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She blames herself-her illness-for not being a perfect mother and saving the baby from crib death."

"I was afraid it was something like that. I understand George Allan is working with her. Is he qualified to deal with this?"

"Eminently. He's been her attending physician for years. He knows exactly what she needs to keep her functioning as normally as possible. Once she's over this crisis, she'll be fine."

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"I hope so:"

Merritt made a point of glancing at the wall clock, then rose to his feet.

"It's been great seeing you, Gray. I hate to wind it up, but I've got a cabinet meeting in half an hour."

"I was lucky to get to see you for even this long." Gray stood and the two shook hands. "Please tell Vanessa that I asked about her. Any chance I could visit her?"

"Afraid not. She's getting better every day, but she won't even consent to see Clete. Convey my regrets to Barrie Travis about her townhouse."

"Yeah, I'll do that."

Secret Service agents were standing outside the door of the gym, waiting to escort the President back to his quarters. To one of them, he said,

"Please see Mr. Bondurant back to his car."

"That's not necessary," Gray said easily. "I used to work here, remember?

I know my way around."

"All the same," Merritt said, matching Gray's nonchalant tone, "we like to give old friends the red-carpet treatment."

'7o say that the President was upset was quite an understatement. By telephone, Merritt had just informed Dr. George Allan of his surprise visit from Gray Bondurant. He made it sound as though he'd been delighted to see his old friend, but George could read between the lines: David didn't want Gray lurking around Washington, looking too closely into the death of Robert Rushton Merritt.

George had convinced himself, as the nation had been convinced, that the infant had died of SIDS. When he'd rushed to the White House nursery that night after being summoned from home, he had accepted David's word that he and Vanessa had discovered the child dead in his bassinet.

Not wanting to know any different, George hadn't asked many questions.

He'd facilitated the baby's burial, as instructed by the President. End of story.

Only it wasn't. Vanessa had gotten a nosy reporter involved, who, according to David, had approached Gray Bondurant. Obviously, David's purposes were better served

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by putting a slightly different spin on what had actually transpired in the nursery. He surely didn't want Gray Bondurant's curiosity aroused. Because if anyone could unmask David Merritt, it was Gray.

"What about the, uh, reporter?" George asked. "I heard on the news that her house was destroyed in an explosion."

"Yes, I heard that too. It's unfortunate, of course, but at least her personal crisis has diverted her attention away from us." After a moment's pause, he added, "This is all Vanessa's fault. She's responsible for Barrie Travis's tenacious interest. If she hadn't contacted her in the first place, we wouldn't have her pestering us now." Then he asked, "How's Vanessa today?"

That was the President's graceful transition into the real purpose of this call. George, keeping his panic in abeyance, gave him an update on his wife's condition.

Then David issued George his instructions.

He didn't spell them out, but he didn't need to. The message was clear to anyone who was listening for it, and George was.

Today was the day. The President was cashing in his marker.

George replaced the telephone receiver and covered his clammy face with his hands. He was trembling from the inside out. There was a loud roaring in his ears. He felt faint and nauseated.

He considered calling Amanda. Stalwart and serene, she was an island of calm in the chaos he'd made of his life. Sometimes just the sound of her voice gave him hope, even though the landscape of his future was a minefield leading to disaster. And that was reason enough not to call her.

Why burden her with the consequences of his mistakes?

Instead of telephoning his wife, he took a Valium.

This was the kind of dirty work David usually assigned 186 Sandra Brown

to Spence. Spence wouldn't have the shakes. Spence wouldn't need a Valium.

George wondered what David was holding over Spence to command such blind obedience. Or was it the other way around? Was Spence the puppeteer and David the puppet? Or-and this was most probable-Spence didn't need a reason for doing the things he did.

He thrived on cruelty. He had never loved a woman or known a woman's love.

