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Chapter Nineteen

To say that the President was upset was quite an understatement.

By telephone, Merritt had just informed Dr. George Allan of his surprise visit from Gray Bondurant. He made it sound as though he’d been delighted to see his old friend, but George could read between the lines: David didn’t want Gray lurking around Washington, looking too closely into the death of Robert Rushton Merritt.

George had convinced himself, as the nation had been convinced, that the infant had died of SIDS. When he’d rushed to the White House nursery that night after being summoned from home, he had accepted David’s word that he and Vanessa had discovered the child dead in his bassinet.

Not wanting to know any different, George hadn’t asked many questions. He’d facilitated the baby’s burial, as instructed by the President. End of story.

Only it wasn’t. Vanessa had gotten a nosy reporter involved, who, according to David, had approached Gray Bondurant. Obviously, David’s purposes were better served by putting a slightly different spin on what had actually transpired in the nursery. He surely didn’t want Gray Bondurant’s curiosity aroused. Because if anyone could unmask David Merritt, it was Gray.

“What about the, uh, reporter?” George asked. “I heard on the news that her house was destroyed in an explosion.”

“Yes, I heard that too. It’s unfortunate, of course, but at least her personal crisis has diverted her attention away from us.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “This is all Vanessa’s fault. She’s responsible for Barrie Travis’s tenacious interest. If she hadn’t contacted her in the first place, we wouldn’t have her pestering us now.” Then he asked, “How’s Vanessa today?”

That was the President’s graceful transition into the real purpose of this call. George, keeping his panic in abeyance, gave him an update on his wife’s condition.

Then David issued George his instructions.

He didn’t spell them out, but he didn’t need to. The message was clear to anyone who was listening for it, and George was.

Today was the day. The President was cashing in his marker.

George replaced the telephone receiver and covered his clammy face with his hands. He was trembling from the inside out. There was a loud roaring in his ears. He felt faint and nauseated.

He considered calling Amanda. Stalwart and serene, she was an island of calm in the chaos he’d made of his life. Sometimes just the sound of her voice gave him hope, even though the landscape of his future was a minefield leading to disaster. And that was reason enough not to call her. Why burden her with the consequences of his mistakes?

Instead of telephoning his wife, he took a Valium.

This was the kind of dirty work David usually assigned to Spence. Spence wouldn’t have the shakes. Spence wouldn’t need a Valium. George wondered what David was holding over Spence to command such blind obedience. Or was it the other way around? Was Spence the puppeteer and David the puppet? Or—and this was most probable—Spence didn’t need a reason for doing the things he did.

He thrived on cruelty. He had never loved a woman or known a woman’s love. He’d never witnessed the birth of a child he’d created through love. He’d never held a squirming new life in his arms and looked down at it with tears in his eyes. He’d never experienced guilt or remorse, either.

George might be a coward, but he was a better man than Spence Martin.

But that point was moot. Spence, it seemed, had vanished. In carefully couched words, David had suggested that Gray was responsible for Spence’s unexplainable absence. George hoped that if Gray had killed him, he’d made the heartless bastard suffer first.

Gray was smart for getting out when he had. George wished he had that kind of courage. Gray had said, “I’m outa here,” and that was that. But then, Gray hadn’t had a noose around his neck.

George did, and it had just gotten tighter.

He pinched the bridge of his nose until it hurt. Then he lowered his hand and looked across at the closed door of the small, paneled study. He could sit here another hour or

two staring at that door, but eventually, he would have to carry out the presidential directive. The longer he put it off, the more he would think about it, and the more he thought about it, the more contemptible it became.

He came to his feet with all the alacrity of a ninety-year-old. His tread was leaden as he left the study and crossed the hall.

The sickroom was stifling.

Jayne Gaston was an attentive nurse. She conscientiously bathed her patient every morning and changed the linens on the bed. But a sickroom was a sickroom, and illness had an odor.

Dr. George Allan approached the bed. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s sleeping now.” The nurse gazed sympathetically at her patient.

George gave Vanessa a cursory examination. He listened to her heartbeat, checked the chart for her blood pressure and temperature, all without looking at her face. Her eyes were closed, thank God. He couldn’t have looked into her eyes. After this, he wondered, how would he ever be able to look into Amanda’s, or his own.

“She became agitated a while ago and began crying,” the nurse reported. “She begged me to let her get up. Dr. Allan, if she feels strong enough, I don’t see—”