The First Counsel Page 22

  “So where’s your room?”

  “Why? Feeling frisky?”

  Again, I’m not giving it to her. I point to the door at the end of the hallway. “What’s behind there?”

  “My parents’ bedroom.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she says, studying my reaction. “Really.”

  Damn. She’s counting that one against me. I should’ve known better. Her parents are always off limits.

  Down the hall, she turns a corner and stops at the wall on her immediate left. Passing her, I’m standing across the hall from the Lincoln Bedroom. “So when’re we going to get this coffee?” I ask.

  “Right now.” She’s fidgeting with something on the wall, but I can’t tell what it is. “The kitchenette’s upstairs.”

  I assume we’ll head back to the staircase, but we don’t.

  Stepping closer, I see that she’s wedging her fingers into a thin crack in the wall. With a sharp pull, the wall swings toward us, revealing an otherwise hidden staircase. Nora looks up and smiles. “We can take the stairs on this side of the house.”

  • • •

  “Pay attention,” Nora says, “because this’s the best part.” She heads up a steep carpeted ramp and leads us toward the room directly above the Yellow Oval. “Voilà,” she says with a bow. “The Solarium.”

  Resembling a small greenhouse on top of the mansion, the Solarium’s outside walls are made entirely of green-tinted glass. Inside, wicker furniture and a glass-top card table give it the feel of a Palm Beach den. On the left is a kitchenette, on the right, an overstuffed white sofa and large-screen TV. Scattered around the room are dozens of family photos.

  On my far right is a short bookcase filled with what looks like homemade arts-and-crafts projects. There’s a purple and blue birdhouse that looks like it was made by a seventh-grader—on the side of it are the initials “N.H.” in peeling orange paint. There’s also a papier-mâché duck or swan—it’s too warped to tell which—a ceramic ashtray or cupholder, and a flat piece of brown-painted wood with fifty or so protruding nails that’re set up to spell the initials “N.H.” To make sure the letters stand out, all the nailheads are painted yellow. On the bottom of the shelf, I even spot a few trophies—one for soccer, one for field hockey. In all, you can trace the quality of the projects from first grade all the way up to about seventh or eighth. After that, there’s nothing new.

  Nora Hartson was twelve years old when her father first announced he was running for Governor. Sixth grade. If I had to date it, I’d say that’s the same year she made the swan-duck. After that, I’d bet the birdhouse came next. And that’s where her childhood ends.

  “C’mon, you’re missing the good stuff,” she says, motioning for me to join her by the enormous window.

  Crossing the room, I notice the VCR on top of the TV. “Can I ask you a question?” I begin as I move next to her.

  “If it’s about the history of the house, I don’t really know my—”

  “What’s your favorite movie?” I blurt.

  “Huh?”

  “Your favorite movie—simple question.”

  Without pause, she says, “Annie Hall.”

  “Really?”

  She lets out the sweetest of smiles. “No,” she laughs. After today, it’s not as easy to lie.

  “So what is it?”

  She stares out the window as if it’s a big deal. “Moonstruck,” she finally offers.

  “The old Cher film?” I ask, confused. “Isn’t that a love story?”

  Shaking her head, she shoots me a look. “What you don’t know about women . . . is a lot.”

  “But I—”

  “Just enjoy the view,” she says, pointing me back toward the window. When I oblige, she adds, “So whattya think?”

  “Sure beats the Truman Balcony,” I say, pressing my forehead against the glass. From here, I have a full view of the South Lawn and the Washington Monument.

  “Wait until you see it face-to-face.” She opens a door in the right corner and steps outside.

  The balcony up here is a small one, and although it curves like a giant letter C around the length of the Solarium, there’s just a white concrete guardrail to protect you. By the time I get outside, Nora’s leaning over the edge. “Time for some fun—let loose and fly!” With her stomach pressed against the railing, she extends her arms and leans forward until her legs are lifted in the air.

  “Nora . . . !” I shout, grabbing her by the ankles.

  Lowering herself back to earth, she grins. “You’re afraid of heights?”

