Gabe's eyelids drifted closed and refused to reopen until he promised them a trip to bed-no passing GO, no collecting $200. Once under the covers, he eased into sleep through swirling images of Drew Stoddard and Magnus Lattimore, of Ellis Wright and Alison, of Tom Cooper and LeMar Stoddard and Jim Ferendelli, and, finally, of the charcoal portrait of the woman he hoped to spend at least part of the day ahead with-the elegant, eccentric mistress of Lily Pad Stables, Lily Sexton, Ph.D.

Even during the drinking years Gabe had never been a sound sleeper.

Later on in his life, the nurses at the hospital and the answering service operators at Tyler Connections knew that no matter what hour they called, he would answer before the second ring and would invariably sound as if he were sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee. Not even the Xanax he took when sleep simply wouldn't come at all kept him from going on instant alert.

This morning, when the phone began ringing in his Watergate apartment, Gabe was enmeshed in a bizarre and bloody dream involving being trapped inside a slaughterhouse. The woman trapped beside him might have been his ex, or Alison, or possibly even Lily Sexton. It was impossible to tell. The desperate bellowing of doomed and dying cattle was terrifying and totally vivid and yielded only reluctantly to the telephone, so that it might have been the third or fourth ring before his fumbling fingers located the receiver.

The LED on the bedside alarm read 5:00-maybe two and a half hours since he finally walked away from his nanotechnology notes.

"Dr. Singleton, it's Magnus Lattimore. I hope I didn't wake you."

At the sound of the man's voice, Gabe went cold. All he could think was that he had screwed up big-time in letting Lattimore and the Stoddards talk him out of initiating the Twenty-fifth Amendment. Why else a call at five in the morning?

"Is Drew in trouble?"

He doused the frog in his voice with water from the half-filled glass on his bedside table.

"No, no," the chief of staff replied quickly. "Everything's fine. Great. I guess I should have said that right away. Sorry. The president is doing fine. Fine. In fact, he just finished a forty-five-minute workout with his trainer."

"Terrific."

Gabe felt the tsunami of adrenaline begin to ebb. He remembered that at the Academy, Drew, like a number of the others-most of them private school kids with advanced study habits-often chose to wake up at two or three in the morning to do his work while distractions were at a minimum. Gabe also found himself wondering, in some corner of his mind, exactly what in the hell the slaughtered-cattle dream was all about.

"Believe me, Doc, you're doing a great job," Lattimore was saying.

"If he's okay, everything else is secondary," Gabe said, pointedly ignoring the praise.

"You've got that right, my friend. Well, I'm calling on his behalf with a request."

"Go on."

"There's a large meeting at the Baltimore Convention Center later this morning which the president was supposed to address. Some major political allies and donors are running the show, and one of them called quite upset that the Secretary of the Treasury had been written in to take the POTUS's place. You see, after the gastroenteritis attack the other night, you said we should stick close to home, and so we-"

"I know what I said, Magnus. Go on."

"Yes… Well, although we still have a decent lead over Dunleavy, there has been a significant slippage in a couple of the important polls. The president is feeling great, and he thinks he should go speak to these people in person. It can be a very brief address."

"And what do you think?"

"I think we have made a deal with you and we are going to keep that deal."

"But you want him to go and make this speech."

"More importantly, he wants to go."

"Can the decision wait for twenty minutes?"

"Not too much longer than that. Our advance teams are on the way to Baltimore just in case we get the green light from you, but there are some other logistical problems that need to be worked out."

Gabe glanced down at his wrists, half-expecting to see the strings of a marionette.

"In that case," he said, "give me time for a quick shower and I'll be right over. I'll decide for certain after I have seen him."

"That's all we can ask for. You're in charge, Doc. You're always in charge."

"Yeah, thanks, that's good to be reminded of."

"A car will be waiting for you outside the main entrance."

"Magnus, tell me something."

"Yes?"

"That car-where is it right now?"

There was just enough hesitation so that Gabe knew the chief of staff was deciding if there was anything to lose by telling the truth.

"The car… Yes… Well, actually, the car is waiting out in front of the Watergate right now."

"Thanks. It looks like I'm going to have to work at being a little less predictable," Gabe said.

He set down the receiver wondering if any of those ill-fated cows being herded down the chute in his dream had looked like him.

"Three sets of forty, Gabe. That's a hundred and twenty push-ups. Do you think the President of North Korea can do a hundred and twenty pushups?"

"How old is he?"

"I don't know, maybe eighty."

"I think you've probably got him. Drew, believe me, I'd be the happiest man alive if all the world's political problems could be solved by which country's leader could do the most push-ups. I'm going to look inside your eyes again. Pick a spot over there on the wall and just stare at it."

"Dilates the pupils, right?"

"You got it. Good. Looks fine in there. Now, touch my finger with your right index finger, then touch your nose. Do it five times fast. Okay, now the left index finger… Good…"

The president, sitting beside his bed, looking boyish and utterly fit, submitted to a physical and neurological examination. Nothing amiss. Absolutely nothing. Gabe tried once again to match the frightening display he had witnessed here thirty-six hours ago with any specific diagnoses-a frantic, manic, disoriented, hallucinating, hyperactive episode with cardiovascular acceleration that had come about with little warning and resolved after a couple of hours without apparent residual effects. MRI negative, CT scan normal-at least according to the coded records at Bethesda Naval. Blood work normal, although the samples were drawn eight weeks ago during his brief hospitalization, hours after his attack.

Most recent bloods, drawn by Gabe during an attack… missing.

It seemed logical that Jim Ferendelli had also drawn blood work during one of the episodes he observed, but neither the president nor Magnus Lattimore could recall any tubes being obtained until Gabe drew them.

Track down any blood chemistry results.

Gabe made a mental note and filed it with what seemed like an infinite number of other mental notes.

"Well, Doc? How'd I do?"

"You seem fine."

"I feel fine."

"If you go to Baltimore, I go."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. You're my shaman… my healer. Gabe, I know you want to treat me very conservatively until you know what's going on, but I have this sort of demanding job and-"

"I know, pal. I know. I'm doing my best to work around that demanding job, although I'll grant you, it is a bit like redecorating the bathroom with an elephant in the tub."

"Nice image. I like it. Although we really should think in terms of donkeys rather than elephants."

"From now on, donkeys in the tub. Drew, there was a message waiting for me in the office. The consultant I sent for-the psychologist-is going to be here this evening. I want him to do an interview and complete battery of what we call neuropsychiatric testing on you-intelligence-probably beginning tomorrow."