"Fifty yards," Gabe said, now consumed by a sense of foreboding. "Jim, is there anything else you can tell me about the man? Anything at all?"
"I only saw him in the tunnel—not in the house. And it's pretty gloomy down there. But there was one thing—he was southern. No doubt about that. Heavy accent. Georgia maybe, maybe Alabama. I'm not good at those things."
Trouble. The same man had gone after both Ferendelli and Blackthorn.
Instinctively Gabe scanned from the river across the field to the street and back.
At that instant, from somewhere far behind them came a soft, almost inaudible, crunch of glass.
A homing device! Gabe thought suddenly. The killer had to have fixed some sort of homing device to his car.
"Jim," he whispered urgently, "he's here—somewhere behind us. Get ready to run toward my car. It's way to the left, near that streetlight."
"But—"
Gabe could wait no longer. He grabbed Ferendelli by the arm and pulled him out into the field.
"There they are!" a southern voice behind them called out loudly. "Over there! Right over there!"
CHAPTER 48
There they are. Over there! Right over there!"
There were at least two of them, Gabe thought as he half-guided, half-dragged Ferendelli across the field of the Anacostia River Basin. A homing device on the Buick! That had to be it. That explained how the killer had found Blackthorn's hotel. And if the shooter on the trail by Lily's stables didn't directly tail him to Flint Hill, he could have easily followed Gabe using some sort of GPS device.
Gabe couldn't clear the notion from his mind of the mess he had made of things by not being more vigilant.
Although Ferendelli was just a few years older than Gabe was, his weeks of hiding seemed to have broken him physically. His reaction time was delayed, and he was gasping for air after just a few strides.
"I see them!" the southern voice from behind them yelled. "They're headed across the field toward you."
"Toward you!"
Gabe peered ahead to where the Buick was parked. Coming around the rear end of the car was a man, a gun in his right hand—or maybe, Gabe realized, it was the ultrasonic transmitter Ferendelli had told him about, the transmitter that could end either or both of their lives. He glanced over his shoulder. Just emerging from the darkness beneath the bridge was the professional killer Ferendelli had told him about, also holding up something in his right hand.
"Oh, God," Gabe muttered. "Jim, let's head this way, toward the river. It's our best chance."
"Can't."
"Come on, you can! You've got to!"
Ferendelli was staggering now, almost deadweight, grunting and lurching from side to side. Gabe risked another check of their pursuers. Both men were gaining on them. He could feel himself beginning to flag and to panic. A severe stitch in his right side had materialized and with every breath began slicing into him like dagger thrusts.
"Go!" Ferendelli gasped. "I . . . can't . . . do . . . this."
"Come on, Jim. Dammit, come on!"
They were still perhaps fifty yards from the river. Then what? Gabe asked himself. What if they made it? Again he glanced back. There was still some distance between them and each man, but the one coming from the bridge, the hit man, was far closer than the other and closing fast. If it was a pistol in the killer's hand, they were already near being in range. Either the men had instructions not to draw attention to the field with gunshots or they were intent on capturing him and Ferendelli alive.
Of course, there was another possibility. If the range of the transmitters was thirty yards or less, both pursuers would be in range soon.
Ferendelli stumbled, tried to recover with his extended arm, and then fell to one knee, totally spent.
Gabe, operating on a rush of adrenaline, grabbed the man's other arm and jerked him unceremoniously to his feet. Their run was awkward and uncoordinated, but they were definitely closing in on the river. Suddenly Ferendelli threw his hands up against his temples, cried out, pitched forward, and fell heavily, facedown, emitting a dreadful gurgling sound.
Gabe dropped down and checked his carotid pulse. If there was any, it was so faint as to be nearly undetectable. Ferendelli was still breathing, but not effectively. In any other circumstance, Gabe would be initiating CPR. But there was only a second or two to make a decision.