  Before I can say another word, she takes off, darting farther around the long, curved balcony. I try to grab her, but she slips through my hands, turns the corner, and disappears. Trying to catch up and trying even harder not to look over the edge, I dash along the far end of the balcony. But as I make my way around the corner, Nora’s nowhere in sight. Undeterred, I plow forward, assuming she slipped through another door and went back into the Solarium. There’s only one problem. On this side of the balcony, no other door exists. Reaching the corner, I hit a dead end. Nora’s gone.

  “Nora?” I call out. There aren’t many places to hide. From where I’m standing, the balcony runs flush against the mansion.

  I press my hands against the wall, using my nails to search for cracks. Maybe there’s another secret door. Within thirty seconds, it’s obvious there’s nothing there. Nervously, I glance toward the edge. She wouldn’t dare . . . Rushing forward, I lock my hands tight around the railing. “Nora?” I call out as my eyes scan the ground. “Where are—”

  “Shhhhhhh—lower your voice.”

  Spinning around, I follow the sound.

  “A little higher, Sherlock.”

  I look up and finally find her. Sitting on the roof of the mansion, she’s dangling her feet over the edge. She’s low enough that I can touch her swinging legs, but everything else is out of reach.

  “How’d you get up there?”

  “Does that mean you want to join me?”

  “Just tell me how you got there.”

  She points with her foot. “See where the railing runs into the wall? Stand on that and boost yourself up.”

  I take a quick look at the concrete railing, then look up at Nora. “Are you out of your mind? That’s lunacy.”

  “To some it’s lunacy. To others it’s fun.”

  “C’mon down here—I promise, it’ll be more fun.”

  “No, no, no,” she says, wagging a finger. “You want it, you got to come get it.”

  I take another look at the railing. It’s not even that high—it’s just my fear I can’t conquer.

  “You’re inches away from climbing the mountain,” Nora sings. “Think of the rewards.”

  That’s it. Fear conquered. Straddling the concrete railing, I hold on to the wall for balance. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down, I tell myself. Slowly, cautiously, I attempt to climb to my feet. First one knee, then the other. As dizziness sets in, my cheek’s pressed against the wall and my fingers scurry up the marble like startled spiders. What a stupid way to die.

  “Just stand up—you’re almost there,” Nora says.

  Only a few more inches. Balancing on the railing and leaning into the wall, I let my hands scramble for the roof. Within seconds, I lock on to the marble molding and grab that sucker with everything in me. Then, anchored in place, I slowly stand up. Nora’s no longer out of my reach. A hop and quick boost finish the job.

  As I prop myself up on the ledge, I hear Nora’s hushed clapping. Her feet are still dangling over the edge, and she’s hiding behind a tall marble structure that looks like an exhaust duct.

  “What’re you—”

  “Shhhhhh,” she whispers, motioning across the roof. As she waves me next to her, I realize who she’s trying to avoid. On the other side of the roof is a man wearing a dark baseball cap and dark blue fatigues. In the moonlight, I see the outline of the long-distance rifle that�
��s hanging from his shoulder. A countersniper—the executive branch version of Rambo.

  “Are you sure this is safe?”

  “Don’t worry,” Nora says. “They’re harmless.”

  “Harmless? That guy can kill me with a roll of Scotch tape and a highlighter. I mean, what if he thinks we’re spies?”

  “Then he’ll stick us down and color us bright yellow.”

  “Nora . . .”

  “Relax . . .” she moans, mimicking my whine. “He knows who we are. As soon as I got up here, he took off to the other corner. As long as we keep it quiet, they won’t even report it.”

  Struggling to act relieved, I scooch next to her and lean against the marble air vent.

  “Still worried?” she asks as her shoulder rubs against mine.

  “No,” I say, enjoying her touch. “But I’m warning you—if I get shot, you better avenge me.”

  “I think you should be okay. All the times I’ve been up here, no one’s ever shot at me.”

  “Of course not—you’re the crown jewel. I’m the one who’s target practice.”

