Fall of Knight by Peter David Page B

upon hearing that Jackson had collapsed. There were so many trying to crowd into Tyler Mahoney’s office that Tyler—an exhausted man in his thirties who was convinced his hairline had receded two inches since taking this job—was moved to shout at them, “Jesus, people, you’re like sharks at a feeding frenzy! Give the man some room!”
    Not that Jackson looked like he needed it. Seeing him lying helpless upon Mahoney’s floor was shocking in and of itself, because he was a young man with thick black hair that was now matted with blood. His eyes, usually so eager and focused on whatever story he was working, were staring off into nothingness. Mahoney was crouched next to him, saying softly, “Don’t worry, Dave. It’s going to be fine,” and not having the slightest idea whether or not Jackson heard him. “ Where the hell are the damned paramedics! This is the goddamned White House! We should have crash carts coming out our asses!”
    “Stand aside,” came a commanding voice that, although none of them had heard it in over a year, everyone within proximity recognized instantly and obeyed without hesitation.
    Former President Penn strode forward with a large black man behind him who looked to be a personal security guard. The reporters immediately began to shout questions, but the black man turned and leveled a gaze at them of such fearsome intensity that it caused every one of them to lapse into silence. Arthur extended a hand to the black man, who in turn handed him a large, sparkling gold cup. “You,” Arthur said briskly, snapping his fingers and pointing at Tyler. “Your name again?”
    “Tyler Mahoney, Mr. President. It’s an honor.”
    “Yes, it is. That water, there,” and he pointed to a bottle of Poland Spring water that was on the edge of Mahoney’s desk. “Give it here, please.”
    Uncomprehending, Mahoney did so. Arthur promptly upended the bottle and poured its contents into the cup. A few droplets splashed out of it and landed in the pot of a dying plant that Mahoney had on his desk.
    “The paramedics are here!” someone shouted from behind.
    “Thank them for their efforts,” said Penn, who by that point had knelt next to Jackson and was pouring the contents of the cup between his slack lips. Jackson continued to look at nothing with his unfocused eyes.
    “Coming through!” came the shout of the paramedics, and that was the exact moment that David Jackson suddenly sat upright, gasping for breath.
    It was so abrupt that everyone watching jumped back, except for a TV cameraman who had filmed the entire thing.
    “You’ll be quite all right now,” Arthur assured him.
    “What…happened?” Jackson gasped. “I was…I don’t remember, what…?” Then he focused on Arthur for the first time, and his eyes widened. “You’re the former president!”
    “That,” Arthur said, “is only the beginning of the story.”
    “Oh my God. Is everyone else seeing this?” It was the cameraman who had spoken, and he’d shifted his focus to the plant on Mahoney’s desk…which had suddenly gone from being nearly dead to blooming and in full health in seconds.
    “It’s a trick!”
    “Has to be!”
    “Couldn’t be—!”
    Questions and words were flying all over as the bewildered paramedics stood there and wondered why in the world they had been summoned.
    Then Arthur raised his hand for silence and immediately the crowd hushed. “It is no trick,” Arthur said with calm solemnity. “Come. We shall go to the pressroom. I shall talk. You will listen. And then…we’ll see what we shall see.”

C HAPTRE
THE S IXTH
    M ERLIN’S APARTMENT WAS nothing fancy, and that was by his choice. In his lifetime, he had resided in everything from castles to the White House, and had never felt completely at home in any of them. Something deeply rooted within him despised the entire notion of such ostentation.
    So the place that he had chosen to dwell was a third-floor walk-up in the seedier section of