“I hope you’re taking better care of her than you are of yourself. You look terrible.”

“Good-bye, Mamie.” He shut the door and leaned his forehead against the inner surface. Please go away. I already have more than I can handle. I can’t deal with you too.

God he hated her, loathed the very sight of her. As an enlightened man of the nineties—and a physician to boot—he knew you couldn’t hold the mentally ill responsible for their acts. But that didn’t mean he had to forgive them.

And John would never forgive Mamie for what she had done. No matter what army of psychiatrists she assembled to proclaim her mentally and emotionally stable and perfectly fit to return to society, he would never allow Mamie back into Katie’s life.

He stood on tiptoe and peeked through the miniature fanlight in the upper panel of the door. The front yard was empty. Mamie was gone. And she’d better stay gone or she’d screw up everything. But he didn’t doubt for a moment that she’d be back.

“John?” His mother’s voice, coming from upstairs.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Was someone at the door?”

“Just a salesman. Mom. Go get some rest. I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens.” Katie, Tom, Mom, Snake, Mamie—how long could he keep all the balls in the air without dropping one?

Feeling as if he were about to explode, John returned to the kitchen and settled down to the task of arranging to poison the President of the United States.

Steeling himself, he punched in the direct line to Betty Kenny. Betty had started out as a clerk-typist in Tom’s office when he was a lowly congressman. She’d moved with him to the Senate and was now his personal secretary, controlling his all-important appointment book. To get to Tom you had to get past Battleship Betty. But she knew John and liked him; and he knew how she worried about her boss’s health.

“Hi, Betty,” he said, trying to sound light and carefree with no idea if he was succeeding. “It’s John Vanduyne. I need a few moments with your boss tomorrow to check his blood pressure. Will he be around?” He crossed his fingers. Please say yes.

“Hi, John. Let me check. Weren’t you here for that just the other day?”

“Yeah. Wednesday. And I didn’t like what I found.” Her voice dropped.

“Really? Was it bad?”

“I probably shouldn’t have said that. Forget what you just heard, okay?”

“I won’t say a word. You know that. But I want to know: Should I be worried?”

He played on her concern. “His pressure was borderline high, but I want to keep an eye on it. Especially if he’s traveling to The Hague next week.”

“I understand. Let’s see… he’s got a meeting in the Oval Office at ten… this won’t take long, will it?”

“Ten minutes, fifteen at most.”

“Okay. Why don’t I keep that half hour between nine thirty and ten o’clock clear? How’s that?”

“Perfect.” The word was bitter in his mouth.

A little small talk and he was off the phone again, leaning back, trembling.

Stage two completed.

He’d been so cool on the phone, on autopilot, but now the weight of what he was planning crept back to him.

Especially if he’s traveling to The Hague next week…

But I’ll be doing my damnedest to make sure he doesn’t get to The Hague next week, John thought. If he shows up there, Katie dies.

I’m just going to make him sick, he told himself for the thousandth time since opening the mailbox this morning. He won’t die. He may almost die, but the cutting-edge medical care available to the President of the United States will pull him through.

But what if the chloramphenicol didn’t have any effect on Tom’s marrow? It was a possibility. What then? Or what if there was a delayed reaction that didn’t kick in for weeks? Would Snake believe he’d dosed Tom as instructed? Not for a minute.

John wanted to scream, but that would wake up his mother.

Time to go on autopilot again.

He glanced at his watch. He had to get down to the pharmacy and pretend to be Henry Johnson picking up his pills.

I’m becoming a master of deception, he thought. I’ve lied to my mother, Terri, my office, a pharmacist, Tom’s secretary, and tomorrow, my best friend.

He realized with a sick, sinking feeling that the only one he’d been truthful with all day was Snake.

Saturday

1

“John?” He recognized the voice and stiffened. He’d been standing here, waiting for the elevator to the White House’s first floor, silently screaming at it to hurry before he ran into anyone he knew.

Too late. He turned and saw Terri coming down the hall. He forced a smile.

“Terri. I didn’t think you worked weekends.”

“There are no weekends in a PR crisis of this magnitude.” Her welcoming smile faded as she neared. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he said. “Why?”

“Because you look awful.”

I’ll bet I don’t look a tenth as bad as I feel.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, seriously.” Her brow was furrowed as she peered at him. “That must have been some virus.” Virus? What—? Oh, yes. The virus lie. Had to keep all these stories straight.

Another forced smile. “Hey, you don’t think I’d pass up an evening with you for anything minor, do you.”

“I didn’t realize… are you sure you should be up and about yet? You look completely washed out.”

“I’m tired but that’s about it. Another day of pushing fluids and I should be back to normal.” The elevator doors opened then and he quickly stepped inside, praying she wasn’t on her way upstairs too. Thankfully, she held back. She smiled but her expression was concerned.

“Take care of yourself, John.”

“I will. I’ll call you to find out when you’re free. We’ll set something up.” The doors closed, separating them. He leaned back.

God, how awkward was that? At least she believed he’d been sick. He didn’t have to fake his malaise.

He patted the side pocket of his sport coat and felt the cylindrical bulge of the pill bottle. The chloramphenicol. He’d peeled off the label. The capsules inside were now anonymous… tiny masked assassins.

He still couldn’t believe he was going through with this. Only for Katie…

In the first floor hall he ran into Bob Decker, the last person he wanted to meet this morning.

All those years of training and experience… he’ll know something’s wrong the instant he sees me.

The big Secret Service agent did a double take and suddenly the pill bottle in John’s pocket seemed to quadruple in size and weight. It felt like a can of baked beans, bulging the fabric for all to see.

“Hey, Doc. You don’t look so hot.”

“A virus. Bob. But I’m getting over it.” He started to point to the door of the Oval Office and noticed his hand shaking. He dropped it and gestured with his head. “He in there?”

“Yeah. Said he was expecting you. How’s he doing?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

John waved and hurried to the end of the hall. He stepped up to the door, then stopped. I can’t do this.

But he could. He’d found a way to get himself through the act: Blame it all on Tom. It was Tom’s fault. If he hadn’t put forth this idiotic decriminalization program, Katie would never have been kidnapped. Katie would be safe at home right now watching her Saturday morning cartoons.

Katie would still have ten toes!

That’s right, Tom. Your godchild, the little girl who calls you “Uncle Tom,” has been mutilated. Not because of something she did but because of something you did.

He stared at the presidential seal on the door and thought. Whatever happens to you is your own fault, Tom. This is not my doing… it’s yours. You set all this in motion. What goes around, comes around, and you can’t escape the consequences.

That was how he’d do it. Get angry. Stoke that rage to the point where he was capable of anything.