The hit man coming from the bridge, the one who had two near misses trying to kill Ferendelli, had stopped about twenty yards away. He had been aiming something at them that was clearly not a gun. Then he lowered his arm. Even through the gloom, Gabe felt certain he could see the man smiling.
"Stop, you bastard!" Gabe screamed. "Stop it!"
There was nothing to stop. The lethal weapon, undoubtedly a transmitter, had done what it was supposed to.
Ferendelli, facedown on the summer grass, was twitching. His agonal, liquidy breaths had quickly grown totally ineffective. The pulse in his neck was gone. On all fours, knowing that he might be moments away from death himself, Gabe moved several feet away, then scrambled to his feet. To his left, he could see the second man, egg-bald, still sprinting across the field from the Buick. He looked taller and more athletic than the one confronting him.
"Go ahead," the taller man cried out. "Go ahead and do it!"
The killer raised the transmitter once more.
Gabe whirled and, in a half crouch, bolted ahead toward the river, weaving from right to left to right again like the running back he had once been.
"Did you do it?" he heard the man behind him cry.
"I did," the one with the drawl shouted back. "It may need to recharge, or . . . or he may be out of range."
"I don't think so."
At that instant, Gabe became aware of an odd, not totally unpleasant aroma that seemed to be coming from deep within his nose, and a corresponding taste on the back of his tongue. His body felt lighter and more responsive. Head down, he charged ahead, weaving when he managed to remember to do so. The two voices seemed far away now . . . the sound garbled and unclear. Ahead, the lights from across the river were blurred and in motion.
He was an athlete, an Olympian, sprinting ahead faster than he would ever have thought possible, his feet barely touching the ground. The terror at Ferendelli's apparent murder, and his own mortal fears, had all but vanished. He felt euphoric and was getting more so every second.
Suddenly the moonless night exploded in color—streaks of red and gold, orange and green and white, shot across the sky, then burst over the river like fireworks. Pinwheels of light, now with sound, skimmed across the top of the water.
There were no voices now, only the rich, even sounds of his breathing—in . . . out . . . in . . . out. He was flying—running on air. Invincible. He was Hercules . . . Batman . . . Indiana Jones. Splashing through the dark, chilly water, then diving ahead.
Even with his eyes shut tightly, the colors blazed, bathing the inside of his lids and warming them. Shooting down his throat and into his soul, the water was his home. He pulled through it effortlessly, drawing it in through his nose and spitting it out his mouth. He was a fish . . . a shark . . . Aquaman. He was immortal.
He was a god.
CHAPTER 49
Mister . . . hey, mister."
The words were an annoyance, penetrating the void, prodding at Gabe's consciousness until it finally responded.
"Hey, mister, wake up. Are you hurt? Are you drunk? Do you want my momma to call an ambulance?"
Heavy-lidded, Gabe groaned, rolled to his back, and blinked until his vision began to clear. The first thing he saw was the gray-blue sky of early morning. The second was the concerned face of the young black boy who was kneeling beside him. Fragment by fragment, shards of the nightmare with Ferendelli drifted into place.
"Wh-where am I?"
The boy, perhaps ten, had an expressive face that featured huge, dark eyes. He wore a thin navy blue windbreaker and a Redskins cap with the brim pulled forty-five degree
s to one side.
"You're up against the fence in the vacant lot at the end of my street."
Gabe pushed himself up onto one elbow and began to take stock. His clothes were sodden and his shoes were gone, as well as his radio, cell phone, and wallet. The lot that the boy had described as vacant was hardly that. It was more the "before" in a commercial for urban neighborhood reclamation—strewn with junk, trash, and garbage. Halfway across to a row of ramshackle two-decker houses Gabe saw a squirrel-size rat scurry from one hiding place to another.
"Is this Anacostia?"
He was sitting now, light-headed and nauseous, with a terrible, dirt taste in his mouth and his pulse pummeling the inside of his eyes.
