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Or so she had hoped. Obviously, Barrie Travis had been a poor choice. She wasn't only reckless, she was brainless.

So where could she turn next?

Out of habit, Vanessa reached for her telephone.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Hello!" the senator said. "I was going to call you later. How're you doing?"

"Fine."

"Quiet evening at home?"

"David's making a speech to some labor union convention. I forget where."

"Want me to come over and keep you company?"

"No, but thanks." She couldn't drink as much when her father was around.

"You shouldn't be alone, sweetheart."

"David's coming back tonight. It'll be late, but he promised to wake me."

After a pause, during which she could envision her father's steep frown, he said, "Maybe you should go back to

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your gynecologist. See if he can give you some hormones or something." He attributed all female ailments to a hormonal imbalance.

"That would hurt George's feelings."

"Screw George and his feelings," the senator boomed. "We're talking about your health here. George is a nice guy, and I assume he's a competent physician for routine stuff like bellyaches and flu shots. But you need a specialist. You need a psychiatrist."

"No, Daddy. No, I don't. Everything is under control."

"Losing little Robert has thrown your whole system out of kilter."

Vanessa took a sip of wine to deaden the sharp pain of remorse that his words sent through her. "David wouldn't approve. The First Lady can't have a shrink."

"It can be handled confidentially. Besides, who'd think badly of you for getting some help when you need it most? I'll talk to David about it."

"No!"

"Baby-"

"Please, Daddy, don't worry him. I'll get through it. It's just going to take me a little more time than we thought."

She had learned at the knee of the master, Senator Cletus Armbruster, how to practice politics. By the time they said good night, she had his promise not to confront David about her health.

To calm herself, she washed down another Valium with her wine, then floated into the bathroom and changed into a nightgown and robe. Propped up in bed, she tried to attend to some personal correspondence, but she couldn't control her fountain pen. She tried to read the new bestseller that had everybody talking, but she found it difficult to focus her eyes and make sense of the words. She was about to give up and turn out the lamp when someone

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knocked on her door. She got out of bed and crossed the room.

"Vanessa?"

She opened the door. "Hello, Spence."

"Were you asleep?"

"I was reading." Spence never failed to rattle her. She ran her fingers through her hair. "What do you want?"

"The President asked me to check on you."

"Really?" she said sarcastically.

"He regretted having to leave you alone tonight."

"Why should tonight be any different?"

Spencer Martin's eyes didn't even flicker. It took a lot more than impertinence to provoke him. Even when provoked, he didn't show it. That had been part of his training.

The Nixon administration had had Gordon Liddy, who bore a scar in the center of his palm from holding it over a candle flame until the flesh melted. Liddy had nothing over Spencer Martin. He was scary in his own right. And invaluable to the President.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked with aloof courtesy. "Like what?"

"Anything."

"Don't trouble yourself."

"It's no trouble, I assure you. How are you feeling?"

"Fucking great. How are you feeling?"

"You're upset. Let me call Dr. Allan to come over."

"I don't need him," she shouted. "What I need. . ." She paused to gather stamina. "What I need is for somebody around here to acknowledge that I had a son, and that he's dead."

"It's been acknowledged, Vanessa. Why dwell on it? What's the point in belaboring the fact that your son-"

"Say his name, you bastard." She lunged forward and grabbed the lapels of his perfectly tailored jacket. "It's hard for 56 Sandra Brown

you and David to call him by name, isn't it? Your consciences won't let you.

Say it!" she shouted. "Say it right now!"

A Secret Service agent rushed into the room. "Mr. Martin, is something wrong?"

"The First Lady isn't well," he said. "Call Dr. Allan to come immediately."

Spence backed her into her room and closed the door. "Going to lock me in my room, Spence?"

"Not at all. If you want to make a spectacle of yourself in front of the staff, be my guest," he said smoothly, gesturing toward the door.

