WEDNESDAY, MAY 3
Lee was dressed in his best suit and tie, and Dr. Kaufmann, warned ahead of time of their destination, had worn a lightweight tweed jacket with a blue blouse underneath and dark slacks. Her glasses, dangling from a gold chain lanyard, bounced against her chest as she took hurried steps to keep pace with Lee’s much longer strides.
“I’ve driven by here so many times,” Dr. Kaufmann said as they made their way to the South Portico entrance, “but never did I dream I’d be invited inside.”
Lee’s grim expression did not brighten. “Unfortunately, this dream is a bit more of a nightmare,” he said.
Nightmare was an understatement. His head and heart were heavy with grief, having come from a harrowing experience at the medical examiner’s office where Tracy officially identified Paul’s body. Plans for the funeral were being hastily arranged. After the mania and activity died down, when the quiet returned and a profound sadness settled over everything like a fine dusting of malaise, Tracy and the kids would need Lee around. But for now, he could be here, guilt-free, doing the work he felt had to be done—getting justice for Paul.
Involving Dr. Kaufmann might be the right choice, but it still boggled Lee’s mind. If a new genetic disease was affecting young people, why was it appearing now, and only at the TPI? What else could Yoshi and maybe Gleason have done to these teens?
He’s a liar.
Cam’s haunting words flashed again in Lee’s mind.
What did he mean by that? Lee wondered. And where on earth could Cam be?
If the media reports were to be believed (and why not believe them), the search effort was still being concentrated on New Jersey, the location of Cam’s e-mail message to his parents. Maybe the first family had new information to share.
With a uniformed guard standing by their side, Lee and Dr. Kaufmann traded a humid spring morning for the cool interior of a well-appointed conference room in the East Wing. Ellen Hilliard was there to greet them, and it was immediately clear to Lee how draining these past few days had been on her. Her face, normally radiant, had turned gaunt. She was dressed as if in mourning, wearing a black boat-neck outfit accented with a single gold chain. Her dark blond hair, often worn down, had been pulled back into a tight bun, revealing a neck far thinner than Lee had remembered. The spark in Ellen’s electric blue eyes was extinguished.
Included among the small entourage awaiting Lee and Dr. Kaufmann’s arrival was Dr. Gleason. Deep channels marked the corners of Gleason’s eyes and his short brown hair seemed to have thinned out considerably. The stress seemed to be taking a toll on everyone—even the liars.
Lee had expected the president would be there, but Ellen said he had been called away suddenly for an emergency meeting and would return shortly.
Dr. Kaufmann seemed uncertain on her feet. Ellen noticed and took hold of her hand.
“It’s all right,” she said, her voice soothing. “I know this is a lot to handle, but please, try to think of this as just my home, and you are my guest.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Kaufmann said, her deep voice quavering ever so slightly. “I’m, well—well, a bit overwhelmed, as you can imagine.”
“It’s understandable,” said Ellen. “I have some tea on the way. It’ll help you relax.”
As if on cue, a member of the service staff wheeled a cart into the room, with aromatic tea steeping inside a sterling silver pot. He poured four cups, adding milk and sugar as desired, while everyone took seats on the chairs positioned around the conference room table.
Once settled, Ellen expressed to Lee her deepest sympathies.
“We’re all in shock,” Lee said. “Utterly devastated. Tracy, Paul’s wife, wanted me to thank you for the flowers you sent. She’s deeply appreciative, and touched by your thoughtfulness.”
“Anything we can do to help, please don’t hesitate to ask. Do they still think the murder was drug related? That’s what I heard on the news.”
“We do keep some drugs in stock, samples to give out to our patients, so it’s possible,” Lee said. “It’s the going theory, anyway. But it could also be connected to our investigation. Maybe Paul was onto something. It’s why we’re here, I guess—to find out.” Sorrow swelled up in Lee, forcing him to will his eyes dry. He had to change the subject. “Is there any news on Cam?”
“No,” Ellen said, looking crestfallen as her lips pulled tight. “But he did send another e-mail assuring us he’s fine. He feels terrible for all the trouble he’s causing.”
“Someone tried to kill him and he felt betrayed by the people assigned to protect him,” Lee said. “I can’t imagine the kind of stress he’s under.”
“I can,” Ellen said, her gaze shifting to the Secret Service agents standing sentry against a wall.