"A course it's Anacostia," the boy said. "What'd you think it was? Man, I thought you was dead for a while. I cut through this lot on the last half of my paper route. I seen some wild things at this time of day, but never a dead white guy all pressed against a fence."
"I'm not dead."
"Not now, you ain't. But how was I supposed to know?"
Gabe pawed at the filth grating in his eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Louis. What's yours?"
"Gabe. Louis, do you know what time it is?"
"About five. A little after, I guess. I ain't supposed to talk to strangers, you know. You drunk or what?"
"Good question," Gabe said. "I think the answer's 'or what.' "
He sighed deeply and remorsefully as more details of the attack by the Benning Street Bridge drifted into place. Almost certainly, Jim Ferendelli was dead—killed in the exact way that the president would be killed at the whim of whoever was holding the appropriate transmitter; killed by Lily Sexton and by two thugs who would have never found them if Dr. Gabe Singleton had been more cautious and vigilant and had taken the time to try to work out an explanation for an event—the assault on Kyle Blackthorn—that most certainly demanded one.
Now there was another question that needed an answer: Why wasn't Gabe dead, too?
From what he could remember, the ferocious psychedelic response he experienced to having the chemical time bomb in his head set off was not anything like the virtually instant cardiac death induced in Ferendelli. It was far closer to what Drew had probably been experiencing. One explanation was that, like the president, Ferendelli had been dosed a number of times, while Gabe had only been inoculated with the drug-carrying fullerenes during that one session. Other possibilities crossed his mind—higher chemical concentration; more variety of pharmaceuticals; different target organs in their brains; perhaps such sophisticated controls built into the fullerenes and the transmitters that different frequencies triggered the specific release of different drugs.
God damn them!
Gabe tried to haul himself to his feet, but a wave of dizziness and nausea drove him back onto the dirt. He pushed to his hands and knees again and then, without warning, threw up—a mixture of river water, bile, and bits of undigested food.
From Louis's reaction, it was clear he had seen worse.
"That's gross, you know," he said clinically. "My uncle Robbie throws up all the time. Momma says it's because he drinks too much."
"Louis, how far are we from the river?"
"Few blocks. Three maybe."
"And how far from your house?"
"It's just down the end of the street."
"Can you take me there?"
"My momma would kill me for bringing a stranger home—and a bum at that. Besides, I have to finish my paper route. I hardly have enough customers to make any money as is."
"You're right, Louis. Go ahead and finish your route. I'm fine. If I'm still here when you're done, we'll talk."
The youth started away, then returned.
"Oh, heck. I ain't got school anyway. My friend Omar doesn't even start his route until seven."
Avoiding the small pool of vomit, Louis helped Gabe to his feet, then let him brace against the fence until he was ready to take a step. Finally, arm-in-arm, with Louis taking some of Gabe's weight, they made their way up the block.
"I think Momma's still in bed," Louis whispered as they tiptoed through the front door of a modest clapboard duplex with peeling gray paint and a dirt front yard.
"I'll try not to wake her," Gabe said, speaking softly and following Louis into a small, neatly kept kitchen with chintz curtains and a Formica table. "I just need to wash my hands and face in the sink, and then I need a minute to think."
"Think about what?"
"About how to get ahold of my boss."
"You got a job?"
"In a manner of speaking."
With no ID and no phone numbers that he could remember, contacting the President of the United States wasn't going to be easy. It was possible to cut some sort of a deal with Louis for cab fare, but he would not have been at all proud of the boy if he agreed to part with his paper route money, no matter how good the deal sounded. Besides, the best he could do would be, filthy and soaked, to approach one of the uniformed Secret Service agents at one of the White House checkpoints and beg to be let in.
He took the phone from the wall and dialed information. As soon as he could, he would make up the cost of the call and then some.
"City and state, please?" the electronic operator asked.
"Washington, D.C."
"Say the name of the business you want, or just say, 'Residence.' "
"The White House."
