The First Councel

Cutting him off, I pound him again in the stomach. And the ribs. And the face. Anything to shut him up. Bent over in pain, he staggers back toward the recessed section of stained glass. I know it’s time to stop, but… next to the railing is Nora’s nearly lifeless body-she’s on her back, a pool of her own blood still growing below her. That’s all it takes. Barely able to see through the tears, I throw everything I have into one last punch. It connects with a thunderclap and knocks Lamb backwards a good four to five feet.

He hits the guardrail completely off balance, and like a human seesaw, flips over the railing and heads straight for the enormous stained glass panels that are built into the ceiling of the room below. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of shattering glass. But all I hear is a dull thud.

Confused, I rush over to the guardrail and look down. Lamb, dazed, is lying across the wide-paneled glass flower at the center of the glass. It didn’t break. Directly below him, on the other side of the glass, the crystal chandelier is swaying from the impact.

“Hhhh.” He lets out a haunting sigh as a cold chill runs down my back. He’s going to get away with this.

Suspended above the Indian Treaty Room, he cautiously rolls over, turns himself around, and slowly, carefully, crawls back on the glass toward the guardrail.

Desperately, I look around for the gun. There it is-right next to Nora’s shoulder. Soaked in blood. I run and grab it, whirling back to point it straight at Lamb.

He stops in his tracks. Our eyes are locked; neither of us moves. Suddenly, he purses his lips.

I pull back on the hammer.

“Spare me the dramatics, Michael. You pull that trigger, no one’ll ever believe you.”

“They’re not going to believe me anyway. At least this way, you’re dead.”

“And that’s going to make it all better? Some quick revenge for your imaginary girlfriend?”

I look over at Nora, then back at Lamb. She’s not moving.

“Come on, Michael, you don’t have it in you-if you did, we never would’ve picked you.”

“We? You destroyed her… controlled her… She never took part in the planning.”

“If that’s what makes you feel better… but ask yourself this: Who do you think that gun’s registered to? Me-the confidant trying to protect his goddaughter? Or you-the killer I had to stop?”

My hands are shaking as I slide a finger around the trigger.

“And let’s not forget what happens to your dad when they put you in jail. Think he’ll make it on his own?”

A single shot-that’s all it takes.

“It’s over, Michael. I can already see tomorrow’s paper: Garrick Kills President’s Daughter.”

My eyes go dark. The gun’s pointed right at his forehead. Just like he did to Vaughn-and blamed on me.

Watching me twist, Lamb flashes a cold smile. It digs straight into my shoulder. I tighten my grip on the trigger. Every muscle in my body tenses. My eyes narrow. The chandelier sways.

“Say good night, Larry,” I say. Holding the gun at arm’s length, I use both hands to steady it. I sight along the barrel. There he is. For the first time, he loses the grin. His mouth gapes open. My finger twitches against the trigger. But the harder I pull… the more my hand shakes… and the more I realize… I can’t. Slowly, I lower the gun.

Lamb lets out a deep cackle that rips through me. “That’s why we picked you,” he taunts. “Forever the Boy Scout.”

That’s all I need to hear. Lost in adrenaline, I raise the gun. My hands are still shaking, but this time, I pull the trigger.

The gun hiccups with a hollow little click. I squeeze it again, hard. Click. Empty. I can’t believe it’s empty!

Lamb laughs, low and then louder. Crawling toward the railing, he adds, “Even when you try, you can do no wrong.”

Enraged, I hurl the empty gun at him. He lowers his shoulder at the last second, and the gun just misses, skipping across the stained glass like a flat rock across a wide pond. Slamming into the recessed glass casing, it eventually lands on the far side of the enormous mosaic. Lamb’s sick giggle is replaying in my head. It’s all I hear. And then… there’s something else.

It starts where the gun first hit the glass floor. A small pop-like an ice cube dropped into warm soda. Then it gets louder, more sustained. A slowly growing crack on a windshield.

Lamb looks over his shoulder. We both see it at the same time-a fracture moving like lightning across the wide panels of glass.

The whole moment plays in slow motion. Almost sentient in its movement, the crack zigzags from the gun toward Lamb, who’s still at the center of the rosette. Panicking, he scrambles toward the railing. Behind him, the first piece of glass shatters and falls away. Then another. Then another. The weight of the chandelier does the rest. Like a giant glass sinkhole, the center of the mosaic crumbles. The chandelier plummets into the Indian Treaty Room. Piece by piece, thousands of shards follow. As the shock wave widens from ground zero, Lamb scrambles to avoid the undertow. He reaches up and begs me to help him.