Michael Palmer - The First Patient

"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."

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.

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 else-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.

As the morning had worn on, Alison had became more and more fixated on the consideration, however remote, that the inhaler Griswold was using might have more inside it than simply Alupent. At this point, the notion made little sense, but it had moved in and taken up residence in her mind. Rumors-the very rumors that had led her chief to send her into the White House undercover-had been whispering that Drew Stoddard was mentally unstable. True or not, it was her job, quietly but quickly, to investigate anything related to that possibility. If nothing else, she decided, in addition to fleshing out Donald Greenfield and his relationship to the women of Beechtree Road, she had to examine the contents of the inhaler Griswold carried in the inner breast pocket of his suit coat.