"I was going to speak to you about Fairhaven after this business—the election—was over," Stoddard said. "It's been hard for me."

"Drew, it's been hard for me!"

"I . . . I was so frightened of my father that night, of what might happen. Turns out he knew all the time."

"He said you petitioned him to keep you out of trouble."

"I . . . well, maybe I did. It's been a long time."

"Gee, it's been just that long since I was in prison and I remember every detail of every day I spent there, Drew. I remember my father being too ashamed to speak to me right up until the day he died. I remember going to AA meetings and lying to everyone by saying I was clean and sober when I couldn't stop popping pills all the time. You're fortunate that your blackout seems to have been more selective and lasted much longer than mine."

"I tried to make up for what I did by the way I conducted my life."

"The country is grateful to you. You've been a hell of a president."

"Are you going to go public with what I did? You know I won't have a prayer at getting reelected if you do."

"I don't know, Drew. Right now, I don't know anything except that I'm almost fifty-three years old and more than half my life has been lived under the cloud of two murders I didn't commit."

Stoddard crossed to where his jeans were hanging and from the pocket pulled an envelope folded in half.

"This letter reached me soon after I was elected four years ago. I was going to give it to you when I told you . . . about the accident. Then, right before I left for Camp David yesterday I took it with me."

Gabe took the envelope and extracted a single sheet of plain typing paper, written in pen in uneven print.

Mr. President,

Irina Kursova and I were ready to get married when she was killed by a car you were in. My son Dimitri in her womb died also. I cannot find the man Singleton who was the driver with you that night. If I could I would kill him. I know you are protecting him, but if you send his address to Milton, care of 253 Nolan Street, Annapolis, 01409, I will do the rest.

"The man who tried to kill me—twice," Gabe said. "Someone must have showed him that article in the paper announcing I had joined your team. After all these years, suddenly there I was back in town."

"His name isn't Milton. It's Leon. Leon Uretsky. He works as a baker in Bowie. The address belongs to friends of his. The Secret Service found him pretty easily, but aside from a few threats, there wasn't anything they could do. I didn't know he had gone after you until you told me about the attempted shootings."