Michael Palmer - The First Patient

Instinctively Gabe scanned from the river across the field to the street and back.

At that instant, from somewhere far behind them came a soft, almost inaudible, crunch of glass.

A homing device! Gabe thought suddenly. The killer had to have fixed some sort of homing device to his car.

"Jim," he whispered urgently, "he's here-somewhere behind us. Get ready to run toward my car. It's way to the left, near that streetlight."

"But-"

Gabe could wait no longer. He grabbed Ferendelli by the arm and pulled him out into the field.

"There they are!" a southern voice behind them called out loudly. "Over there! Right over there!"

There they are. Over there! Right over there! "

There were at least two of them, Gabe thought as he half-guided, half-dragged Ferendelli across the field of the Anacostia River Basin. A homing device on the Buick! That had to be it. That explained how the killer had found Blackthorn's hotel. And if the shooter on the trail by Lily's stables didn't directly tail him to Flint Hill, he could have easily followed Gabe using some sort of GPS device.

Gabe couldn't clear the notion from his mind of the mess he had made of things by not being more vigilant.

Although Ferendelli was just a few years older than Gabe was, his weeks of hiding seemed to have broken him physically. His reaction time was delayed, and he was gasping for air after just a few strides.

"I see them!" the southern voice from behind them yelled. "They're headed across the field toward you."

" Toward you! "

Gabe peered ahead to where the Buick was parked. Coming around the rear end of the car was a man, a gun in his right hand-or maybe, Gabe realized, it was the ultrasonic transmitter Ferendelli had told him about, the transmitter that could end either or both of their lives. He glanced over his shoulder. Just emerging from the darkness beneath the bridge was the professional killer Ferendelli had told him about, also holding up something in his right hand.

"Oh, God," Gabe muttered. "Jim, let's head this way, toward the river. It's our best chance."

"Can't."

"Come on, you can! You've got to!"

Ferendelli was staggering now, almost deadweight, grunting and lurching from side to side. Gabe risked another check of their pursuers. Both men were gaining on them. He could feel himself beginning to flag and to panic. A severe stitch in his right side had materialized and with every breath began slicing into him like dagger thrusts.

"Go!" Ferendelli gasped. "I… can't… do… this."

"Come on, Jim. Dammit, come on!"

They were still perhaps fifty yards from the river. Then what? Gabe asked himself. What if they made it? Again he glanced back. There was still some distance between them and each man, but the one coming from the bridge, the hit man, was far closer than the other and closing fast. If it was a pistol in the killer's hand, they were already near being in range. Either the men had instructions not to draw attention to the field with gunshots or they were intent on capturing him and Ferendelli alive.

Of course, there was another possibility. If the range of the transmitters was thirty yards or less, both pursuers would be in range soon.

Ferendelli stumbled, tried to recover with his extended arm, and then fell to one knee, totally spent.

Gabe, operating on a rush of adrenaline, grabbed the man's other arm and jerked him unceremoniously to his feet. Their run was awkward and uncoordinated, but they were definitely closing in on the river. Suddenly Ferendelli threw his hands up against his temples, cried out, pitched forward, and fell heavily, facedown, emitting a dreadful gurgling sound.

Gabe dropped down and checked his carotid pulse. If there was any, it was so faint as to be nearly undetectable. Ferendelli was still breathing, but not effectively. In any other circumstance, Gabe would be initiating CPR. But there was only a second or two to make a decision.

The hit man coming from the bridge, the one who had two near misses trying to kill Ferendelli, had stopped about twenty yards away. He had been aiming something at them that was clearly not a gun. Then he lowered his arm. Even through the gloom, Gabe felt certain he could see the man smiling.

"Stop, you bastard!" Gabe screamed. "Stop it!"

There was nothing to stop. The lethal weapon, undoubtedly a transmitter, had done what it was supposed to.

Ferendelli, facedown on the summer grass, was twitching. His agonal, liquidy breaths had quickly grown totally ineffective. The pulse in his neck was gone. On all fours, knowing that he might be moments away from death himself, Gabe moved several feet away, then scrambled to his feet. To his left, he could see the second man, egg-bald, still sprinting across the field from the Buick. He looked taller and more athletic than the one confronting him.

"Go ahead," the taller man cried out. "Go ahead and do it!"

The killer raised the transmitter once more.

Gabe whirled and, in a half crouch, bolted ahead toward the river, weaving from right to left to right again like the running back he had once been.

"Did you do it?" he heard the man behind him cry.

"I did," the one with the drawl shouted back. "It may need to recharge, or… or he may be out of range."

"I don't think so."

At that instant, Gabe became aware of an odd, not totally unpleasant aroma that seemed to be coming from deep within his nose, and a corresponding taste on the back of his tongue. His body felt lighter and more responsive. Head down, he charged ahead, weaving when he managed to remember to do so. The two voices seemed far away now… the sound garbled and unclear. Ahead, the lights from across the river were blurred and in motion.

He was an athlete, an Olympian, sprinting ahead faster than he would ever have thought possible, his feet barely touching the ground. The terror at Ferendelli's apparent murder, and his own mortal fears, had all but vanished. He felt euphoric and was getting more so every second.

Suddenly the moonless night exploded in color-streaks of red and gold, orange and green and white, shot across the sky, then burst over the river like fireworks. Pinwheels of light, now with sound, skimmed across the top of the water.

There were no voices now, only the rich, even sounds of his breathing-in… out… in… out. He was flying-running on air. Invincible. He was Hercules… Batman… Indiana Jones. Splashing through the dark, chilly water, then diving ahead.

Even with his eyes shut tightly, the colors blazed, bathing the inside of his lids and warming them. Shooting down his throat and into his soul, the water was his home. He pulled through it effortlessly, drawing it in through his nose and spitting it out his mouth. He was a fish… a shark… Aquaman. He was immortal.

He was a god.

Mister … hey, mister."

The words were an annoyance, penetrating the void, prodding at Gabe's consciousness until it finally responded.

"Hey, mister, wake up. Are you hurt? Are you drunk? Do you want my momma to call an ambulance?"

Heavy-lidded, Gabe groaned, rolled to his back, and blinked until his vision began to clear. The first thing he saw was the gray-blue sky of early morning. The second was the concerned face of the young black boy who was kneeling beside him. Fragment by fragment, shards of the nightmare with Ferendelli drifted into place.

"Wh-where am I?"

The boy, perhaps ten, had an expressive face that featured huge, dark eyes. He wore a thin navy blue windbreaker and a Redskins cap with the brim pulled forty-five degrees to one side.

"You're up against the fence in the vacant lot at the end of my street."