On the way there, Gabe gave in to his fears and frustration and tormented himself by trying Alison's numbers again. Nothing. Once at the lot, he ducked behind a van and scanned the street for anything or anyone unusual. They couldn't have followed him here, he was thinking, at the same time he was picturing Jim Ferendelli collapsing to his knees, then pitching forward onto his face. They couldn't have followed him there, either.

The messenger arrived, and the exchange was quick and uneventful. Gabe tipped the man fifty dollars of the president's money and then added a second fifty for the one who had picked up the package at the Watergate. One final check of the lot and Gabe slid behind the wheel of the Impala and set the package on the passenger seat.

It was time.

Twenty-five miles outside the city, he was convinced enough that he wasn't being followed to pull off into a rest area on I-270 and open the package from Ellen Williams. The carefully wrapped box consisted of a Tupperware container with five sealed plastic Baggies, each containing two large gauze pads, soaked with liquid.

SPECIAL MIXTURE, the label on the Tupperware read. APPLY ONE OR TWO AS NEEDED.

Gabe's heart told him one, but his head insisted on two.

If things didn't work for him and Drew Stoddard, there would not be a second chance. Word would get out that the president had behaved irrationally, and within no time a button would be pushed by someone and the First Patient would suffer either a public episode similar to the one Gabe had witnessed in the White House or, worse, one identical to the episode he had witnessed in Ferendelli.

With that notion grimly dominating his thoughts, Gabe set the package aside and checked the map Drew had given him locating the stables. Then, staying well under the speed limit, he headed north to Thurmont, Maryland, and, just beyond it, Camp David.

CHAPTER 57

I'm sorry."

The words had been spoken so softly, barely more than a whisper. Had Constanza really said them, Alison wondered, or was it the fallout from the drugs Griswold had forced into her? Could the woman have possibly just left her in such a horrible situation? The answer, of course, was yes. Ten years. That was how long Constanza had been under Treat Gris-wold's control. Ten years.

Battling to breathe and to keep her leg muscles from seizing up, Alison closed her eyes and drifted off. The pain was so much more tolerable that way.

When she awoke, after a few minutes or a few hours, she was still spread-eagled on her back, her wrists and ankles still tightly bound. The visit from Constanza had been a dream, she realized despondently—only a chemically induced dream.