The First Patient Read online

  Still, although even he had to acknowledge he had come far since his days in an orange prison jumpsuit, it was possible that, in some ways, he felt more at ease among the murderers and other felons than he did right now. He had voiced his concern to the president and the White House social secretary, begging to be left off the guest list for the dinner altogether, let alone the two-man list of those being introduced to the Washington glitterati. But the dinner was already scheduled and there was still a great deal of restlessness in D.C. surrounding the disappearance of Jim Ferendelli. The president wanted to assure the politicians and the voters that he was in good hands medically.

  "You're handling yourself well, Doctor."

  Chief of Staff Magnus Lattimore had materialized at Gabe's elbow. He was a slightly built, kinetic man with a boyish face, carrot hair, and the vestiges of a brogue. Of all the president's men, Gabe had learned the most about him—Scottish immigrant, Harvard grad, tireless, smart in many senses of the word, decisive, meticulous, not the least afraid of stepping on toes, and blessed with a rapier wit that at times could be devastating. He was also, it was clear to Gabe, absolutely devoted to Andrew Stoddard, his presidency, and his reelection.

  "It's the monkey suit," Gabe replied. "Throw a tux on me and you've got instant socialite."

  "I can tell. Your bow tie is a dead giveaway that there's more to you than the backwoods buckaroo you claim."

  "How's that?"

  "Tying a bow tie is an absolutely individual affair. It should never be knotted perfectly. Yours is tied with perfect imperfection. Says a lot about your level of sophistication—gruff saddle tramp image or not."

  "Is that why you didn't have the rental people include a clip-on?"

  "I suppose you could conclude that, yes. I was prepared to help you if necessary. In dealing with people, data is worth collecting regardless of the source. If I ever did have the urge to underestimate you, which I most certainly do not, I need only remind myself of your skill with a bow tie."

  Gabe flashed on Alison Cromartie, her brow knit as she focused on the task at hand. Had she left the knot just slightly askew on purpose? The truth was he hadn't even noticed. Gruff saddle tramp, indeed.

  "Was that article in the Post about my arrival on the scene your doing?" he asked.

  "We have a friend or two on the staff there," was Lattimore's typically oblique reply.

  "I had sort of planned to keep a low profile until I was done with the job."

  "In Wyoming you get to keep a low profile. Here you keep whatever profile most benefits the president."

  "So I gathered. Speaking of the man, where is he?"

  "Actually"—Lattimore checked his Omega—"he's late."

  His expression had darkened.

  "Any problem?"

  "No, no. He's usually fairly prompt, though, and Calvyn Berriman is a man he actually likes and admires. He went out of his way to have me ask Joe Malzone, the pastry chef, to do a cake in the form of the presidential flag of Botswana, and a wild flag it is, too, complete with zebras, African shield, elephant tusks, and even a bas-relief bull's head, perfectly rendered in black frosting. Makes our flag look sedate."

  "Save me the bull's head; I've gone after them at birthday parties since I was a tyke. And also, let me know if Drew needs me to do a physical exam on anyone in the next couple of hours. This would be the perfect time for me to have to leave. Back home I used to bribe the hospital operator to page me when I couldn't find another way of getting out of a cocktail party, or worse, a formal dinner. Perfectly imperfect bow tie or not, I'm sure it's only a matter of time at this soiree before I go Emily Postal and commit some huge social gaffe."

  "Don't use your fingers except for the bread, don't slurp your soup directly from the bowl, and avoid throwing up on the person next to you. That's all you need to know."

  "Slurp my bread, finger my soup, throw up on the guest of honor. Got it."

  "Oh, and most important of all, don't think for a moment that anyone here is more interested in hearing what you have to say than in hearing what they have to say. In this town a good listener is like a one-eyed man in the land of the blind."

  "Mouth shut, ears open. I can do that."

  "Good. Speaking of socialites, there's one more person I'd like you to meet before we all go trooping on in there. You ever heard of Lily Sexton?"

