"I don't know if I'd say that. Remember, you just saved my life at the expense of blowing your cover."
"Reflex actions don't get processed by the brain."
"Sometimes living to fight again is just as heroic as getting destroyed for your cause, and often a hell of a lot smarter."
"I have no intention of fighting again. I'm afraid I'm just not cut out to be a crusader."
"Now there's something we have in common."
"The rest is essentially what I told you in the office. A doctor I worked for before his retirement was a big supporter of the president, and helped me get into the Secret Service. The irony is, here I am back working as a nurse—something I promised I would never do again. And sadly, that step back is a step up from the paper pushing I was doing in San Antonio."
"Well," he said, "I really appreciate your sharing all that with me. I'm getting a little chafed from the Washington version of the truth." He yawned again. "Okay, it's time. To steal a movie title from one of our former chief executives, I think it's Bedtime for Bonzo."
"Appropriate choice of films. So, what was it that kept you in the White House so late tonight? Was the president that sick?"
Instantly Gabe felt himself tense. On the surface, the woman's question was innocent enough, but the transition to it seemed awkward and given that he had just announced he was going to sleep, the timing felt forced. Was she trying to take advantage of the hour, and the rescue, and the intimacy generated by telling her story in order to pump him for information about Drew, or was he just sensitized and overreading the situation?
What if the whole scenario with the gunman was a setup—a nifty maneuver to gain his trust? What if Alison had been placed in the White House clinic not because she was a nurse, but because she was an attractive, beguiling nurse? What if this whole affair was nothing more than further proof that Dr. Gabe Singleton was playing out of his league and should never have left Wyoming?
"I've got to go now," he said abruptly.
And before Alison could react, he was gone.
CHAPTER 13
Gabe lay facedown on LeMar Stoddard's king-size bed, trying unsuccessfully to will himself to sleep. He had come to D.C. to replace a physician who had disappeared, and now he himself had almost been killed. At least that was the way it looked. Eyes closed, he envisioned Alison Cromartie's expression as he stood abruptly and left her by the river. She was clearly surprised, but was that because she expected him to tell her what was going on with the president? Was she or whoever she was working for trying to expand on some rumors—some half-truths they might have learned about the chief executive's health?
What she said about the futility and possible negative fallout of reporting the drive-by attack to the police made perfect sense. Still, it seemed, he had to do something more than merely allow her to get LeMar's car fixed and have the bullet examined. He had to share what had happened with someone. Lattimore? Treat Griswold? Admiral Wright? The president himself?
Even more important, he had to decide what to do about the recurrent attacks of insanity in the commander in chief of the most powerful armed force in history. For a time he tried to imagine what Nixon's final days in office had really been like—pacing the empty halls of the White House, allegedly holding animated conversations with the ghosts of Lincoln, Wilson, and other presidents past; down on his knees, blubbering like a child to Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. From all Gabe could tell, Nixon had lost his grip well before that last, fateful walk to the waiting helicopter. How long had the finger of that madman rested on the button that could have killed hundreds of millions? Days? . . . Weeks? . . . Even longer?
Had Kissinger, Ford, and others somehow banded together and formulated a plan to bypass any orders from Nixon that they felt were not in the best interests of the country . . . and of the rest of mankind?
He rolled over once again, this time replaying the remarkable accomplishments of Andrew Stoddard's first three and a half years in office and the potential of the four years ahead—especially if the man was working with a friendly Congress. Gabe had never had much faith in the political process being able to make a huge improvement in the quality of life of the average American—and especially in the lives of those less fortunate than the average. He often mused about how much could be accomplished if the billions spent on political campaigns, most of them unsuccessful, could be applied to public works projects, or to reversing global warming, or to cancer research, or to providing computers for inner-city schools.
Yet here the man was—a president with a true vision for America, not someone frantically navigating the country from one crisis to another; a president of the people, with the courage to go nose-to-nose with big business, and big oil, and big pharma, as well as with the architects of terror; a president with the charisma to bring people together. Would it be right at this time to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment, effectively pulling the plug on Drew's presidency, when it was just getting rolling? The decision wasn't one he could put off much longer.
At quarter after six, still unable even to doze, Gabe showered and shaved, then gave serious consideration to taking a Xanax.
"You still a drunk? Pill popper?"
Ellis Wright's words kept Gabe from immediately reaching into the bottom bureau drawer for the plastic bottle and its varied contents. Few would argue that after the day he had just endured, a little sleeping aid was both necessary and deserved. But there were others who would point out that sooner or later, the reasons for taking pills would mutate into reasons to take them. Maybe they already had, he wondered briefly. Maybe this particular fallout from Fairhaven would be part of his life for keeps, enduring as long as he did.
He considered putting LeMar's elegant coffeemaker to work with something high-octane. Loading up on caffeine would be the final capitulation to his inability to sleep. Then, as if in a trance, he searched out a Xanax from his stash of pills and washed it down.
