“Jones always has trouble in the first inning,” said Zen. “He gets a couple of guys on and the pressure mounts.”

“Psychological issue, obviously,” said Esrang.

“But after the first, he’s fine,” said Zen as Jones threw ball four to the Mets leadoff batter in the top of the fourth.

“I don’t know,” said Esrang, watching the runner take a large lead off first.

Jones threw a curve ball, which the Mets clean-up hitter promptly bounced toward second. A blink of an eye later the Nats had turned a double play.

“Now watch,” said Zen. “He’ll walk this guy on straight fastballs.”

There was a slider in the middle of the sequence, but Zen was right—the player never took his bat off shoulder.

“How would you fix this guy?” he asked Esrang. He pushed his wheelchair back and angled slightly to see his guest’s face.

“My specialty isn’t sports,” said Esrang. “But I wonder if it might be some sort of apprehension and overstimulation at first. Nervousness, in layman’s terms. His pitches seem a lot sharper than they were in the first inning.”

“Could be,” said Zen.

“A variation of performance anxiety.”

“So what do you do?”

“Have him pitch a lot of first innings,” said Esrang. He laughed. “Of course, that’s not going to work well for the team.”

“Maybe if he pitched no first innings,” said Zen.

“That would be another approach.” Esrang sipped his beer. “Break through that barrier.”

“Change the scoreboard so it looks like it’s the second inning?” asked Zen. “Or hypnotize him.”

“I don’t trust hypnotism,” said Esrang. “But if you could change his environment, even slightly, it might work.”

A perfect segue, thought Zen. “I wonder if something like that would work with Mark.”

Esrang was silent for a moment.

“Do you think it would?” asked Zen.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I was wondering if perhaps he might go out for short visits,” said Zen. “Little trips.”

“Senator, your friend is a potentially dangerous individual. Not a big league pitcher.”

“Jones is pretty dangerous himself,” laughed Zen as a ball headed toward the right field bleachers.

Zen let the subject rest for a while, ordering two beers and sticking to baseball. The doctor surely felt sandbagged, but in the end that wasn’t going to matter one bit—eventually they were going to help Stoner. Somehow.

A pop fly to the catcher ended the Mets half of the inning. The Nationals manufactured a run in the bottom half with an error, a steal, and two long fly ball outs.

Jones struck out the side in the top of the second, his only ball missing the strike zone by perhaps a quarter of an inch.

A shadow swung over the sky near the edge of the stadium as the players ran to the dugout. Esrang’s head jerked up. Zen followed his gaze.

“What’s that airplane?” asked the doctor.

“That’s security,” said Zen. “The D.C. police are using UAVs to patrol some of the airspace over the past few weeks.”

“It’s a Predator?”

“No, civilian,” said Zen. “The plane is smaller. But the idea is basically the same. They have infrared and optical cameras. They’re just testing them for crowd control right now. A few weeks, though, and they’ll be using them to give out tickets.”

“Really?”

“That’s what they claim.”

“Hmmm.”

“Personally, I think the money would be better spent on foot patrols.” Zen was on the committee that oversaw D.C. funding, and had actually voted against the allocation, even though it was mostly funded by a private grant. “High tech has its limits. You need people on the ground, in the loop. Here you’re spending the equivalent of six police officers—I’d rather have the people.”

“I can’t disagree,” said the psychiatrist.

“Plus, I’ll probably be the one getting the ticket,” laughed Zen.

A roar rose from the crowd. Zen turned in time to see a ball head over the right field fence.

“Here we go,” he told Esrang. “Brand new ballgame.”

“I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea,” said the psychiatrist. “But we have to be careful.”

“The UAVs won’t give out the tickets themselves.”

“I mean with Mark.”

“Oh, of course.”

“The drugs they used, we don’t have a good handle on the effects,” said Esrang. “We don’t know exactly if they’ve made him psychotic. He’s very focused; he’s very internal. I can’t completely predict what he’ll do.”

“He hasn’t harmed anyone since he’s been in custody. Or done anything aggressive.”

“I realize that. I know. But—”

The Nationals third baseman cracked a hard shot down the first baseline. Esrang jumped from his seat to watch as the player zipped past first, took a wide turn at second, and raced for third. He slid in under the tag.

“Not bad,” Esrang told Zen, sitting back. “But I would never have given him a green light on three balls and no strikes.”

“No.” Zen held his gaze for a moment. “Sometimes you take a chance, and it works out.”

“Hmmm,” said Esrang.

Chapter 26

Duka

Nuri gave Gerard a big wave as he walked through the large pavilion. The African was more animated today than he’d been the day before; he actually nodded back.

“I just dropped off the medicines you asked for at your clinic,” Nuri told him, setting down his rucksack and pulling over a camp chair. “They are very happy.”

Gerard frowned. “You should have given them to me first.”

“Those were just aspirins and bandages,” said Nuri. “Little things that anyone could bring.”

He pulled up his backpack and started to open it. One of the bodyguards lurched forward as if to stop him.

Gerard raised his hand and the man froze.

“This is ampicillin,” said Nuri, taking out a bottle of pills. “This is important medicine that only an important person can deliver.”

Pretending he wasn’t flattered, Gerard feigned a frown and put out his hand. He took the bottle of antibiotics and opened it, pouring a few pills into his palm.

“Each of those is worth several dollars,” said Nuri.

“Hmph.” Gerard held them up to his nose, sniffing them.

“They only work if you’re sick,” said Nuri, worried that Gerard was going to eat them. He didn’t know how they would affect him.

Gerard poured them back into the bottle.

“Six bottles,” Nuri told him. “And there are some other medicines as well. They’re labeled. Your doctor will be very impressed.”

Gerard handed the bottle back. “Let us have something to drink. Coke?”

Danny sensed trouble as soon as the white Range Rover turned the corner. Dirt and dust flew in every direction as the nose of the vehicle swung hard to the left and then back to the right. He took a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Nuri, who was sitting on one of the camp chairs in front of Gerard.

The Rover skidded to a stop. A man jumped out from the rear, raising his arm.

“Down!” yelled Danny. He threw himself forward, pushing Nuri to the ground as the man near the car began firing.

Gerard joined them as his bodyguards began returning fire.

“Go! Come on, let’s go!” hissed Danny, grabbing Nuri and pulling him in the direction of the building next to the pavilion where they’d gone to meet Gerard. Someone got out of the Range Rover and began firing a machine gun; the bullets chewed through the tables at the front and the canvas overhead. There was more gunfire up the street, screams and curses.

“What is it? What is it?” demanded Nuri, as if Danny had an answer.

“The building—come on,” Danny told him, pulling him to the back of the building where they had some hope of getting out of the cross fire. But a splatter of bullets from the machine gun cut them off. Danny spun back, ready to fire. But when he raised his head, the Range Rover was speeding down the street.