Page 74 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 70

Walter Reed National Military Medical Center

W alter Reed may be one of the world’s finest medical institutions, but it’s still a hospital, and the scents and sounds make Burton Pearce queasy.

For good reason.

Five years ago, he watched his younger sister waste away from kidney disease at Union Memorial in Maryland.

His mother died from stomach cancer at Georgetown University Hospital three months later.

Not long after, his dad went to Mount Sinai in New York for a routine angioplasty and died on the table.

He gets off on the seventh floor and heads for Vice President Ransom Faulkner’s suite.

This is a solo visit, timed right after morning rounds.

Thanks to a couple of well-placed phone calls from Pearce, Rachel Bernstein is on her way to a conference of Virginia mayors.

She’ll be gone all day.

Pearce nods to the two Secret Service agents outside the suite.

He pushes the door open—and almost walks right back out.

He didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.

Faulkner is gaunt, his chin coated with gray stubble, an oxygen cannula below his nostrils.

The metal stands at his sides are filled with monitors, humming and beeping.

An IV bag hangs at the head of the bed.

One of the most dynamic men he’s ever known—a generational political force—reduced to fluids in, fluids out.

Pearce drags a chair over and sits down.

The noise wakes the VP.

He blinks and turns his head on the pillow.

“Burton,” he says weakly.

“Nice surprise.”

“Good to see you, Chief. Can I get you anything?”

A wan smile.

“About six feet of clean colon, if you can spare it.”

Pearce laughs.

“I was thinking more like ice chips.”

“Only if they’re floating in a tumbler of scotch,” says Faulkner.

He coughs. “What’s up, Burton?” he croaks.

“You’ve got better things to do than visit the sick and infirm.”

Pearce rests one hand on the bed rail.

“We’re getting close, Mr. Vice President. I want to keep you in the loop.”

Faulkner’s furry eyebrows lift.

“The Grand Bargain?”

Pearce nods.

“Things are reaching the critical point, sir. We need to make sure you have all the help and support you need. All the right people.”

Faulkner rests his hand on Pearce’s.

“Don’t worry. The doctors here are great. Nurses too.” He smiles.

“The best a nine-hundred-billion-dollar military budget can buy.”

“I’m talking closer to home, Chief.” Pearce leans in.

“I’m just here to help you reach the right decision.”