One is President Myers. Another is Bobby Myers, miraculously recovered from his six-day journey into the land of aphasia. I’ll never know whether the brain damage was real or fabricated, but if I had to bet, I know where my chips would fall. There’s Reverend Carl and Thomas the Intimidator. Six members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff are present, also the attorney general and chief justice, both notorious adherents to the Pure Movement.

Patrick is number thirteen. The Judas Iscariot of the Oval Office.

As I lie here in bed, numbed by the spin of the ceiling fan, these religious coincidences strike me as funny. Water, wine, thirteen men. Reverend Carl and his insanity. They say Christ was one of three things: a lunatic, a liar, or a lord. Mad, bad, or God, as the saying goes. I can’t believe Carl Corbin is a god—even if I believed in such divine entities. Gods may or may not play dice, but they sure as shit don’t load them with mind-altering poisons.

My coffee has grown cold, but I drink it anyway.

Sunday night—was it only just twelve hours ago?—Patrick decided he would dose the water and the coffee first. Then, whatever was left in the vial he would keep aside for himself, should the need arise. I shudder when I think of this way out, the Judas escape, but Poe tells me Patrick insisted on it. So many well-laid plans go wrong.

This is all I can see. Maybe my imagination isn’t up to the task. Maybe it’s too up to the task, Technicolor vivid and laser sharp. After all, who wants to daydream about her husband dying?

I check the clock on Sharon’s nightstand. Its hands say this is the time.

Chapter Seventy-eight

SEVENTY-EIGHT

I don’t sleep. I can’t. Instead, I walk with the kids to the horse barn, watching Sonia as she leads her brothers on a tour. She’s all words now, a geyser of them.

“This,” she says, patting the roan with one hand and stroking it between the eyes with her other, “is Aristotle. She’s a girl horse. Even though Aristotle was a guy. She’s also my favorite. Sharon says she’s super smart.”

As Sonia passes around thick hunks of carrot, instructing the boys exactly how to hold their palms flat and let the horse take the carrot without taking off a few fingers with it, I pull Sharon’s mobile phone from my pocket and dial a number.

The receptionist is not thrilled with my sudden change of plans.

“Mrs. McClellan,” he says, his voice as nasal and pinched as Morgan’s was.

“Dr. McClellan,” I correct.