No chance.

She had to proceed to look into this situation, but to do so cautiously. The likelihood was that the president himself had chosen to bend the rules for the sake of convenience and that Griswold was simply complying with his commander's wishes.

When they arrived at the medical van in the motorcade, the Secret Service agents were poised to take off. Alison glanced up ahead at the lead limo. Gabe would be settled in next to the guy who had once been his drinking buddy in school and now was the most influential, potent person on Earth. She wondered whether the founding fathers, had they known about nuclear weapons and drug abuse, homelessness and health insurance, space exploration and runaway science, would still have chosen to cede such awesome responsibility to just a single individual.

From the president's point of view, the day had been an incredible success. Thanks to Gabe Singleton's quickness, clinical judgment, and quiet competence, his asthma attack had been aborted before it could evolve into a full-blown medical crisis. Once broken, the bronchospasm and mucus production abated, and within less than half an hour Stoddard had tucked his shirt in (leaving the collar and cuffs open), taken hold of his IV pole, and bravely wheeled it out to the podium. He stood there, bracing himself on the pole just a bit as boisterous applause filled the hall. Then he explained that his doctor had easily broken what he described as a mild asthma attack and would be removing the IV as soon as the last of the solution had run in. Stoddard then spoke ad lib for two minutes or so-more than enough to gain closure with the donors, exposure before the reporters and cameras, and, Alison guessed, smiling to herself, control of at least 90 percent of the nation's asthmatic vote.

The move to return to his supporters was blatantly theatrical-Ringling Brothers all the way. But given the potential danger of his asthma attack, there was nothing bogus about it. And judging from the prolonged, enthusiastic response of the audience, what could have been something of a body blow to his campaign-increased concern about his health-had instead become a war cry signaling that he was fearlessly ready to move forward with his Vision for America.

Down the road, it seemed as if Andrew Stoddard might point to this day as one in which the many facets of his run for reelection were triumphantly brought together.

Still it seemed possible-just possible-that within the ranks of his supporters, specifically in the person of his favorite, most trusted Secret Service guard, there was potential trouble.

There was no one who passed the blind man, making his way through the throngs at Reagan National Airport, who did not take notice of him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a long ebony ponytail protruding from beneath a white cowboy hat that featured an ornate band of turquoise medallions linked by hand-tooled silver. He strode ahead with surprising confidence, his thin white cane tapping away at the tiled floor like an insect's antenna. His face, high cheekboned and powerful, was the reddish brown of the clay that for centuries had been the bedrock of his people, the Arapaho.

As the man emerged from the security zone, Gabe quietly fell in stride beside him.

"Dr. Singleton, I presume," Dr. Kyle Blackthorn said after just a step or two, though there had been no physical contact between them.

"How'd you guess?"

"It was no guess, my friend, I assure you of that. And I really don't think you want to know which of my senses were at work."

"No. No, I suppose I don't. Luggage?"

"Right here. One night's worth of clothes and my testing materials. I'm due back to teach at Wind River the day after tomorrow."

"You still go out to the reservation every week?"

"Just one of the tribulations of being a role model."

"Those kids are lucky to have you."

"I am the lucky one, just as are you for the work that you do when you don't have to."

"Well said. Thank you for dropping everything and coming so quickly. I know how busy you are."

Gabe smiled as one traveler after another turned to watch them pass. He had wondered how easy it was going to be to sneak the six-foot, three-inch Indian into the president's residence at the White House. Now Gabe found himself searching for another place the two men could meet for a three- or four-hour evaluation. As difficult as Blackthorn was to hide, the President of the United States was even more so. Their session was simply going to have to be in the White House residence.

"You ready to go to work?" Gabe asked.

"The president?" Blackthorn asked in a near whisper.

Gabe nodded.

"Good guess," he said.

"Not too difficult. You were front-page news in the local rag when you left. Everyone was talking about it. Before this, they were proud of the things you have done with the children. Now, they are absolutely in awe."

With no prompting from Gabe, Blackthorn turned toward the stairway leading down to the parking area. Perhaps it was some telltale sound from the roadway below, perhaps an increase in the foot traffic heading in that direction or maybe just a slight gust of breeze. Whatever senses he was reacting to, the psychologist responded with certainty, his cane confirming more than directing.

As far as Gabe knew. Blackthorn had been blind since birth. No one in Tyler spoke about it very much. It was as if no one really saw it as a disability-at least not in him. Certainly it was a drawback to be overcome, but rather as an inescapable fact of the man's life-something to work with rather than around, almost like being left-handed.

On the way into town from the airport, Gabe recounted in detail the bizarre and remarkable episode he had observed in Drew Stoddard before learning from his wife and chief of staff that it was at least the fourth one. Blackthorn, his trademark hat resting on his lap, dark glasses shielding whatever there was of his eyes, listened quietly, but Gabe could tell he was processing every word. In the courtroom, The Chief, as he had inevitably come to be called away from the stenographers, was a forensic expert witness to be reckoned with. He was equally adept at exposing defendants attempting to hide behind a plea of insanity, and championing with irrefutable logic the defense's claims of diminished capacity.

"You have a sense of how these episodes began?" he asked when Gabe had finished his detailed description.

"I wasn't there, but his chief of staff tells me it was quite sudden. He reports a twitch or a tic at the corner of the president's eye-the right one, I think-then some disjointed, word-salad sentences, then suddenly, boom, a full-blown, manic craziness with hallucinations, motor irritability, and pressured speech. By the time I arrived at his bedside, he was really quite mad-disoriented, hyperkinetic, sweating, blood pressure and pulse headed off the charts."

"Then just as quickly it all began to resolve."

"Exactly. Over about twenty or thirty minutes, the mania and hallucinations gave way to profound fatigue and, soon, exhausted sleep."

There was a prolonged silence, eventually ended by the psychologist as they cruised over the George Mason Bridge and into the city.

"We shall see what the testing blots and the blocks have to tell us," he said, "but off what you've told me, it sounds toxic."

"Some kind of drug reaction?"

"Or something that's being secreted in his body."

"Like from a tumor? I thought about that. He's had a normal MRI and a CT scan, but they were just of his head. A chemical-secreting tumor could be anywhere."

"So what have you chosen to do about all this?"

"Do?"

"Well, the man does have a fair amount of-how should I say it?-responsibility."