Michael Palmer: The First Patient

Gabe's blood alcohol level-.34-could have been lethal in a body less adapted to heavy drinking, even a twenty-year-old's body. His blackout came and went over the hours following the accident. He remembered the rain-soaked ground at the bottom of the steep embankment, and pawing at the blood cascading down into his eyes. He remembered Drew's quavering voice, calling to him from somewhere in the darkness, asking him over and over if he was all right. And he remembered the police… and the handcuffs.

It was hours after he lost control of the borrowed car, jumped the median, and plowed head-on into the subcompact being driven by a young pregnant woman before his mind began permanently to clear, but he never remembered any details of the accident-not one. And he remembered absolutely nothing of the young woman he had killed, along with her unborn child.

"Gabe?"

The president's voice cut into his thoughts but did not dispel them entirely.

"Huh? Oh, sorry."

"It's still hard, isn't it."

"It's not the sort of thing I was put together to deal with, if that's what you mean. I just can't imagine the Washington press corps won't dredge up every lurid detail. A year in prison isn't exactly what the American public would consider a ringing endorsement for the man taking care of their leader."

"My people assure me it won't be that bad. You took the punishment society gave you and you went on with a life of service to others. Even the nastiest of reporters knows it could have been them behind the wheel that night, and even the most jaded can appreciate what you've accomplished since then."

"Thanks for saying that."

"We both know it hasn't been easy."

"Or really all that successful. That kid would be over thirty now. Sometimes I find myself wondering what he might have grown up to be."

The statement, though absolutely true, seemed to catch Stoddard by surprise. For a time, the decorated Desert Storm fighter pilot, now commander in chief of the most powerful armed forces ever assembled, seemed unable to respond. Thirty-two years had passed since Fairhaven, and still Gabe's wounds were raw and, at times, festering.

"Gabe, I mean it," Stoddard said finally. "I came all the way out here personally because I really need you. The campaign is already taking its toll on my health. Headaches, stomach pains, insomnia, intermittent diarrhea. Name a symptom, I've had it. Jim's been secretly having neurologic tests run for headaches I've been having-migraines, he's been calling them. I need someone I can trust-someone who is above the Washington gossipmongers, someone I can bank the future of this country on."

"The FBI is still going full bore to find Ferendelli?"

"And the investigative arm of the Secret Service."

"If he's found and wants his job back, I'm coming home."

"You have my word."

"Damn, but I'm not excited about this, Drew."

"I know."

"I'm a frigging homebody. Except for the missions to Central America, the closest I come to going anyplace is reading Travel and Leisure magazine at the dentist's office. My partners love me because I'm always around to cover for them in case of any emergency."

"So they said."

"Dammit, Stoddard, why are you looking and acting like you already know I'm gonna cave in?"

Stoddard's boyish smile had probably won him 10 or 20 million votes in the last election.

"Because you're a good man, Dr. Singleton, and you know this is the right thing to do."

"How much time do I have to get ready?"

"According to Magnus's inquiries, two days should be enough."

"I'm looking forward to meeting up with this Magnus of yours."

"In D.C.?" Stoddard asked.

"In D.C., Mr. President."

The White House Physician's clinic was situated directly across the corridor from the elevator to the First Family's residence. Standing before the bathroom mirror in the elegant three-room office, Gabe sensed he would have been more at ease had he been stationed in a clinic in downtown Baghdad.

It was just after seven in the evening. As promised, the tuxedo, complete with shoes, had arrived at the office at precisely six. The size was perfect in every respect-not surprisingly, since the arrangements had been made through the Social Office of the President by Magnus Lattimore. Unfortunately, the garment bag failed to include either a clip-on or instructions on how to knot the enclosed bow tie-a rare, if understandable, Lattimore oversight.

Gabe watched as the hands that had lassoed steers, hung on to bucking broncos, and sutured innumerable lacerations struggled to create even a passable knot. The directions he had printed out from the Internet were propped up on the sink. In addition to his limited dexterity, he looked tired and strained. The zygomatic arches above his cheeks were even more pronounced than usual, and his dark eyes, which Cinnie had called his sexiest feature, seemed lost. No surprise. Four whirlwind days in a new apartment, new city, and new job were taking their toll.

The formal dinner reception, scheduled for eight in the State Dining Room, was ostensibly to welcome the recently reelected President of Botswana. According to the Africa expert sent by Lattimore to brief Gabe, the country was a staunch ally of the United States and one of the enduring democracies on the continent. In truth, the guest list had carefully been stacked with dignitaries and cabinet members who were interested in meeting the man the president had selected to bring stability to the White House medical office.

Another try at the knot, another morbid failure.

The muscles in Gabe's neck and shoulders, always the physical receptacle in his body for stress and emotional fatigue, were drumhead tight, and a throbbing headache was developing beneath his temples. Some sort of medicine would help make the evening more bearable, he decided-maybe a couple of Tylenols with codeine.

Since Fairhaven he had sworn off alcohol forever, and for his first few years out of prison he had expanded that pledge to boycott all manner of drugs as well. But with an array of orthopedic maladies dating back to his rodeo and football days, and stress-related head- and neck aches, Tylenol and ibuprofen had intermittently begun surrendering to Darvon and Tylenol No. 3, with whatever happened to be in the medicine cabinet thrown in from time to time for those discomforts that crossed the imaginary line between dull ache and disruptive pain.

He knew relying on pain pills and even the antidepressants he resorted to from time to time wasn't the smartest behavior for an alcoholic in recovery, and he knew that there was always the danger he would be conjuring up the pains to justify taking the drugs, but he had gone about as far in life as he could go in terms of doing the right thing.

He set the tie and the instructions in the sink, brought a glass of water to the exquisite cherrywood desk the White House decorators had determined was appropriate for the inner office of the physician to the president, and fished out two Tylenols with codeine from the thirty or so he had transferred to a bottle that read simply: TYLENOL. If anyone found out about the deception, or discovered the envelopes of Demerol and antidepressants in the eyeglass case in the back of his drawer, so be it. If Drew had asked him about pills, he would have told him the truth. Probably should have said something anyhow. If he had, he might still be back in Tyler taking care of folks with calluses on their hands and teaching kids how to throw a lasso. But in the end, he decided it was his business and his business only. The world knew quite enough about him as it was.

The codeine had just begun its journey from stomach to brain when, with a firm knock, the door to the receptionist's office opened.