Whether it was the act of taking the drug or the drug itself, fifteen minutes later he floated off to a fitful sleep. When the ringing phone woke him at eight forty-five, he had decided, with an edgy certainty, what he was going to do about the crisis in the White House. For the time being, he would do what he could to keep Drew in office and in as strong a position as possible for reelection, while at the same time doing everything he could to follow up on Jim Ferendelli's investigations into what might be causing the president's episodic mental imbalance.
Hopefully, sometime in the future, when the reason for the president's episodes had been diagnosed and properly treated and any of the countless potential disasters had simply failed to materialize, he and Drew and Carol would look back and laugh at the role the tranquilizer Xanax had played in saving the country.
The ringing persisted.
At some point during the hours since he had returned to the room, he had managed to pull the room-darkening drapes. A scant amount of sunlight from between them made it possible to find the bedside lamp, which he turned on, and a half-empty glass of water, which he finished before picking up the receiver.
"H'lo?"
"Dr. Singleton?" a woman's voice asked.
"Yes. Who's calling?"
"Doctor, please hold for Mr. LeMar Stoddard."
Gabe reflected that if he were worth 10 billion or more, he probably wouldn't be making his own calls, either. Hopefully the First Father wasn't calling to take his Buick back.
"Gabe? LeMar Stoddard here."
Gabe pictured the surpassingly handsome man in a penthouse office somewhere, seated at a desk the size of his bed, gazing out across the city.
"It's me, sir."
"Drop the 'sir' stuff, cowboy. We've all grown up now. It's LeMar."
"I'll try."
"Everything okay? The place? The car?"
"Everything's fine. I'm very grateful to you for all this."
"Good. I like having people feel grateful to me. It'll go that much better for me when my damn high blood pressure or ba
d cholesterol or whatever catches up with me and I have to check into the great office building in the sky."
His laugh was hearty and self-deprecating, but Gabe had little doubt that the remark about having people beholding to him was serious. For a multibillionaire, LeMar had always seemed to Gabe to be reasonably right sized, although Drew, of course, had other thoughts about that. Whatever negotiations had landed Gabe the Watergate suite and the Riviera had been between the First Father and his son. The last time Gabe had met the man face-to-face had been early in the campaign when the Stoddards flew into Salt Lake City on LeMar's jet and Gabe drove down from Tyler. LeMar, a year or two short of seventy then, with dark hair graying at the temples and electric gray-blue eyes, was as fit and dashing as any Hollywood swashbuckler.
"Well," Gabe said, "all that this incredible place and the car have done is dig me deeper and deeper in the gratitude hole."
"Nonsense. You're a good guy, Gabe—a good guy who had a lousy break and has had the character to overcome it. Having you up here taking care of Drew makes us more than even. In fact, not to toot my own horn, but it was me who originally put the bee in his bonnet about bringing you on board."
"Well, thank you for that. I'll be here as long as he needs me."
Gabe stopped himself at the last instant from adding sir.
"Excellent. So, I was wondering if you might have a little time today for me, say lunch?"
"Provided my patient doesn't need me, I can do that."
"Wonderful. We're moored at the Capital Yacht Club downriver from you. I'll send a driver to pick you up at noon. Once you get a look at Aphrodite, I don't think you'll feel too guilty about nudging me out of the Watergate."
Given how much everyone in D.C. seemed to know everyone else's business, Gabe half-expected the tycoon to mention the shattered rear window in his Buick.
"I'll be waiting in front," Gabe said.
"Perfect. Bring your appetite."
Gabe set the receiver down and then pushed open the drapes, flooding LeMar's wondrous apartment with morning light. Four stories below, the Potomac sparkled. Somewhere downriver, the apartment's owner was probably sitting on the deck of the boat named for the Greek goddess of love and beauty, sipping some exotic blend of Arabian coffees, while his companies continued churning away, adding to his net worth at a rate far faster than he could ever spend.
Nice life, sir . . . except for a little problem with your son.
Gabe chose some Kenyan beans from the wide variety in the freezer and spooned them into the built-in Coffee Master. The single push of a button took the selection from beans to brew. Not surprisingly, the result was perfect.
Nice life.
Cup in hand, he retrieved his address book from the desk, opened it to the Bs, and set it by the phone.
He had made his decision regarding Drew Stoddard. Now it was time to put this aspect of his plan in motion. He dialed and listened to the ringing of Kyle Blackthorn's private line, picturing the small office fifteen hundred miles away, warmly decorated with Indian weavings and artifacts, mostly Arapaho, Blackthorn's tribe.
"Dr. Blackthorn."
"Kyle, it's Gabe."
"Hey, brother. I feel like I should break into a rendition of 'Hail to the Chief.' But I really only use that one at tribal councils."
"Hey, that's pretty funny. And here I thought you guys had no sense of humor at all."
"You doing okay in the big city?"
"Pretty much. I miss everyone back there, but they allow cowboy boots in the White House, so I'm managing."
"What can I do for you, my friend?"
"You can let me send you first-class tickets and fly out here to do what you do."
"The patient?"
"I'd rather brief you when you get here."
"Does it have to be soon?"
"Very. Can you juggle your schedule?"
"I know you wouldn't be calling like this if it wasn't important, and you know that after you saved my mother's life there's nothing that I wouldn't do for you."
