Exclusive (32 page)

She threw her hip out and rested her hand on it. "You don't say?"

"You work hard to win Daddy's notice and approval. You seek affection, but you're also afraid of it. You assume a feminist air, rejecting a man before he can reject you, but that hard-core posture conflicts with your natural tendencies, which are altogether feminine. Your father made you wary of men."

"I'm not wary, Bondurant. I'm smart. And I'm not mistrustful of all men, just some."

"Most."

"Most are untrustworthy. Unlike my mother, I'll never let a man treat me as though I'm invisible. Which brings us around to you and the purpose of this conversation. I don't expect chocolates and roses from you. Just don't look through me and pretend that I don't matter."

"Fair enough."

"Good. Fine. Good night."

"Good night."

Alone in the cramped bedroom, lying on the narrow cot, Barrie realized that she'd made her point. But it was a very empty victory.

Vanessa Merritt was having breakfast in bed. She hadn't been out of her bedroom in three days, ever since the night David had struck her. He hadn't been to see her, either.

Propped against a mound of pillows, she watched Katie Couric interview the defense secretary, who'd recently returned from North Africa. There had been reports of a military buildup in Libya and air strikes against Israel. The Libyan government denied responsibility for the bombings. The secretary had advised President Merritt not to take any drastic measures, either political or military, until intelligence networks had substantiated the reports.

David would be furious if he was forced to take aggressive action. That kind of executive decision invariably provoked strong bipartisan responses and public outcries. Engaging in even a skirmish with hostile forces could cost votes.

Vanessa smiled at the thought of the dilemma this might cause him. Her smile disappeared when an assistant tapped on the door and announced that Dr. Allan wished to see her. "What

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do you want, George?" she asked ungraciously as he approached her bed. "Is that any kind of greeting?" he asked, his bedside manner impeccable. "I came to check on you."

"Did David order it?"

He pretended not to see the unsightly bruise and swelling beneath her eye.

"He left this morning for the Caribbean to check on the hurricane damage."

She nodded toward the TV. "The news covered his farewell wave as he boarded the plane at Andrews. He looked very resolved. I'm sure that singlehandedly he'll slay the hurricane like a dragon. Sir David the Dauntless."

"Sarcasm doesn't flatter you, Vanessa." He slipped a blood pressure cuff on her arm.

"Neither does this bruise on my cheek, which you've so admirably tried to ignore. Was David afraid I might need reconstructive surgery on my cheekbone? Is that why he sent for you-to assess the damage and give him an estimate on repairing it?"

"I came because it's time for another blood-level check." He removed the blood pressure cuff and replaced it with a strip of rubber, which he wrapped tightly around her biceps to form a tourniquet. "And David thought that perhaps more rest might be required before you're fully recovered."

" `Rest'? You mean seclusion?"

God, no! she screamed. Silently. What good would it do her to scream out loud?

The Secret Service agents would come running. She would accuse George of trying to kill her a second time. Her guards and the assistant who'd shown George in-she looked like the kindliest of grandmothers in her baggy sweaters and SAS shoes but was undoubtedly one of David's well-placed spies-would look upon her with pity for being so far gone. She would be drugged and carted off anyway.

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There was no one to help her. She was trapped. During the press conference she had tried signaling for someone to come to her rescue. Hadn't anyone who knew her well noticed that she wasn't wearing her mother's wedding ring?

Apparently not. Not Gray, anyway. Spence had disappeared, but his loyalty was strictly to David anyway. She remembered her father's whispered promise that he had everything under control, but where was he this morning?

"I want to call my father," she said as George swabbed the inside of her elbow with icy alcohol.

"I'll phone him for you later. Make a fist for me so I can draw some blood."

"I want to call him now," she said in a voice made shrill with fear. She threw off the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Unmindful of her nakedness, she reached for the telephone on her nightstand. Nervously, she juggled the receiver and wound up dropping it.

She dropped to the floor on all fours and scrambled to pick up the telephone.

"Vanessa, for God's sake!" George placed his hands around her waist and tried to pull her up.

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch!"

She fought him, but he knocked the phone from her hand and hauled her to her feet. She flailed her arms. Curling her fingers, she tried to rake his face with her nails. "I won't let you do this to me again."

"I'm only trying to help you."

"You lying hypocrite," she hissed. "Stop pretending. We both know why you're here. You've been ordered to put me out of commission again, right?

At least until the evidence of my husband's abuse has healed. Bad press for the First Lady to be sporting a shiner after a domestic quarrel, huh?"

Again she struggled, but his arms held her fast. "Don't work yourself up, Vanessa, or I'll have to sedate you."

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"If he asked you to, would you kill me, George?"

"Jesus, no!"

"Liar. You tried up at Highpoint. What's he got on you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You're covering a murder for him, so he must have a secret on you. What is it, George?"

"I don't know anything about a murder."

"Oh yes you do. But you won't tell because David's got you, doesn't he? I know him, you see. That's the way he operates. What ax is he holding over your head? Something to do with Amanda? That would get you where you hurt most, wouldn't it? You've always been so fond of that insipid wife of yours. Or has David threatened the lives of your children? He's good at that too. Take it from me, he's-Ow!"

Without her noticing, he'd reached for a prepared syringe and driven the needle into her thigh, depressing the plunger before she could stop him.

"I'm sorry, Vanessa. You gave me no choice."

"You had a choice, George. We all have choices. Damn you!" she cried, her voice cracking. "Damn you and David to hell."

That evening, Dr. Allan pulled his car into the driveway of his home but made no effort to get out and go inside. He sat staring without seeing through the windshield, his hands lying listlessly in his lap. He was exhausted, lacking the initiative even to open the car door.

