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 theSecret Service suits and gives them a quick once-over. They can stay. Then he comes over to me.
“Michael Garrick,” he says, reading from my ID. “You okay there, Michael? You able to talk?”
I nod, staring at the carpet. Across the room, the photographer is taking pictures of Caroline’s body. When the first flash goes off, it seems so normal—photographers are at almost every White House event. But when I see her head sagging and twisting to the side, and the awkward way her mouth gapes open, I realize it’s not Caroline anymore. She’s gone. Now it’s just a body; a slowly stiffening shell posed for a macabre photo shoot.
The agent with the Virginia twang lifts my chin, and his latex gloves scrape against the remnants of my morning shave. Before I can say a word, he looks me in the eyes. “You sure you’re okay? We can always do this later, but . . .”
“No, I understand—I can do it now.”
He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate you helping us out, Michael.” Unlike the FBI polo crew, he’s wearing a gray suit with a small stain on his right lapel. His tie is pulled tight, but the top button on his stark white shirt is open. The effect
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 theSecret Service suits and gives them a quick once-over. They can stay. Then he comes over to me.
“Michael Garrick,” he says, reading from my ID. “You okay there, Michael? You able to talk?”
I nod, staring at the carpet. Across the room, the photographer is taking pictures of Caroline’s body. When the first flash goes off, it seems so normal—photographers are at almost every White House event. But when I see her head sagging and twisting to the side, and the awkward way her mouth gapes open, I realize it’s not Caroline anymore. She’s gone. Now it’s just a body; a slowly stiffening shell posed for a macabre photo shoot.
The agent with the Virginia twang lifts my chin, and his latex gloves scrape against the remnants of my morning shave. Before I can say a word, he looks me in the eyes. “You sure you’re okay? We can always do this later, but . . .”
“No, I understand—I can do it now.”
He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate you helping us out, Michael.” Unlike the FBI polo crew, he’s wearing a gray suit with a small stain on his right lapel. His tie is pulled tight, but the top button on his stark white shirt is open. The effect
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