The First Patient

by Michael Palmer

  More exciting than being contacted by Ferendelli, though, was the knowledge that he was alive. It would be difficult to keep such good news from the president.

  Ultimately, Gabe accepted that after yet another long, emotionally grueling day what he needed more than anything else right now was sleep. As excited as he was to be moving closer to the end of the Ferendelli mystery, learning what meeting place his predecessor had chosen could hold until morning. Gabe already had plans to check the president over first thing and to make an item-by-item approval or rejection of his typically overloaded schedule. He also had to sign out to the covering doc and to get Drew's approval to travel "out of range" to Lily Pad Stables from late morning until what would probably turn out to be early evening.

  Heavy-lidded, he read Ferendelli's urgent note one more time.

  We must meet.

  Tell no one.

  Come alone.

  Go to the office we both have occupied.

  The meeting time is to be exactly twenty-four hours from now.

  In the office there are four framed photos taken by me. Examine the third photo from the right. I will meet you beneath that structure.

  The nightmare must end.

  J.F.

  Gabe managed four dreamless hours of sleep, after which it looked as if he hadn't once shifted position. He awoke wondering if the man who had tried to kill him and the one who had attacked Kyle were one and the same. The notion made little sense, but until he and Jim Ferendelli stood face-to-face, Gabe knew that nothing much was going to.

  Two sets of thirty push-ups sandwiched around a hundred sit-ups, followed by some fresh-squeezed orange juice, a prolonged shower, and a travel mug of a startlingly rich Sumatran blend and he was totally ready for the day.

  Something was going to give, he told himself as he headed to the garage. Whether it was news from Kyle Blackthorn, or insight into Lily, or resolution of the mystery of Ferendelli's disappearance, or even some hint as to what the president might have been holding back during his neuropsych testing, before much longer things were going to begin to come together.

  Before being summoned to work in the heart of the White House, Gabe had never even visited the place—not as a tourist, not as a student, and not even as a midshipman at the Academy. He wondered how long it would take, if ever, for him to get used to walking up to the security station, being recognized by the guards, and, after a brief check of his credentials, strolling into the seat of the country's executive power. Now he smiled inwardly at the notion that, with Jim Ferendelli alive and at least making contact, he might be back on his ranch before he ever found out the answer.

  Surprisingly, the outer door to the medical clinic was unlocked. He eased it open and stepped into the reception area. From behind the closed door to the bathroom and examination room a woman was singing steamy blues.

  "This world ain't always tasty like candy. . . ."

  Her tone was velvet, rich and husky—a captivating voice made to sing the blues. Gabe slowed his breathing and listened.

  "That's what my mama once told me. . . ."

  Ferendelli's photographs were just through the door to his office, but Gabe stood there, transfixed by the incongruity of hearing such a voice in such a place.

  "Sometimes it'll shake you and bend you, try to upend you. . . ."

  Probably someone from housekeeping, he decided. Someone who had pulled herself up from the wrong side of the tracks and was doing janitorial work to help support her family. A woman who would have made it big on American Idol if the show had only been airing when she was younger. Maybe even now friends and family had told her to audition . . . but she just smiled and shook her head. These were her blues, not something she wanted to share with the world.

  "Knock you right off of your feet. . . ."

  Gabe moved slowly through the doorway of his office. To his left were the photographs. To his right, the angle made it impossible to see the woman, who was cleaning either the bathroom, the cabinets, or the countertop. The song was too special to interrupt, so he moved silently to the wall and Jim Ferendelli's art. Gabe was hardly a connoisseur of photography, but this set, each picture labeled on its frame with a small engraved brass plaque, was pleasing and in some respects fascinating—studies in light and shadow, in angles and shapes and shading. A scene across the reflecting basin. A striking close-up of a portion of the Capitol. The blues he was listening to seemed to fit the grouping perfectly.

  "So when those hard times come a calling, remember you've got to take the bitter with the sweet."

  The third photo, more somber than the others, was titled: Anacostia from the Benning Street Bridge.

  Anacostia.

  He had heard the section of D.C. mentioned from time to time and thought he remembered that it was a poor part of the city—mostly blacks and Hispanics. But he had no idea exactly where it was. There was a map in his desk. If there was time after examining Drew, perhaps he could take a ride there and familiarize himself with the bridge and the area beneath it. A final examination of the photograph and he turned toward the examining room.

  Alison Cromartie, dressed for work in slacks, a light blue blouse, and a navy blazer, was leaning against the door frame, wearing a pair of rubber gloves.

  "Hi," she said.

  Until he heard his voice, Gabe wasn't certain he'd be able to speak. It felt as if his heart had stopped.

  "Hi yourself," he managed. "I . . . loved your song."

  "Thanks. When I was younger, and thinking about a career in show business, I used to moonlight singing in various disreputable places—sort of a low-rent lounge lizard. Now, I still love singing, but mostly it's in the shower."

  The image of that was almost more than Gabe could handle. He struggled to remind himself that this was someone who had been placed in the medical unit to spy and to deceive, and who had almost certainly stolen the bloods he had drawn.