  “That’s not true. They won’t shoot at you without a good reason.”

  “And what kind of reason is that?”

  “You know,” she says, turning my way. “Assaulting the complex, threatening my parents, attacking one of the First Kids . . .”

  “Wait, wait, wait—define attack.”

  “Oh, that’s a hard one,” she says as her hand flits across my chest. “I think it’s one of those know-it-when-you-see-it things.”

  “Like pornography.”

  “Actually, that’s not such a bad analogy,” she tells me.

  I reach over and put my hand on her hip. “Does this qualify?”

  “As what? Pornography or an attack?”

  I take an immensely long look into her eyes. “Either.”

  She seems to like that one.

  “So does it qualify?” I repeat.

  She doesn’t glance down. “Hard to say.”

  I slide my hand a little higher, slowly making my way to her untucked shirt. As I sneak beneath it, my fingers dip inside the waistband of her jeans and brush against the edge of her underwear. Her skin is so tight it makes me miss college. As smoothly as possible, I make my way up her stomach.

  “Not there,” she says, grabbing my hand.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “No worries,” she says as she offers me a smile. Pointing to her lips, she adds, “Just start a little higher.”

  I’m about to lean in when I see her pull something from her mouth.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Just getting rid of my gum.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a tiny sheet of paper. As she turns her back to me, she wraps her gum in it and throws in a new piece.

  “Want to take out your retainer as well?” I mutter.

  Facing me, Nora’s sucking on her pointer finger. Pulling it from her mouth, she lets outs a sharp kissing sound. “Come again?”

  I don’t have a single response that’ll do her justice. Instead, I just sit there for a second, enjoying.

  For Nora, it’s a second too long. In one quick movement, she rolls over, straddles my legs, and, with a slight tug, pulls me toward her and glides her tongue between my lips. Right there, it all comes rushing back. Over the past two weeks, I’ve had dreams about her smell. Its bittersweetness—almost narcotic. As soon as we kiss, she slides her gum into my mouth. My girlfriend in fifth grade used to do that. I go to chew it, but it feels like it’s still wrapped in paper. Caught off guard, I pull away in mid-cough. It’s too solid. Unable to pry the gum loose with my tongue, I shove two fingers to the back of my throat, but before I can pull it out, it’s gone, accidentally swallowed.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “I think so—it’s just . . . I wasn’t ready for it.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says with a sweet laugh. “I don’t mind starting over.” Once again, she leans forward and slips me her tongue. My fingers run through her hair; her kisses grow more forceful. Eventually, we find each other’s flow. From there, it takes me a few minutes of kissing to nerve myself back into exploratory mode, but I eventually smooth my hands along the back of her shirt and feel around for her bra. She’s not wearing one. Lost in her kiss, I feel time disappear. It could be fifteen minutes or fifty—but we’re starting to burn.

  Still on top of me, she pushes me back and slides her hands under my shirt. Unlike her, I don’t fight it—I just lie back on my elbows and close my eyes. Her close-cropped nails bite their way up the sides of my chest and behind my shoulders. Where she straddles my legs, I feel her heat up against me. It’s a slow rhythm at first, a nearly invisible grind. Slowly, she picks up the pace. In an instant, however, it’s all torn away.

  Feeling light-headed, I’m hit with a sudden onset of nausea. I try to stop myself from coughing and dry heaving, but the whole world is suddenly blinking on and off. As I look up, everything starts sliding to the right. Across the yellow sky, I see one plane become four. The Washington Monument becomes the neck of a swan. “What’s happening?” I ask, though I hear no sound. It’s all static.

  Struggling to stay conscious, I stand up and stagger to the edge of the roof. It’s not that high anymore. Just a small step down. I go to take it, but something pulls me back. Back against the chimney. It hurts, but it doesn’t. Sinking down in my seat, I’m having a hard time keeping my head up. My neck keeps sagging, like it’s stuffed with grape jelly. In the back of my throat, I still feel the tickle of the swallowed gum. How long ago was that? Twenty minutes? Thirty? The static’s getting louder. Unable to hold my head up, I let it crash back against the chimney. I look over at Nora, but all she’s doing is laughing. Her mouth’s wide open and she’s laughing. Laughing. A mouthful of teeth. And fangs.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mumble as the world goes black. She drugged me.

