The First Councel

Spinning around, I race through Julian’s and Pam’s offices. “Nora?” Julian’s is empty. So is Pam’s-though her light is on. That’s means she’s still in the… No, not now. If Nora’s not here and she’s not upstairs, where could she…? Yeah. Maybe.

Tearing back into the hallway, I run full speed to the exit, burst out onto West Exec, and descend the stairs in a few large jumps. But as I squeeze past Simon’s car in the parking lot, I don’t head for the usual entrance under the awning. Instead, I snake around to the north side of the mansion, along the length of the West Wing, past the kitchen, and into the tradesmen’s entrance. My blue pass gets me past the guard, and I take a sharp left, down toward the one place we’ve never been interrupted.

I reach for the knob of the heavy metal door, knowing it’s supposed to be locked. When I turn it, there’s a thunk. And it gives. It’s open. I pull open the door and leap inside.

My eyes quickly scan the length of the bowling alley. Lane, pins, rack of balls. “Nora, are you-”

My heart stops and I take a step back, bumping into the door just as it slams me from behind. There. On the floor. Hidden behind the scorekeeper’s table-her legs dangle out and I see the edge of her skirt. Her body’s motionless. Oh, God.

“Nora!”

I race around the table, slide down on my knees, and scoop her into my arms. From her nose, two thin streams of blood run down her face, collecting on her top lip. Her face is white. “Nora!” I lift her head and shake her. She lets out a soft moan. Unsure of my CPR, I slap her on the cheek. Again. And again. “Nora! It’s me!” Out of nowhere, she starts to laugh-a dark little giggle that sends a cold chill down my back. She flips her right arm wildly through the air, crashing it down over her head and slamming her wrist into the polished floor. Before I can say another word, her laugh turns into a cough. A wet, hacking wheeze that comes straight from the lungs.

“C’mon, Nora, pull it together.” Frantically, I grab the front of her blouse, including her bra straps, and pull her up straight. As she flops forward, a wave of clear vomit shoots out of her mouth, all over my shirt. Startled, I let go, but as her coughing gets louder, she’s able to sit up by herself.

I wipe her insides from my tie, and she looks up, her eyes half closed, her neck bobbing and sagging uncontrollably. Her whole body is in slow motion.

She starts talking, but nothing makes sense. Just mumbles and slurred words. Slowly, it starts coming back. “Then… I’m not… you gotta be… Special K… Just some K… ”

Special K. Ketamine. Congrats to Rolling Stone. I remember the article like it was yesterday. Snort it like cocaine and, depending on how much you take, you’re gone from ten to thirty minutes.

“How much did you do, Nora?”

She doesn’t answer.

“How much, Nora? Tell me!”

Nothing.

“Nora!”

Right there, she looks at me-and for the first time, I see recognition in her eyes. Blinking twice, she cocks her head. “Did we fool ’em?”

“How much did you take!?”

She closes her eyes. “Not enough.”

Okay, that’s a response-she’s coming back. I glance down at my watch-five minutes to start, plus four minutes of intro. I race to the phone, call the operator, and ask her to beep Trey with a message. Rushing back to Nora, I help her to her feet.

“Lemme alone,” she says, pulling away.

I grab her by the shoulders. “Don’t fight me on this! Not now!” Seeing that she’s about to fall, I shove her onto the seat at the scorekeeper’s table and slap her again on the cheek-not too hard-I don’t want to hurt her. Just enough to…

“Please don’t hate me for this, Michael. Please.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I shoot back.

On the scorekeeper’s table, I see her open purse. I dump out its contents as fast as I can. Keys, tissues, and a small metal lipstick tube that, thanks to the incline of the table, is now rolling toward me. I catch it just as it falls. Looks like lipstick, but… I pull off the lid and see the white powder. How can she simultaneously be so smart and so stupid? Unable to answer, I reseal the tube and shove it into the small groove that holds pencils. Right now, there are more important things to deal with.

Snatching the tissues, I rip them open, spit into one of them, and like every mother does to every kid, wipe Nora’s face. The blood from her nose is fresh. It rubs away easily. With my right hand, I brush the hair from her face, but it falls right back. I brush it again and tuck it behind her ear. Anything to make it stay. Once the hair is out of the way, I hold up her chin and get a better look. The edge of my shirtsleeve takes the last bit of throw-up from the corner of her mouth. The way her lips are sagging, I know she’s still not there. But appearance-wise, as I check the rest of her, it’s not too bad. She’s leaning forward, with her elbows resting on her knees. Crash position. Still, all the vomit’s on me. She’s clean. And Dateline’s waiting.