The First Councel

For the fourth time in ten minutes, I check the toaster and dial Nora’s number. It says she’s in the Residence, but no one picks up. I hang up and dial another two extensions. Trey and Pam are just as hard to find. I beeped both of them as soon as I got back, but neither has checked in.

I scan the digital call log one last time, just to make sure they didn’t call while I was on the line. Nothing. No one’s there. No one but me. That’s what it comes down to. A world of one.

Inside the White House, the heat, vent, and cooling systems keep the air pressure of the mansion higher than normal for one simple reason: If someone attacks with a bio weapon or nerve gas, the poison-filled air will be forced outward, away from the President. Of course, the joke among the staff is that this by definition makes the White House the most high-pressured place to work. Right now, sitting in my office, it’s got nothing to do with air systems.

Feeling self-preservation surpass anger, I get up and head for the anteroom. As I open the door, I hear someone by the coffeemaker. If I’m lucky, it’ll be Pam. Instead, it’s Julian.

“Tastes like someone pissed in this,” he says, shoving his coffee mug toward my face.

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“I’m not blaming you, Garrick-I’m making a point. Our coffee sucks.”

This isn’t the time to fight. “Sorry to hear that.”

“What’s wrong with you? You look like crap.”

“Nothing, just some stuff I’m working on.”

“Like what? Sucking up to more criminals? You were two for two this morning.”

I step past him and open the door. Although we tend to disagree on just about everything, I have to admit that our third officemate isn’t a bad person-he’s just a bit too intense for the general populace. “Enjoy the coffee, Julian.”

Walking back to Caroline’s office, I find the massive hallway longer than ever. When I first started working here, I remember being so impressed with how big everything seemed. Over time, it all became both manageable and comfortable. Today, I’m right back where I started.

Reaching Caroline’s office, I grab the doorknob without knocking. “Caroline, before you go nuts, let me expl-”

I come to a trainwrecking halt.

In front of me, Caroline is sunk low in her highback chair. Her head sags forward like an abandoned marionette’s, and one arm is dangling over the armrest. She’s not moving. “Caroline?” I ask, moving closer.

No answer. Oh, God.

In her lap, her other hand is holding on to an empty coffee mug that has the words “I Got Your State of the Union Right Here” written on it. Turned on its side and resting on her thigh, the mug is empty. “Caroline, are you okay?” I ask. That’s when I notice the slow dripping sound. It catches me by surprise and reminds me of the leaky faucet in my apartment. Following the sound, I realize it’s running from the chair to the floor. Caroline’s sitting in a puddle of coffee.

Instinctively, I reach out and touch her shoulder. Her head flops back and hits the edge of the chair with a sickly thud. The vacancy in Caroline’s wide-open hazel eyes violently rips through me. One eye stares straight forward; the other slumps cockeyed to the side.

Around me, the room starts to spin. My throat contracts and it’s suddenly impossible to breathe. Staggering backwards, I crash into the wall, knocking a framed thank-you note to the floor. Her life’s work shatters. I open my mouth, but I can barely hear what comes out. “Someone… ” I cry, gasping for air. “Please… someone help.”

CHAPTER 7

A uniformed Secret Service officer with a nasty hooked jaw helps me to my feet. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” he asks, shouting the questions until I nod yes. The phone and its wires are tangled around my ankles-from when I pulled the console off the desk. It was all I could think of, the only way to get help. He kicks the phone aside and helps me to the couch in the corner. I look back at Caroline, whose eyes are still wide open. For the rest of my life, she’ll be frozen in that position.

The next fifteen minutes are a haze of investigative efficiency. Before I know what’s happening, the room is filled with an assortment of investigators and other law enforcement officials: two more uniformed officers, two Secret Service suits, a five-person FBI Crime Scene Unit, and a member of the Emergency Response Team holding an Uzi by the door. After some brief posturing over jurisdiction, the Secret Service let the FBI get to work. A tall man in a dark blue FBI polo shirt takes photos of the office, while a short Asian woman and two other men in light blue shirts pick the place apart. A fifth man with a Virginia twang in his voice is the one giving orders.

“You, boys,” he says to the uniformed Secret Service. “You’d be a far bigger help if you waited outside.” Before they even move, he adds, “Thanks for your time now.” He turns to the Secret Service suits and gives them a quick once-over. They can stay. Then he comes over to me.