my card.”
“Right.” Keeping a wary eye on Luis, Fogerty pocketed the business card she retrieved from her purse. “And I’ll need to know your assessment of Stacy’s condition.”
“I’m sorry, that’s privileged information.”
“Not when your patient is the daughter of the president.”
“She’s not my patient. We’re merely going to chat.” Claire’s normally soft voice was laced with steel. “With Stacy’s permission, I may tell her father what we talked about. But he’s the only one I’ll consult or release information to without her specific consent.”
Fogerty jerked his head in a quick nod and walked away. Luis followed his progress with narrowed eyes.
“He is an officious bureaucrat, that one. The next time he insults me or my country, he will find himself eating his teeth for breakfast.”
For all Claire’s training and skill at handling people, she’d yet to learn how best to deal with Luis when something roused his fierce, untempered masculinity. His surge of testosterone at moments like this reflected his passion and his proud Latin heritage.
On a deep instinctive level, she appreciated his tough machismo. He was a man anyone could rely on in a tight situation. She should know. She’d done exactly that several times during the missions they’d worked together.
On a more civilized level, she wanted to calm and soothe and direct his uncompromising maleness into somewhat less combative channels. The eternal female response, when dealing with someone like Luis, she acknowledged with a wry inner smile.
“Can you come for dinner?” she asked quietly. “I’d like your take on what happened.”
His expression altered. The heat didn’t leave his dark eyes and the testosterone was still zinging through the air, but this time both were directed at her.
“Of course, mi querida. I’ll bring the wine. Seven o’clock?”
“Seven’s good.”
Trailed by her Secret Service detail, Stacy Andrews escorted Claire up a flight of stairs in the Executive Residence. The protective agents remained in the hall outside while the girl ushered Claire into a suite of sunny rooms that overlooked the South Lawn.
The suite blended early American history with the distinctive stamp of a lively teenager. A funky lamp with a leopard-print shade sat atop what looked like a genuine Chippendale tea table. Posters of the Jonas Brothers decorated one wall, a Frederic Church landscape hung on another. A laptop and iPod player occupied a place of honor on an early American slant-lid desk. D.C. schools let out in mid-May for the summer, so there were no backpacks or textbooks scattered around, but Claire noted with approval plenty of teen magazines and paperbacks.
Growing up the daughter of a popular and gregarious governor had instilled Stacy Andrews with social graces beyond her years. Forcing herself to shed some of her reserve, she played the perfect hostess.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Dr. Cantwell.”
Claire chose the oversize sofa, angled to face a wall-hung plasma TV.
“Would you like something to drink?” Stacy asked politely. “Tea? Coffee? A Diet Coke?”
“A Diet Coke would be great.”
A small army of staff catered to the First Family’s needs, but the teen kept a private stash of goodies in her suite’s minikitchen. She poured two soft drinks into ice-filled glasses, then filled a bowl with cheesy Corn Curls.
“These are my favorite munchies,” she confided as she positioned the bowl between them on the sofa. “Dad’s, too.”
Luckily, she’d provided linen napkins with the snack. Claire nibbled on a few morsels and dusted the orange residue from her fingers before taking a sip of cola. She didn’t push the subject foremost on both their minds. Instead, she and Stacy chatted idly about other favorite foods and the latest High School Musical movie. The subject of the teen’s plans for the summer led to an awkward pause.
“I’m going to camp,” she said slowly, twisting a strand of dark brown hair around two fingers. “After camp, I was supposed to accompany Dad on another goodwill tour, this one to Asia. I don’t know if he’ll want to take me after…after what happened in Cartoza.”
“What did happen, Stacy?”
“I don’t know! I mean, I was having fun. I met lots of kids my own age and went to a village fiesta and got to swim with the dolphins at a marine life preserve. Then I had these…these awful dreams.”
“Can you describe them for me?”
“There were people. Lots of people dressed in kind of weird clothes.”
“Weird how?”
“Old-fashioned, I guess you could call it. And real plain, like they were farmers or something. Some of the women had kerchiefs on their heads. At first they were just standing there, staring at me. Then they…Then they…”
She twisted the strand of hair into a tight spiral. Her breathing sped up. Carefully, Claire watched these visible signs of distress.
“They started crowding closer and closer,” Stacy said in a small, scared voice, “until I was surrounded.”
She swallowed. Her eyes took on a haunted look that accented the dark shadows under them.
“Then their faces start falling off,” she whispered, pushing out each ragged syllable. “The flesh melted away, until they were just skulls with empty eyes. All of them. Just skeletons. Surrounding me. Reaching for me. Like…Like I was going to die and they wanted to drag me into the grave with them!”
She ended on a note of rising panic. Claire anchored her with a calm observation.
“Skeletons quite often appear in dreams, but they don’t necessarily symbolize physical death.”
Hope replaced the burgeoning fear in the girl’s eyes. “They don’t?”
“No. In fact, some analysts think they represent life, not death. It could be your subconscious telling you to stop, take a breath, focus on the positive things around you, instead of the negative. Which must be kind of hard to do when you’re living in a fishbowl,” Claire added shrewdly, “and you see your father’s critics on the evening news. It must hurt to hear them question his leadership.”
“It does! I hate it when people criticize him. They did it back home, too, when he was governor, but they’re so much meaner here.”
Claire didn’t doubt that. Andrews was playing in the big league now.
“Did you have dreams like this back home?”
“No, never!”
“Tell me what books you’ve been reading lately. What Web sites you go to, the movies you watch.”
With her bright red jacket, jeans and Mary Janes, Stacy Andrews didn’t give the appearance of being into Goth or
