by Brad Meltzer
As soon as my eyes hit it, I know I’ve seen it before. Then I remember where I am. Directly above the most ornate room in the building—the Indian Treaty Room. Looking down, I can see its outline through the huge sections of stained glass. The marble wall panels. The intricate marquetry floor. I was there for the AmeriCorps reception, when I first met Nora. The attic runs right over it. Their stained glass ceiling; my stained glass floor.
Deeper into the room, I finally find what I’m after. Beyond the guardrail, in the far left corner, are at least fifty file boxes. Right in the front, in a horizontal stack, are the six I’m looking for. The ones marked Penzler. My stomach constricts.
I grab the top box from the pile and rip off the cardboard lid. R through Sa. This is it. I pull out each file as I go. Racial Discrimination . . . Radio Addresses . . . Reapportionment . . . Request Memos.
The folder is at least three inches thick, and I tear it out with a sharp yank. Flipping it open, I see the most recent memo on top. It’s dated August 28th. A week before Caroline was killed. Addressed to the White House Security Office, the memo states that she “would like to request current FBI files for the following individual(s):” On the next line is a single name, Michael Garrick.
It’s not much in the way of news—I’ve known she requested my file since the day I saw it on her desk. Still, there’s something odd about seeing it in print. After everything that’s happened—everything I’ve been through—this is where it started.
No matter how ruthless Caroline was or how many people she blackmailed, even she knew it was impossible to get an FBI file without a request memo. Thinking about it, she probably didn’t see it as that big a deal—as Ethics Officer for the White House, she had fifty ways to justify each request. And if anyone tried to use a request against her . . . well, every one of us was guilty of something. So who cares about a little paper trail?
Remembering that Caroline had fifteen folders on her desk, I flip to the next memo and take a closer look at the other files she’d requested. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Those are the two nominees Nora told me about in the bowling alley. Including me, that’s three. Twelve more to go. The next eight are presidential appointees. That brings it to eleven. Pam’s was requested a while back. That’s twelve. Thirteen and fourteen are both judicial nominees—people I’ve never heard of. That leaves only one more name. I turn the page and look down, expecting it to be Simon. Sure enough, he’s there. But he’s not the only one. There’s an extra name on the last sheet.
My eyes go wide. I can’t believe it. I sit down on a box, the sheet trembling in my hand. Simon was right about one thing. I had it all backwards. That’s why Simon was clueless when I quizzed him about Nora. And why I couldn’t rip a hole in his alibi. And why . . . all this time . . . I had the wrong guy. Vaughn hit it right on the money. Nora was sleeping with the old man. I just had the wrong old man.
Caroline had requested a sixteenth file—a file that must’ve been snatched from her desk—snatched by the killer—so it was never seen by the FBI. That’s why he was never a suspect. I reread his name half a dozen times. The calmest among us. Lawrence Lamb.
A fit of nausea punches me in the throat and my chest caves in. The folder I’m holding sags to the floor. I don’t . . . I don’t believe it. It can’t be. And yet . . . that’s why I—And he—
I shut my eyes and clench my teeth. He knew I’d buy it—all he had to do was open the inner circle and wave a few perks. Fudge outside the Oval. Briefing the President. The chance to be the bigshot. Lamb knew I’d lick up every last drop. Including Nora. That was the cherry on top. And the more I relied on him, the less likely it became that I’d search things out for myself. That’s all he needed. That’s all I had. Blind faith.
Bent over, I’m still struggling to digest what’s running through my head. That’s why she brought me to see him. They gave me the list of suspects; I took it as fact. Without Vaughn, I never would’ve questioned it. There’s only one problem with the picture—it’s all coming together a bit too easily. From the box being up here, to the file being in its exact place . . . I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels a little too force-fed. It’s almost as if someone’s trying to help me. As if they want to be found out.
“I never meant to hurt you, Michael,” a voice whispers behind me.
I spin around, recognizing it immediately. Nora. “Is that the lie of the moment? Some maudlin disclaimer?”
