The First Patient

CHAPTER 7

Battling to look nonchalant, Gabe retrieved his medical bag from the floor by his desk.

"An open mind."

What in the hell had Lattimore meant by that?

By the time Gabe reentered his office reception area, Treat Griswold was waiting, motioning with an upraised hand for him to stay quiet and stay where he was. Cautiously, the Secret Service agent checked the corridor, then beckoned Gabe across to the elevator, which another waiting agent keyed electronically.

"Is the president in trouble?" Gabe asked as they rode.

"I guess that's for you to determine, sir," Griswold said.

A floor above, the elevator opened into a small anteroom, with double doors to the broad, elegantly furnished foyer of the First Family's residence. Griswold motioned Gabe down the hall to the master bedroom, then retreated to a position not far from the elevator.

"Just call if you need me, sir," he said, his expression severe.

Magnus Lattimore stepped into the foyer.

"Anyone see you?" he asked Griswold.

"No one."

"Good. I've sent for the mil aide with The Football. Keep him right there in the landing."

"Will do."

The Football!

During his orientation, Gabe had been told that "The Football" was the name given to the communications case containing the codes and other necessary equipment for the quarterback, the president, to trigger a retaliatory or preemptive nuclear strike anywhere in the world-quite possibly the prelude to Armageddon. Whenever the chief executive was traveling away from the White House, the case was brought along by a military aide rotating from one of the five services. Also contained in The Football, Lattimore had told Gabe, were the papers of presidential succession.

Now the chief of staff turned to him, his intensity threatening to burn a hole between Gabe's eyes.

"Go on in, Doctor," he said.

He followed Gabe into the bedroom, stepped inside, and quietly closed the door behind them.

Legs out straight, the President of the United States sat bolt upright, his back pressed against the massive brass headboard. His eyes were wide and feral, his gaze darting-an expression of absolute fear. His fingers were in constant motion, like waving fronds of kelp. The corners of his mouth pulled back repetitively, then relaxed. To his left, standing close by the bed, was the First Lady, stunning in a simple black strapless gown. Her expression was an odd mixture of concern and embarrassment.

"He's been like this for twenty minutes now," she said, eschewing any greeting.

"I know about his asthma and his migraines," Gabe said. "Are the meds he takes up here?"

"Yes. Plus some Tylenol sometimes and ibuprofen for some back pain."

"See if you can find those bottles, Carol. Bring me any pills you come across. Anything at all. Also the inhaler he uses."

The First Lady hurried into the bathroom.

Suddenly Stoddard began rocking forward and back like an Orthodox Jew reciting his prayers. After a minute or two, he seemed to notice Gabe for the first time.

"Gabe, Gabe, my old friend, what in the Sam Hill are you doing here?" he asked, still rocking. His voice was strained and higher pitched than usual, his speech pressured. "You've got work to do, work to do, my man, my man. People to meet and greet and work to do."

"Mr. President, I'm here because you suddenly aren't acting like yourself."

"Mr. President, Mr. President… they all call me that. Mr. Frigging President. But not you, Gabe Singleton, not you my old friend. My roomie. You must call me Drew. Call me Drew and I'll trust you. Hey, a rhyme. Call me Drew and I'll trust you. Not like the others. I don't trust any of the others. Just my lovely Carol. Isn't she lovely? Hey, where is she? Where'd she go? And of course sweet Magnus. Sweet, think-of-everything Magnus. How could anyone not trust him? But Tom Frigging Vice President Cooper the Frigging Third-him I don't trust any farther than I can throw him. And Bradford Frigging Dunleavy can't be trusted. He wants to beat my ass in the next election and take this house away from us. Have us evicted. And the frigging Chinese. When it comes to trust, they are just the worst of all… I can't stop rocking, Dr. Gabe… back and forth… forth and back. Help me stop rocking and I'll double your salary. You know who you really can't trust? It's the Arabs you really can't trust, that's who. The A-R-A-B-S… Maybe we should just take a little old nuclear device-that's what we call them, devices-and waste the whole lot of them. That'd solve the frigging Middle East crisis once and for all. Might as well take out Israel while we're at it and start all over again…"

Carol Stoddard returned with her hands full of pill bottles, plus an inhaler, and passed them over. Gabe scanned them one by one, setting each on the bedside table. None of them differed from what he already knew Stoddard was taking.

With Ellis Wright's words booming in stereo in his brain, Gabe moved cautiously toward the bedside opposite where Carol was standing.

"The Twenty-fifth Amendment deals with the inability of the president to reliably conduct the duties of his office… I want you to review the presidential law of succession and memorize the Twenty-fifth Amendment."

"Drew," Gabe said gently but firmly, "there's something going on here with you that's not quite right."

"Not quite right… not quite right." Stoddard sang the words to the tune of "lit-tle lamb, lit-tle lamb."

Gabe felt an ice-water chill. Somewhere in the building, a military aide was approaching, bearing The Football-the buttons and codes that could, effectively, end all life on Earth, codes that could be triggered by one man and one man only. His mind struggled with only minimal success to wrap itself around the enormity of the situation. He glanced at Carol and then at Lattimore to confirm that they, too, were aware of the awesome implications of what was transpiring before them, but their expressions validated nothing.

"Drew, is it okay if I do a little examination of you? I want to get to the bottom of this."

"I see the answers."

"Drew, is it okay if I check you over?"

"The answers to all questions."

"Is there some sort of shot you can give him?" Magnus Lattimore asked.

Gabe stopped himself at the last possible instant from snapping at the chief of staff.

"As soon as I know what's going on, I'll treat him," Gabe said instead. "Right now, as long as he's not in immediate danger, masking these symptoms is the last thing I want to do."

Stoddard was perspiring profusely now, his face cardinal red. But the rocking had stopped. Still, he continued a rapid, disjointed chatter, jumping from topic to topic, laughing inappropriately, and mixing in often bizarre opinions on issues of public concern-opinions that Gabe knew were not typically held by the man. The Andrew Stoddard he had known since college was Dr. Jekyll. This was Mr. Hyde. Gabe wondered in passing what would happen if the nation's commander in chief suddenly started calling out for the military aide with The Football.

Moving slowly but deliberately, Gabe checked his patient's blood pressure in each arm and his pulse in the neck, arms, and feet. The pressure was up-160 over 100-in each arm, and the pulse was also up at 105. Years of training and practice had kicked in the moment Gabe entered the room, and with each second he was observing, avoiding assumptions, and considering dozens of diagnostic possibilities-rejecting some, filing others away as possible, moving still others to the forefront of probability.

Ignoring the steady stream of pressured babble, Gabe did as rapid a physical exam as he dared. There would be time for more detailed examination and testing when the immediate crisis had been dealt with. As matters stood, two things were apparent to him: The President of the United States was not having a cerebral hemorrhage or a cardiac episode and so was in no immediate danger, but also, at the moment, the man was quite mad.