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Vanessa was confused and disoriented. The room looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't remember where she'd seen it before. "Why have I got an IV?"

"To ensure that you don't dehydrate," the doctor explained. "You couldn't keep down any liquids."

The nurse was taking her blood pressure.

"Am I sick?" she asked, suddenly seized by panic. What weren't they telling her? Had she been in an accident and lost a limb? Did she have terminal cancer? Had she been shot?

Those frightening possibilities were instantly replaced by the terrifying reality-David had put her here.

"Where's David? I want to talk to him."

"The President is out on the West Coast today," George told her, pleasant smile in place. "But I believe he's returning tonight. Maybe you can talk to him later."

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"Why do I need a nurse? Am I dying?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Merritt. Lie back," George said, pressing her shoulder gently when she tried to sit up. He looked across at Jayne Gaston.

"We'd better bring her down some more."

"But, Dr. Allan-"

"Please, Mrs. Gaston."

"Certainly, Doctor." She left the room.

"Where's my father?" Vanessa asked, her voice sounding distant and feeble even to her own ears. "I want to see Daddy. Call him. Tell him to come get me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Vanessa. Not without getting David's approval first."

The nurse returned with a syringe. She gave Vanessa an injection in her thigh.

"You'll get better faster if you relax and let us take care of you,"

George told her gently.

"What's wrong with me? Has the baby come yet?"

Jayne Gaston looked across to Dr. Allan. "Poor thing. She thinks she's still pregnant."

George nodded grimly.

"My baby," Vanessa sobbed. "Have you got my baby?"

"Let's leave so she'll rest now."

"No, please," Vanessa rasped. "Don't leave me. You all hate me. I know you do. What aren't you telling me? My baby's dead, isn't he?"

Dr. Allan signaled the nurse to follow him from the room. Mrs. Gaston quietly closed the door behind them.

Vanessa struggled to remember something. It was important, but she couldn't quite grasp it. She had to think, had to remember. There was something she should remember. What was it?

Then a moan spiraled up from deep within her. She remembered the lifeless body she'd lifted from the crib. She

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heard echoes of her own screams, exactly as they'd reverberated down the hallways of the White House that night.

"My baby," she sobbed. "My baby. Oh, God. I'm sorry."

Rather than debilitate her, the anguish galvanized her. She was unclear as to her goal, but she knew that she couldn't lie here helplessly any longer. Unaware of the pain, she ripped off the tape securing the IV needle to the back of her hand. Once it was out of the way, she swallowed her nausea and pulled the small catheter from her vein.

When she tried to sit up, she felt as if an anvil were on her chest, anchoring her to the bed. Calling upon every ounce of reserve strength she had, she finally willed herself into a sitting position. The room tilted.

The trees she saw through the window appeared to be growing out of the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. She retched, but dryly.

Her brain seemed incapable of telegraphing messages to her legs. It took her five minutes and an incredible amount of effort to drag them over the side of the bed. Then her feet dangled above the floor while she staved off nausea and incessant waves of dizziness. Eventually she worked up enough courage and stamina to slide down the edge of the mattress and place her feet on the floor.

Her legs didn't support her. She collapsed in a heap beside the bed, then lay there sobbing, breathing heavily, too weak to stand, too weak even to call out for help. She wished for death.

No. She'd be damned if she would make it that easy for them.

Determined, she inched along the floor like a crude life form, using a hand, a foot, a shoulder, a heel like a pseudopod, propelling her forward in minute increments.

When she finally reached the door, she was bathed in sweat. Her hair and nightgown were plastered to her skin.

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She curled into the fetal position and rested, shivering now as her perspiration cooled.

At last, she raised her head and looked up at the doorknob. It appeared as unreachable as the moon. She tried pounding on the door, but her hands made only weak slaps against it. So she pressed her palms against the cool wood and crawled up the door, straining the muscles of her arms and chest, until she could get one leg beneath her, then the other, until she was on her knees.

Then she seized the doorknob with both hands and managed to turn it, at the same time slumping against the door. It burst open, and she fell out into the hallway, landing hard on her shoulder and sending rockets of pain down her arm.

"Mrs. Merritt! Oh, my God! Dr. Allan!"

Shouting voices. Running footsteps. Hands cupping her armpits, lifting her.

Limp, spent, she swayed between two Secret Service agents as they carried her back to the bed.

George Allan elbowed the agents aside. "Thanks, gentlemen."

"Should I call for an ambulance, Dr. Allan?" one of them asked.

"That won't be necessary." He listened to her heart through a stethoscope.

"Mrs. Gaston, will you get another IV line going, please?"

The other agent asked if he should call the President or Mr. Martin. The doctor said he would make the call himself as soon as Mrs. Merritt was stabilized. The two agents withdrew.

"Let's put some restraints on her," George told the nurse. "Arms and legs."

"Isn't that excessive?"

"We can't risk her getting out of bed and falling again, Mrs. Gaston."

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"I'd be happy to assist her if she wants to get up, Dr. Allan. In fact, it might do her good to get out of bed. I think she's overly sedated." "I appreciate your input," George said, his tone belying his words, "but I know what's best for my patient. Please follow my orders, which are also those of the President of the United States. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Dr. Allan."

Vanessa's eyes were closed, but she had followed most of their conversation, although some of the words were difficult to assign meanings to. Why couldn't she get up if she wanted?

Where was David?

Where was her father?

Where was she?

Hell, maybe.

No, hell for sure.

"Where?"

"Wyoming."

"Shit!"

Having delivered his bad news to the President, Spence fell silent as he jogged along beside him. The verbal rampage that followed was colorful and then some. Merritt resorted to the language he'd learned from his father, who had worked in Biloxi's shipyard.

