Of passing interest to Gabe was a poll reported in that morning's Post that he had read during the car ride from Aphrodite to the White House. In it, Thomas Cooper III held a fourteen-point lead over Charlie Christ-man if the two of them were running against one another for the top spot. Experience and public trust were the two main issues to those voters who were polled. Nowhere did the poll pit the vice president against Bradford Dunleavy, but the analyst of the survey did opine that Cooper might win that race as well.

"Tom Cooper is a Brutus."

The small waiting area in the physician's office was empty save for Heather Estee, the young, ultra-efficient office manager cum receptionist. By her account, over the three-plus years she and Jim Ferendelli had worked together they had become quite close, and she was devastated not only by his disappearance but by his daughter's as well.

"Jennifer and I had lunch together several times," Heather had told Gabe, "and once we even went clothes shopping. She's a brilliant, talented, wonderful person. I can't believe she's missing. I pray every day that she's all right."

As Gabe entered the modest space, Heather, on the phone, glanced up from the notes she was taking, smiled, and waved. Gabe motioned to the partially opened door to the physicians' office, and she waved him to knock, that the covering doc was in.

Gabe had just done so when she said, "Gretchen, just a second, please. Dr. Singleton, this was on my desk when I came back from running some errands a little while ago."

She handed him a plain white business envelope with DR. GABRIEL SINGLETON typed on the front but no address. At that moment, the inner office door was pulled open. He slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket as he was greeted with a noncommittal smile, curt nod, and brief handshake by the doc on duty this day, a Navy captain named Nick McCall.

The greeting wasn't the least bit disconcerting to Gabe. There was still a coolness and formality toward him on the part of most of the other physicians assigned to the White House Medical Unit-no surprise, especially with Admiral Ellis Wright running the show from his position as chief of the White House Military Office and boss of everyone on the unit staff… except for the president's personal, civilian physician.

"Any word from the POTUS?" Gabe asked, closing the office door gently behind him.

"Not since you were here earlier. Not a word. He's been in a meeting in the dining room for about an hour. Magnus just called and said he'd be up here to get you in a few minutes."

"Fine."

"Gabe, I'm really sorry we haven't had much chance to talk. I've been scrambling to catch up with everything I let drop after Jim Ferendelli vanished."

"Any theories about that?"

McCall shook his head.

"It makes no sense. Jim seemed like a pretty low-key guy, totally devoted to the president and to doing a good job. There are still a slew of FBI and Secret Service people beating the bushes for him, and rumors are still flying."

"Well, there's nothing I'd like better than to see him walk through that door right now."

"How's it been going for you so far?"

"I went from seeing like thirty patients a day in my practice back in Wyoming to seeing one here, and I'm totally exhausted. What do you make of that?"

"The strain of having your one patient be the most powerful man on Earth will tend to do that to you. Don't worry, you'll be seeing more cases as time goes by. An hour or so ago I had a maintenance man with chest pain and hyperacute changes of an MI on his EKG. That was sort of exciting. We just finished cleaning up."

"You have everything you needed?"

"Pretty much, except maybe a couple of more hands and a dozen or so more square feet of treatment room space, but we did okay. IV, nitrates, oxygen, morphine, aspirin, bloods drawn. He was pretty stable by the time the ambulance arrived."

Bloods!

Shortly after drawing the three vials of blood from the president, Gabe had brought them down to the office, labeled them with the reverse of his home phone in Tyler, placed them in a sealed specimen bag, and set them on the back of a shelf in the under-counter refrigerator until he could decide what tests to order and where the samples should be sent. It wasn't done according to a legal, chain-of-custody protocol, but he wasn't handling evidence, and the fewer things Drew Stoddard's name was physically attached to, the better. Fatigue, the hour, the lack of a specific plan, and subsequent events had temporarily driven thoughts of the samples from Gabe's mind.

"Sounds like you did great," he said, wondering if there was anything wrong with sharing the fact that he had drawn the vials. The memory of LeMar Stoddard pumping him for information and the vision of Ellis Wright staring him down and calling his medical ability to question gave him enough pause to hold back. Lattimore would probably be able to answer his questions about where the blood chemistry studies should be run.

For effect, he cleared his throat twice and then asked if McCall wanted to grab a glass and split the Diet Coke he had sequestered in the fridge. There would be none there to split, but he had plenty of fallback explanations for that, centering about his absentmindedness. The captain begged off, and Gabe entered the treatment room prepared to continue the charade.

The refrigerator was empty.

No Diet Coke. No tubes of blood.

Nothing.

Gabe mentally retraced his steps from the eventful evening. Somewhere around two, he had taken the elevator down to the clinic, labeled the tubes, and placed them on the rack in the back of the refrigerator. Then he and Treat Griswold had left the White House.

Gabe was certain of it.

"Nick, has anyone been in the fridge that you know of? My Diet Coke is gone."

"I can only tell you since seven thirty this morning when I got here. I haven't even left for lunch. Heather had a wrap sent up for me. There was a lot of chaos when the MI was here, and about as many people as that room will hold, so someone might have come across it and maybe helped themselves."

Damn! Okay, Singleton. A Diet Coke is one thing. The blood samples you drew are another. Come up with some scenario to explain how they might have gone MIA.

Speaking through the intercom, Heather's voice sliced into the moment.

"Dr. Singleton, Mr. Lattimore is here."

"Tell him I'll be right out."

Come on! his mind urged. How did it happen?

Gabe left Nick McCall and crossed through the examining room to the small bathroom where, a lifetime ago, he had engaged in near-mortal combat with a bow tie. The brief note in the envelope was typed.

Doc,

I have the keys to J.F.'s place. Meet me at your parking space

at six.

A.

PS: Your car looks great.

Alison.

Gabe flushed the toilet for effect and washed his hands. He was drying them when he returned to McCall.

"Nick, tell me something," he asked, sensing the answer before he had even voiced the question. "What nurse was assisting you during the MI?"

"It was the new one, Alison. She rushed over from the clinic in the Eisenhower Building. She's really excellent. Like having another M.D. Have you met her?"

"Yeah," Gabe replied, the tension gathering in his chest. "I've met her."