The First Patient

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The First Patient Page 18

by Michael Palmer


  Blackthorn crawled from the doorway into the bathroom and locked that door. If the killer blasted his way into the room, it might take a few more seconds for him to get into the bathroom. Otherwise there wasn't going to be much he could do.

  But there were no more gunshots.

  Blackthorn stayed where he was. A minute passed, then another. Finally, he heard a pounding on his door, and voices. He had just opened the bathroom door when two security men, both with guns drawn, burst in.

  "You all right?"

  "I'm fine. What about my briefcase?"

  "Jesus, he's blind."

  "My briefcase and my glasses," Blackthorn snapped.

  "Your glasses are right here," one of the guards said, setting them against Blackthorn's hand, "but there's no briefcase."

  "Damn."

  "The police are on their way."

  "What's he ever gonna be able to tell them?" the other asked. "He can't see a thing."

  CHAPTER 31

  Five ten, maybe five eleven. Deep southern accent. I'd bet Alabama or Mississippi. It would seem that he followed us when we drove from the White House to the hotel."

  Stunned, Gabe listened to Kyle Blackthorn's account of the assault in his hotel.

  "A professional killer? How could he have known about you?"

  "Somehow, I don't think that White House of yours is a bastion of safe secrets."

  "I'm just glad you weren't hurt. And I'm sorry about your briefcase."

  "They're not going to get much useful information from it. Besides, my memory is a lot better than my eyesight. I'll get back to you very soon with my conclusions, although you can start with what we spoke about."

  "I'm really sorry, Kyle. Do you want to stay here tonight?"

  "They've put me up in their VIP suite. And since the guy missed, it seems like a fair trade to me. I'll tell you, though, he's the coldest human being I've ever encountered who wasn't on a slab in the morgue. If you're up against him, you've got problems. Not me, though. First thing tomorrow, I'm off for Cheyenne."

  "I wish I were going with you, Kyle. I really miss the plains. I haven't even fully unpacked and I already want to go home."

  "You'll do fine. Just watch your topknot, Doc. Not much scares me, but this guy did."

  "Count on it, Chief."

  Gabe set the phone down and paced the apartment. The circle was wider than he could ever have imagined. Now there appeared to be a professional killer involved. Everybody seemed to know or sense that something was wrong with the president, but gratefully, to this point at least, no one had a handle on precisely what it was or how serious. Meanwhile, the POTUS himself seemed to be doing fine.

  After dropping Kyle at the airport hotel, Gabe had driven back to the White House and stopped by the residence. Largely as a result of Drew's heroics at the Baltimore Convention Center, his poll numbers had crept upward for the first time in weeks. Stoddard himself was feeling fine, and Magnus Lattimore assured Gabe that the commander in chief had never been sharper.

  Still, it seemed like wishful thinking to believe the episodes of altered thinking and bizarre behavior were finished or that there would continue to be ways to cover them up. Gabe needed answers and he needed them before the Twenty-fifth Amendment once again reared its massive head.

  First things first. . . . One day at a time. . . . Accept the things you cannot change; change the things you can. . . .

  Funny how in difficult times the old AA slogans kept creeping into his mind. More and more lately. Maybe, he thought now, a couple of meetings wouldn't hurt.

  He fixed some decaf and padded over to the dining room table where Ferendelli's nanotechnology library was spread out. A little studying would help take his mind off the attack on Blackthorn. Somehow, someone knew who he was and what he had been doing in D.C. It seemed like only a matter of time before rumor and speculation would turn into headlines.

  He pulled a chair up and turned his attention to preparing for the woman who claimed to barely know a man who had a well-rendered sketch of her in the drawer of his desk. In the morning Gabe would be driving out to Lily Sexton's horse farm not far from Flint Hill and the Shenandoah National Park, eighty miles or so west of the city. If nothing else, she should help him understand Ferendelli's fascination with the science of atomic-size constructions and nanomachines.