She walks toward me. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” she says. “Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? That’s supposed to make me feel better? The first fifty things you told me were bullshit, but from here on in, it’s all sunshine?”
“It wasn’t bullshit.”
“It was, Nora! All of it was!”
“That’s not—”
“Stop lying!”
“Why’re you—”
“Why’m I what? Shattered? Enraged? Devastated? Why do you think, Nora!? That night we outran the Service, you weren’t lost! You knew where that bar was, and you knew Simon’d be waiting inside for the drop point!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You knew, Nora. You knew. After that, all you had to do was sit back and watch it play out. I follow; you leave the ten grand in my car; the next day, once Caroline’s dead, you’ve got an instant scapegoat.”
“Michael . . .”
“You’re not even denying it! Trey was right, wasn’t he? That’s why you took the money—to plant on me! That’s all you had to do!”
For once, she decides not to fight back.
I take a second, catching my breath. “Must’ve been a real monkey-wrench when we got pulled over by the cops. You may’ve lost the Service, but now you had a witness.”
“It was more than that,” she whispers.
“Oh, that’s right—when I said the money was mine, it was also the first time anyone was ever nice to you. How’d you put it that night? People don’t do nice things for you? Well, no offense, Sybil, but I finally understand why.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“Get the hell off me!” I shout, pulling away. “Dammit, Nora, don’t you get it? I was on your side! I looked past the drugs; I ignored every rumor. I took you to see my father, for chrissakes! I loved you, Nora! Do you have any idea what that means?” I can’t help it—I start choking up.
She looks at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. “I love you too.”
I shake my head. Too little. Too late. “Are you at least gonna tell me why?”
All I get is silence.
“I asked you a question, Nora. Why’d you do it?” My shoulders are shaking. “Tell me! Are you in love with him?”
“No!” Her voice cracks with that one.
“Then why’re you sleeping with him?”
“Michael . . .”
“Don’t Michael me! Just give me an answer!”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“It’s sex, Nora! There are only so many reasons to do it—you’re in love . . .”
“It’s more complicated th—”
“. . . you’re horny . . .”
“This isn’t about you.”
“. . . you’re desperate . . .”
“Stop it, Michael.”
“. . . you’re bored . . .”
“I said stop it!”
“. . . or it’s against your will.”
Nora falls dead silent.
Oh, God.
Crossing her arms, she wraps them around her torso and tucks her chin toward her chest.
“Did he . . .”
She raises her eyes just enough for me to see the first tears. They stream down her face and slowly trickle down her thin neck.
“He molested you?”
She turns away.
A sharp fire rips a hole in my stomach. I’m not sure if it’s rage or pain. All I know is it hurts. “When did it happen?” I ask.
“You don’t underst—�
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“Was it more than once?”
“Please, Michael, please don’t do this,” she begs.
“No,” I tell her. “You need this.”
“It’s not what you think—it’s only since—”
“Only!? How long has it been going on?”
Once again, dead silence. A piece of wood creaks in the corner. She keeps her eyes locked on the floor. Her voice is tiny. “Since I was eleven.”
“Eleven?” I cry. “Oh, Nora . . .”
“Please—please don’t tell anyone!” she begs. “Please, Michael!” Floodgates open. The tears come fast. “I . . . I have to . . . I don’t have money!”
“What do you mean you don’t have money?”
She’s breathing heavily—panting through her sobs. “For the drugs!” she sobs. “It’s just the drugs!”
As she says the words, I feel the blood drain from my face. That sick dominating bastard. He keeps her trapped by drugs in exchange for—
“Please, Michael, promise you won’t say anything! Please!”
I can’t stand hearing her beg. Sobbing uncontrollably, with her arms still wrapped around herself, she just stands there—in her self-made cocoon—afraid to reach out.
