Alison looked utterly dismayed; then suddenly she nodded her understanding.

"Gabe, I need your trust here. I need you not to ask me anything more about the blood."

"But why?" he insisted. "Did you take the tubes or not?"

"I need your promise. No more questions about this. At least not for now."

"I'm at the point where I don't trust anyone. But if we're headed together to where I hope we are, I'm going to promise, so long as I have your word—no more lies."

"No more lies, baby," she whispered.

"In that case, no more questions."

"Okay, then," she said. "I absolutely didn't take the blood. But I believe I know who did."

CHAPTER 34

The drive to Lily Pad Stables, Route 66 west to 647, took ninety minutes. The zip code of the place was probably Flint Hill's, but according to Lily, the house, barn, other outbuildings, and white-fenced pastures stood alone, nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, several miles from the actual town.

After carefully checking over the president and, much to the chagrin of Magnus Lattimore, reducing his appointment schedule by half on general principles, Gabe changed clothes in the Lincoln Bedroom, signed out to the physician on call for the day, spread his city map out on the seat of the Buick, and headed out Pennsylvania Avenue to Anacostia. Somewhere, Jim Ferendelli was mentally preparing to meet with him.

Without requesting an explanation for why he wanted to know, Lattimore and the president had filled Gabe in on Anacostia, which encompassed the east and southeast portions of the city, primarily occupying the land east of the river for which it was named.

Anacostia was, according to both of them, an area badly in need of a renaissance, and soon to get it if the joint federal/municipal commission they had instituted had its way. For the time being, they said, as in any inner city, it was best to be cautious walking the streets of that neighborhood at night.

Gabe felt virtually certain from the photo and the geography that Ferendelli planned to meet him beneath the east end of the bridge. His mission, before heading off for Flint Hill, was to familiarize himself with the area and to find a place to park that was reasonably close to the base of the bridge, and also reasonably close to a streetlight.

It took only minutes for him to locate a spot with which he was comfortable. Mid-morning was certainly not 1:00 A.M., but he found Anacostia to have a pleasant, vibrant, neighborhood charm. The parking place he selected, on Clay, seemed like it would be safe enough. After a brief stop to reconnoiter the space beneath the bridge, he worked his way back through the city to pick up Route 66 at the Roosevelt Memorial Bridge and headed west.