Michael Palmer - The First Patient

Then he swung up into the saddle, with Serious Therapy galloping the moment his feet were firmly in the stirrups, and bolted back down the trail.

Alison stood on the walk at the base of the Lincoln Memorial, alternately pacing impatiently from one side of the broad stairway to the other and gazing up at the profoundly moving statue of The Great Emancipator. With a mixed heritage, she had always revered the man, his accomplishments, and the heart-wrenching decisions he had to make.

Seth Owens's man was late-fifteen minutes late to be exact.

Most days Treat Griswold went off duty at four, some days, it seemed, at three. Soon, even the remote possibility of moving on him today would be gone.

Yet another group of children, from yet another summer camp, jostled past her and up the stairs, followed by yet another trio of weary, perspiring counselors. Alison checked her watch, cast about again, and decided to wait five more minutes before calling Seth. Three years ago, the two of them had managed to make the difficult transition from being lovers to being just friends. At the time, Seth was on the rebound from a failed marriage and was still very much in love with his ex-wife, although he wouldn't admit it. Alison, still smarting from a failed relationship in L.A., had hoped for an uncomplicated physical connection with no expectations and periodic good times and great sex together. Quickly, though, she realized that as therapeutic and adult as such a relationship sounded in principle, in practice she was simply not cut out for it.

Alison hoped things with Gabe would turn out to have more substance. Meanwhile, it was good to know that the witty, intelligent, resourceful Owens was on her side-especially in situations like today, when the only one who might rapidly be able to fill her needs was an FBI agent. Owens had been happy to hear from her but made no promises at first. However, within half an hour he had called her back with a single name, Lester; a time, two thirty; and a place, right where she was standing. She reached into her jacket pocket for her cell phone at the moment it began ringing.

"Yes?"

"Alison, it's Seth. Everything okay?"

"Well, not exactly. It's, like a hundred degrees out here in front of the monument, every ounce of love I once had for schoolchildren has been ripped from my bosom by one stampeding horde after another, and your man Lester has failed to appear."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Very sure?"

"Uh-oh."

"I did mention that Lester had a flair for the dramatic, didn't I?"

"I think you might have said something like that, yes."

"So Alison, my flower, what did you call and ask me for?"

"I asked you for the best pickpocket on the planet-the man you guys would send out to pluck a prime minister's speech out of his jacket before he got to deliver it."

"That's exactly what you said. So, why don't you take a look inside your purse."

"Inside my-"

The moment she touched her shoulder bag, she knew something was wrong. She opened it up. Her wallet was gone. So were her notebook, her lipstick, at least four packs of Trident, and a mini-size copy of A Walker's Guide to Washington. In fact, the purse was empty, completely empty. Well, not exactly. Lester-she had to assume it was he-had replaced the weight of what he had taken from her with plastic packs of Tic Tacs, at least a dozen of them.

"Your right earring?"

"Gone," she said, realizing even before she felt for it that it was.

"Like you, Lester is very good at what he does."

"I guess. Okay, Owen. I'm a believer. Where is he?"

"See the group of kids at the far end of the stairs?"

"Yes."

"See the guy entertaining them?"

"The one juggling?"

"Lester."

"He just waved to me without dropping a ball. I owe you big-time, Owens. When I get back to San Antonio, dinner at Paloma Blanca's on me."

"I thought you didn't want to come back," Seth said.

"If I screw this up, I may be shipped back to wash the urinals. Gotta go. Lester just waved to me again, this time with an Indian club while he was juggling two more with his other hand. I think he and I will be able to do business, provided he doesn't get busted by the park ranger heading toward him. Thanks, pal."

The laconic stable man, William, tall, gaunt, and in his seventies, handled the news of the gunman and Lily's injury with anxious composure. He called 911 and ordered the police and ambulance to Lily Pad Stables, while Gabe loaded up with water, bandages, anything that would pass for a splint, and blankets.

"Is there any easy way a man with a rifle could have gotten as far into the forest as he did?" Gabe asked, swinging back onto Serious Therapy.

"They's a number a ways, actually. These hills're crisscrossed by old logging roads and old mining roads and even old military roads from the war-the Civil War, that is. The bastard couldda taken the one right at the base of that hill over yonder. Ends up at an abandoned coal mine 'bout six miles in. Runs right alongside the Yellow Brick Road-that's this trail here that you was on-for three, four mile before cuttin' away."

"Send the rescue people right out," Gabe said, urging his horse to a full gallop with just a tap of his heels.

Lily was essentially as he had left her, eyes closed, moaning in pain, and looking as if her blood pressure was still quite low. For more than half an hour Gabe ministered to her, replacing the splints protecting her shoulder and neck, keeping her warm and as hydrated as she would allow, and whispering steady encouragement. Her injury was severe-probably a fracture dislocation with significant hemorrhaging-and as likely as not she would be in the operating room before the night was out.

Having done everything he could think of, Gabe knelt beside her and peered into the woods toward the spot where the shooter had stood. It would be worth taking the police there against the remote chance the man had left anything behind. The more Gabe thought about the episode, the more convinced he became that the gunman who had nearly killed him on the street near the White House and this assailant were the same or at least were working for the same people. It was nearly impossible to believe otherwise.

But why target him? Trying to come up with an explanation that fit the facts was a shortcut to a migraine.

"Hang on, Lily," he said. "Help should be here in just a few minutes."

"Can I make it to a hospital in D.C.?" she asked, her voice weak and raspy.

"In the shape you're in, I wouldn't chance it. You've probably lost a significant amount of blood into your arm and back into your chest. At some point you're almost certainly going to need anesthesia and a procedure to fix your shoulder. Maybe after you're stabilized, you can arrange to be transported to a university medical center for that."

"Thanks, Doctor."

Her eyes closed and again she drifted off, breathing sonorously. Moments later Gabe heard an approaching siren, and within a minute two cruisers came jouncing up the deeply rutted Yellow Brick Road, followed by an ambulance.

The paramedics, as was the case almost everywhere Gabe had ever watched their brothers and sisters work in the field, were confident, efficient, and damn good. The two of them, a young man and an older woman, were kind enough to compliment Gabe on his makeshift first aid as they immobilized Lily's neck, started an IV, put some oxygen in place, did a quick, competent check for other injuries, and expertly immobilized her shoulder. Gabe reminded himself of what he already knew well. If he was ever injured outside of a medical center, he would take a paramedic's care over that of any but the most exceptional trauma physician.