"You could have told me about this letter when you flew to Tyler, Drew," Gabe said wearily. "You could have told me a number of things that you chose not to."

"I'm sorry. Truly I am."

"More than thirty years. Such pain to want to kill even after thirty years. Did this man ever marry?"

"Not as far as I know."

"I want his contact information, Drew. I want it as soon as you can get it to me."

"Gabe, listen, I—"

"And you know what else I want? I want you to find him and go to him."

"But—"

"Tomorrow, Drew. I want you to find Leon Uretsky and go to him and tell him that it was you who was driving that night. Do that or I swear, you will have made the decision for me, and I'm going straight to the papers and anyone else who will listen."

"But you're going to see him, too?"

"Yes. If he'll let me. He and I need to talk. We need to talk about pain . . . and loss. We need to talk about you."

"It will finish me, Gabe. If this gets out, it will finish me and everything I have stood for."

"Maybe." Gabe pulled himself up and hobbled toward the door. "Maybe it will."

CHAPTER 65

It was the first time Gabe had been in Fairhaven, Maryland, since the accident. Working off a MapQuest printout, he removed his sling and negotiated the streets through a steady drizzle. His mood was as somber as the evening. In the trunk of his rented Honda, his bags were packed. In the early morning he would leave Alison in the hotel room they were sharing and head to the airport for the trip home to Wyoming.

Three days had passed since the nightmare at The Aerie. He had not returned to the White House, nor did he ever intend to enter the place again. He had spoken to the president only long enough to ensure that he had honored Gabe's demand to personally visit Leon Uretsky.

It had required more than an hour in the operating room to debride the wounds in Gabe's hip and shoulder. Gratefully, there was nothing critical to repair, and he left the hospital twelve hours later. After that, he had spent as much time as possible with Alison when he wasn't giving statements to the investigators from the Secret Service and police. What Alison's plans were after everything was cleared up remained uncertain, but he was hopeful they would somehow include him.

The shot that had brought down Treat Griswold, she told him—the improbable, remarkable shot—was one she had made over and over in her mind as she lay tied up, humiliated, and in continuous agony in the basement of the house on Beechtree Road. During those endless hours, what little hope she hung on to became focused in that shot. None of the hundreds she imagined ever missed its mark.