  Gabe shook his head.

  "Should I have?"

  "When we get reelected, one of the president's first moves will be the creation of a new cabinet post—the Secretary of Science and Technology. Dr. Lily Sexton will be it."

  "An M.D.?"

  "Ph.D. Molecular physics or some such. She was a professor of Carol's at Princeton."

  Although he had been at Carol and Drew Stoddard's wedding and had spent a fair amount of time with her over the years, Gabe really knew very little about the First Lady. He knew she was bright—exceedingly so, in fact—but nothing she had ever said suggested that she might have studied molecular physics in college.

  "Secretary of Science and Technology," he mused out loud. "I wonder where that will rank on the presidential succession list."

  "Bite your tongue."

  "You're right. See? I told you it was only a matter of time before I said something stupid."

  "You're doing fine. Just remember about the one-eyed man. There's Lily over there. She's not too hard to spot, given that every woman in this room is wearing a designer evening gown and she's wearing a tux."

  Lattimore led Gabe by the arm across the Red Room and introduced him to the second interesting and attractive woman he had met in just an hour. Lily Sexton had a dazzling, ageless aura, starting from her pure silver hair, cut elegantly short. Her face, virtually unlined, was sharp and intelligent, highlighted by piercing blue-green eyes. Her black tuxedo was perfectly tailored to her tall, slender figure, and just above the top button of her jacket, where a shirt would have been, had she been wearing one, rested a spectacular turquoise pendant on a silver chain.

  Protruding from beneath her pants were top-of-the-line alligator cowboy boots. The stylish western look made a clear statement about the woman's willingness to fly in the face of fashion, but Gabe guessed that, with the addition of the inlaid turquoise ring and earrings that matched her necklace, the price of her outfit came to as much or more than that of many of the evening gowns in the room.

  "Excuse me if I'm out of line," Gabe said after Lattimore had completed the introduction and moved on, "but Magnus told me you were one of Carol's college professors. I don't know exactly how old the First Lady is, but I have trouble doing the math around that relationship."

  "Why, thank you, Dr. Singleton," Lily said with an easy drawl—maybe Arizona, Gabe thought. "What a flattering thing to say. But I'm afraid my friend Magnus hasn't got his facts quite right. I was a graduate assistant of Carol's, not a professor. We've been dear friends since the day we met. There's not much more than five or six years' difference in our ages. She would have made a terrific scientist, but she had other plans."

  "The dilemma of Carol Stoddard," he said, "test tubes, Bunsen burners, and white mice, or the chance to marry an absolutely brilliant war hero, hunk of a man, and change the world for the better. Hmmmm. Let . . . me . . . think."

  "Believe me," she said, "if a man like Drew Stoddard had dropped into my life, I would have made the same choice Carol did. Actually, somewhere along the way, a few men did come along with enough going for them to marry, but none of them ended up having Drew's staying power. . . . So, Doctor, how has your Washington medical experience been so far?"

  "A few visiting dignitaries have been sent to the clinic for various bumps and bruises and upset stomachs, but thankfully, the First Patient hasn't dialed my number except to tell me that there were a lot of people anxious to meet me tonight and so I'd better show up."

  "Oh yes, speaking as one of those people, congratulations."

  "Thanks. You're the one deserving of congratulations, though. Magnus tells me yo
u are destined for a cabinet post."

  "If we win."

  "We're going to win."

  "In that case, I'll be the first Secretary of Science and Technology."

  "Pardon me for sounding uninformed, but what is the president's position on science and technology that he would need a new cabinet post to implement it?"

  "Actually, it's built into the party platform. The president feels that the federal government needs to take a more proactive position regarding control of scientific research and development—stem cells, cloning, nanotechnology, fuel alternatives, reproductive physiology, cyberspace utilization, and the like. The FDA is overwhelmed as it is, and no cabinet post is specifically set up to coordinate the research necessary to put together some legislation with teeth."