He'd never witnessed the birth of a child he'd created through love. He'd never held a squirming new life in his arms and looked down at it with tears in his eyes. He'd never experienced guilt or remorse, either. George might be a coward, but he was a better man than Spence Martin. But that point was moot. Spence, it seemed, had vanished. In carefully couched words, David had suggested that Gray was responsible for Spence's unexplainable absence. George hoped that if Gray had killed him, he'd made the heartless bastard suffer first.

Gray was smart for getting out when he had. George wished he had that kind of courage. Gray had said, "I'm outa here," and that was that. But then, Gray hadn't had a noose around his neck.

George did, and it had just gotten tighter.

He pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. Then he lowered his hand and looked across at the closed door of the small, paneled study. He could sit here another hour or two staring at that door, but eventually, he would have to carry out the presidential directive. The longer he put it off, the more he would think about it, and the more he thought about it, the more contemptible it became.

He came to his feet with all the alacrity of a ninetyyear-old. His tread was leaden as he left the study and crossed the hall.

The sickroom was stifling.

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Jayne Gaston was an attentive nurse. She conscientiously bathed her patient every morning and changed the linens on the bed. But a sickroom was a sickroom, and illness had an odor.

Dr. George Allan approached the bed. "How's she doing?"

"She's sleeping now." The nurse gazed sympathetically at her patient.

George gave Vanessa a cursory examination. He listened to her heartbeat, checked the chart for her blood pressure and temperature, all without looking at her face. Her eyes were closed, thank God. He couldn't have looked into her eyes. After this, he wondered, how would he ever be able to look into Amanda's, or his own.

"She became agitated a while ago and began crying," the nurse reported.

"She begged me to let her get up. Dr. Allan, if she feels strong enough, I don't see-"

"Thank you, Mrs. Gaston."

"Doctor, I'm sure you know best, but-"

"I'm sure I do, too." He gave her a stern look. "I will no longer tolerate this second-guessing, Mrs. Gaston."

"I'm only considering what's best for the patient."

"You don't think I am?"

"Of course you are, Doctor. I wasn't implying that at all." She drew herself up straighter. "But I'm a well-trained nurse with years of experience."

"Which is why you were retained for this position. But you're overstepping your bounds."

"Mrs. Merritt is overly sedated. If you ask me-"

"I didn't!" George shouted.

"Furthermore, I think her lithium dosage is dangerously high."

"You see the lab reports. Her lithium blood level is exactly where it should be."

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"Then I don't trust the lab, and I don't believe the reports."

George's heart was pounding against his ribs. His knees had turned to jelly, his pulse throbbed behind his eyes, and he knew his face was red.

Forcibly calming himself, he said stiffly, "Your services are no longer needed, Mrs. Gaston. Please pack your things immediately. I'll have someone return you to Washington tonight."

She splayed her hand over her chest. "You're firing me?"

"You no longer fit in to Mrs. Merritt's treatment program. Now, if you will-"

She shook her head stubbornly and reached for Vanessa's hand. "I won't go.

She's my patient, too. I refuse to leave her in this condition. If you want my honest opinion, I think she's toxic and near comatose."

"If you won't go voluntarily, I'll have no choice but to have you physically removed."

He strode across the room, opened the door, and shouted for the Secret Service agents.

" Barrie Travis?"

"Speaking. Who's this?" Barrie plugged up her free ear with her fingertip to better hear the soft-spoken woman over the cacophony of the newsroom.

"Do you know about Highpoint?"

Barrie was instantly alert. "In what regard?"

"Something's happened."

"Can you be more specific?"

"No. I don't know. I can't say." Her distress was clear. "Someone needs to find out what's going on out there."

Then the caller hung up.

Barrie rang the switchboard operator. "Did the caller you just put through identify herself or say where she was calling from?"

"No, she just asked to speak to you. Another kook?"

"I'm not sure. Thanks."

She sprang from her chair and grabbed her satchel. She was finished for the day. Her story for the evening newscast was completed and on the producer's desk. No one would miss her if she left a little early.

