit. That's what I was counting on: strength in numbers. Thundering down the circular stairs, the human wave of educators absorbs me as one of their own. There's no panic or screaming--these people wrote the book on fire drills. And by the time we pour into the lobby, I've got all the cover I need. Lost amid the canvas bags and colored name tags, I slide out the front door and, at a brisk walk, keep on going. I can't let anyone see me. The best-case scenario now is that they blame Vaughn's death on me. Worst-case . . . I can still see the dark and crusted hole above Vaughn's right eye.

I don't slow down until I'm at least four blocks away. There's a narrow alley with a phone booth in it. Catching my breath, I pull apart my pockets, searching for loose change. I gotta get some help. Trey, Pam, anyone. But just as I pick up the receiver, I slam it back down. What if someone's listening on the other end? No time to take a chance. Do it face-to-face. Keep going. Run.

I crane my neck out of the alley and check the span of the block. No one's there. Bad sign for a usually busy area. On the street, there's a cab stopped at a red light. I wait until the light's about to turn green, then make a mad dash for it. My dress shoes pound against the pavement, and just as the cab starts to inch forward, I reach out and grab the handle of the rear door. The driver slams on the brakes, and I slam into the door.

"Sorry," he says as I clamber inside. "I didn't see y--"

"The White House. Fast as you can go."

* * *

"Stop the car!" I shout a few blocks from my destination.

The car jerks to an immediate halt. "Here?" the driver asks.

"Up a little further," I say, eyeing the McDonald's on 17th Street. "Perfect. Stop."

Noticing the newspaper that someone left in the backseat, I pull off my tie and wrap it around the blood-smeared towel. When I'm done, I stuff both inside the Metro section of the paper, hop out of the cab, and toss a ten-dollar bill in the driver's window. As the cab pulls away, I take a breath and walk as calmly as I can toward McDonald's. Skirting around the line inside, it doesn't take me long to reach the trash cans. With a quick push, I shove the ball of newspaper into the garbage. In here, every red stain is ketchup.

Three minutes later, I'm climbing the stairs of the OEOB. I've got four hours before Adenauer sends me public, and I'm going to need them. Until I can think of something better, keeping the story quiet is all I've got. And when it comes to keeping stories quiet, Trey's the master. My eyes scan the nearby bushes and scrutinize the surrounding columns. Whoever killed Vaughn, if they're going to blame it on me, they might've already notified the Service. From the outside, however, everything looks okay. As I pull open the heavy glass door, I see a small line waiting to get through security--the after-lunch crowd getting back to work. Last in line, I count and study the four uniformed officers on duty. Do they know? Did word get out? Standing there, it's hard to tell. There're two behind the desk who're caught up in small talk and two more by the X-ray machine.

Slowly, I inch closer to the front of the line. Hoping to avoid their gaze, I bury my head in the remaining sections of the newspaper. Almost there--just keep it quiet.

"Always working, aren't you?" a man's voice asks as I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"What the--" I spin around and grab his wrist.

"Sorry," he laughs. "Didn't mean to scare you." Looking up, I see the blond hair and warm smile of a young lawyer, Howie Robinson. Sweetheart of a guy; works in the VP's office.

"N-No, it's okay." I peek over my shoulder and check out the guards. All of them are watching us. Too much movement.

"You at the party yesterday?" Howie asks.

"Yeah," I say, taking another glance at the guards. The two at the desk are starting to whisper.

"You shoulda seen it, Garrick," Howie says. "I snuck my sister and nephew in. This kid--let me tell you, he went nuts--I think he's in love with Nora."

"Yeah . . . great," I mutter. The guard at the desk gets up and walks over to the two at the metal detector. Something's wrong.

"You okay?" Howie asks as we inch forward. I'm next in line.

"Sure," I nod. I should get out of here right now. Go home and--

"Next!" the uniformed officer says. All eyes are on me.

Refusing to look up, I pull out my ID, punch in my code, and step through the turnstile. Bolting as fast as I can through the metal detector, I don't even hear the sound of the alarm going off. The uniformed officer grabs me tightly by the arm. "Where you going, hotshot?"

I don't believe it. "You don't understand . . ."

"Empty your pockets. Now."

I catch myself before I say another word. It's not a security alarm; it's just the metal detector. "Sorry," I say, snapped back to reality. "Belt. It's my belt."

A wave of his handheld detector verifies the rest.

"Take it easy, man," Howie says as he pats me on the back. "You gotta get out of here once in a while--join us for basketball or something. It's good for the soul."

"Yeah, I'll do that," I say, forcing a grin.

He heads to the right, while I make my way to the left. Although I'm surrounded by fellow employees, the hallway's never felt more empty. As I'm about to turn the corner, I take one last look at the uniformed officers. The two behind the desk are focused on the line. The one by the X-ray is still watching me. Pretending I don't notice, I hold my breath and make a quick right. The moment I'm out of sight, I take off. Straight for Trey's.

* * *

I throw open the door to Trey's office and check his desk. He's nowhere in sight.

"Can I help you?" his officemate Steve asks.

"Have you seen Trey?" I shoot back, struggling to look like I'm not out of breath.

"No, I--"

"I saw him," a third officemate interrupts. "I think . . . uh . . . I think he had his head stuck up the First Lady's rear end."

"That's right," Steve says, laughing. "Hell of a photo-op. We brought in some kids. Put her in a living room setting. Fluffy throw pillows. Soft focus on the camera. Real deliverable."

Press secretaries. Always comedians.

I grab a Post-it, jot a quick note, and slap it against Trey's computer screen. "Find me. 911!"

"Great code," Steve says. "Way better than Morse." Storming back to the hallway, I slam the door as I leave. Once again, I'm drowning in silence. I have to talk to someone--even if it's just to figure out the next step. As I nervously check the marble hallway, the first person who comes to mind is Pam. I can go to her and . . . What am I thinking? I can't. Not after what happened. Not yet. Besides, with Vaughn dead, this whole thing's about to jackknife. Which means the last place I want to be is behind the wheel of the truck. I don't care if it's an election year--I've been avoiding it since I left the hotel--I need to go upstairs.

* * *

Racing across the soft red carpet of the Ground Floor Corridor, I see a phalanx of sightseers in the middle of a VIP White House tour led by one of the Secret Service tour guides. As I blow past them, two people take my picture. They think I'm famous. If things keep going in this direction, they're going to be right.

I don't stop until I reach the uniformed guard who sits outside the movie theater. "Can I ask you a favor?" I beg, my voice racing.

He doesn't answer. He just looks at me, judging.

"I know this is going to sound crazy," I begin, "but I was using the bathroom in the OEOB . . ."

"Which one?"

"On the first floor--the one near Cabinet Affairs. Anyway, I'm in the stall and I hear two interns bragging about the . . . uh"--I motion over my shoulder toward the utility box--"about the gun you keep in there." He sits up straight. "Maybe I heard it wrong--they were whispering the whole time--but it sounded like they either knew a gun was there, or that they had taken a gun from there. It may just be bragging but . . ."