  "You're here early," he said.

  "Not really. I always come in about now to straighten up and see if anything needs ordering. Speaking of straightening up—" She went onto her tiptoes and adjusted his tie. "My daddy wore ties all the time—all kinds."

  "Well, it's pretty obvious that I don't," he replied, dizzy as he had been that first night from the closeness of her.

  She moved back to survey her handiwork, but only half a step.

  "I didn't think you were on duty today," she said.

  "I . . . I'm not. I have an appointment that will take up most of the day. I just came in to . . . pick up some papers and check in on The Man and the First Lady before I leave."

  Alison lifted her hands between them, slowly pulled off the gloves, and flipped them into the leather waste can by his desk. Although there was no sense that she meant it to be, the mundane gesture was at once sensual and incredibly sexy. Even more sensual were her dark eyes, which never left his.

  Gabe felt an exquisitely unpleasant fullness in his throat. This wasn't like the other instances when they had been together—not even the first time. The connection he was sensing between them was far more intense and mesmerizing. He felt at once consumed by the need to touch her—to hold her—and as awkward as a teen at his first dance.

  "You want to sing some more?" he ventured.

  "Some other time, maybe, you can have a command performance."

  Gabe closed what little gap remained between them, eased his arms around her, and set her cheek against his chest. Her hair smelled like summer, and he buried his face in it, his lips pressed against her.

  Thoughts of her as a spy or even a thief vanished. All he wanted was to hold her.

  He ran his hands inside her jacket and up to her shoulders. Her hold on him intensified. She worked her fingers into the muscles of his back.

  "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you," she whispered.

  He reached under her blouse and ran his fingertips over the silky hollow of her back. In that moment, nothing else seemed to matter—nothing but her touch and t
he feel of her skin.

  It had been so long since sex was special, he was thinking—so long since a kiss really mattered.

  "Gabe," she whispered, "tell me there'll be time for us."

  He set his lips on the base of her neck. "I can't believe this is happening. There'll be time. I promise you there will—as much time as you need, as much time as you want."

  She eased herself back, never taking her eyes from his.

  "I knew you were out there, Gabe. A smart, kind, gentle, funny man. I knew it."

  "I don't want you to stop touching me."

  "I intend to redefine the term. But any moment now the covering doc will be strolling in. I'm not sure this is the way we want him to find us."

  "I love that it's happening," Gabe said, holding her tightly, one last time. "And I really do promise you there'll be time. But what's his name up in the residence and his wife are expecting me, and I think maybe I should show up there since they are my only patients."

  Alison straightened up and tucked in her blouse.

  "You're not afraid of me anymore?"

  "Do you mean afraid, or mistrustful? Because I was never afraid."

  She kissed him under his chin and then adjusted his tie once more and smoothed his jacket.

  "So, what do you want to know?" she asked suddenly.

  His gaze fixed on hers.

  "Did you really save me that night or was that whole car thing a setup to gain my confidence?"

  "There was no setup, Gabe. That was the real deal, just like this is."

  She rose to her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  He gently moved her away from him, keeping his hands on her shoulders, knowing that if she was lying, he was hardly in a position to be able to tell. Still, he desperately wanted to ask one more question—provided he could ask it without giving away privileged information.

  "The bloods I drew on the president," he suddenly heard himself asking, "why did you take the tubes from the refrigerator? You were one of the few besides me who had access to them."

  Alison looked utterly dismayed; then suddenly she nodded her understanding.

  "Gabe, I need your trust here. I need you not to ask me anything more about the blood."

  "But why?" he insisted. "Did you take the tubes or not?"

  "I need your promise. No more questions about this. At least not for now."

  "I'm at the point where I don't trust anyone. But if we're headed together to where I hope we are, I'm going to promise, so long as I have your word—no more lies."

  "No more lies, baby," she whispered.

  "In that case, no more questions."

  "Okay, then," she said. "I absolutely didn't take the blood. But I believe I know who did."

  CHAPTER 34

  The drive to Lily Pad Stables, Route 66 west to 647, took ninety minutes. The zip code of the place was probably Flint Hill's, but according to Lily, the house, barn, other outbuildings, and white-fenced pastures stood alone, nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, several miles from the actual town.

  After carefully checking over the president and, much to the chagrin of Magnus Lattimore, reducing his appointment schedule by half on general principles, Gabe changed clothes in the Lincoln Bedroom, signed out to the physician on call for the day, spread his city map out on the seat of the Buick, and headed out Pennsylvania Avenue to Anacostia. Somewhere, Jim Ferendelli was mentally preparing to meet with him.

  Without requesting an explanation for why he wanted to know, Lattimore and the president had filled Gabe in on Anacostia, which encompassed the east and southeast portions of the city, primarily occupying the land east of the river for which it was named.

  Anacostia was, according to both of them, an area badly in need of a renaissance, and soon to get it if the joint federal/municipal commission they had instituted had its way. For the time being, they said, as in any inner city, it was best to be cautious walking the streets of that neighborhood at night.