Since the day we met, I’ve seen a side of Nora Hartson that she’d never reveal to the public. As a friend and a liar, a lunatic and a lover. As a bored rich kid, a fear-nothing thrill-seeker, an odds-defying gambler, and even, for the briefest of moments, as a perfect daughter-in-law. I’ve seen her everywhere in between. But never as a victim.
I won’t let her go through this alone. There’s no need for alone. I cover her with my embrace.
“I’m sorry,” she cries as she crumbles in my arms. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing her back. “It’s all going to be okay.” But even as I say the words, both of us know it’s not. However it started, Lawrence Lamb has ruined her life. When someone steals your childhood, you never get it back.
Rocking back and forth, I use the same technique I use on my dad. She doesn’t need words; she just needs soothing.
“Y-You should . . .” Nora begins, her head buried against my shoulder. “You should get out of here.”
“Don’t worry. No one knows we’re—”
“He’s coming,” she whispers. “I had to tell him. He’s on his way.”
“Who’s on his way?”
There’s a steady thunk as he bounds up the stairs. I spin around and the answer comes from the deep, calm voice in the corner of the room. “Get away from her, Michael,” Lawrence Lamb says. “I think you’ve already done enough.”
CHAPTER 39
At the sound of his voice, I feel every muscle in Nora’s back tense. First, I think it’s anger. It’s not. It’s fear.
Like a child caught stealing from her mother’s purse, she pulls away from me and wipes her face. Lightning speed. Like nothing ever happened.
I turn toward Lamb, wondering what she’s so afraid of.
“I tried to stop him,” Nora blurts, “but he—”
“Shut up,” Lamb snaps.
“You don’t understand, Uncle Larry, I—”
“You’re a liar,” he says in a low monotone. Moving toward her, his shoulders are pitched, barely restrained in his flawlessly tailored Zegna suit. He glides like a panther. Slow, calculating, as his ice blue eyes drill into Nora. The closer he gets, the more she shrinks backwards.
“Don’t touch her!” I warn.
He doesn’t stop. Straight at Nora. That’s all he sees.
She races to the files, pointing down at the open box. She’s shaking uncontrollably. “S-See . . . here it is—j-j-just like I . . .”
He points at her, extending a single, manicured finger. His voice is a whispered roar. “Nora—”
She shuts up. Dead silent.
Thrusting his hand at her throat, he grabs her by the neck, holds her at arm’s length, and scans the pile of files at her feet. Her arms go ragdoll; her legs are quivering. She can barely stand up.
I’m paralyzed just watching it. “Get off her!”
Once again, he doesn’t even look my way. All he does is glare at Nora. She tries to squirm free, but he grips her tighter. “What did I tell you about fighting?” She goes back to ragdoll, her head lowered, refusing to face me. Lamb looks to the floor and smiles that thin, haunting grin. I can read it in the smug look on his face. He’s seen the files. He knows what I found. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a silver Zippo lighter with the presidential seal on it. “Take this,” he says to Nora. She stands frozen. “Take it!” he shouts, forcing it into her hands. “Listen to me when I talk to you! Do you want to be unhappy? Is that what you want?”
That’s it. Enough melodrama. I race toward them at full speed. “I said, get the hell off h—”
He spins around and pulls out a gun. A small pistol. Pointed right at me. “What’d you say?” he asks.
I stop in my tracks and raise my hands.
“Exactly,” Lamb growls.
Next to him, Nora’s trembling. But for the first since Lamb arrived, she’s looking at me.
Lamb yanks her chin, jerking her head back toward him. “Who’s talking to you!? Me or him? Me or him!?” Grabbing her by the throat, he pulls her close and whispers in her ear. “Remember what you told me? Well, it’s time to keep the promise.” He slides his hand to her shoulder and pushes down, trying to force her to her knees. Her legs are buckling, but at least she’s resisting.
“Fight him, Nora!” I call out, only a few feet away.