Merritt's roots had been exposed during his first campaign for a congressional seat. By the time he ran for President, it was well known by the voting public that he hadn't lived a life of wealth and privilege. His mother had worked as a cook for the public school system, but the dual-income family had rarely been solvent. They had never owned a home. David Merritt's childhood had been spent in a rented unit in a second-rate trailer park.

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Rather than try to hide his humble beginnings, the campaign committee had touted him as the embodiment of the American dream. He was the twenty-first century's Abraham Lincoln. He'd overcome incredible odds to hold the highest office in the world. Senator Armbruster's tutelage had been of tremendous help, but it was Merritt's own intelligence and determination that had brought him to Armbruster's attention in the first place.

What wasn't publicized was the ignobility of young Merritt's poverty. It wasn't commonly known that both his parents had been alcoholics. He had been more or less responsible for himself long before his parents had conveniently drunk themselves to death. The one and only time he had allowed himself to become intoxicated was the day he buried his father. He got drunk to celebrate his freedom from two people he had disdained and despised for as long as he could remember.

Spence glanced at the President now.

As usual, his outburst hadn't lasted long. He'd fallen silent except for his aerobic breathing. Spence had chosen this time to break the disturbing news because it was a matter of personal importance and required complete privacy. On the jogging path it was unlikely that they could be overheard even by the Secret Service agents who tagged along a few yards behind.

They knew better than to get too close when the President was in conversation with Spence. Everything between them was strictly classified.

"How do you know Barrie Travis went to Wyoming?" the President huffed.

"She hasn't been home in two days. Her dog's boarded at a kennel." "I didn't ask if she was out of town," Merritt snapped. "I asked how you know she went to Wyoming."

Spence didn't let the dressing-down ruffle him. He con-116 Sandra Brown

sidered temper a weakness, even in presidents-especially in presidents.

"While you were in California, I talked to that bozo she works with." He told Merritt about meeting Howie Fripp in a neighborhood bar. "The guy's a moron. But even so, I don't think he knows where Travis went, because he gave two FBI agents the same story yesterday morning at the TV station. They said his fear stunk. If he'd known something, he would have told."

"Was her house searched?"

"Officially, no," Spence said. "We have no warrant or viable reason to obtain one."

"What about unofficially?"

"Unofficially, it was gone over by the best man in the business," Spence reported with a cold grin. "It looked to him like she was trying to cover her tracks. He didn't find a single note, or scrap of paper, or receipt, anything to indicate that she was leaving or why she was going. What he did find were several overdue books from the library, all relating to women's psychological disorders and SIDS."

Merritt wiped his perspiring forehead. "She's still on it."

"That's my guess. We located her car in a parking lot at National Airport, then started going through the passenger logs of all flights out of there over the last several days. She didn't travel under her own name, and there were no credit card charges on any of her accounts."

The President stopped running. Spence stopped, too. The Secret Service agents halted but kept their distance.

"She's being awfully paranoid," Merritt said.

"Right. When her name didn't appear on any of the logs, we checked airline agents until we found the one who sold her the ticket. Travis was traveling under an alias and paid for her ticket to Jackson Hole with cash. The airline employee identified her from a picture."

"She went to see Gray."

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"She went to see Gray." Spence's expression was as somber as the President's. "At least that's what we must assume."

Merritt stared into space, thinking it over. "He hates reporters. I don't think he would talk to her."

"Are you willing to take that chance?"

"Damn." Merritt flicked a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose. "What if we're too late? If she's talked to Gray, if he's told her anything-"

"Then we have a potential problem," Spence said.

"Prior to an election year, we can't afford even àpotential' problem."

"I agree." Spence locked gazes with Merritt. "I think we have to guarantee this reporter's silence."

The President nodded, then resumed jogging. "Do whatever you deem necessary."

Spence fell into step with him. "I'll see to it immediately."

"Are you shittin' me? The FBI?"

"That's what Howie said." Barrie was watching herself in the mirror as she talked long distance to Daily from her motel room in Jackson Hole. Was it the poor lighting in the room or her increasing apprehension that made her look so pale?

"Two agents went to WVUE and questioned him about me." She recounted for Daily everything she could remember that Howie had related to her. "They scared him shitless. Literally. He went into details that don't bear repeating about distress in his lower bowel."

"This is no laughing matter, Barrie."

Another defense mechanism she'd developed during childhood was a sardonic sense of humor. This time her wit did nothing to alleviate the grave situation. She had hoped that Daily would dismiss her concerns. Instead, he was underscoring them. "What do you think it means?"

"I think it means that you've made people nervous."

"What people?"

"Maybe just Dalton Neely. Your repeated calls have EXCLUSIVE 119

annoyed the White House press secretary; they insinuate that he's being less than truthful about the First Lady's wellbeing. His way of telling you to back off is to sic the feds on you."

"Or?"

"Or," he sighed, "it could go all the way up to the Oval Office. Did Howie have any theories?"

"He and Jenkins were told that the inquiry was strictly routine, then Howie told them that my interest in Vanessa was a friendly outgrowth of the recent interview."

"Did they buy that?"

"They seemed to. That probably capped it."

"Probably."

After a moment she said, "Daily, we're agreeing on a point that neither of us believes."

They were quiet for a while, the only sound on the line being Daily's wheezing breath. Finally he asked, "I almost forgot-how was Bondurant?" Her heart executed a flawless swan dive. How was Bondurant? In or out of bed?

In bed, he was bloody fabulous. Out. . . "About what I expected. Hostile.

Taciturn."

"Didn't greet you with open arms, huh?"

In a manner of speaking, he had. "Well, not exactly."

"Did he shed any light on the topic?"

"Not a ray. Not on purpose anyway. I'm convinced that there were some strong feelings between him and Vanessa. At least from his side."

"You think they did the nasty thing?"