  "I didn't realize that Drew had taken such a hard-line approach to government control of science and technology."

  "First of all, it's neither hard-line nor control, and second of all, it's more Carol's concerns than Drew's. The administration is not opposed to research and development in any field of science, but they want the people to have the right to know what's going on, and to monitor if any particular product or line of research has the potential to do harm or to cost the taxpayer in some as yet unseen way."

  "It sounds like they've picked the perfect person for the job."

  "That's very kind of you to say. Oh, Dr. Singleton, I'm sorry to be monopolizing you so. As a guest of distinction, you must have many more important people to meet than me."

  No, actually I have no one more important to meet than you.

  "The truth is, I was grateful to you for protecting me from the masses. The last thing I remember clearly was riding one of my horses through the desert. Then the president showed up at my doorstep, and now this. I feel like Alice floating down the rabbit's hole."

  He gestured to the room.

  "That's right!" Lily exclaimed. "You're a high plains drifter. Wyoming, yes?" She took a thin silver case from her jacket pocket and removed a pale lavender business card. "I can do without a gown or even an evening bag, but a rule of survival in this town is never, ever go out without your business cards."

  "Magnus had mine waiting in my desk drawer when I arrived. Now I know why. Alas, they're still there."

  LILY PAD STABLES, the card read simply, along with an address in Virginia and an ornate LPS in one corner.

  "I'm West Texas born and bred, " she said, "and where I come from, people say that the number-one reason for making piles of money is to have horses."

  "In Wyoming we like to say that a horse is nothing more, or less, than a four-legged shrink."

  "Same thing, really." Her laugh was unforced and totally appealing. "Well, at Lily Pad we have some of the finest saddle horses anyplace, unless you like to jump. We've got those, too."

  "Jumping things on a horse makes no more sense to me than jumping things not on a horse. When in doubt, go around. That's my motto."

  "In that case, give me a call. I'll show you some of my adopted state from a western saddle."

  "I'd be happy to. I'm already having saddle soap withdrawal."

  "In that case, the sooner the better."

  Her enigmatic expression at that moment would, he knew, stay with him until they hit the trail together—whenever that was.

  No sooner had he and Lily moved apart when the admiral, Ellis Wright, stepped in to introduce Gabe to a general as "my man in the White House." There was no hint whatsoever of the rancor that had so recently marked Wright's visit to Gabe's office.

  The outer face, the inner face, Gabe mused as the general and the admiral turned to greet Calvyn Berriman. Did anyone in this town actually say what they meant, or mean what they said?

  It was at that instant Gabe noticed Lattimore, standing by the doorway to the hall, motioning him over with his eyes and a minute shake of his head, even as he smiled and nodded at various passing guests. His expression, at least to Gabe's reckoning, was grim.

  Slowly, deliberately, feeling very much like the other guests as he masked his purpose with a cheerful expression, he worked his way across to the chief of staff, joining him in acknowledging the Secretary of Defense and his wife, then the chief of the National Security Council.

  "Is there a problem?" Gabe asked softly, taking pains not to look directly at Lattimore.

  "Perhaps. Wait two minutes, then make your way to your office and get your medical bag. The president's Secret Service man, Treat Griswold, will be waiting to take you upstairs to the residence."

  "Do I need to bring anything special?" Gabe asked.

  "Just an open mind," was the reply.

  CHAPTER 7

  Battling to look nonchalant, Gabe retrieved his medical bag from the floor by his desk.

  "An open mind."

  What in the hell had Lattimore meant by that?

  By the time Gabe reentered his office reception area, Treat Griswold was waiting, motioning with an upraised hand for him to stay quiet and stay where he was. Cautiously, the Secret Service agent checked the corridor, then beckoned Gabe across to the elevator, which another waiting agent keyed electronically.

  "Is the president in trouble?" Gabe asked as they rode.

  "I guess that's for you to determine, sir," Griswold said.