“Last warning,” he says as he points the gun at me. Turning back to Nora, he makes sure I get a good look. With a tight grip on her throat, he slides his gun toward her mouth. “Do you want me to get mad at you? Is that what you want?” As he presses the barrel against her lips, she shakes her head no. He pushes harder. The tip of the gun scratches against her gritted teeth. Her knees start to give way. “Please, Nora . . . it’s me. It’s just me. We can . . . we can fix it—like it was.” She looks up and all she sees is him. Slowly, she lets the gun slip between her lips. A tear runs down her cheek. Lamb smiles. And Nora gives in. One final push sends her crumbling to her knees.
Slumped down, she’s sitting next to the loose files. Lamb steps back and leaves her alone on the floor.
“You know what to do,” he says.
Nora looks down at the lighter, then over at the files.
“Here’s your chance,” he adds. “Make it right.”
“Don’t listen to him!” I shout.
Without warning, Lamb turns to me and fires. The gun goes off with a silent hiss. Next thing I know, something bites through my shoulder. I slap myself like I’m going after a ten-ton mosquito. But when I pick my hand up, it’s covered in blood. Warm. It’s so warm. And sticky. There are dark red speckles all over my arm. Without thinking, I go to touch it. My finger goes straight in the bullet hole. Up to my knuckle. That’s when I notice the pain. Sharp. Like a thick needle jammed in my shoulder. It pulses down my arm with an electric shock. I’ve been shot.
“See what he made me do?” Lamb says to Nora. “It’s just like I told you—once it gets out, it all falls apart.”
I want to scream, but the words don’t come.
“Don’t let him confuse you,” Lamb adds. “Ask yourself what’s right. Would I ever put you at risk? Would I ever do anything to hurt our family?”
From the blank look on her face, I can tell Nora’s lost. As shock sets in, the throbbing in my shoulder is excruciating.
Continuing to hammer away, Lamb motions to the lighter in her hand. “I can’t do it without you, Nora. Only you can fix it. For us. It’s all for us.”
She looks at the lighter, her eyes filled with tears.
Lamb’s voice stays cold and steady. “It’s in your hands, honey. Only yours. If you don’t finish it now, they take it all away. Everything, Nora. Is that what you want? Is that what we worked for?”
Her answer is a tr
ained whisper. “No.” Refusing to look up, Nora opens the lighter and flicks on the flame. She holds it for a moment, staring at the fire as it shakes in her hand.
“Keep—your—promise,” Lamb says with his teeth clenched.
“Don’t!” I call out.
It’s too late. She picks up the folder and brings it slowly toward the flame.
“That’s it,” Lamb says. “Keep your promise.”
“Nora, you don’t have to—” Before I can finish, she dips the corner of the folder into the orange flame. The thin file catches fire easily, and within seconds, the entire edge is lit up like a torch . . . Wait a second. The Request Memos file was an inch thick. This one’s—
Nora shoots me a look, and with a flick of her wrist, hurls the burning file straight at Lamb. A blazing rocket, it hits him square in the chest as fiery pages fly everywhere. His tie, his jacket—both start to catch fire. Screaming at the small flame, he pats down his chest and fights his way out of his jacket. The flames go out quickly. The file folder, smacked through the air, lands near the guardrail surrounding the stained glass. Right at my feet. I’m still lying on the floor, but if I scooch forward . . . I can just about . . . There. Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I stamp out the flame, pick up the charred remains of the folder, and read the label. Radio Addresses.
I look up at Nora, who, with tears streaming down her face, is already racing at Lamb. “You fucking asshole!” she screams as her fingernails slash a deep cut into his cheek. “I’ll kill you! You understand me, you vampire? I’ll kill you!” Clawing and punching in every direction, she’s like an animal unleashed. But the louder she screams, the more the tears flow—launched through the air as her head whips back and forth. Every few seconds, she sniffles it all in, but moments later, a burst of shrieks and saliva sends it right back out. She grabs him by the hair and pounds him in the ear. Then she lifts his head and jabs him in the throat. Blow after blow, she goes straight for the soft spots.
As always, though, Nora takes it too far. Looking down, she realizes Lamb is still somehow holding on to his gun.
