Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

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.

“Please, Michael… ”

It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do, and both of us know it. Below us, the chandelier hits the floor with a wrenching crash.

Once again, our eyes meet. Lamb’s not laughing anymore. This time, his eyes are filled with tears. The glass rains down. His floor disappears. And gravity grabs him by the legs. Sucked down into the ever-widening hole, he still struggles to claw his way up. But you can’t avoid the epicenter.

“Miiiaaaaaeeeeeee-” he screams the entire way down.

Then he meets the chandelier. The crunching sound alone will give me nightmares for years.

As the last shards fall, a high-pitched alarm screams out of the Indian Treaty Room. I lean forward over the railing. The stained glass is almost completely gone, leaving a gaping hole. It’ll take forever to fill. On the floor below, amid the shattered glass, are the broken remains of the man responsible. For Caroline. For Vaughn. And most of all, for Nora.

Behind me, I hear a soft moan. Spinning around, I rush to her side and drop to my knees. “Nora, are you… ”

“I–I-Is he gone?” she whispers, barely able to get the words out. She shouldn’t be conscious. Her voice gurgles with blood.

“Yeah,” I say, once again fighting back tears. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

She fights to smile, but it’s too much of a strain. Her chest convulses. She’s fading fast. “M-M-Michael…?”

“I’m here,” I tell her, gently lifting her in my arms. “I’m right here, Nora.”

The tears roll down my face. She knows this is it. Her head sags and she slowly gives in. “P-P-Please…,” she coughs. “Please, Michael… don’t tell my dad.”

I take a sharp gulp of air to keep myself together. Nodding vigorously, I pull her close to my chest, but her arms just dangle behind her. Her eyes begin to roll back in her head. Tailspinning, I furiously brush her hair from her face. There’s a final twitch in her torso-and then-she’s gone.

“No!” I shout. “NO!” I grab her head, kissing her forehead over and over. “Please, Nora! Please don’t go! Please! Please! ” None of it does any good. She’s not moving.

Her head slumps against my arm and a rasping, ghostly wheeze releases the final air from her lungs. With the lightest touch I can muster, I carefully close her eyes. It’s finally over. Self-destruction complete.

They don’t let me out of the Sit Room until a quarter past midnight, when the empty halls of the OEOB are nothing more than a bureaucratic ghost town. In some ways, I think they planned it on purpose-this way, no one’s around to ask questions. Or gossip. Or point at me and whisper, “He’s the one-that’s him.” All I have is silence. Silence and time to think. Silence and… Nora…

I lower my head and shut my eyes, trying to pretend it never happened. But it did.

As I make my way back to my office, there’re two sets of shoes echoing through the cavernous hallway: mine, and those of the Secret Service agent directly behind me. They may have patched up my shoulder, but when we reach Room 170, my hand still shakes as I open the door. Watching me carefully, he follows me inside. In the anteroom, I flip on the lights and once again face the silence. It’s too late for anyone to be here. Pam, Julian-they both left hours ago. When it was still light out.