Moss reached into the cabinet for a cup and filled it. His hands were shaking. In the whole of his life, he couldn’t ever remember seeing his hands shake. He was more certain than ever that he had alcohol poisoning. He sipped at the hot coffee, certain he was burning his throat. But he didn’t care. He waited to see if French roast would bubble up and out. When it didn’t, he drank more until the cup was empty. Then he tottered over to the small powder room off the kitchen and reached for the aspirin bottle. He swallowed a handful, wondering if he would die from an aspirin overdose, if that was possible. Maybe his stomach would rebel from the aspirin, and he’d bleed out right here in the kitchen. At the moment, he didn’t care about that either. He sat down with a second cup of coffee and waited to see if he was going to die. When nothing happened, he sat up a little straighter. The awful pounding in his head was lessening, and his vision seemed to be clearing somewhat. Maybe he would live after all. Right now, right this minute, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to live or not.

Moss immediately talked himself out of that doomsday thinking and looked over at the clock on the range. He had to squint to see the digital numbers—2:22 in the morning. Triple deuce. It had to mean something. What, he had no clue.

The coffee had stayed down, and he wasn’t feeling nauseous. Good sign. His head just ached now, and his vision was starting to sharpen. Maybe he was going to live after all.

When the sun finally crept above the horizon, Moss decided he was going to live after all. He felt almost normal in the bright light of the day, which just went to prove the wisdom of that old adage that things always looked darkest in the night. Thankful that his personal trainer was on vacation and the cottage on the premises in which he lived was empty until he got back, Moss got up and headed for the elevator, rode to the second floor, and got dressed in khaki cargo pants and a brand-new Polo T-shirt. He slipped his bare feet into boat shoes and made his way to his home office. His legs were steady now, almost as steady as his hands. He had things to do.

Moss booted up his computer, then unlocked the bottom desk drawer and pulled out his black book. Before he did anything, before making his final decision, he brought up the newest blog of Dominic Sludge, not to be confused with the Drudge Report, the blogger who was fast overtaking every other blogger reporting on the D.C. politicians.