Gabe could see Louis's eyes widen as he was patched through to an automated switchboard with another automated operator, giving him a menu of six choices, none of which was to speak with a flesh-and-blood operator, much less to the president.
"What's going on here?"
Startled, Gabe whirled. Louis's mother, in bare feet, wearing a thin, tattered robe, arms folded across her chest, was staring at him from the doorway to the hall. She was a dark, expansive woman, who probably looked quite engaging when she was smiling, which at this moment she most certainly was not.
"He's calling his boss at the White House," Louis gushed. "The White House!"
"And did you reach him, Mr.—?"
"Singleton," Gabe said, smiling sheepishly. "Dr. Gabe Singleton."
The woman had already heard enough. She fixed a glare on her son.
"Louis, it's five thirty in the morning and you haven't finished your route. And how many times have I told you—?"
"Never to talk to strangers. I know. I know. But he was lying by the fence in the lot down the street and . . . and I thought he was dead or at least drunk. He's neither, just someone who throws up and needs help to call his boss."
"In the White House."
Gabe could see the woman softening and knew that she had probably never stayed angry at her son for very long.
"In the White House," Gabe echoed. "Can I explain?"
The woman studied him for a few moments; then, without a word, she turned and walked back down the hall, returning with a pair of sweatpants, a towel, and a black long-sleeved T.
"These belong to Louis's brother, Shaun," she said. "He's working nights stocking shelves until he goes away to school in the fall. They should fit, even though Shaun's taller. Sorry, we got no extra shoes. You can change down the hall in the bathroom. Put your clothes into this plastic bag. Then we'll talk about just who you are and how we might be able to help you."
Once in the bathroom, Gabe headed to the sink, then took a quick look at himself in the mirror and chose to shower instead. He absolutely had to connect with Drew. It seemed clear that at some point Lily Sexton or whoever she worked with, employing scientific techniques that Drew was planning on placing under strict government controls, was going to either end the president's life or ruin his career.
Ironic.
The question now was whether or not Ferendelli's death and Gabe's escape would alter some sort of timetable. If so, Drew might be in immediate danger, quite possibly from someone close to him, and Gabe, having exchanged information with Ferendelli before his murd
er, was now undoubtedly considered a serious threat.
He toweled off and put on Shaun's clothes, which weren't at all the mismatch his mother had predicted. Probably unkempt, filthy, and sodden Gabe was unimposing enough to appear smaller than he was.
"Now that's better," Louis's mother said, surveying Gabe.
She handed him a mug of coffee, determined that he drank it black, and introduced herself as Sharon Turner.
"Mrs. Turner," Gabe said, "I'm very grateful to Louis and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your trust and all you've done. It must have been quite a shock seeing me like I was. Now, what do you want to know?"
"I want to know the name of the man you recently replaced at the White House," she said, with some mirth in her expression at his surprise.
"Ferendelli. Dr. James Ferendelli."
"My sister's husband, Herman, works in the laundry at the White House. I called and asked him about you. He said he never met you, but that you just came on board. He couldn't remember the name of the doctor you replaced, but you answered me quickly enough to seem genuine."
Immediately Gabe's mind began to race.
"Is he home now?" he asked.
"Herman? Actually, he's just getting ready to head into work."
Gabe could barely conceal his excitement.
"Do you think I could speak with him?"
Sharon Turner picked up the phone, dialed, then handed it across to him.
"Herman," Gabe said after introducing himself, "can you get a piece of paper and a pencil or pen? . . . Great. I need you to get a short note to the president. Do you think you can do that?"
"We have people that bring the linens up to the residence. I help sometimes."
"I'd rather have you deliver the note personally if it's possible. Okay, you ready? The note should read: 'The man who rides Condor needs you to call him.' Then I want you to write down Sharon's number at the bottom of the note. If for any reason your supervisor won't let you go up to the residence, see if you can get one of the Secret Service people to deliver the note. But it would be much better if you do it. Any questions?"
The First Patient Page 26
