“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.”
“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.
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 considered 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 h