her an ideal nurse for Michael during the most painful times.
And there was her extraordinary beauty, hardly a thing to go unnoticed by a red-blooded man like Judd. He admired her looks, and he also cannily reflected that she would be an ideal mate for Michael in his political career.
The greatest tragedy to befall the Campbell family had come when Margery, Judd’s doting wife of twenty-six years, committed suicide. No one had seen it coming. No one had thought Margery capable of such an act. Michael was seventeen at the time, Stewart twenty-four, Ingrid twenty-two.
The loss had been devastating. It was probably the real cause of the rift between Stewart and his father, though the pretext was Stewart’s determination to follow an academic career. It also brought on Judd’s first serious heart attack. And it was certainly the proximate cause of Ingrid’s spin-sterhood, for Ingrid began devoting herself to her father’s needs after he became a widower.
Judd never got over the loss of Margery. It was not until Susan came along that he started to live again. True, he was living through Susan and Michael, and Michael’s career. He sensed this obscurely, but buried the knowledge under his ambition for Michael and his tenderness toward Susan.
Susan went into the kitchen, where Ingrid had interrupted her work to watch a news report on the little TV that was kept on the counter.
‘Ing?’ Susan asked. ‘Where are Dad’s peanuts?’
Ingrid didn’t answer. Susan moved to her side and looked at the little screen. A reporter was shivering against the background of a frozen farm field while the graphic ‘Mystery Disease’ was shown.
‘The public health people say they’re trying to get the situation under control,’ the reporter said. ‘That means hospitalizing all the victims, probably under quarantine, and cordoning off the affected areas. None of the officials would comment on what the disease is. Sources have told us it seems to be a genuine mystery.’
‘What’s going on?’ Susan asked.
‘Some sort of epidemic.’ Ingrid turned to face Susan. ‘Probably the flu. The media are hyping it as usual. Where’s Dad?’
‘Watching his tape of Michael. He wants peanuts.’
‘No way. I’ll handle this.’
As Ingrid was moving toward the living room Susan heard the front door open. Her eyes lit up as she went to greet Michael. He gave her a long hug and kiss.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Watching you on TV.’
‘Again? Doesn’t he ever get enough?’
She watched him hang his coat in the closet. He had changed clothes at his office, and wore slacks and a light sweater. A breath of the outside air had come in with him, and his cheeks were cool against her lips.
‘I talked to Stew today,’ he said.
‘How is he?’ Susan asked.
‘Great,’ Michael said. ‘He sends you his love.’ He was hanging back, not moving toward his father’s den, because he could not let Judd hear him mention the name of his older brother in the house.
‘Did he see you on TV?’ Susan asked.
Michael nodded.
‘Was he favorably impressed?’ she asked.
‘If he wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t have told me.’
As the oldest of the Campbell children Stewart commanded Michael’s respect. Stewart was at the opposite end of the political spectrum from his father. If Judd was a stern judge of Michael’s ambition, Stewart was the judge of his integrity. Stewart hated politicians but made an exception for Michael, whom he considered a huge cut above the rest in character and brains.
Susan and Michael exchanged a brief look. They were both sad that Stewart could not be here tonight. Even though Michael’s career was a common link between Judd and Stewart, the rift between the two was too deep for Michael to bridge.
‘Hey, Ing,’ Michael greeted his sister, hugging her around her broad shoulders.
‘Hey to you, big shot.’ Ingrid smiled. ‘Nice work today.’
As Susan watched, Michael went to the door of the den and looked in at his father. Judd had not heard Michael’s arrival and was glued to the TV, watching his son’s image. Michael went forward and, with an odd gentleness, put his arm around his father and kissed his cheek.
‘Ah. Here you are.’ Relief joined with an almost painful devotion in the father’s voice as he held Michael’s arm. Strangely, Judd did not turn his eyes away from the TV. He remained focused on the abstract image of his son while holding Michael’s hand to keep him from getting away. Susan dared to reflect that this schizoid intimacy was part and parcel of Judd’s love for his son.
Michael glanced back at Susan with an understanding smile, as though to say, ‘You know what Dad is like.’ Nodding, Susan turned away.
In the kitchen Ingrid was whipping the potatoes. The news report on the situation in Iowa was over, eclipsed by a story about violence in the Middle East.
‘Sweetie,’ Ingrid said to Susan, ‘would you finish this for me while I get the roast out?’
The phone rang. Since both women were busy Michael answered it. His face clouded as he listened to the caller.
‘When did this happen?’
Susan turned to look at him. She knew that voice. It meant something serious.
‘Where is he now?’ Michael said into the phone.
Through the dining room Susan could see Judd, who was still absorbed in his videotape. Michael hung up the phone.
‘What’s the matter?’ Susan asked.
‘Danny Everhardt,’ Michael said. ‘He was taken sick late this morning. They took him to Walter Reed.’
‘Sick in what way?’ Susan asked.
‘Something strange,’ Michael said. ‘He can’t move, can’t talk. His secretary found him on the floor of the bathroom, half in and half out of the shower. He hasn’t said a word since.’
Susan looked at Michael. The TV still murmured in the kitchen. Outside the house a gull shrieked, once, and was gone over the waves.
Walter Reed Army Medical Center Gaithersburg, Maryland 8 P.M.
Dan Everhardt was discovered by his secretary ten minutes after the onset of his illness. Alarmed by his failure to emerge from the still-running shower, she opened the door and saw him lying under the spattering water, his eyes still open.
Within the hour the vice president was taken to Walter Reed, where he was placed under observation in the intensive care unit. His vital signs were normal, but he continued to display symptoms of a massive disturbance of function whose precise characteristics were difficult to pin down.
The night of his admission his primary physician received a visit from a Secret Service agent named Joseph Kraig.
‘Dr Isaacson,’ Kraig said, shaking the physician’s hand. ‘Thank you for making time to see me.’
‘We received a call from the White House asking us to cooperate with you in every way possible,’ the doctor said, not looking very happy about Kraig’s presence. ‘It seemed only reasonable to go along.’
The doctor studied Kraig, who was a deceptively ordinary-looking man in a dark suit. Kraig looked to be in his late thirties, prematurely gray at the temples, with shoulders and arms that bespoke good physical conditioning. He had quiet eyes whose neutral expression