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what it was like to pull out a gun and shoot to kill someone. It just didn’t register. The usual motives—greed, hatred, anger—simply didn’t apply. Only crazy.
    He headed down the hallway to the nurses’ lounge. Two minutes later, Dr. Prichap entered. Once again, he didn’t bother shaking Lou’s hand. The neurosurgeon, like others in his specialty Lou had dealt with over the years, exuded arrogance. Lou flashed on his four-week rotation holding instruments on the neurosurgery service in medical school.
    “Never forget, son,” the chief had told him during one seemingly endless procedure, “that’s brain you’re sucking on.”
    Just in case, Lou introduced himself again.
    Prichap looked as if he could not care less. “The nurse said you wanted to see me,” he said.
    “I’ve known Dr. Meacham for a number of years. Just wanted to get your take on what might have happened to him.”
    “He lost his mind. That is what happened. He lost his mind and killed seven people.”
    “I suppose.… Is this the only hospital you’re on the staff of?”
    “I am in a five-person group. We cover six or seven hospitals.”
    “And you’ve not encountered behavior like Dr. Meacham’s in any of those hospitals?”
    “Not that I’m aware of. What specialty are you?”
    “ER. I work in the ER at Eisenhower.”
    “I see.”
    Feeling the surgeon losing interest, Lou decided on a frontal assault. “Tell me, Dr. Prichap, what were you hoping to accomplish by fishing out that bullet?”
    Lou fully expected the man to erupt, or at least to storm out of the lounge. Instead, Prichap turned his head and gazed out the window, much as he had in the ICU.
    “I … do not … suppose it … would … have accomplished … anything,” he said distantly.
    “But if it—”
    The surgeon snapped out of his reverie as if he had been jabbed by a cattle prod. “Well, good to meet you, Doctor,” he said, turning toward the door.
    As he did so, he nearly collided with Sara Turnbull.
    “Dr. Prichap, Dr. Welcome,” she said breathlessly, “come quickly, please, Dr. Meacham’s arrested.”
    Lou bolted past the neurosurgeon and out the door. DeLand Regional had community support and a reputation for giving good care. Yet the respiratory tech had overinflated Meacham’s lungs, the infusion nurse had badly blown a line, and the neurosurgeon was acting like the doctor/barber in a Saturday Western. Even usually reliable Sara Turnbull had failed to notice a malfunctioning IV.
    What in the hell was going on?

CHAPTER 6
    Bar None was three blocks from the Capitol. The upscale lounge served unusual cocktails that seemed to appeal to congressional aides more than to their stodgier, older bosses. At this hour, it was as safe a place as any for Darlene and Kim to escape to for a drink. They waited outside under an awning while a team of Secret Service agents checked out the interior.
    With them on the sidewalk was Victor Ochoa, a tall veteran agent with salt-and-pepper hair and dark, narrow eyes that appeared to be on constant alert. He stood a respectful distance from the two women until sudden static from his radio announced a transmission.
    “Cobra here,” he said.
    “All clear for Buttercup and Wildcat, Cobra,” a woman’s voice replied.
    “Buttercup and Wildcat,” Ochoa echoed.
    By tradition, the three members of the First Family each carried a radio code name beginning with the same letter. The president, Bronco, had chosen B for them. Darlene had adopted the name of her heroine from the novel and movie The Princess Bride, and Lisa, now twenty-one and a totally independent sophomore at Yale, chose Bullfighter. Kim, to no one’s surprise, had gone with the Kansas State mascot.
    “Safe in there for a drink, Victor?” Darlene asked.
    “So long as you keep away from the Fireball Gimlets, you’ll be fine.”
    The agent escorted them. The space was dimly lit and modestly filled. A jukebox in one corner of the bar played alternative