Tough night.

"So what happened?" he asked.

"Well, because in reality I had done nothing wrong, the conflict became sort of a Mexican standoff, even though I knew that sooner or later, the surgeons would increase their attack and I'd lose. Finally, in a secret meeting, the head of the hospital offered me a deal. If I left the hospital and stopped making trouble, he would see to it that I got an unconditionally strong recommendation. If I stayed, I was on my own."

"And?"

"And so I swallowed my whistle and gave up. It hurt then to make what seemed like a cowardly choice, and it hurts every day now knowing that I did. I guess I'm just not hero material."

"I don't know if I'd say that. Remember, you just saved my life at the expense of blowing your cover."

"Reflex actions don't get processed by the brain."

"Sometimes living to fight again is just as heroic as getting destroyed for your cause, and often a hell of a lot smarter."

"I have no intention of fighting again. I'm afraid I'm just not cut out to be a crusader."

"Now there's something we have in common."

"The rest is essentially what I told you in the office. A doctor I worked for before his retirement was a big supporter of the president, and helped me get into the Secret Service. The irony is, here I am back working as a nurse-something I promised I would never do again. And sadly, that step back is a step up from the paper pushing I was doing in San Antonio."

"Well," he said, "I really appreciate your sharing all that with me. I'm getting a little chafed from the Washington version of the truth." He yawned again. "Okay, it's time. To steal a movie title from one of our former chief executives, I think it's Bedtime for Bonzo."

"Appropriate choice of films. So, what was it that kept you in the White House so late tonight? Was the president that sick?"

Instantly Gabe felt himself tense. On the surface, the woman's question was innocent enough, but the transition to it seemed awkward and given that he had just announced he was going to sleep, the timing felt forced. Was she trying to take advantage of the hour, and the rescue, and the intimacy generated by telling her story in order to pump him for information about Drew, or was he just sensitized and overreading the situation?

What if the whole scenario with the gunman was a setup-a nifty maneuver to gain his trust? What if Alison had been placed in the White House clinic not because she was a nurse, but because she was an attractive, beguiling nurse? What if this whole affair was nothing more than further proof that Dr. Gabe Singleton was playing out of his league and should never have left Wyoming?

"I've got to go now," he said abruptly.

And before Alison could react, he was gone.

Gabe lay facedown on LeMar Stoddard's king-size bed, trying unsuccessfully to will himself to sleep. He had come to D.C. to replace a physician who had disappeared, and now he himself had almost been killed. At least that was the way it looked. Eyes closed, he envisioned Alison Cromartie's expression as he stood abruptly and left her by the river. She was clearly surprised, but was that because she expected him to tell her what was going on with the president? Was she or whoever she was working for trying to expand on some rumors-some half-truths they might have learned about the chief executive's health?

What she said about the futility and possible negative fallout of reporting the drive-by attack to the police made perfect sense. Still, it seemed, he had to do something more than merely allow her to get LeMar's car fixed and have the bullet examined. He had to share what had happened with someone. Lattimore? Treat Griswold? Admiral Wright? The president himself?

Even more important, he had to decide what to do about the recurrent attacks of insanity in the commander in chief of the most powerful armed force in history. For a time he tried to imagine what Nixon's final days in office had really been like-pacing the empty halls of the White House, allegedly holding animated conversations with the ghosts of Lincoln, Wilson, and other presidents past; down on his knees, blubbering like a child to Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. From all Gabe could tell, Nixon had lost his grip well before that last, fateful walk to the waiting helicopter. How long had the finger of that madman rested on the button that could have killed hundreds of millions? Days?… Weeks?… Even longer?

Had Kissinger, Ford, and others somehow banded together and formulated a plan to bypass any orders from Nixon that they felt were not in the best interests of the country… and of the rest of mankind?

He rolled over once again, this time replaying the remarkable accomplishments of Andrew Stoddard's first three and a half years in office and the potential of the four years ahead-especially if the man was working with a friendly Congress. Gabe had never had much faith in the political process being able to make a huge improvement in the quality of life of the average American-and especially in the lives of those less fortunate than the average. He often mused about how much could be accomplished if the billions spent on political campaigns, most of them unsuccessful, could be applied to public works projects, or to reversing global warming, or to cancer research, or to providing computers for inner-city schools.

Yet here the man was-a president with a true vision for America, not someone frantically navigating the country from one crisis to another; a president of the people, with the courage to go nose-to-nose with big business, and big oil, and big pharma, as well as with the architects of terror; a president with the charisma to bring people together. Would it be right at this time to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment, effectively pulling the plug on Drew's presidency, when it was just getting rolling? The decision wasn't one he could put off much longer.

At quarter after six, still unable even to doze, Gabe showered and shaved, then gave serious consideration to taking a Xanax.

"You still a drunk? Pill popper?"

Ellis Wright's words kept Gabe from immediately reaching into the bottom bureau drawer for the plastic bottle and its varied contents. Few would argue that after the day he had just endured, a little sleeping aid was both necessary and deserved. But there were others who would point out that sooner or later, the reasons for taking pills would mutate into reasons to take them. Maybe they already had, he wondered briefly. Maybe this particular fallout from Fairhaven would be part of his life for keeps, enduring as long as he did.

He considered putting LeMar's elegant coffeemaker to work with something high-octane. Loading up on caffeine would be the final capitulation to his inability to sleep. Then, as if in a trance, he searched out a Xanax from his stash of pills and washed it down.

Whether it was the act of taking the drug or the drug itself, fifteen minutes later he floated off to a fitful sleep. When the ringing phone woke him at eight forty-five, he had decided, with an edgy certainty, what he was going to do about the crisis in the White House. For the time being, he would do what he could to keep Drew in office and in as strong a position as possible for reelection, while at the same time doing everything he could to follow up on Jim Ferendelli's investigations into what might be causing the president's episodic mental imbalance.

Hopefully, sometime in the future, when the reason for the president's episodes had been diagnosed and properly treated and any of the countless potential disasters had simply failed to materialize, he and Drew and Carol would look back and laugh at the role the tranquilizer Xanax had played in saving the country.