“I’ve been worried the media has been awful to you,” Ellen said.
Lee got the reference. “They haven’t made a connection between Karen and me,” he said. “So I haven’t been stalked, if that’s your concern.”
“Trust me, they will,” Ellen said with vehemence. “How is Susie holding up?”
Lee provided a brief update on her condition.
“She’s getting worse, isn’t she?” Ellen asked.
“Yes,” Lee said. “A tipping point could happen at any moment. If we have to move her to a hospital we will, but it won’t make a difference. Until we figure out what’s wrong with her, I’m afraid there’s little anyone can do to help.”
“What does it mean for Cam?”
“It means we need to find him fast and try to figure out if what’s happening inside his body is the same thing happening to Susie. After we finish up here, I’m headed to camp. I’ll biopsy Susie myself.”
“Speaking of biopsies,” Dr. Gleason chimed in, “I’ve done the two skin biopsies on the president and first lady you asked for.” The venom in his voice was poorly disguised. Lee was his unshakable virus.
Yesterday, the three doctors, Lee, Ruth Kaufmann, and Fred Gleason, had come to an agreement to use a shave biopsy to procure the samples. Some bleeding was typically associated with the procedure, and the small bandage covering part of Ellen’s right wrist might have hidden a stitch or two.
“The samples are in the refrigerator in the clinic,” Gleason said. “I’ll get them before you leave. We have a cooler you can use for transport.”
Dr. Gleason leaned forward in his chair, his eyes boring into Dr. Kaufmann. “What exactly are you looking for in these biopsies of the president and first lady anyway?” he asked.
“A family history,” Dr. Kaufmann answered calmly. “There could be mutation involved, something that might explain the unusual symptoms Lee has described.”
“I’ve read your bio,” Gleason continued. “You have an impressive background in the field of genetic diseases. In all your years doing research, you’ve never come across anything of this nature before, have you?”
Not really a question, Lee observed. More like a prosecutor challenging a key witness.
“No, I have not,” said Dr. Kaufmann.
“And what’s the likelihood these symtoms having a genetic cause?”
Suddenly, Lee got it. Just like his theory about the nootropics, any idea Lee suggested, simple or not, was instantly suspect in Gleason’s mind.
“Respectfully, I don’t like to speculate on such things, Dr. Gleason,” Dr. Kaufmann replied. “I’m a woman of science, and these samples will help us make some determinations.”
Inwardly, Lee was smiling. He’d liked Dr. Kaufmann before, but seeing her put Dr. Gleason in his place had elevated her status considerably.
Thinking of the long drive ahead, Lee was about to suggest they leave now to retrieve the biopsies, when the shuttered doors to the conference room flew open. In stormed a team of six men, all wearing FBI special agent Windbreaker jackets. Following them were several members of the Secret Service dressed in dark suits. The last to enter was President Hilliard.
Lee’s heart leapt to his throat from the surprise. His shock morphed into confusion when the agents surrounded Gleason. With force, two agents seized Gleason by the elbows and hoisted him out of his chair. They spun him around, and as if by magic, had his wrists handcuffed behind his back.
The color drained from Gleason’s face, his body shaking violently. “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted.
Instead of an answer, three FBI agents ushered Gleason out of the room in a hurried processional. Other agents joined them, along with most of the Secret Service.
President Hilliard hovered near the doorway, distraught.
Seized with anxiety, Ellen rushed to her husband’s side. “Geoffrey—what—what’s happening?” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Is everything all right? Is this about Cam?”
The president’s aspect softened, but only a few degrees. “We’ll talk,” he said, nodding in Lee’s direction, as if to say, Not in mixed company.
Lee took it upon himself to stand and approach. Dr. Kaufmann stayed rooted in her seat. The two Secret Service agents who had stayed behind tensed as Lee neared the president. With a wave, President Hilliard settled them down. Lee caught a flash of the bandage covering his president’s right wrist, presumably concealing the location of his biopsy.
“Mr. President, is this in any way connected to my investigation into Cam and Susie? I need to know.”
The president gripped Lee’s arm forcibly, not hard, but with intent. “Right now all you need to know is that I appreciate the work you’re doing. We’ll focus on finding Cam, you figure out the rest.”
“And Dr. Gleason?” Lee asked.
“Trust me when I say he’s where he belongs.”