The First Councel

I try to prop myself up on my elbows as a minor revolt, but the space is too small. And dark. It’s like a coffin. The walls of the trunk are pressing in. The silence is sickening. I hold my breath and listen closer. The final click of the engine as the car shuts down. Whispered friction as my shoe slides along the trunk’s carpet. In the distance, a car door slams. Is Nora even out there? Did she leave? Oh, God, I panic as I lick a tiny pool of sweat from my top lip. She could be anywhere by now. Back in the Residence; pit stop in the Oval. All she needs is a head start to feed me to the wolves. Outside, I hear a group of footsteps approach the car. Just as quickly, they stop. They’re waiting. Out there. For me. Son of a bitch.

The trunk pops open and a shot of daylight slaps me in the face. Squinting and using my forearm to block the sun, I look up, expecting to see the FBI. But the only one there is Nora.

“Let’s go,” she says, waving me out. She grabs my jacket by the shoulder and pulls me along.

My eyes scan the loading zone. No one’s around.

“Sorry about the wait,” she says. “There were a few stragglers in the hall.”

I catch my breath as Nora slams the trunk. Reaching inside her shirt, she pulls a metal chain with a laminated ID badge from around her neck and tosses it to me. A bright red badge with a big white letter A on it. A for appointment; my very own scarlet letter. I quickly put it on. Now I’m just another White House guest-completely invisible. Wasting no time, I dash for the automatic doors on my right. The moment my body steps past the electronic eye, the doors swing wide. I’m in. So’s Nora. Right behind me.

“So you’re all set?” she asks as we stop in the hallway.

“I guess,” I reply, my eyes glued to the floor.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?”

I shake my head. “I think I’ll be okay.”

“I guess I’ll see you at Trey’s office,” Nora adds.

“What?”

“That’s the plan, isn’t it? I go back and check in with the Service, then we’ll meet up in Trey’s office?”

“Yeah. That’s the plan,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. Turning around, I can’t face her anymore. Better to walk away.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you’re looking for?” she asks hesitantly.

“I don’t know if it’s smart to talk about it out here.”

“No, you’re right.” She looks around at the abandoned hallway. “Someone could overhear.”

I nod in agreement.

“Good luck,” she says, reaching out for my hand.

I reach back and our fingers slide together. Before I can react, she pulls me close and presses her lips against mine. I open my mouth and take one last taste. It’s like cinnamon with a shot of brandy. She grabs me by the back of my head as her nails scratch the short hairs on my neck. Her breasts press against my chest; the entire world doesn’t exist. And I’m once again reminded why Nora Hartson is completely overwhelming.

When she finally pulls away, she wipes her eyes. Her trembling lips are slightly open and she anxiously tucks a stray section of hair behind her ear. As a soft crinkle spreads across her forehead, the pained look on her face is the same as the night we were pulled over. Her seen-it-all eyes are fighting back tears.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Just tell me you trust me.”

“Nora, I-”

“Tell me!” she pleads, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Please, Michael. Just say the words.”

Once again, I take her by the hand. “I’ve always trusted you.”

She can’t help but fight back the smile. “Thank you.” Wiping her eyes, she squares her shoulders and puts her mask back in place. “Clock’s ticking, handsome. I’ll meet you back at Trey’s office?”

“That’s where I’m headed,” I reply, my voice trailing off.

She kisses her fingertips and slaps me on the cheek. “Stop worrying. It’ll all work out.” Without another word, she gets back in the car and heads down the loading ramp.

I turn away and dash for the stairs. Don’t look back-it’s not going to help.

***

Racing up the stairs, I have a clear path to Trey’s office. The moment Nora’s gone, though, I spin around and head downstairs. My stomach stings from lying to her, but if I’d told her the truth, she’d never have brought me in.

As I rush down to the basement of the building, the staircase narrows, the ceiling lowers, and I start to sweat. With no windows, and not a single air-conditioning unit in sight, the hallways in the basement are at least fifteen degrees hotter than the rest of the OEOB.

Rushing past the rotting concrete in what now feels like an underground sauna, I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. I have to duck down to avoid knocking my head against the pipes, wires, and heating ducts that hang down from the ceiling, but it doesn’t slow me down. Not when I’m this close.

When Caroline died, all of her important files were confiscated by the FBI. Everything else was put here: Room 018-one of the many storage areas used by Records Management. As the bureaucratic pack-rats of the Executive Branch, they catalogue every document produced by the administration. By all accounts, it’s a suck job.