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That evening, Dr. Allan pulled his car into the driveway of his home but made no effort to get out and go inside. He sat staring without seeing through the windshield, his hands lying listlessly in his lap. He was exhausted, lacking the initiative even to open the car door.

Lights were on inside the house, and he took comfort in that. Each time he returned, he feared he would find all the windows dark, the rooms deserted, the closets and bureau drawers empty. He lived in dread of Amanda moving out and taking the boys with her.

She had sworn she would fight for him, but at what point would she give up? When would she come to the realization that he might not be worth saving? He saw the disgust in her expression every morning when he appeared at the breakfast table, trembling and bleary-eyed, hungover from drink and guilt.

He loved Amanda for still caring enough to ask where he’d been and what he’d been doing, but he also resented her keen perception. She possessed an innate lie detector that was more accurate than any available to law enforcement agencies. Plausible explanations were increasingly harder to come by.

Guilt made him defensive and verbally abusive. After several nasty scenes, she had stopped asking him about the medical duties he was performing at David Merritt’s behest. Probably she’d stopped prying because she was sick of his lies, and possibly to spare their sons the trauma of overhearing the vicious quarrels.

Her eyes conveyed censure and contempt. He felt her patience wearing thin, her tolerance diminishing, her love dwindling. Any day now, she might leave him. Then he would die of shame and despair.

He took a hefty swig from the liquor bottle he’d kept tucked between his thighs on the drive home. He almost wished that a traffic cop had stopped him and arrested him for DUI. He would gladly have pleaded guilty to the charge. Jail time served for drunk driving would be preferable to the life sentence he was serving for David. If he were in jail, David would have to find another doctor to solve his problem. George would be more than happy to relinquish the duty.

He’d waited in the Oval Office until David returned from his hasty trip to the Caribbean, where his goodwill mission had been well documented by the media. The young, handsome, vital President Merritt was photographed sifting through storm damage and consoling islanders who’d lost homes and loved ones to a fierce force of nature.

If they only knew, George had thought, how much more destructive the man dispensing the platitudes is.

In spite of his long day, it seemed the trip had invigorated him. He sailed into the Oval Office looking robust and slightly suntanned. “George! What’s up?”

As if he didn’t know. “I regret to inform you that your wife has become ill again. This morning, I took it upon myself to move her to a private facility where she’ll be well cared for.”

The son of a bitch actually pretended to take the news badly. Subdued, he asked if his father-in-law had been notified.

“I thought you might wish to tell Senator Armbruster personally.”

David asked George to speak with Dalton Neely about the proper wording for a press release, and George agreed to do so first thing tomorrow morning.

If he noticed Dr. Allan’s haunted expression and lack of enthusiasm for his current project, he gave no sign of it. He was confident that his instructions would be carried out to the letter no matter how George felt about them.

What ax is he holding over your head?

George rued the day he’d met David Merritt. What had seemed at the time an auspicious occasion had turned out to be the most ill-omened event in his life. Quite by accident—or had it been as random as David made it seem?—the promising young resident had met the up-and-coming young congressman on a racquetball court. When the two shook hands, George experienced a power surge in his arm. It was as though he’d received an injection of David’s charisma and energy. That infusion forged a friendship.

They began meeting to play racquetball or to have a drink or a quick lunch. The Allans, newlyweds on a tight budget, couldn’t entertain lavishly, but David seemed perfectly at ease having hamburger dinners on the patio of their modest apartment. When he married, his bride was less enthusiastic about these casual evenings with the Allans. Vanessa and Amanda hadn’t bonded as their husbands had. George guessed it was because Amanda was so intellectually superior to Vanessa. The two women couldn’t have had more dissimilar personalities and interests. But their indifference to each other hadn’t hampered the friendship between him and David.

It wasn’t long before George considered David his best and most trusted friend. So naturally, when his life seemed on the verge of disaster, David was the person to whom he ran for help.

The patient admitted to the emergency room, a young black male, had collapsed during a neighborhood basketball game. Judging by the age and appearance of the patient and his friends, George immediately suspected a drug overdose. He asked the gang what drugs their friend had been doing that day.

“He wants to play in the fuckin’ NBA,” one of the boys informed him. “He don’t do no heavy drugs.”

George wasn’t convinced. Every symptom screamed barbiturate OD combined with alcohol. He ordered a gastric lavage and ipecac.

What George didn’t know, but was told by the patient’s mother when she arrived, was that he’d had rheumatic fever as a child, which had left him with a damaged aortic valve. He was suffering heart failure brought on by a vigorous game of basketball.

Before George could take the necessary measures to correct his mistake, the ipecac took effect. The boy aspirated into his lungs and literally drowned in his own vomit.

Stricken with guilt and panic, George ran to David, who listened while he blubbered out his story. “He was disori

ented and couldn’t tell me. He could’ve made it if I hadn’t jumped to the wrong conclusion. A more thorough pulmonary examination would have—”

“Did the other kids tell you he had a weak heart?”

“The mother said he never wanted any of his friends to know, or they’d think he was a sissy. Jesus,” he sobbed, burying his face in his hands, “the mother could sue the hospital and me for malpractice.”

He saw his career being grounded before it ever got off the ground. He was only months away from completing his residency. His and Amanda’s dreams were dashed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” David said calmly. “What were you supposed to think? He was a black street kid, for crying out loud.”