  Gabe felt virtually certain from the photo and the geography that Ferendelli planned to meet him beneath the east end of the bridge. His mission, before heading off for Flint Hill, was to familiarize himself with the area and to find a place to park that was reasonably close to the base of the bridge, and also reasonably close to a streetlight.

  It took only minutes for him to locate a spot with which he was comfortable. Mid-morning was certainly not 1:00 A.M., but he found Anacostia to have a pleasant, vibrant, neighborhood charm. The parking place he selected, on Clay, seemed like it would be safe enough. After a brief stop to reconnoiter the space beneath the bridge, he worked his way back through the city to pick up Route 66 at the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge and headed west.

  There was no need to put on the radio for the drive to Lily Pad Stables. The memory of Alison's voice kept him company enough. It had been so long since a woman had him feeling as fascinated, optimistic, and excited as she had—a natural antidepressant, well beyond the equivalent of all the Prozac and Welbutrin he had taken over the years.

  Lily's directions were perfect. They had to be because the roads quickly became narrower, windier, and less well marked. If she didn't already have a pied-à-terre in D.C., she would certainly need one after her appointment to Drew's cabinet. Gabe checked the trip odometer. Her place had to be close. The land along the road was densely wooded, with occasional broad pastures and narrow dirt roads that were marked only by a mailbox or handmade sign and immediately disappeared in the summer forest.

  ". . . So when those hard times come a calling, remember you've got to take the bitter with the—"

  Gabe stopped singing and slowed, completely awed by the picture-book vista that had opened up before him. The woodlands had given way to vast, rolling pastureland, crisscrossed by pristine two-rail whitewashed fencing. Scattered among the meadows were horses, at least two dozen of them, grazing contentedly. To his left, a professionally made sign read:

  LILY PAD STABLES

  MAIN ENTRANCE

  An arrow pointed straight up. On the other side of the paved drive, a second sign, with an arrow pointing to the right, read:

  LILY PAD STABLES

  REAR ENTRANCE

  STABLES 0.5 MILES

  ALL DELIVERIES THIS WAY

  Gabe swung the Buick to the left, drove up a short rise, and this time stopped altogether. Nestled in a verdant valley, set against the breathtaking mountains, still in the distance, was the main house of Lily Pad Stables—a sprawling white farmhouse with black shutters that would not have done the term mansion any discredit.

  But it wasn't the incredible beauty of the place alone that had stopped him short. He had seen that exact view—mountains, outbuildings, pastures, and main house—before. It took a moment for him to connect with how that could be, but only a moment. It was the scene depicted in the oil painting sketch awaiting completion on the easel by the upstairs window of Jim Ferendelli's Georgetown brownstone.

  Gabe gripped the wheel until his knuckles were white, then remained parked on the rise for several minutes, composing himself and wondering how he could possibly get at the subject of Lily's connection with his predecessor without arousing her suspicion that he might know more than he was letting on. Finally, having failed to come up with any specific plan other than to improvise, he eased his foot off the brake and rolled slowly down the first of several gentle grades.

  The driveway to the main house was more than a quarter of a mile long. As he approached the broad, finely landscaped turnaround, the dark blue Taurus that had been following him since he pulled out of the Watergate garage drove past the main drive and toward the rear entrance to the farm.

  CHAPTER 35

  Alison spent a sluggish morning in the White House clinic, wondering if it was metaphysically and psychologically possible to be absolutely obsessed with two men at the same time.

  Her attraction to Gabe had been smoldering since the moment they first met. Now she had trouble focusing her thoughts on anything e
lse—anything, that was, except for Treat Griswold or Don Greenfield, or whoever the Secret Service icon was today.

  Actually, this was a Griswold day, or at least a Griswold morning. She had seen the man take the elevator up to the residence and return soon after with the president's widely beloved dog, a handsome, powerful pit bull terrier, following dutifully at his heel. The two of them had gone into the Rose Garden for a time and then returned. It all seemed so typically normal. But nothing involving that man would ever be normal again.

  Restless and feeling scattered and distracted, Alison ran meaningless errands and made two trips to visit with friends in the clinic on the first floor of the Eisenhower Building next door. It was a blessing that, to this point in the morning at least, nothing medical had happened to the president or to any of the visitors to the White House. There was no predicting how she might have responded.

  The physician on duty with her, a humorless Army major, who looked too young to be a doctor, let alone a White House doctor, kept his nose buried in journals most of the morning.

  Her thoughts about Griswold inevitably included memories of L.A., her friend Janie, and the 4Cs surgeons. She was hardly prepared yet for the fallout that was sure to accompany any effort to expose the agent. And in fact, his perversion, assuming that was what Beatriz represented, might well have nothing to do with the president or the bronchodilator inhaler, in which case there was really nothing to expose. But then again, because of her refusal to accept what seemed like a fairly minor break in protocol, a path had opened. Now it would be foolish not to follow that path to the end.