"I have a friend named Wysocki," he said, "Zeke Wysocki. He's an analytical chemist and owns a small lab just outside of Durham. He's a loner, with not one whit of social skills, but he is a wizard of a chemist, and a hell of a poker player. That's how we met—playing poker at a small, private game. He liked to talk about some of the contract work cases he did for the police and the FBI—cases that no regular labs could handle. So, on a lark, when the analysis of the president's blood came back negative, I sent one of the split samples I had kept to Wysocki."

"He found something."

"A number of things, actually. I drew bloods after two of the president's attacks. There were traces of several different hallucinogens in each sample, only not the same ones."

"Go on, Jim. You're doing great."

Ferendelli was again becoming jittery. He pulled a small bottle of spring water from his jacket pocket and managed a shaky, prolonged swallow. Gabe wondered if the bottle might contain vodka but didn't ask. Ferendelli wasn't intoxicated, just frightened—frightened and totally spent.

"You sure you weren't followed? I've been getting bad vibes about this place since you arrived."

Gabe glanced out at the empty field.

"I don't see how, but if you want to go someplace else, or maybe just drive and talk, we can do that."

"I . . . I guess we can stay here."

"Go on, Jim. Tell me what your friend found. This is all beginning to come together for me. We're going to get to the bottom of things. I promise you we are. And whatever you and the president need to be okay, we're going to get it for you. I've got a friend in the Secret Service we can trust."

If we can find her.

"I . . . hope so."

"You did the right thing to contact me, Jim. You're safe now, and I assure you, you are not alone. Now please, go on."

"I'm not alone," Ferendelli said, marginally more calm. "I like the sound of that."

A block away, a nondescript white van, lights off, rolled down the street, the antenna on its roof rotating slowly.

CHAPTER 46

Alison knew the pain was coming but was helpless to stop it. She lay on her back, her gaze transfixed on the syringe in Treat Griswold's hand. In horror, she watched as once again he slid the needle attached to it into the rubber port on the IV tubing.

"I know you're not particularly fond of this stuff, Nurse Alison," Griswold said, "but I really have to know what's going on, and frankly, to this point, I haven't been all that satisfied with your answers."

"What I told you was everything," she pleaded, aware of the sudden wash of perspiration beneath her arms and across her upper lip. "Everything. Please, I have nothing else to tell. Please don't do that again."