  The decaf he chose from LeMar Stoddard's stash was a Brazillian blend, so rich and aromatic that it was hard to believe it wasn't high-test. Probably, like everything else in this city, Gabe decided, the coffee was a sham—loaded with caffeine.

  Nanotubes and fullerenes.

  It took time for Gabe to shuck frightening thoughts of a professional killer and Blackthorn's attack from his consciousness enough to concentrate on the material before him, but finally he was able to begin taking notes and making some drawings.

  Nano came from the Greek for "dwarf" and in scientific terms meant one-billionth, as in a billionth of a meter, 1/75,000th the diameter of a human hair. Nearly incomprehensible for a layman—even one with a background in science.

  Nanotubes and fullerenes.

  At the foundation of nanotechnology were carbon atoms, the basis of life, found ubiquitously in millions of different molecules—solids, liquids, and gasses. The building blocks of the nanomanufacturing process were carbon atoms bound together in submicroscopic tubes of varying lengths and thicknesses, and also in soccer ball–like molecules containing precisely sixty carbon atoms. These molecules, perfect spheres, were named fullerenes and nicknamed buckyballs after architect Buckminster Fuller, designer of the geodesic dome, which the fullerene resembled. Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable.

  Most of the science was more than Gabe wanted to or even could handle. But the potential of nanotechnology was as apparent as it was limitless, made possible in large measure by the chemical ability of carbon to bond with other atoms and by the invention of futuristic machines such as the scanning tunneling microscope and the transmission electron microscope, capable of actually visualizing nanotubes and fullerenes. Remarkable.

  Already there were more than seven hundred commercially available products as varied as cosmetics, golf club shafts, and bullet-resistant shirts all built with nanomaterials. Nano toothpaste containing nanohydroxy apatite was able to bind to the protein in plaque, making it easier to loosen and remove, while at the same time it was filling scratches on dental surfaces. Nanosilver coatings on flatware, doorknobs, wound dressings, water faucets, makeup implements, and socks impeded or eliminated bacterial growth. The list and variety of products were stunning.

  This was not the science fiction of gray goo. This was the real deal, making its way into the fabric of society on an incredible number of fronts and with a speed that had to be astounding even to those brilliant and visionary Nobel laureates who originally created the field.

  Somewhere around one in the morning, Gabe had fallen asleep on his notes. At one thirty, still seated, facedown at the table, he was awakened by the ringing telephone.

  "Dr. Singleton?"

  "Yes."

  "Sorry to call you at such an hour, sir. This is McCabe at security downstairs. There's an envelope for you that was just dropped off here by a messenger. It says to deliver it to you immediately. Would you like me to send it up?"

  Gabe pawed at his eyes and combed his hair with his fingers.

  "No, no. I'll be right down. A messenger?"

  "Yes, sir. None of us caught what company he was with, and there's no indication on the envelope. Just the instructions to deliver it to you immediately."

  "I'll be there in a minute."

  The headache, a familiar electric pain behind his eyes, seemed to have woken up when he did. Before he had even fully processed his action, he had opened his bureau drawer and taken out the plastic vial of codeine and other pills.

  "I never took a pill that I didn't have a pain for."

  The notion stopped him short. From the moment his former roommate had stepped out of Marine One at
the ranch, Gabe's rather straightforward, comfortable, and uncomplicated life had been transformed to one enmeshed in half-truths and outright lies. Now, according to Kyle Blackthorn at least, it appeared that Drew's withholding the fact of his mental illness was not his only deception. Whether the psychologist's shingan sense was right or not, time would hopefully tell.

  It was becoming increasingly clear to Gabe that there was little he could do about those around him except trust none of them. There was, though, something he could do about the deception he had been working on himself. There were thousands in AA recovery, maybe tens of thousands, who managed to deal with routine headaches without leaping for a mind-altering painkiller.

  For years, the fallout from the deaths at Fairhaven had been a smoldering depression that had cost him in many ways, including his marriage. He had tried to overcome the feelings by starting Lariat and by going on medical missions to Central America, and he had successfully sworn off booze. But the reliance, if not dependence, on pills was a constant reminder that the depression was always lurking and never very far below the surface.

