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.

More exciting than being contacted by Ferendelli, though, was the knowledge that he was alive. It would be difficult to keep such good news from the president.

Ultimately, Gabe accepted that after yet another long, emotionally grueling day what he needed more than anything else right now was sleep. As excited as he was to be moving closer to the end of the Ferendelli mystery, learning what meeting place his predecessor had chosen could hold until morning. Gabe already had plans to check the president over first thing and to make an item-by-item approval or rejection of his typically overloaded schedule. He also had to sign out to the covering doc and to get Drew's approval to travel "out of range" to Lily Pad Stables from late morning until what would probably turn out to be early evening.

Heavy-lidded, he read Ferendelli's urgent note one more time.

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.

Gabe managed four dreamless hours of sleep, after which it looked as if he hadn't once shifted position. He awoke wondering if the man who had tried to kill him and the one who had attacked Kyle were one and the same. The notion made little sense, but until he and Jim Ferendelli stood face-to-face, Gabe knew that nothing much was going to.

Two sets of thirty push-ups sandwiched around a hundred sit-ups, followed by some fresh-squeezed orange juice, a prolonged shower, and a travel mug of a startlingly rich Sumatran blend and he was totally ready for the day.

Something was going to give, he told himself as he headed to the garage. Whether it was news from Kyle Blackthorn, or insight into Lily, or resolution of the mystery of Ferendelli's disappearance, or even some hint as to what the president might have been holding back during his neuropsych testing, before much longer things were going to begin to come together.