Michael Palmer - The First Patient

Gabe set the printout down and exhaled audibly.

" Hyenas is the word," he said.

"We've got to get to the bottom of this before it blows up in our face."

"I'm working on it, Drew; I really am."

"And?"

"I need another day; then we'll talk."

"Have you heard from your psychologist friend?"

Gabe stiffened at the question. Among the many things he had decided to keep from Drew, at least for the time being, was the attack on Blackthorn at the airport hotel, and especially the missing briefcase. Hopefully, as Blackthorn had promised, there was no accessible information in there.

"I haven't spoken to him since he returned to Tyler," Gabe said, "but his initial impression was that somehow a toxic chemical was intermittently entering your body."

"Like poison?"

"Not necessarily. There are other explanations. Drew, you're the boss here, but I really would rather get some more data before telling you what I've been able to learn."

"You're the doc. But make it quick, Gabe. You read that column."

"I understand; believe me, I do."

"Just tell me a couple of things. Do you think the guy who tried to kill you killed Jim?"

Tomorrow, Gabe had decided. Tomorrow after he and Ferendelli had spoken, he would bring Drew up to speed on the situation. For the moment, as Ferendelli had requested, he would tell no one.

"It's possible," he said. "But if he was as inept at Jim's assassination as he was with mine, there's a good chance Jim's still alive."

"And the woman, Alison?"

"I'm hoping to speak to her tonight or tomorrow. As far as I know, she hasn't uncovered anything."

"But she's sharp?"

"I think very sharp."

"You falling for her?"

"Too early to tell."

Stoddard's expression grew steely.

"Just remember who you're working for, okay? I have to know that I come first."

"You come first, my friend," Gabe said. "Now, I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"Is there anything of importance that you're holding back from me? Anything at all?"

Stoddard momentarily looked at him somewhat queerly, then shook his head.

"What's that all about?" he asked.

"Kyle Blackthorn told me he has like a sixth sense about people-whether they're being totally on the level or not. He wondered if you might be holding something back or maybe not telling the whole truth about something. I mean, when we first talked in Wyoming, you did manage to hold something rather big from me."

Again the flicker of that odd look.

"Well, not this time," Stoddard said. "If I know something of any importance, you'll know it. Now, keep me posted, and if you need resources that are at my disposal, just say the word and they'll be at yours."

"The closer to the vest we play this, the better," Gabe replied.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then."

The friends stood and shook hands.

"Tomorrow," Gabe said, before heading to the office to prepare for his rendezvous with Ferendelli.

On the ride down in the small elevator, he acknowledged two things. One was that it was very unlikely that he had any heightened or additional senses as did Blackthorn. But the other was that almost certainly, despite Stoddard's protestation to the contrary, the president was either holding something back from him or lying outright.

Important stuff to talk about, big fella. Please call me. Anytime, day or night.

A.

There was something wrong.

With Alison's note propped up against his desk lamp, Gabe dialed her home and cell phone numbers again. Nothing.

How long ago had she been in the clinic? What sort of important stuff did she mean? Big fella made it sound as if she was enthused and in a good space. Why couldn't he reach her now?

It was nearing eleven fifteen. An hour and forty-five minutes before, hopefully, the mystery of Jim Ferendelli's disappearance and his relationship to Lily Sexton would be unraveled for Gabe.

Between the events earlier in the day at Lily Pad Stables and now his strong feeling that the president was either lying to him or holding something back, this had already been a hell of a trying day. Now Alison wasn't answering either of her phones.

Where in the hell was she at this time of night?

As often happened in stressful situations, Gabe's temples were beginning to throb-one howitzer shell burst for each heartbeat. What possible sanguine explanation could there be for Alison leaving the note she did, then not being available on her home phone or cell? It had to be something simple like a low battery or other malfunction of her damn phone. Back in Wyoming, he carried a cell phone because every doc on the hospital staff was expected to. But he didn't trust them-not in Tyler and not here. That had to be it, he tried to convince himself-her cell phone.

His jaws clenched against the frustration and concern.

Without any rummaging in his desk drawer that he was aware of, suddenly the vial of various pills was in his hand. It was like a number of patients with weight problems had told him over the years-the sad, recurrent tale of finding themselves standing in front of the open refrigerator and having absolutely no recollection of how they got there.

What in the hell was he, a supposedly sober alcoholic, doing with pills in his hand every time the going got difficult for him? He needed to face the fact that just as some people were functional active alcoholics, managing to hold down a job and maybe keep a marriage going despite their drinking, he was functioning despite the smoldering depression that had stunted his spirit for decades, since the nightmare of Fairhaven and the inestimable horror of having taken the lives of a woman and her unborn child.

One Valium. Five milligrams would take the edge off. It wasn't really that much. The manufacturer made a damn ten milligram.

He dialed both of Alison's numbers for a third time, leaving a concerned message with each. It was right there beside where he was sitting that she had tied his tie-right there where she had stood on her tiptoes, kissed him softly, and pleaded to let there be time for them. Now she was missing and he was preparing to respond to the crisis by taking yet another pill.

She deserved better. She deserved better, and so did he.

He took his secret stash into the bathroom, poured the pills into the toilet, and flushed them away.

Darkness… duct tape… and rats…

For some time after she regained consciousness, all Alison was aware of was the duct tape pulled tightly across her mouth and binding her wrists, elbows, ankles, and legs to some sort of heavy chair. Then, as the fog lifted from her senses, she became aware of the feet, scurrying from one side of the space she was in to another, and at least twice, she felt certain, brushing against her.

With time, her vision was able to make use of a small amount of light slipping beneath a door. She was in a cluttered room-a storeroom of some kind, it seemed. The air, which she had to work to draw in through her nose into her lungs, was cool and slightly musty. Across from her, she could discern the distinctive outline of a harp… then of a hat rack… and finally, behind them, a large sign that read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT.

She was still in the White House-a prisoner in a storage room in the basement or even the subbasement if there was one, held there by the number-one guardian of the president.

Being uncomfortably bound and having to strain for each breath were distracting enough to keep her from being as frightened as she might have been, even with the rats. She should have written more in the note to Gabe, she chastised herself now-at least mentioned that there were problems with Treat Griswold. She had been too paranoid to do so.