The First Patient

by Michael Palmer

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.

  Fairhaven wasn't the first time Gabe had drunken himself into a blackout. In fact, since high school he had been somewhat notorious for them. He took pride in describing himself as a hard-ridin', hard-studyin', hard-fightin', hard-lovin', hard-drinkin' sonofagun, and few of those who knew him well would dispute any of those claims. Nor could anyone argue with a high school valedictorian and rodeo champ, who was also coveted by the football coach at Navy as a running back, although Gabe never bothered to try out for the team.

  "An alcoholic doesn't usually start off as a failure," Gabe's AA sponsor would tell him one day. "He often has to work and drink very hard to become one."

  Gabe's blood alcohol level—.34—could have been lethal in a body less adapted to heavy drinking, even a twenty-year-old's body. His blackout came and went over the hours following the accident. He remembered the rain-soaked ground at the bottom of the steep embankment, and pawing at the blood cascading down into his eyes. He remembered Drew's quavering voice, calling to him from somewhere in the darkness, asking him over and over if he was all right. And he remembered the police . . . and the handcuffs.

  It was hours after he lost control of the borrowed car, jumped the median, and plowed head-on into the subcompact being driven by a young pregnant woman before his mind began permanently to clear, but he never remembered any details of the accident—not one. And he remembered absolutely nothing of the young woman he had killed, along with her unborn child.

  "Gabe?"

  The president's voice cut into his thoughts but did not dispel them entirely.

  "H
uh? Oh, sorry."

  "It's still hard, isn't it."

  "It's not the sort of thing I was put together to deal with, if that's what you mean. I just can't imagine the Washington press corps won't dredge up every lurid detail. A year in prison isn't exactly what the American public would consider a ringing endorsement for the man taking care of their leader."

  "My people assure me it won't be that bad. You took the punishment society gave you and you went on with a life of service to others. Even the nastiest of reporters knows it could have been them behind the wheel that night, and even the most jaded can appreciate what you've accomplished since then."

  "Thanks for saying that."

  "We both know it hasn't been easy."

  "Or really all that successful. That kid would be over thirty now. Sometimes I find myself wondering what he might have grown up to be."

  The statement, though absolutely true, seemed to catch Stoddard by surprise. For a time, the decorated Desert Storm fighter pilot, now commander in chief of the most powerful armed forces ever assembled, seemed unable to respond. Thirty-two years had passed since Fairhaven, and still Gabe's wounds were raw and, at times, festering.

  "Gabe, I mean it," Stoddard said finally. "I came all the way out here personally because I really need you. The campaign is already taking its toll on my health. Headaches, stomach pains, insomnia, intermittent diarrhea. Name a symptom, I've had it. Jim's been secretly having neurologic tests run for headaches I've been having—migraines, he's been calling them. I need someone I can trust—someone who is above the Washington gossipmongers, someone I can bank the future of this country on."

  "The FBI is still going full bore to find Ferendelli?"

  "And the investigative arm of the Secret Service."

  "If he's found and wants his job back, I'm coming home."

  "You have my word."

  "Damn, but I'm not excited about this, Drew."

  "I know."

  "I'm a frigging homebody. Except for the missions to Central America, the closest I come to going anyplace is reading Travel and Leisure magazine at the dentist's office. My partners love me because I'm always around to cover for them in case of any emergency."

  "So they said."

  "Dammit, Stoddard, why are you looking and acting like you already know I'm gonna cave in?"

  Stoddard's boyish smile had probably won him 10 or 20 million votes in the last election.

  "Because you're a good man, Dr. Singleton, and you know this is the right thing to do."

  "How much time do I have to get ready?"

  "According to Magnus's inquiries, two days should be enough."

  "I'm looking forward to meeting up with this Magnus of yours."

  "In D.C.?" Stoddard asked.

  "In D.C., Mr. President."

  CHAPTER 3

  The White House Physician's clinic was situated directly across the corridor from the elevator to the First Family's residence. Standing before the bathroom mirror in the elegant three-room office, Gabe sensed he would have been more at ease had he been stationed in a clinic in downtown Baghdad.

  It was just after seven in the evening. As promised, the tuxedo, complete with shoes, had arrived at the office at precisely six. The size was perfect in every respect—not surprisingly, since the arrangements had been made through the Social Office of the President by Magnus Lattimore. Unfortunately, the garment bag failed to include either a clip-on or instructions on how to knot the enclosed bow tie—a rare, if understandable, Lattimore oversight.

  Gabe watched as the hands that had lassoed steers, hung on to bucking broncos, and sutured innumerable lacerations struggled to create even a passable knot. The directions he had printed out from the Internet were propped up on the sink. In addition to his limited dexterity, he looked tired and strained. The zygomatic arches above his cheeks were even more pronounced than usual, and his dark eyes, which Cinnie had called his sexiest feature, seemed lost. No surprise. Four whirlwind days in a new apartment, new city, and new job were taking their toll.

  The formal dinner reception, scheduled for eight in the State Dining Room, was ostensibly to welcome the recently reelected President of Botswana. According to the Africa expert sent by Lattimore to brief Gabe, the country was a staunch ally of the United States and one of the enduring democracies on the continent. In truth, the guest list had carefully been stacked with dignitaries and cabinet members who were interested in meeting the man the president had selected to bring stability to the White House medical office.

