He rolled over once again, this time replaying the remarkable accomplishments of Andrew Stoddard's first three and a half years in office and the potential of the four years ahead—especially if the man was working with a friendly Congress. Gabe had never had much faith in the political process being able to make a huge improvement in the quality of life of the average American—and especially in the lives of those less fortunate than the average. He often mused about how much could be accomplished if the billions spent on political campaigns, most of them unsuccessful, could be applied to public works projects, or to reversing global warming, or to cancer research, or to providing computers for inner-city schools.

Yet here the man was—a president with a true vision for America, not someone frantically navigating the country from one crisis to another; a president of the people, with the courage to go nose-to-nose with big business, and big oil, and big pharma, as well as with the architects of terror; a president with the charisma to bring people together. Would it be right at this time to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment, effectively pulling the plug on Drew's presidency, when it was just getting rolling? The decision wasn't one he could put off much longer.

At quarter after six, still unable even to doze, Gabe showered and shaved, then gave serious consideration to taking a Xanax.

"You still a drunk? Pill popper?"

Ellis Wright's words kept Gabe from immediately reaching into the bottom bureau drawer for the plastic bottle and its varied contents. Few would argue that after the day he had just endured, a little sleeping aid was both necessary and deserved. But there were others who would point out that sooner or later, the reasons for taking pills would mutate into reasons to take them. Maybe they already had, he wondered briefly. Maybe this particular fallout from Fairhaven would be part of his life for keeps, enduring as long as he did.

He considered putting LeMar's elegant coffeemaker to work with something high-octane. Loading up on caffeine would be the final capitulation to his inability to sleep. Then, as if in a trance, he searched out a Xanax from his stash of pills and washed it down.

Whether it was the act of taking the drug or the drug itself, fifteen minutes later he floated off to a fitful sleep. When the ringing phone woke him at eight forty-five, he had decided, with an edgy certainty, what he was going to do about the crisis in the White House. For the time being, he would do what he could to keep Drew in office and in as strong a position as possible for reelection, while at the same time doing everything he could to follow up on Jim Ferendelli's investigations into what might be causing the president's episodic mental imbalance.