As far as Gabe knew. Blackthorn had been blind since birth. No one in Tyler spoke about it very much. It was as if no one really saw it as a disability—at least not in him. Certainly it was a drawback to be overcome, but rather as an inescapable fact of the man's life—something to work with rather than around, almost like being left-handed.

On the way into town from the airport, Gabe recounted in detail the bizarre and remarkable episode he had observed in Drew Stoddard before learning from his wife and chief of staff that it was at least the fourth one. Blackthorn, his trademark hat resting on his lap, dark glasses shielding whatever there was of his eyes, listened quietly, but Gabe could tell he was processing every word. In the courtroom, The Chief, as he had inevitably come to be called away from the stenographers, was a forensic expert witness to be reckoned with. He was equally adept at exposing defendants attempting to hide behind a plea of insanity, and championing with irrefutable logic the defense's claims of diminished capacity.

"You have a sense of how these episodes began?" he asked when Gabe had finished his detailed description.

"I wasn't there, but his chief of staff tells me it was quite sudden. He reports a twitch or a tic at the corner of the president's eye—the right one, I think—then some disjointed, word-salad sentences, then suddenly, boom, a full-blown, manic craziness with hallucinations, motor irritability, and pressured speech. By the time I arrived at his bedside, he was really quite mad—disoriented, hyperkinetic, sweating, blood pressure and pulse headed off the charts."

"Then just as quickly it all began to resolve."

"Exactly. Over about twenty or thirty minutes, the mania and hallucinations gave way to profound fatigue and, soon, exhausted sleep."

There was a prolonged silence, eventually ended by the psychologist as they cruised over the George Mason Bridge and into the city.

"We shall see what the testing blots and the blocks have to tell us," he said, "but off what you've told me, it sounds toxic."

"Some kind of drug reaction?"

"Or something that's being secreted in his body."

"Like from a tumor? I thought about that. He's had a normal MRI and a CT scan, but they were just of his head. A chemical-secreting tumor could be anywhere."

"So what have you chosen to do about all this?"

"Do?"

"Well, the man does have a fair amount of—how should I say it?—responsibility."

"He's been a hell of a president."

"I agree. So do most of the minorities in the country."

"And over the next four years there's no telling how much he can accomplish."

"Provided he doesn't go off the deep end and push the shiny big red button."

"I need to find out what's wrong with him, Kyle."

"I'll say you do. You sure you're not the one who needs help?"