What about the FBI?"

"You don't think they're all over this? Hundreds of agents have been on the case for almost two weeks. Nothing."

Evening had settled in, and a steady breeze from the north had dispelled the last of the day's warmth. Gabe had listened in stunned silence to the description of a fifty-six-year-old widower, devoted father of a grown daughter, personable and diligent, churchgoing and humble, who one day simply failed to show up at work. A search of his apartment in Georgetown and his Chapel Hill home revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and a check of his phone and e-mails had also been of no help.

With the presidential campaign just heating up, Andrew Stoddard's advisors had managed to keep the potentially distracting disappearance out of the news until they were certain the search was not going to be successful. For more than a week, now, that was clearly the case, and what scant details there were had just been released to the press.

"They've all been told that for now the White House Medical Unit would handle any problems I might have, but as competent as the unit is, I really want my own physician."

"This is absolutely incredible," Gabe said. "The doctor to the President of the United States has vanished without a trace. What about his family? Have they heard anything?"

"As I said, Jim's wife died of cancer about five years ago. His mother's in a nursing home, and two older sisters haven't heard a word from him."

"But you also said he had a daughter. Has she heard anything?"

"Actually, Jennifer's disappeared, too."

"What?"

"She's a graduate film student at NYU. The evening of the day Jim disappeared, Jennifer's roommate came home from a date and Jennifer wasn't there, but the FBI already was. There was no evidence she had packed anything, no note, nothing. They tried every number the roommate could think of, but just like her father, the girl had simply… vanished."

Gabe could only shake his head.

"Jesus," he muttered. "Do you make any sense of this, Drew? Any sense at all? Do you think this is politically related? Maybe it's just a coincidence of some sort, like an accident, or… or a mental crisis. Was the daughter stable?"

"A terrific kid. Some therapy after her mother died, but none for years as far as we can tell. No drugs, minimal drinker. No current boyfriend, but her last one had only good things to say."

"Was Ferendelli seeing anyone?"

"Not that we've been able to determine."

Gabe rubbed his eyes and studied the vaulted redwood ceiling.

"I wish I could help you, Drew," he said at last. "Really I do. But there's just too much going on here."

"Actually," Stoddard said, "Magnus Lattimore, my chief of staff, has been here in Tyler for a few days nosing about. He's discreet and very, very efficient, and he can move very quietly when he needs to."

"Like the guys in the suits and sunglasses out there."

"Just like them, yes."

"Terrific. I'm not sure I want to know what he learned."

"Well, let's see. Both of your partners say they can hold down the fort for the time between now and the election in November. Apparently you guys just hired a new physician's assistant named Lillian Lawrence, who's in a position to absorb a lot of the load that sending you off on a working sabbatical would generate. One of your partners said Lillian is probably smarter than you are anyway."

Gabe was unable to stifle a grin.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Sorry. He swore Magnus to secrecy."

"It's not that simple, Drew. In addition to my patients I have a commitment to my foundation."

"You mean Lariat?"

"Uh-oh. What'd Magnus learn about that?"

"He learned that over the years you've kept more than a few kids from heading down the wrong path by getting them involved in rodeo and other riding projects."

"So he must have learned how important it is to me… and me to it."

"What he learned is that there isn't a soul in southeast Wyoming with money to donate that you haven't successfully squeezed-most of them more than once."

"I've always been a determined little beaver when I set my mind to it."

"Well, yesterday Magnus had lunch with"-Stoddard opened the folder and scanned one of the pages-"Irene deJesus. She told him you never do much work around Lariat anyway."

"If Irene said that, she's toast, but I know she didn't."

"Okay, okay, she said she would have to recruit three or four people to match what you do with the kids each week."

"That's better."

"She also said that a lot of your efforts lately have gone into planning and raising money for an indoor riding facility."

"We're getting there."

"Gabe, take this job for me and you are there."

Gabe felt his pulse leap. Sooner or later, the new stables and riding arena were going to happen, but at the moment they were still little more than an ambitious dream.

"You would do that?" he asked.

"The day you set foot in the White House medical office, an anonymous angel will donate fifty thousand dollars to Lariat. If that isn't enough to finish the job, I know another angel or two who will want to help."

Another volley of skipped heartbeats. Bake sales and silent auctions could only take things so far, so fast, and other Lariat projects had all but tapped out their regular boosters. Fund-raising for this dream had been surprisingly slow, and there were at least a dozen boys and girls on the waiting list who could be brought on board along with the staff to deal with them, the moment the arena and stables were finished.

Gabe paced across the kitchen and back. He had no doubt that if Drew Stoddard promised money for Lariat, money there would be.

"I can't believe," Gabe said, "that with a machine as efficient as this Magnus working for you, you're worried about getting elected."

"Well I am worried. This campaign's going to be a marathon. Brad Dunleavy is a warrior, who has already served a term as president. Our two parties are poised and ready to claw one another to shreds. Control of both houses of Congress could hang on a single seat. But you know what, Gabe? I just heard what I was saying about arranging for your project to be funded if you come to D.C., and I'm taking it all back. You don't deserve to have me sit here bribing you. That was Magnus's idea, but now that I've done it I don't like the way it sounds and I don't like the way I feel. After all you've been through and the way you've bounced back, and all the people you've helped, you just don't deserve it. So I give you my word that regardless of what you decide about coming to Washington, the money you need will be here for you and all the kids you serve."

Gabe knew he was surrounded-outflanked, outmaneuvered. No wonder the man had never lost an election. Was the sudden commitment to fund Lariat's expansion irrespective of Gabe's decision part of Magnus Lattimore's carefully designed strategy, or was Drew being legitimately spontaneous and sincere? And most important, did it really matter?

How can you tell a politician is lying? His lips are moving!

Who first said that?

If Drew was being the politician, he deserved to have Gabe simply say, "Okay, I'll take the money and you find another replacement doctor."

But that wasn't going to happen.

Gabe sighed and sat down across from his friend.

"The accident at Fairhaven is bound to come up," he said. "How would you plan to deal with what happened there?"

"Thanks to you and what you've accomplished with your life since your release, that's not going to be as big a deal as you might think."

"Says Magnus Lattimore."

"And others."

Gabe gazed through the rear window at the violet sky and the silhouette of Marine One. As always, his mind balked at dredging up the accident and the terrible aftermath, and as always, the images-as far as they went-were inexorable. He and Drew, like many of the second-year midshipmen, were celebrating the end of the term with a veritable Olympiad of drinking games conducted at a variety of bars. Rockfish… Acme… McGarvey's. The Boatyard was the last stop Gabe remembered, but according to court records, there were several more. As almost always on what they called drinkathons, Drew Stoddard was at Gabe's side, if not matching him glass for glass and bottle for bottle, as he once could do, at least making a respectable effort.