The First Counsel by Brad Meltzer

Author:Brad Meltzer [Meltzer, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers
ISBN: 9780446572187
Google: NiH1wT_XzB4C
Amazon: 0446572187
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 1998-01-01T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 20

Sometimes in my dreams, I’m real small. Six inches small. Simon reaches down and I step into the palm of his hand. He raises me to his cracked lips and whispers in my Barbie Doll–size ears, “It’ll all be okay, Michael—I promise it’ll be okay.” Slowly, his deep voice gets louder, like a churning siren. “Don’t cry, Michael—only babies cry!” Then suddenly, he’s screaming, his voice thundering as his hot breath blows me back: “Dammit, Michael, why didn’t you listen! All you had to do was listen!”

I shoot up in bed, startled by the silence. My body’s covered in a film of cold sweat—so cold, I’m shivering. The alarm clock says it’s only four-thirty in the morning, so I lie back and try to lose myself in Nora. Not the drugs or the scar. The real her. The one underneath; or at least the one I think is underneath. Last night . . . and the day—my God—the roof alone’ll keep me going for the rest of my life. NASCAR drivers, paratroopers, even . . . even pirates don’t have that much excitement. Or that much fear.

Noticing that I’m gripping my sheets, I go for my best fall-back-asleep trick: I put things in perspective. Whatever else is going on, I still have my health, and my dad’s, and Trey’s, and Nora . . . and Simon, and Adenauer, and Vaughn, who I still can’t figure out. Part of me’s worried he’s trying to set me up, but if he was in this with Simon . . . and he’s now running from the FBI . . . enemy of my enemy and all that. If Simon deserted him, maybe he’s got something to offer me. Regardless, I’ll have the answer in a few hours. Today’s the day we’re supposed to meet. Somewhere in the Holocaust Museum.

After twenty minutes of staring at my stucco ceiling, it’s obvious I’m not falling back asleep. I kick off the covers and head straight for the coffeemaker. As the smell of caffeine invades my small kitchenette, I pull a map of the museum from my briefcase. Five floors of exhibit space, a research library, two theaters, a learning center . . . How am I ever going to find this guy?

Behind me, there’s a noise at the door. It’s small—easy to miss—like a tap. Or a thud. “Hello?” I call out. The noise stops. Outside, I hear the pounding of muffled footsteps moving up the hallway. Chucking the map, I fly at the door, flip open the locks, and rip it open. There’s another thud. And another. I leap into the hall, anxious to face my attacker. All I find is a teenage delivery boy dropping the first of the day’s newspapers. He leaps back from the shock, almost dropping his handful of papers.

“Coño!” he curses in Spanish.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “My bad.” Picking up my own paper, I slink back into my apartment and shut the door.

Unnerved, I peel off the top section of the paper, hoping to lose myself in current events.

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