Michael Palmer - The First Patient

Gabe pushed himself up onto one elbow and began to take stock. His clothes were sodden and his shoes were gone, as well as his radio, cell phone, and wallet. The lot that the boy had described as vacant was hardly that. It was more the "before" in a commercial for urban neighborhood reclamation-strewn with junk, trash, and garbage. Halfway across to a row of ramshackle two-decker houses Gabe saw a squirrel-size rat scurry from one hiding place to another.

"Is this Anacostia?"

He was sitting now, light-headed and nauseous, with a terrible, dirt taste in his mouth and his pulse pummeling the inside of his eyes.

"A course it's Anacostia," the boy said. "What'd you think it was? Man, I thought you was dead for a while. I cut through this lot on the last half of my paper route. I seen some wild things at this time of day, but never a dead white guy all pressed against a fence."

"I'm not dead."

"Not now, you ain't. But how was I supposed to know?"

Gabe pawed at the filth grating in his eyes.

"What's your name?"

"Louis. What's yours?"

"Gabe. Louis, do you know what time it is?"

"About five. A little after, I guess. I ain't supposed to talk to strangers, you know. You drunk or what?"

"Good question," Gabe said. "I think the answer's 'or what.' "

He sighed deeply and remorsefully as more details of the attack by the Benning Street Bridge drifted into place. Almost certainly, Jim Ferendelli was dead-killed in the exact way that the president would be killed at the whim of whoever was holding the appropriate transmitter; killed by Lily Sexton and by two thugs who would have never found them if Dr. Gabe Singleton had been more cautious and vigilant and had taken the time to try to work out an explanation for an event-the assault on Kyle Blackthorn-that most certainly demanded one.

Now there was another question that needed an answer: Why wasn't Gabe dead, too?

From what he could remember, the ferocious psychedelic response he experienced to having the chemical time bomb in his head set off was not anything like the virtually instant cardiac death induced in Ferendelli. It was far closer to what Drew had probably been experiencing. One explanation was that, like the president, Ferendelli had been dosed a number of times, while Gabe had only been inoculated with the drug-carrying fullerenes during that one session. Other possibilities crossed his mind-higher chemical concentration; more variety of pharmaceuticals; different target organs in their brains; perhaps such sophisticated controls built into the fullerenes and the transmitters that different frequencies triggered the specific release of different drugs.

God damn them!

Gabe tried to haul himself to his feet, but a wave of dizziness and nausea drove him back onto the dirt. He pushed to his hands and knees again and then, without warning, threw up-a mixture of river water, bile, and bits of undigested food.

From Louis's reaction, it was clear he had seen worse.

"That's gross, you know," he said clinically. "My uncle Robbie throws up all the time. Momma says it's because he drinks too much."

"Louis, how far are we from the river?"

"Few blocks. Three maybe."

"And how far from your house?"

"It's just down the end of the street."

"Can you take me there?"

"My momma would kill me for bringing a stranger home-and a bum at that. Besides, I have to finish my paper route. I hardly have enough customers to make any money as is."

"You're right, Louis. Go ahead and finish your route. I'm fine. If I'm still here when you're done, we'll talk."

The youth started away, then returned.

"Oh, heck. I ain't got school anyway. My friend Omar doesn't even start his route until seven."

Avoiding the small pool of vomit, Louis helped Gabe to his feet, then let him brace against the fence until he was ready to take a step. Finally, arm-in-arm, with Louis taking some of Gabe's weight, they made their way up the block.

"I think Momma's still in bed," Louis whispered as they tiptoed through the front door of a modest clapboard duplex with peeling gray paint and a dirt front yard.

"I'll try not to wake her," Gabe said, speaking softly and following Louis into a small, neatly kept kitchen with chintz curtains and a Formica table. "I just need to wash my hands and face in the sink, and then I need a minute to think."

"Think about what?"

"About how to get ahold of my boss."

"You got a job?"

"In a manner of speaking."

With no ID and no phone numbers that he could remember, contacting the President of the United States wasn't going to be easy. It was possible to cut some sort of a deal with Louis for cab fare, but he would not have been at all proud of the boy if he agreed to part with his paper route money, no matter how good the deal sounded. Besides, the best he could do would be, filthy and soaked, to approach one of the uniformed Secret Service agents at one of the White House checkpoints and beg to be let in.

He took the phone from the wall and dialed information. As soon as he could, he would make up the cost of the call and then some.

"City and state, please?" the electronic operator asked.

"Washington, D.C."

"Say the name of the business you want, or just say, 'Residence.' "

"The White House."

Gabe could see Louis's eyes widen as he was patched through to an automated switchboard with another automated operator, giving him a menu of six choices, none of which was to speak with a flesh-and-blood operator, much less to the president.

"What's going on here?"

Startled, Gabe whirled. Louis's mother, in bare feet, wearing a thin, tattered robe, arms folded across her chest, was staring at him from the doorway to the hall. She was a dark, expansive woman, who probably looked quite engaging when she was smiling, which at this moment she most certainly was not.

"He's calling his boss at the White House," Louis gushed. "The White House!"

"And did you reach him, Mr.-?"

"Singleton," Gabe said, smiling sheepishly. " Dr . Gabe Singleton."

The woman had already heard enough. She fixed a glare on her son.

"Louis, it's five thirty in the morning and you haven't finished your route. And how many times have I told you-?"

"Never to talk to strangers. I know. I know. But he was lying by the fence in the lot down the street and… and I thought he was dead or at least drunk. He's neither, just someone who throws up and needs help to call his boss."

"In the White House."

Gabe could see the woman softening and knew that she had probably never stayed angry at her son for very long.

"In the White House," Gabe echoed. "Can I explain?"

The woman studied him for a few moments; then, without a word, she turned and walked back down the hall, returning with a pair of sweatpants, a towel, and a black long-sleeved T.

"These belong to Louis's brother, Shaun," she said. "He's working nights stocking shelves until he goes away to school in the fall. They should fit, even though Shaun's taller. Sorry, we got no extra shoes. You can change down the hall in the bathroom. Put your clothes into this plastic bag. Then we'll talk about just who you are and how we might be able to help you."

Once in the bathroom, Gabe headed to the sink, then took a quick look at himself in the mirror and chose to shower instead. He absolutely had to connect with Drew. It seemed clear that at some point Lily Sexton or whoever she worked with, employing scientific techniques that Drew was planning on placing under strict government controls, was going to either end the president's life or ruin his career.

Ironic.

The question now was whether or not Ferendelli's death and Gabe's escape would alter some sort of timetable. If so, Drew might be in immediate danger, quite possibly from someone close to him, and Gabe, having exchanged information with Ferendelli before his murder, was now undoubtedly considered a serious threat.