Lights were on inside the house, and he took comfort in that. Each time he returned, he feared he would find all the windows dark, the rooms deserted, the closets and bureau drawers empty. He lived in dread of Amanda moving out and taking the boys with her.

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She had sworn she would fight for him, but at what point would she give up? When would she come to the realization that he might not be worth saving? He saw the disgust in her expression every morning when he appeared at the breakfast table, trembling and bleary-eyed, hungover from drink and guilt.

He loved Amanda for still caring enough to ask where he'd been and what he'd been doing, but he also resented her keen perception. She possessed an innate lie detector that was more accurate than any available to law enforcement agencies. Plausible explanations were increasingly harder to come by.

Guilt made him defensive and verbally abusive. After several nasty scenes, she had stopped asking him about the medical duties he was performing at David Merritt's behest. Probably she'd stopped prying because she was sick of his lies, and possibly to spare their sons the trauma of overhearing the vicious quarrels.

Her eyes conveyed censure and contempt. He felt her patience wearing thin, her tolerance diminishing, her love dwindling. Any day now, she might leave him. Then he would die of shame and despair.

He took a hefty swig from the liquor bottle he'd kept tucked between his thighs on the drive home. He almost wished that a traffic cop had stopped him and arrested him for DUI. He would gladly have pleaded guilty to the charge. Jail time served for drunk driving would be preferable to the life sentence he was serving for David. If he were in jail, David would have to find another doctor to solve his problem. George would be more than happy to relinquish the duty.

He'd waited in the Oval Office until David returned from his hasty trip to the Caribbean, where his goodwill mission had been well documented by the media. The young,

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handsome, vital President Merritt was photographed sifting through storm damage and consoling islanders who'd lost homes and loved ones to a fierce force of nature.

If they only knew, George had thought, how much more destructive the man dispensing the platitudes is.

In spite of his long day, it seemed the trip had invigorated him. He sailed into the Oval Office looking robust and slightly suntanned. "George!

What's up?"

As if he didn't know. "I regret to inform you that your wife has become ill again. This morning, I took it upon myself to move her to a private facility where she'll be well cared for."

The son of a bitch actually pretended to take the news badly. Subdued, he asked if his father-in-law had been notified.

"I thought you might wish to tell Senator Armbruster personally."

David asked George to speak with Dalton Neely about the proper wording for a press release, and George agreed to do so first thing tomorrow morning.

If he noticed Dr. Allan's haunted expression and lack of enthusiasm for his current project, he gave no sign of it. He was confident that his instructions would be carried out to the letter no matter how George felt about them.

What ax is he holding over your head?

George rued the day he'd met David Merritt. What had seemed at the time an auspicious occasion had turned out to be the most ill-omened event in his life. Quite by accidentor had it been as random as David made it seem?-the promising young resident had met the up-and-coming young congressman on a racquetball court. When the two shook hands, George experienced a power surge in his arm. It was as though he'd received an injection of David's charisma and energy. That infusion forged a friendship.

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They began meeting to play racquetball or to have a drink or a quick lunch. The Allans, newlyweds on a tight budget, couldn't entertain lavishly, but David seemed perfectly at ease having hamburger dinners on the patio of their modest apartment. When he married, his bride was less enthusiastic about these casual evenings with the Allans. Vanessa and Amanda hadn't bonded as their husbands had. George guessed it was because Amanda was so intellectually superior to Vanessa. The two women couldn't have had more dissimilar personalities and interests. But their indifference to each other hadn't hampered the friendship between him and David.

It wasn't long before George considered David his best and most trusted friend. So naturally, when his life seemed on the verge of disaster, David was the person to whom he ran for help.

The patient admitted to the emergency room, a young black male, had collapsed during a neighborhood basketball game. Judging by the age and appearance of the patient and his friends, George immediately suspected a drug overdose. He asked the gang what drugs their friend had been doing that day.

"He wants to play in the fuckin' NBA," one of the boys informed him. "He don't do no heavy drugs."

George wasn't convinced. Every symptom screamed barbiturate OD combined with alcohol. He ordered a gastric lavage and ipecac.

What George didn't know, but was told by the patient's mother when she arrived, was that he'd had rheumatic fever as a child, which had left him with a damaged aortic valve. He was suffering heart failure brought on by a vigorous game of basketball.

Before George could take the necessary measures to correct his mistake, the ipecac took effect. The boy aspirated into his lungs and literally drowned in his own vomit.

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Stricken with guilt and panic, George ran to David, who listened while he blubbered out his story. "He was disoriented and couldn't tell me. He could've made it if I hadn't jumped to the wrong conclusion. A more thorough pulmonary examination would have-"

"Did the other kids tell you he had a weak heart?"

"The mother said he never wanted any of his friends to know, or they'd think he was a sissy. Jesus," he sobbed, burying his face in his hands,

"the mother could sue the hospital and me for malpractice."

He saw his career being grounded before it ever got off the ground. He was only months away from completing his residency. His and Amanda's dreams were dashed.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," David said calmly. "What were you supposed to think? He was a black street kid, for crying out loud."

"It never occurred to me that it was his heart."

"Of course not."

"But it should have," George insisted. "I shouldn't have dismissed other possibilities just because one diagnosis seemed so obvious."

"Look," David said, "if you think I'm going to let my friend suffer for an honest mistake for the rest of his life, you've got another thing coming. Do you trust me?"

Mesmerized by David's composure, George nodded.

"Did anyone overhear the boy's mother telling you about his heart defect?"

"I don't think so. We were alone."

"Good."

"But it'll be in his records. She brought them to the hospital with her."

"Where are they now?" David asked smoothly.

George produced the incriminating folder and gave it to David. "You never saw it, understand?" David said as he