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.