Who first said that?

If Drew was being the politician, he deserved to have Gabe simply say, "Okay, I'll take the money and you find another replacement doctor."

But that wasn't going to happen.

Gabe sighed and sat down across from his friend.

"The accident at Fairhaven is bound to come up," he said. "How would you plan to deal with what happened there?"

"Thanks to you and what you've accomplished with your life since your release, that's not going to be as big a deal as you might think."

"Says Magnus Lattimore."

"And others."

Gabe gazed through the rear window at the violet sky and the silhouette of Marine One. As always, his mind balked at dredging up the accident and the terrible aftermath, and as always, the images—as far as they went—were inexorable. He and Drew, like many of the second-year midshipmen, were celebrating the end of the term with a veritable Olympiad of drinking games conducted at a variety of bars. Rockfish . . . Acme . . . McGarvey's. The Boatyard was the last stop Gabe remembered, but according to court records, there were several more. As almost always on what they called drinkathons, Drew Stoddard was at Gabe's side, if not matching him glass for glass and bottle for bottle, as he once could do, at least making a respectable effort.

Fairhaven wasn't the first time Gabe had drunken himself into a blackout. In fact, since high school he had been somewhat notorious for them. He took pride in describing himself as a hard-ridin', hard-studyin', hard-fightin', hard-lovin', hard-drinkin' sonofagun, and few of those who knew him well would dispute any of those claims. Nor could anyone argue with a high school valedictorian and rodeo champ, who was also coveted by the football coach at Navy as a running back, although Gabe never bothered to try out for the team.

"An alcoholic doesn't usually start off as a failure," Gabe's AA sponsor would tell him one day. "He often has to work and drink very hard to become one."

Gabe's blood alcohol level—.34—could have been lethal in a body less adapted to heavy drinking, even a twenty-year-old's body. His blackout came and went over the hours following the accident. He remembered the rain-soaked ground at the bottom of the steep embankment, and pawing at the blood cascading down into his eyes. He remembered Drew's quavering voice, calling to him from somewhere in the darkness, asking him over and over if he was all right. And he remembered the police . . . and the handcuffs.

It was hours after he lost control of the borrowed car, jumped the median, and plowed head-on into the subcompact being driven by a young pregnant woman before his mind began permanently to clear, but he never remembered any details of the accident—not one. And he remembered absolutely nothing of the young woman he had killed, along with her unborn child.

"Gabe?"

The president's voice cut into his thoughts but did not dispel them entirely.