  Another try at the knot, another morbid failure.

  The muscles in Gabe's neck and shoulders, always the physical receptacle in his body for stress and emotional fatigue, were drumhead tight, and a throbbing headache was developing beneath his temples. Some sort of medicine would help make the evening more bearable, he decided—maybe a couple of Tylenols with codeine.

  Since Fairhaven he had sworn off alcohol forever, and for his first few years out of prison he had expanded that pledge to boycott all manner of drugs as well. But with an array of orthopedic maladies dating back to his rodeo and football days, and stress-related head- and neck aches, Tylenol and ibuprofen had intermittently begun surrendering to Darvon and Tylenol No. 3, with whatever happened to be in the medicine cabinet thrown in from time to time for those discomforts that crossed the imaginary line between dull ache and disruptive pain.

  He knew relying on pain pills and even the antidepressants he resorted to from time to time wasn't the smartest behavior for an alcoholic in recovery, and he knew that there was always the danger he would be conjuring up the pains to justify taking the drugs, but he had gone about as far in life as he could go in terms of doing the right thing.

  He set the tie and the instructions in the sink, brought a glass of water to the exquisite cherrywood desk the White House decorators had determined was appropriate for the inner office of the physician to the president, and fished out two Tylenols with codeine from the thirty or so he had transferred to a bottle that read simply: TYLENOL. If anyone found out about the deception, or discovered the envelopes of Demerol and antidepressants in the eyeglass case in the back of his drawer, so be it. If Drew had asked him about pills, he would have told him the truth. Probably should have said something anyhow. If he had, he might still be back in Tyler taking care of folks with calluses on their hands and teaching kids how to throw a lasso. But in the end, he decided it was his business and his business only. The world knew quite enough about him as it was.

  The codeine had just begun its journey from stomach to brain when, with a firm knock, the door to the receptionist's office opened.

  "Hello?" a man's voice, not one that Gabe recognized, called out.

  "I'm in here," Gabe replied.

  The admiral's dress whites seemed to throw off at least as much light as the desk lamp, and the golden "scrambled eggs" insignia on the brim of his cover appeared possessed of its own inner glow. He stepped across the threshold and, with his gaze fixed on Gabe, reached back and closed the door.

  "Ellis Wright," he said, giving Gabe's hand a perfunctory pump. "My apologies for not having come by sooner, but I was overseas when you came on board. I assume you know who I am."

  The two photos of the man Lattimore had shared with Gabe did not do the imposing officer full credit, nor did craggy and steely, the adjectives that had first come to Gabe's mind when he saw them. Ellis Wright was every fiber a military commander—ramrod straight and rock jawed, with gunmetal eyes and shoulders that seemed mitered at perfect ninety-degree angles. Given just one guess as to what he did for a living, few would ever be wrong. Gabe wondered if Wright's eyes were always this cold or the look had been reserved for him.

  "Ellis Wright holds sway over virtually everything that moves or breathes around the president," Lattimore had said during his briefing, "except you, and to a much lesser extent, me. Nobody has any control over you other than the POTUS himself, and even he had better be careful trying to order you about. Before Pr
esident Stoddard took office, his predecessor Brad Dunleavy allowed Wright to choose a military M.D. to be his personal physician, so it should come as no surprise that Wright resented having a civilian assume this position when Jim Ferendelli was appointed. I think it's safe to anticipate that he'll have issues with you for the same reason. Around here everything boils down to proximity and access to the POTUS, and first Ferendelli and now you nudge Wright back a notch in that regard."

  "I'm the head of the White House Military Office," Wright, still standing, was saying. "The military's involvement with the smooth, efficient running of the presidency dates back to George Washington. We're responsible for communications, emergency operations, the airlift group, Helicopter Squadron One, Camp David, the White House Transportation Agency, the White House Mess, and"—he paused unsubtly for emphasis—"the White House Medical Unit. We're Military with a capital M. If the president so much as thinks of something he wants done, our people will have already started doing it. Is that clear?"

  "Pretty clear, yes. You . . . um . . . want to sit down?"

  Gabe stopped himself at the last possible moment from asking if the admiral also headed a department that knew anything about bow ties.

  "I intend to say what I have to say and leave," Wright went on. "I can do both standing. You sound like something of a wiseass, Singleton. Are you a wiseass?"

  Gabe cocked his head and hoped his expression said that he was open to any frank discussion, but he was not going to be easily pushed around.

  "Admiral," he said, "I've been brought here to take care of the president. I'm board certified in internal medicine, and I've worked in big, gleaming hospitals and in Central American jungles. Most people who know me and know medicine think I'm pretty competent at what I do. If that's your definition of a wiseass, then maybe we have a problem."

  "I told the president when he was considering a replacement for Dr. Ferendelli, and I'm telling you now: We have doctors in every branch of the military who are so knowledgeable, precise, and clinically competent that I doubt most doctors, including you, could carry their instrument bags. This is a military operation, and you are needed here about as much as a bull needs tits."