The pair thanked Jenkins and Howie for their time and left.
Howie didn’t make as clean a getaway. Jenkins’s glower was as good as shackles around his ankles. “Do you know something you’re not telling?” he demanded.
“No, sir.”
“What’s her hot story?”
“Just like I told them, Mr. Jenkins, I swear to God I don’t know. But Barrie said it would make chicken feed of Watergate.”
“So it is political?”
“She didn’t say. Just that it was big.”
Jenkins aimed an imperative index finger at him. “I won’t have some radical lunatic working at my TV station.”
“Barrie’s not a lunatic, sir. She’s a good reporter. You told her so yourself in your memo.”
“I never sent her any memo. What the fuck’re you talking about, Fripp?”
* * *
“George?”
Vanessa wasn’t sure she’d made herself heard, but the doctor glanced down at her and smiled. “Glad to see you awake. How’re you feeling?”
“Not good.” She was nauseated, and it was difficult to focus on his multiple, wavering images. She vaguely remembered a nasty scene. George had given her a shot to sedate her. It seemed like a very long time ago. “What’s wrong with me? Where’s David?”
“The President and I agreed that you needed absolute bed rest, so we moved you here.” He patted her arm, but she probably wouldn’t have felt his touch if she hadn’t been looking at her hand, where an IV needle was dripping a clear solution into her veins.
Motion on the other side of the bed drew her attention. A nurse was smiling down at her. “I’m Jayne Gaston,” she said. She was fifty-five or thereabouts, with a wide, pleasant face and short salt-and-pepper hair.
“Mrs. Gaston’s been staying with you round the clock,” George said. “She’s taking excellent care of you, and so far you’ve been an ideal patient.”
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.”
“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.”