190 Sandra Brown

Over the last several days, she'd done a passable job of convincing the viewing public-which she hoped included David Merritt-that she was carrying on business as usual following the loss of her townhouse. The jury was still out on the cause of the explosion that had destroyed her house, but to all appearances, she hadn't made any connection between it and her forays into the private lives of the President and First Lady. As she rushed through the newsroom, she considered snagging a cameraman and taking him along, just in case this tip proved to be valid. But she decided to exercise restraint. She would take a camcorder to Highpoint. If a story was brewing, she would at least have the unfolding events recorded on home video.

First, however, she had to devise a way to get into Highpoint without being shot.

"You didn't recognize the voice?"

"Didn't I just say that?" Barrie said irritably. "No, Gray, I did not recognize her voice."

"Don't get riled at him," Daily said. "He just doesn't want you to go off half-cocked, is all."

It infuriated her that Daily took Gray's side. "I'm not asking anybody to go off half-cocked with me. Stay here. I couldn't care less. Myself, I'm following up this lead."

"Could've been that crank," Daily said. "That Charlene."

"It wasn't," she insisted. "I don't know who it was, but she didn't have the characteristics of your average crank caller. She sounded cultured and educated. And scared. I believe what she said."

Daily stayed on it. "You've got no verification that any-EXCLUSIVE 191

thing unusual is going on at Highpoint. This could be Justice Green all over again. You'll wind up with egg on your face and your ass in a sling."

"What about Justice Green?" Gray asked.

"Nothing," Barrie snapped. She glared at Daily, then sliced the air with her hands and said, "This discussion is over. I'm going."

She wouldn't have returned to Daily's house and informed them of her plans if she'd had the camcorder with her. Recently purchased to replace the one she'd lost in the explosion, it was still in its box in Daily's guest room. With batteries now installed, she checked it out, placed it in her satchel, and turned to her worried compatriots. "Well, wish me luck." Daily was so distressed that he began to gasp for breath. He turned to Gray.

"You're the Marine. Any ideas?"

"Short of hog-tying her, absolutely nothing. But I'll go with her, and she'll probably get us both shot." He said this as he stuffed a pistol into his waistband.

Just then Barrie's pager went off.

"One of your sources?" Daily asked.

"They're the only ones who have this number besides you.

She didn't recognize the telephone number on the digital readout, but she instantly identified the voice who answered what apparently was a pay phone. She could hear traffic noise in the background. The source wasted no time in imparting his message, then hung up immediately.

Thoughtfully, Barrie replaced the receiver and looked up at Gray. "Let's go if you're going."

"Who was that?" Daily asked, following them to the door, dragging his squeaky trolley along. "Was it about Highpoint?"

"No. It was nothing," Barrie replied, but her weak smile 192 Sandra Brown

belied that. "We'll call you as soon as we know something. Try and get some rest."

"Try and keep yourself in one piece. I'd like to be able to visit you in prison."

"Where in Louisiana?"

"What?"

"You said you were from Louisiana. What town?"

"A wide spot in the road," Gray said. "You've never heard of it."

"I got good marks in geography."

"Grady."

"I've never heard of it."

Gray drove intently, both hands gripping the wheel. They were headed southwest, toward the Virginia countryside. The scenery was a panorama of rolling pastures, horse farms, and forests, but neither of them seemed to notice.

These were the first words they'd exchanged since leaving Daily's neighborhood. Unable to stand another mile of hostile silence, and her own troubled thoughts, Barrie had broached what she hoped would be a neutral topic.

"In terms of growing up there, how was it?"

"Fine."

"Good childhood?"

"It was okay."

"Bad?"

"Did I say bad?"

"Then it was good?"

"It was okay. Okay?"

"You don't have to bite my head off. I'm just curious about where a man like you comes from."

"A man like me?" he repeated sardonically. "What kind of man am I?"