"Someone will call you later today with travel details."
"It will be good to see you, my friend."
"Don't forget to bring your testing stuff."
"I never leave home without it."
CHAPTER 14
The windowless white van had B&D DRYWALL painted on the side along with a D.C. number that, had anyone dialed it, would have routed their call to an answering machine that had never been checked. Inside, Carl Porter adjusted his headphones and continued to listen to a conversation between Dr. Gabe Singleton and another doctor named Blackthorn.
Despite less than three hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, Porter was completely alert. He had always responded to anger and frustration that way and at the moment he was consumed by both. For the second time, he had come within just a minute or two of completing his mission, but somehow Dr. James Ferendelli had managed to elude him.
When he took the contract, Porter had expected to have his mark in a few days—a week at the most. Crackowski had hired a small army of PIs and had sent word out of a fifty-grand reward for anyone who fingered the man. But after Porter had just missed him at his Georgetown place, Ferendelli had proven wily and resourceful, and as one lead after another had dried up, Porter's frustration had begun to mount. Now there had been another near miss.
Singleton's conversation ended, and Porter set the headphones aside. He knew very little of the man who was paying him, but what was clear was that Crackowski had unlimited resources and access to professionals who knew how to use them. The surveillance equipment he had gotten installed in Singleton's apartment was sophisticated and top-of-the-line. In addition, a Starcraft GPS tracking system had been clamped onto the chassis of Singleton's car and wired for power into the electrical system.
Porter was stretching away some of the stiffness from his neck and back when there were knocks on the rear door—three, then two. Crack-owski.
With his silenced pistol drawn and the interior lights cut, Porter undid the lock.
Steve Crackowski pulled open the doors and quickly climbed inside. He was at least as tall as Porter, with broader shoulders, a narrower waist, and a large, perfectly shaved head. Wire-rimmed glasses helped make his overall appearance something of a cross between a college professor and a stevedore.
"Anything?" he asked, with no more greeting than that.
"The president's daddy invited Singleton to lunch. Then there 'uz just a guy named Blackthorn, Kyle or Lyle I think he said. Singleton made the call. They just finished talkin'. Singleton asked him to fly out here as soon as possible and to bring his testing stuff."
"That's what he said? Testing stuff?"
"I think so. I think he's a doctor, too."
"All these doctors," Crackowski muttered. "I'll check it. You tired? Want me to take over?"
"I want Ferendelli."
"I've got the word out. Sooner or later he's going to surface. You tried using the remote in the tunnel?"
"Several times, just in case the animals living there were pulling my chain about Ferendelli taking off."
"I don't think it has much of a range. You sure you're okay here?"
"You jes' find him for me."
"Ferendelli's got to be feeling the pressure. He knows if he comes in, he's dead. He knows that if he stays hidden, he'll never find out what he's up against or what he can do about it. His best bet is to contact someone and try to work something out with them. I'm betting that someone is gonna be Singleton."
"The car?"
"It's in that body shop, right? Just keep it on the screen, and when it moves you move."
"Go check with your people. Just get me something to work with and I'll do the rest."
"Just be ready, Porter. We're going to find him. I'll be back to check on you in four hours."
"Make it six," Porter said.
He watched until the door had closed, then turned on a small light and repositioned the headphones. In the past, he had spe
nt more than a day wedged high in a tree in the jungle just waiting for a mark. Six more hours here was nothing. Time well spent if it meant putting a bullet in Dr. James Ferendelli's eye—his favorite shot. It was time the man's photo joined the other two hundred or so in the gallery on the wall of his study.
High time.
CHAPTER 15
She's a Fendship F-45. A hundred forty-six feet fore to aft, thirty-foot beam. Steel hull. . . ."
If Gabe felt like Alice in Wonderland before his lunch with LeMar Stoddard, his tour of Aphrodite sent him spiraling well beyond the rabbit hole. The yacht was embarrassingly luxurious, with Oriental carpets, leather furnishings, crystal light fixtures, and three full baths with deep Jacuzzis. The other two staterooms merely had elegant shower stalls.
It was odd being escorted on a private tour around the spectacular boat by Drew's father when Drew himself was just a few miles away. In fact, before LeMar's driver came to pick him up, Gabe had taken a cab to the White House and met in the residence with the man's son and daughter-in-law, as well as Magnus Lattimore.
The news that Gabe had decided to stay the course charted by Jim Ferendelli—at least for the time being—was accepted by the trio with quiet gratitude and what seemed like forthright determination to do whatever Gabe asked of them.
In exchange for the reprieve, Drew would have to agree to work with Dr. Kyle Blackthorn for as long as the forensic psychologist needed to formulate a diagnosis and treatment plan. And finally, they would all have to understand that another episode involving the president, just one, would likely result in Gabe's pulling the plug and calling in Vice President Tom Cooper for a crash course in the Twenty-fifth Amendment.
"Where was this beauty made?" Gabe asked, grateful that he had actually thought of a question.
"Holland. The Dutch and the Italians are the very best at this sort of thing. I've only had Aphrodite for six or seven months, but she puts any other boat I've ever owned to shame."
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