Vanessa lapsed into sullen silence, but defiantly poured herself another glass of wine. By the time the doctor arrived, she had finished that one and was having another.

"She's drunk, George," Spence announced.

She fought off Dr. Allan when he tried to examine her. "Vanessa, your medication doesn't allow you to drink this much."

Spence then ordered him to give her something to shut her up. "I really shouldn't. I have to increase the dosage to make it effective."

"I don't care what you have to do," said the man of steel.

Vanessa bared her arm. "Give me the goddamn drug! The only time I know any peace is when I'm asleep. And, as Spence pointed out, I'm not sleepy, I'm drunk."

As the drug cruised through her system, David came striding into the room.

He was obviously furious over the scene she'd created while he was away.

Too damn back Mr. President, she thought, although she was too relaxed now to articulate the words.

He and Spence and Dr. Allan conducted a tense, hushed conversation at the foot of her bed. At the conclusion of it, she heard Spence say, "We can't let this go on any longer."

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What, precisely, did that mean? She had wished for sweet oblivion, but now she struggled to fight it off.

She was in a deep sleep when they came for her just before dawn.

J resident Merritt concluded his telephone conversation with Barrie Travis and turned to his adviser. "What do you think?"

Spencer Martin had heard every word over the speakerphone. "She was fishing, but you handled it well," he replied. "You declined her request, but you did it graciously. Did her call go through Dalton?"

"Yes. She played it by the book."

"Then it was even more gracious of you to turn her down personally. I guess she thought there was no harm in asking for an exclusive with you to discuss your campaign strategy. Apparently she's now on a first-name basis with Vanessa, and you sent her those flowers. It's natural for her to think she has an inside track to the Oval Office."

David Merritt stared through the windows overlooking the carefully tended grounds of the White House. Visitors were queued up along the iron picket fence, waiting to take the standard tour, during which they'd gawk at the dinnerware of former presidents.

Privately, he scorned the American public, but he loved EXCLUSIVE 59

being their president, and he was going to hate relinquishing this address, even after his second term. He never considered that there wouldn't be a second. Being reelected was a foregone conclusion. It was in the program he'd set for himself back in that trailer park in Biloxi. With very few deviations, everything had gone according to his master plan. Nothing would be allowed to interfere with the future that David Malcomb Merritt had outlined for himself. Nothing.

As though reading his mind, Spence said, "Wonder why she threw in that last question about Vanessa."

"My wife's well-being is on everybody's mind these days. It would have been more suspicious if she hadn't mentioned her."

"I suppose," Spence said.

His lack of conviction brought Merritt around, a question in his expression.

Spence shrugged. "It's just that several weeks ago, Barrie Travis appeared out of nowhere. Now, every time we turn around, she pops up." He swore beneath his breath. "What was Vanessa thinking when she pulled that stunt?

And why is this reporter still hungry? I can understand her snooping around D.C. General before her SIDS series, but why after?"

"That bothered me, too," Merritt admitted. "But her source was made to see the error of her ways. I think Ms. Travis will find it very hard to cultivate another source at that hospital."

Barrie Travis might think her sources were secret, but Spence's were more so. The President hadn't asked in what manner or by whom Anna Chen had been confronted about leaking confidential information to the press. He'd merely been assured by Spence that the matter had been handledand if that's what Spence said, it was safe to etch it in stone.

Spence was good that way. If a problem arose, he took 60 Sandra Brown

care of it. No explanation required. No rationalization. No argument. Spence was hassle-free. Unlike their friend Gray Bondurant, who had insisted on knowing the why and wherefore of every damn executive request.

When action was called for, David Merritt wanted action without having to justify it. He wanted expediency and didn't give a damn about the integrity of the deed. Gray did. Integrity was a big thing to Gray. "I think Barrie Travis is just an overzealous reporter. She had her fifteen minutes-and that's stretching it-and now she's trying to maximize her brush with fame. Unfortunately, she's become a nuisance." The President chuckled. "She's a screw-up and everybody knows it. Relax. She's not smart enough to do any serious damage."

