Michael Palmer - The First Patient

The move to return to his supporters was blatantly theatrical-Ringling Brothers all the way. But given the potential danger of his asthma attack, there was nothing bogus about it. And judging from the prolonged, enthusiastic response of the audience, what could have been something of a body blow to his campaign-increased concern about his health-had instead become a war cry signaling that he was fearlessly ready to move forward with his Vision for America.

Down the road, it seemed as if Andrew Stoddard might point to this day as one in which the many facets of his run for reelection were triumphantly brought together.

Still it seemed possible-just possible-that within the ranks of his supporters, specifically in the person of his favorite, most trusted Secret Service guard, there was potential trouble.

There was no one who passed the blind man, making his way through the throngs at Reagan National Airport, who did not take notice of him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a long ebony ponytail protruding from beneath a white cowboy hat that featured an ornate band of turquoise medallions linked by hand-tooled silver. He strode ahead with surprising confidence, his thin white cane tapping away at the tiled floor like an insect's antenna. His face, high cheekboned and powerful, was the reddish brown of the clay that for centuries had been the bedrock of his people, the Arapaho.

As the man emerged from the security zone, Gabe quietly fell in stride beside him.

"Dr. Singleton, I presume," Dr. Kyle Blackthorn said after just a step or two, though there had been no physical contact between them.

"How'd you guess?"

"It was no guess, my friend, I assure you of that. And I really don't think you want to know which of my senses were at work."

"No. No, I suppose I don't. Luggage?"

"Right here. One night's worth of clothes and my testing materials. I'm due back to teach at Wind River the day after tomorrow."

"You still go out to the reservation every week?"

"Just one of the tribulations of being a role model."

"Those kids are lucky to have you."

"I am the lucky one, just as are you for the work that you do when you don't have to."

"Well said. Thank you for dropping everything and coming so quickly. I know how busy you are."

Gabe smiled as one traveler after another turned to watch them pass. He had wondered how easy it was going to be to sneak the six-foot, three-inch Indian into the president's residence at the White House. Now Gabe found himself searching for another place the two men could meet for a three- or four-hour evaluation. As difficult as Blackthorn was to hide, the President of the United States was even more so. Their session was simply going to have to be in the White House residence.

"You ready to go to work?" Gabe asked.

"The president?" Blackthorn asked in a near whisper.

Gabe nodded.

"Good guess," he said.

"Not too difficult. You were front-page news in the local rag when you left. Everyone was talking about it. Before this, they were proud of the things you have done with the children. Now, they are absolutely in awe."

With no prompting from Gabe, Blackthorn turned toward the stairway leading down to the parking area. Perhaps it was some telltale sound from the roadway below, perhaps an increase in the foot traffic heading in that direction or maybe just a slight gust of breeze. Whatever senses he was reacting to, the psychologist responded with certainty, his cane confirming more than directing.

As far as Gabe knew. Blackthorn had been blind since birth. No one in Tyler spoke about it very much. It was as if no one really saw it as a disability-at least not in him. Certainly it was a drawback to be overcome, but rather as an inescapable fact of the man's life-something to work with rather than around, almost like being left-handed.

On the way into town from the airport, Gabe recounted in detail the bizarre and remarkable episode he had observed in Drew Stoddard before learning from his wife and chief of staff that it was at least the fourth one. Blackthorn, his trademark hat resting on his lap, dark glasses shielding whatever there was of his eyes, listened quietly, but Gabe could tell he was processing every word. In the courtroom, The Chief, as he had inevitably come to be called away from the stenographers, was a forensic expert witness to be reckoned with. He was equally adept at exposing defendants attempting to hide behind a plea of insanity, and championing with irrefutable logic the defense's claims of diminished capacity.

"You have a sense of how these episodes began?" he asked when Gabe had finished his detailed description.

"I wasn't there, but his chief of staff tells me it was quite sudden. He reports a twitch or a tic at the corner of the president's eye-the right one, I think-then some disjointed, word-salad sentences, then suddenly, boom, a full-blown, manic craziness with hallucinations, motor irritability, and pressured speech. By the time I arrived at his bedside, he was really quite mad-disoriented, hyperkinetic, sweating, blood pressure and pulse headed off the charts."

"Then just as quickly it all began to resolve."

"Exactly. Over about twenty or thirty minutes, the mania and hallucinations gave way to profound fatigue and, soon, exhausted sleep."

There was a prolonged silence, eventually ended by the psychologist as they cruised over the George Mason Bridge and into the city.

"We shall see what the testing blots and the blocks have to tell us," he said, "but off what you've told me, it sounds toxic."

"Some kind of drug reaction?"

"Or something that's being secreted in his body."

"Like from a tumor? I thought about that. He's had a normal MRI and a CT scan, but they were just of his head. A chemical-secreting tumor could be anywhere."

"So what have you chosen to do about all this?"

"Do?"

"Well, the man does have a fair amount of-how should I say it?-responsibility."

"He's been a hell of a president."

"I agree. So do most of the minorities in the country."

"And over the next four years there's no telling how much he can accomplish."

"Provided he doesn't go off the deep end and push the shiny big red button."

"I need to find out what's wrong with him, Kyle."

"I'll say you do. You sure you're not the one who needs help?"

Gabe risked a glance over at the man, but The Chief was facing stoically ahead.

"I wish I were back home," Gabe said.

Blackthorn set a hand on Gabe's shoulder.

"When it's time, you'll come home," he said. "Meanwhile, the president has the right doctor taking care of him. Of that I am certain."

With help from Treat Griswold, Gabe had surprisingly little trouble getting Blackthorn into the White House and then to the medical clinic, which had been closed since before the motorcade to Baltimore. Then, after ensuring that there were no reporters or other surprise visitors wandering about, Griswold stood guard as the two doctors crossed to the elevator and rode up to the president's residence, where the chief executive waited with his wife.

After brief introductions, Gabe took advantage of the situation to confirm that Stoddard's lungs were still clear and that he was, in fact, ready and able to undergo extensive psychological and neurological testing. In case of any problem, Carol would remain close by in another room and Gabe would be in the clinic. Neither the president nor the First Lady showed any particular reaction to Blackthorn's appearance or his blindness, although Stoddard did ask the man if he was Democrat or Republican.

"Arapaho," was the reply.

Back in his office, Gabe fished out Lily Sexton's card and called her at Lily Pad Stables. The secretary-designate answered on the first ring, prompting Gabe to wonder what the caller ID read for calls originating in the White House.