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“Perhaps she felt it was time to start solving her problems herself,” David said. “Or maybe she didn’t want to worry you. In any event, she begged me not to tell you any more than we’re telling the public, which of course is the truth. She’s dealing with her bereavement in seclusion.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes George to get her stabilized. Vanessa feels the same. She wants to be the First Lady she was before she had the baby. Once her medication is regulated, there’s no reason she can’t be. Hold the thought,” he said, forestalling Clete’s next comment.

Merritt picked up the remote for the large-screen TV, which had been muted. During their conversation, Clete had noticed that David’s attention was divided between him and the screen. He turned to see what had piqued the President’s interest.

A reporter, standing against a backdrop of scorched trees, smoking rubble, and working firemen, announced, “The quick response of firefighters prevented the flames from spreading to other residences on this

street near Dupont Circle. The fire was confined to only one townhouse.” The camera panned the black, smoking remains of a building. “This morning, ATF agents and local fire officials are raking through the smoldering rubble, searching for clues as to the cause of the explosion.”

He referred to his notes. “The townhouse was owned by Barrie Travis, a reporter for WVUE, a local, independent television station. Ms. Travis recently won acclaim for producing a feature series on SIDS. It’s believed that Ms. Travis survived the explosion, but thus far she’s been unavailable for comment.”

He signed off and the anchorman in the studio came on. David muted the TV as his father-in-law stood up. “I intend to keep hounding her until she sees me.”

“Barrie Travis?” David asked sharply.

“Why in hell would I want to see her? Shame about her house, but she’s a pain in the butt. Been pestering my office for a statement about Vanessa’s seclusion.” He made a swatting motion with his hand, signaling his dismissal of the reporter.

“I want to see Vanessa,” he stressed. “She should know I’m not going to scold her over a few glasses of wine. She can’t help being sick.”

“My sentiments exactly, Clete. I pleaded with her not to blame herself for any of this, but you know how Vanessa strives for perfection. She hates catering to the limitations that the manic-depression imposes on her.”

Merritt clapped him on the shoulder and ushered him to the door. “I wish we could visit longer, but I’ve got a slew of appointments this morning. I’ll be speaking with Vanessa by phone this afternoon. I’ll give her your love.”

“You do that.”

The senator had allowed himself to be patted on the back and to be led like a child to the door. But if David Merritt, President of the United States, thought he could placate him with a few banal comments and then ease him out of the Oval Office with his glib talk and guileless smile, he was wrong.

A smiling David Merritt opened the door.

An unsmiling Clete Armbruster shut it.

Merritt looked at him, perplexed. “What is it, Clete?”

“You and me go back a long way, David. I recognize talent and potential when I see it, and in you I saw plenty of both. I didn’t want to be president but I wanted to create one. You had the raw material necessary. You took coaching well. You were a fast study in politics. My instincts about you were right, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

“Thanks.”

“But I remember one night eighteen years ago when you came to me, scared shitless and whimpering like a pup because you’d fucked up so bad. You remember that night, David my boy?”

“What’s your point?” Merritt said tightly.

“The point is,” Armbruster said, moving in closer, “that the incident to which I refer bears enough of a resemblance to this one to make me mighty uncomfortable.”

“My God, Clete, you can’t compare—”

The senator stopped the earnest appeal by thumping his fist into Merritt’s chest. “I know your marriage to my daughter isn’t perfect. No marriage is. I know you screw around. Hell, I’ve even covered for you, because I accept that you are a man first and my son-in-law second. I’ve tolerated your dalliances because, basically, you’ve made Vanessa happy.” He lowered his voice to a deep growl. “But if you ever make her unhappy, I’m going to be pissed, David. You hear me, boy?”

“Careful, Clete. It sounds as though you’re threatening the President of the United States.”

“You’re goddamn right I am,” Armbruster said angrily. “You better remember who put you in this office. I made you, I can break you. I’m not afraid of that slick little shit Spence Martin or his secret army of thugs or anybody else. I have power in this town that you can’t imagine. I’ve cultivated a lot of friends and an equal number of enemies, and I’m holding markers for every one of them.”

He paused to give that time to sink in. “Now, son, I want you to tell me that Vanessa is going to be as right as rain when Dr. Allan gets finished with her up there in Highpoint.”

“I swear it.”

The senator gave him a long, level look. “You’d better not be lying to me, David. Or you can kiss your pecker and your presidency bye-bye.”