"I don't know, David," Spence said worriedly. "I think she's smarter than she's given credit for. If not for that one well-publicized gaffe, she could have been a media force to contend with. Her damned tenacity speaks volumes about her character."

"Or her recklessness and blind ambition."

"Either way, if she stays on this, it could hurt us."

Merritt looked at his adviser. Words between them were often unnecessary.

Like guerrilla fighters picking their way through an enemy-infested jungle, they could communicate without words, their eyes alone warning each other of possible hazards. This was one of those times.

"If you'd feel better about it, Spence, stay on top of it."

"I'd feel better about it."

Barrie stared thoughtfully at her shorthand transcript of her telephone conversation with President Merritt. She could find no fault with anything he'd said or how he'd said it. It had been a friendly little chat. He'd been firm but polite

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when refusing her request for an exclusive interview, but that hadn't disappointed or even surprised her. Asking for one had only been a pretext.

The purpose of the call had been to inquire about the First Lady.

Since that windy, cloudy day when she'd met Vanessa Merritt for cappuccino, Barrie had been looking for drama beneath every brick in Washington. There was none to be found. Sources had turned mute. The pager she wore twentyfour hours a day, the number of which only her sources and Daily knew, hadn't beeped once, so she'd broken the rules and phoned them.

Nobody knew a thing. She'd been ready to concede that her imagination had run away with her, and not for the first time.

Then the mysterious incident with Anna Chen had jump-started her sputtering conviction. The very next morning, Dalton Neely had called a press conference to announce that Mrs. Merritt was going into seclusion for an unspecified period of time. Following that shocking opener, he'd read a brief statement from the President:

"Senator Armbruster and I believe that Vanessa's responsibilities as First Lady haven't allowed her time to wholly recover from the tragic demise of our son. We've impressed upon her how valuable she is to us as an individual and as a patriot. She owes it to her family and to her country to be fully restored, physically and emotionally, before resuming the grueling schedule she imposes upon herself. For that purpose, she's taking an extended rest."

Questions from the floor had been entertained. This recuperative rest would be under Dr. George Allan's supervision, Neely had said in response to one. He had flatly denied that any alcohol or other substance abuse was involved. Barrie herself had shouted above her colleagues to ask when the First Lady might return; she'd been told it was too soon to speculate.

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Since then, Neely had given the news-starved media periodic updates on Mrs. Merritt's condition. According to Dr. Allan, she was responding favorably to the rest and relaxation. This morning, when Barrie had spoken to the President, he had thanked her for asking after his wife and promised to pass along her regards. She was improving rapidly, doing exceptionally well. He couldn't be more pleased by her progress.

Everything was just so peachy-fucking-keen.

"Like hell it is," Barrie muttered. The back of her neck was itching again. Something wasn't right. She reached for her telephone.

"D.C. General. How may I direct your call?"

"Anna Chen, please."

"Ms. Chen no longer works here."

"Excuse me?"

"Ms. Chen no longer works here. Can someone else help you?"

"Uh, no. Thanks."

Barrie hung up quickly and tried Anna Chen's home number. A pleasant, computer-generated voice told her the number was no longer in service. In less than five minutes Barrie was in her car, speeding to Anna Chen's apartment building. She jogged up the three flights of stairs and pressed the bell on the door of 3C. After ringing it several times, it became apparent that the apartment was empty.

Frustrated, she rang the doorbell of the neighbor across the hall.

Pressing her ear to the door, she heard motion inside and a whispered conversation. "Hello?" she called out, knocking on the door. "I'm looking for Ms. Chen."

The neighbor was a young executive type with a sleek ponytail and a monogrammed shirt, opened to the waistband of his slacks, which obviously had been hastily zipped; a corner of his shirttail was caught in the fly.

Looking beyond