  A floor above, the elevator opened into a small anteroom, with double doors to the broad, elegantly furnished foyer of the First Family's residence. Griswold motioned Gabe down the hall to the master bedroom, then retreated to a position not far from the elevator.

  "Just call if you need me, sir," he said, his expression severe.

  Magnus Lattimore stepped into the foyer.

  "Anyone see you?" he asked Griswold.

  "No one."

  "Good. I've sent for the mil aide with The Football. Keep him right there in the landing."

  "Will do."

  The Football!

  During his orientation, Gabe had been told that "The Football" was the name given to the communications case containing the codes and other necessary equipment for the quarterback, the president, to trigger a retaliatory or preemptive nuclear strike anywhere in the world—quite possibly the prelude to Armageddon. Whenever the chief executive was traveling away from the White House, the case was brought along by a military aide rotating from one of the five services. Also contained in The Football, Lattimore had told Gabe, were the papers of presidential succession.

  Now the chief of staff turned to him, his intensity threatening to burn a hole between Gabe's eyes.

  "Go on in, Doctor," he said.

  He followed Gabe into the bedroom, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door behind them.

  Legs out straight, the President of the United States sat bolt upright, his back pressed against the massive brass headboard. His eyes were wide and feral, his gaze darting—an expression of absolute fear. His fingers were in constant motion, like waving fronds of kelp. The corners of his mouth pulled back repetitively, then relaxed. To his left, standing close by the bed, was the First Lady, stunning in a simple black strapless gown. Her expression was an odd mixture of concern and embarrassment.

  "He's been like this for twenty minutes now," she said, eschewing any greeting.

  "I know about his asthma and his migraines," Gabe said. "Are the meds he takes up here?"

  "Yes. Plus some Tylenol sometimes and ibuprofen for some back pain."

  "See if you can find those bottles, Carol. Bring me any pills you come across. Anything at all. Also the inhaler he uses."

  The First Lady hurried into the bathroom.

  Suddenly Stoddard began rocking forward and back like an Orthodox Jew reciting his prayers. After a minute or two, he seemed to notice Gabe for the first time.

  "Gabe, Gabe, my old friend, what in the Sam Hill are you doing here?" he asked, still rocking. His voice was strained and higher pitched than usual, his speech pressured. "You've got work to do, work to do, my man, my man. People to meet and greet and work to do."

  "Mr.
President, I'm here because you suddenly aren't acting like yourself."

  "Mr. President, Mr. President . . . they all call me that. Mr. Frigging President. But not you, Gabe Singleton, not you my old friend. My roomie. You must call me Drew. Call me Drew and I'll trust you. Hey, a rhyme. Call me Drew and I'll trust you. Not like the others. I don't trust any of the others. Just my lovely Carol. Isn't she lovely? Hey, where is she? Where'd she go? And of course sweet Magnus. Sweet, think-of-everything Magnus. How could anyone not trust him? But Tom Frigging Vice President Cooper the Frigging Third—him I don't trust any farther than I can throw him. And Bradford Frigging Dunleavy can't be trusted. He wants to beat my ass in the next election and take this house away from us. Have us evicted. And the frigging Chinese. When it comes to trust, they are just the worst of all. . . . I can't stop rocking, Dr. Gabe . . . back and forth . . . forth and back. Help me stop rocking and I'll double your salary. You know who you really can't trust? It's the Arabs you really can't trust, that's who. The A-R-A-B-S. . . . Maybe we should just take a little old nuclear device—that's what we call them, devices—and waste the whole lot of them. That'd solve the frigging Middle East crisis once and for all. Might as well take out Israel while we're at it and start all over again. . . ."

  Carol Stoddard returned with her hands full of pill bottles, plus an inhaler, and passed them over. Gabe scanned them one by one, setting each on the bedside table. None of them differed from what he already knew Stoddard was taking.

  With Ellis Wright's words booming in stereo in his brain, Gabe moved cautiously toward the bedside opposite where Carol was standing.