  CHAPTER 19

  Michael, are you okay?” Nora asks as I pry open my eyes. “Can you hear me?” When I don’t answer, she repeats the original question. “You okay? You feeling okay?” Each time she says it, it sounds less like a question and more like an order.

  Blinking my way back to consciousness, I’m trying to figure out how I got tucked into this bed. I pull the cold washcloth from my forehead and take a quick look around. The antique armoire and the built-in bookshelves tell me I’m not in a hospital. The Princeton diploma on the far wall tells me the rest. Nora’s room.

  “How’re you doing?” she asks, her voice racing with concern.

  “Shitty,” I reply as I sit up in bed. “What the hell happened?” Before she can answer, a wave of vertigo sweeps up from the base of my skull. Reeling from the sudden onslaught, I close my eyes and grit my teeth. My vision goes gray, then comes back again.

  “Michael, are you—”

  “I’m fine,” I insist as I feel it pass. Slowly, my fists tighten. “What the hell did you put in my mouth?”

  “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Just tell me, Nora.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that to you—”

  “Stop fuckin’ apologizing. I felt the paper in the gum!”

  Surprised by the outburst, she slinks backwards, moving farther toward the foot of the bed. “I swear, it wasn’t supposed to make you pass out,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never meant for that to happen.”

  “Just tell me what it was.”

  Staring down at the stark white blanket, she doesn’t answer. She can barely face me.

  “Dammit, Nora, tell me what it—”

  “Acid,” she finally whispers. “Just a single tab of acid.”

  “Just a . . . Are you completely out of your head? Do you even realize what you just did?”

  “Please don’t be mad, Michael—I didn’t mean to—”

  “You put it in my mouth, Nora! It didn’t just get there by itself!”

  “I know—and I’m so sorry I
did that to you. I shouldn’t have violated our trust like that . . . especially after today . . . I just thought . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “You just thought what? I want to hear the twisted logic behind this one.”

  “I don’t know . . . I figured . . . y’know, outside—while we fooled around—I thought it’d be fun.”

  “Fun? That’s your idea of fun? Drugging me against my will?”

  “Believe me, Michael, if you hadn’t gotten sick, you would’ve thanked me for it. It’s not like normal sex—it’s a life-changing event.”

  “Damn right it’s life-changing—I step off the roof, I die! I could’ve been killed!”

  “But you weren’t. When you got near the edge, I pulled you back. And when you got sick, I had Countersniper bring you down here. All I wanted was to keep you safe.”

  “Safe!? Nora, what happens if I get called for a drug test? Did you even spend a second thinking about that!? They still randomly test the staff! What do I do then?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Is that what it’s always about? How it’s gonna affect your job?”

  Throwing the covers aside, I shut my eyes tight at the head rush, hobble out of bed, and grab my pants from the back of the antique chair.

  “Where’re you going?” she asks as I pull them on.

  Wobbling to pick up my shoes, I refuse to answer. She jumps in front of me, assuming I’ll stop. She’s wrong. Lowering my shoulder, I’m about to plow into her. She stands her ground. I tell myself that I should knock her over. That I should teach her a lesson. That I shouldn’t care. But I do. Just short of impact, I stop myself. “Get out of the way,” I growl.

  “C’mon, Michael, what else do you want me to say? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry it happened. To work that fast, you must’ve got a bad one or something.”

  “Obviously I got a bad one! That’s not the damn point!”

  “I’m trying to apologize—why’re you getting so upset?”

  “You want to know why?” I shout. “Because you still don’t get it. This isn’t about the acid—this isn’t even about our trust—it’s about the fact that you’re a grade-A quality psycho! Rationalize all you want, this puts you in a whole new league!”