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.