Gabe left the White House at five and headed to the Watergate by cab. Following the realization that the bloods he had drawn on the president were missing and that Alison had been in the clinic assisting in the cardiac resuscitation, he had visited with the First Family and checked his patient over. Drew Stoddard was cheerful, alert, and energetic. He had some significant amnesia surrounding the events of the previous night, but his long-term memory was sharp, and his mental status testing showed no real holes.

"Admiral Ramrod thinks he runs this place," Drew said. "And to some extent he does. But sometimes I have to find a way to remind him that despite all the authority he has, I am still numero uno. Bringing you to Washington instead of taking Wright's suggestion that I go for a military doc was one way of keeping him in his place. You know, I don't think I mentioned it back in Tyler, but the initial idea to bring you on board was my father's. He really thinks a great deal of you."

"And I do of him."

"You think you can handle the admiral okay?"

"With your support, I can handle him as much as I need to."

"So I get another day as the Big Kahuna?"

The question was asked with some lightness, but there was no mistaking the seriousness behind it.

"You get another day," Gabe said.

"How long a leash?"

"For the time being, short-very short."

For a moment, the president seemed ready for debate.

"Maybe after tomorrow, I can start doing a little campaigning?" he ventured, finally. "You know, to keep my job?"

"Let's do this a day at a time, Drew. I've lined up a consultant who should be here sometime tomorrow. I need to share some of the burden you've heaped onto these stooped shoulders. He's the one I've chosen."

It wasn't until Gabe was in a cab headed back to the Watergate that he sorted through the significance of his decision to say nothing to the president about having had lunch with his father. It wasn't an oversight, Gabe admitted to himself, but now just didn't seem like the time to wade into the deluge of questions that were sure to follow. Perhaps he was merely catching onto the Washington game of Less Is More-It Can't Be a Lie If You Never Said It.

Another unresolved issue was who to speak with regarding having a point-blank shot taken at him as he was headed home from the White House. The last thing he wanted, next to being shot, was a Secret Service contingent following him around, and the next thing to that was any sort of leak and the massive publicity that was certain to follow. Until his best response became clear, he had decided, he would just leave things be.

It would be a huge relief to have Kyle Blackthorn on the scene. The psychologist, whose logic sometimes reminded Gabe of Mr. Spock on Star Trek, had an earthy wisdom and perspective unlike anyone else he knew.

First, though, there was the matter of Alison Cromartie-who she was really working for, why she had lied to Gabe, and how she came to steal the blood he had drawn on the president.

At quarter of six, when Gabe arrived at the Watergate garage, the Buick was back in its space with a new rear window and a clean interior. If there had been any damage to the rear bumper, it had been touched up. If the upholstery had been torn by the would-be assassin's bullet, it had been repaired. If nothing else, Alison most definitely had some clout.

Gabe leaned against the car and tried to put together what he knew and what he sensed of the woman. A continuing-ed course he had once attended on psychiatry for primary-care docs had spent an hour on sociopaths-people with little or no innate ability to separate truth from lies, right from wrong. Glib, often charismatic, usually believable, always dangerous. The condition had a formal, for insurance purposes, name-antisocial personality disorder, or something like that. He wasn't sure of the precise wording. Could Alison be one of those? Gabe wished he had paid more attention at the course.

"So, cowboy, what do you think of your new wheels?"

Alison, wearing jeans and a light, zip-up-the-front San Antonio sweatshirt, was leaning against a Volvo, appraising him from no more than ten feet away.

"Can you arrange for one-hour tailoring, too?"

"I can be resourceful, if that's what you mean. Actually, I didn't even have to go through the office for this one. The Colombian guy who owns the auto body shop around the corner from my apartment thinks we are destined to spend forever together. He did this."

"Do you think asking him for favors is leading him on?"

"Maybe, but he's, like, seventy-five and has three of his sons working for him, and I think his wife is still in the picture, too. I'm not that great at reading people, but he doesn't seem like much of a threat."

What about me? Gabe wanted to ask, deliberately looking away from her. Am I a threat? He was surprised at the hurt he was feeling-hurt mixed with anger that she had lied to him more times in one day than Cinnie had over the entire length of their marriage.

"Ferendelli's place is in Georgetown, yes?" he asked.

"The far side from here-somewhere between a walk and a drive. How's your luck at finding parking spaces?"

"It was always pretty good in Tyler, but we only have three or four cars in town, and a lot of spaces."

"In that case, let's take this car." She flipped the keys to him. "Traffic's heavy, but I don't mind spending the extra time together if you don't."

Stop looking at me that way!

"I'll manage," he said, opening the door for her and receiving a smile of pleasant surprise in return.

"In my world, people worry that opening the door for a woman might offend her. I like your world better."

"So tell me. You dropped off the bullet at the lab?"

"I did."

"And did your handlers have any theories about who might have tried to kill me?"

If, in fact, the guy wasn't a Secret Service employee to begin with.

"I don't have any handlers, Doctor. I have department heads and a division chief. Was that snide tone on purpose?"

"Huh? Oh, no." He warned himself to be more careful. "I'm on edge about this, that's all. Someone tried to kill me, and the police show up a minute later, and at your urging I end up not telling them anything-or anyone else for that matter."

"Well, believe me or not, it was the right thing to do. I did speak to my superior about what happened. He doesn't have any idea who could have done this or why. Is there anything going on surrounding Dr. Ferendelli or the president that you haven't told anyone about?"

"Absolutely not." Nice delivery, Gabe thought. Not too rushed, not too forced. A little bit of incredulity thrown in. You pick up on things quickly. "Is this supervisor you spoke to the same guy who has no idea why Ferendelli might have disappeared?" he asked.

"Pardon me for suggesting it, but you're sounding snide again. You're upset because I didn't tell you I was Secret Service when we first met. Is that it?"

"Sorry. Let's drop it for now."

"Go left at the next light."

Except for finishing the directions, there was no other conversation.

Ferendelli's place was a three-story brownstone on a small, tree-lined street off MacArthur. A parking place materialized just three doors down, but with the tension between them more or less out in the open, there was no comment about Gabe's luck.

"Thirty-seven hundred a month furnished," Alison said as they paused on the short front walk. "Dr. Ferendelli and his wife both came from money. In addition to that, he invented something and got a patent on it-some sort of electronic gizmo that can pinpoint even small veins and arteries through the skin. I may not be completely right about what it does."