  He flipped the vial back into the drawer and washed down some Extra Strength Tylenol instead. For the time being, the motion to give up on the pills had been tabled. But at least he could watch himself more carefully. As the twelve-step book so eloquently stated, recovery was a matter of progress, not perfection.

  The five-by-seven manila envelope was completely unadorned except for DR. GABE SINGLETON, neatly block printed in black ink, and the instructions that the envelope was to be delivered immediately, printed in the same way beneath it. Curious more than apprehensive, Gabe questioned the man who had accepted the delivery and assured himself that he had no information that would be of any help. Then Gabe brought the envelope back to the condo and opened it on the table.

  We must meet.

  Tell no one.

  Come alone.

  Go to the office we both have occupied.

  The meeting time is to be exactly twenty-four hours from now.

  In the office there are four framed photos taken by me. Examine the third photo from the right. I will meet you beneath that structure.

  The nightmare must end.

  J.F.

  CHAPTER 32

  Donald Greenfield.

  With each passing hour, thanks largely to the Internet and courses on its use that she had taken during her training, Alison grew to know more and more about the man.

  Donald Greenfield, owner of a one-year-old Porsche 911, Virginia registration number DG911, garaged on Lido Court in Fredericksburg. Apparently paid for.

  Donald Greenfield, owner of the forty-one-hundred-square-foot Victorian house at 317 Beechtree Road, Richmond. Purchased ten years ago for $321,000 and recently assessed at $591,000. Refinanced five years ago. Shared with at least one beautiful Mexican woman, Constanza, and one stunning Mexican girl, Beatriz. Previous residence, 14 Collins Avenue, Salina, Kansas; home owner there for fourteen years.

  Donald Greenfield, occupation: self-employed; Social Security number 013-32-0875; mortgage $2,139.00 a month; no other mortgages; no credit card debt; no dependent ex-wives, no children; no criminal record. Checking account—Bank of America, Richmond. Credit rating 650. (Why so low? she wrote beside the number.)

  Alison flipped through her notes, both pleased and dismayed with the results of her first day of investigation. She wondered in passing who Donald Greenfield had been before Treat Griswold appropriated his name and identity. Of all the hundreds—probably thousands—of federal agencies, there was still none coordinating births and deaths. Griswold had probably searched the cemeteries for an infant or child who had been born around the same year as had he. For a person with his understanding of the workings of the federal government, obtaining a Social Security number in the dead child's name would have been easy, and from there fleshing out an identity would have been even easier still.

  Questions remaining to be answered included where Griswold was getting the money to support his double life and whether there was any connection between what she had uncovered about him and his practice of toting around an inhaler used regularly by the president.

  Another gnawing question needing resolution soon was when she was going to share the burden of what she was learning and with whom. That was the most perplexing question of all.

  It was after one in the morning. Her jaws ached from hours of vigorous gum chewing. The tension of the day had left her more wired than tired, but a glass of Merlot was usually all that was needed to nudge her toward sleep. She uncorked a new bottle—medium priced with a label she liked, from a California vineyard she had never heard of. She poured one glass, drank it slowly, then decided on a second, which she dispatched quite a bit quicker.

  St. Boniface's Winery. Good label, good stuff.

  She wrote down the name and terse evaluation in the small spiral notebook she always carried in her purse. No need to specify Merlot. It was rare that she drank at all and, as she was a creature of habit, even rarer that she ventured to another grape.

  "Griswold . . . Griswold . . . Griswold," she murmured, settling back in her desk chair. "What's with you, Griswold? Are you really into what I think you're into?"

  Kidnapping? Illegal alien trafficking? Pedophilia? Statutory rape?

  She reached across her notes to the corner of her desk and extracted a letter from its envelope. It was the second time she had read it that night but possibly the twentieth since she had received it about a year ago.

  Dear Cro,

  Do people still call you Cro? I used to think that was the coolest nickname in the world.

  Surprise! It's me, Janie, this time coming to you from beautiful downtown Bakersfield, home of The Driller Diner, where I am currently employed waitressing tables. The only thing here less appetizing than the patrons is the food.

  It's been a few years, so I hope this address in Texas is still a good one to get this to you. As for me, this is like the tenth city I've lived in since I got shoved out of my job in the ICU at Shitcan General Hospital, and onto the street for doing exactly nothing wrong. Needless to say, since the hammer fell I never have gotten my nurse's license back. I've had a lot of lousy jobs like this one, but that's okay because I've never been able to hang on to any of them for very long. You know, depression, meds, worse depression, more meds.

  The reason I'm writing is that my sister sent me the obituary on Dr. Numbnuts Corcoran, the incompetent bastard who started it all. Two columns and a photo in the L.A. Times. No mention at all of the lives he took or the one—mine—that he and his cronies in the Cognac and Cuban Cigar Club ruined. Well, at least it was cancer. I hope it was a slow and painful kind. I hope it for all of us.

  Thank you for trying to fight them, Cro. At least you tried. That's more than anyone else can say, and plenty besides you knew I didn't do anything wrong. Thank you for trying. I don't blame you for bailing in the end. I never did. I hope you know that. You tried.

  Take care. I hope whatever you're doing, you're happy. Me? I get to go into L.A. every few months and see how much my kids have grown. I was always a good mom and I still love them no matter what.

  Keep fighting the good fight.

  Janie

  Keep fighting the good fight.

  By the time Alison had finished reading, the Merlot had kicked in. Good thing. Sleep wasn't going to come easily. Now, as she padded unevenly to bed, she was grateful that fade to black was only minutes away.

  She was in over her head—maybe way over. In the end, if she kept pushing, she might well end up in Janieville, waiting tables or working at Wal-Mart and wondering what in the hell had happened to her life. Had Treat Griswold been an L.A. surgeon, he most certainly would have been a member of the Four Cs. In the Secret Service, he was The Man—respected, even revered. Now, she was contemplating trying to take him down.

  There was still time to just drop the whole thing and take the low road out of town and back to the desk in San Antonio. There
was still time. . . .

  "Baby, I want to spend some time upstairs with Beatriz."

  "Donnie, honey, it is one o'clock in the morning. She's sleeping."

  "So, she'll wake up. I'll be gone all day tomorrow. There'll be plenty of time for her to sleep then. I've been working really hard lately, and I need a back rub."

  "I can give you one. I know just how you like them."

  "I want her to know how I like them. I want her to know how I like everything. You know the rules. Your time with me is coming to an end. It's your job to help me get her ready. Then it is your job to manage things until Beatriz is ready to take over for you with whoever follows her."

  "That is what I'm doing, yes?"

  "Yes, baby. You're doing a good job as long as you understand the way things work here."

  "I do. When the time comes I will be ready to leave."

  "That time's still a ways off. Now go and wake Beatriz and bring her upstairs to the room. I'm going to shower. Then I'll be up. I want her showered, too."

  "Her hair also?"

  "If you think so."

  "I understand."

  "Excellent. I love it when you understand."

  "I did good telling you about the woman in the nail place, yes?"

  "You did good . . . maybe very good depending on what fingerprints we find on that bottle of nail polish I bought from Viang."

  "Marooned on a Desert Isle. That is what she chose. Women notice things like that."

  "Marooned on a Desert Isle," echoed Donald Greenfield, running his hand over Constanza's firm breasts and down her lean, cocoa body to the smoothly waxed mound between her thighs. "We shall see what tales our little bottle has to tell us."

  CHAPTER 33

  The nightmare must end. . . .

  It was everything Gabe could do to keep from racing over to the White House at 2:00 A.M. to inspect the third photo from the right on his office wall. He had enjoyed looking over at the black-and-white studies but was embarrassed now that he had never examined them in any detail and had no idea that Jim Ferendelli was the photographer. Given the quality of the sketch of Lily Sexton and of the landscape by the upstairs window at the physician's house, little about the man's creative abilities was surprising.

 

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