F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (12 page)

 
          
Duncan
rubbed his eyes and rose from the chair.
When things finally fell apart, he didn't contest the divorce action. So while
it wasn't exactly an amicable dichotomy, it never got vicious. He let Diana
have what she wanted, agreed to generous alimony payments, and, of course, he'd
seen to it that Brad had whatever he needed. He loved his son, wanted to stay
close to him, and most of all, wanted to spare him the spectacle of his parents
hissing and clawing at each other.

 
          
And
Duncan
got . . . what?

 
          
What
did I get besides out?

 
          
He
and Diana still were on speaking terms, but only on neutral, practical matters,
never anything personal. And he would never set foot in that house again.

 
          
He
tended to heal slowly, sometimes not at all. He had no implant full of beta-3
for the soul.

 
          
Which
was why he had been on the west portico of the Capitol yesterday morning. Trying
to heal himself by balancing the scales, by closing the circle, by imposing a
symmetry on the chaos his life had become.

 
          
Only
then would this cancerous rage cease its relentless metastasis and allow him to
get on with his life.

 
          
He
barked a laugh in the empty room. His life? What life?

 
          
Marge
poked her head in. "Dr. Duncan . . . you all right?"

           
"Fine, Marge. Just fine."
That's a laugh, he thought, waving her off.

 
          
Nothing
at all is fine.

 
          
Yesterday
morning . . . another failure. Why wasn't anything ever simple? Why couldn't
things go the way he planned?

 
          
Neither
of the other two had gone the way he'd intended either.

 
          
Lane
and Schulz, both dead, one in a car, the other in a twenty-story swan dive.

 
          
And
yesterday . . . Allard was supposed to crack up in front of the cameras, not
crack his skull on the Capitol steps.
Duncan
hadn't wanted him physically hurt. Hell,
any hired thug could do that. He'd come prepared to see Allard mortally
embarrassed, terminally humiliated, politically ruined, he'd wanted his
credibility bloodied, not his head. Damn! All the planning, the exquisite
timing, wasted. Now Allard was just a victim of a bad fall, pitied, pathetic,
an object of sympathy instead of ridicule.

 
          
Duncan
wondered at his own cold-heartedness, but
only briefly. He had plenty of warm emotions left, but they were already spoken
for. No leftovers for the likes of Congressman Allard.

 
          
Allard,
at least, was still alive.

 
          
Next
time . . . next time he'd get it right.

 
          
Duncan
rubbed his eyes. He'd started this for a
payback in kind, not to kill or maim. Merely devastate their careers, their
marriages, their reputations, and let them live among the ruins. A living
death.

 
          
Like
mine.

 
          
Although
not his intent, the fatalities didn't particularly bother him.

 
          
After
all, Lisa was dead because of them, and she was worth ten, twenty, a hundred of
them.

 
          
Gin's
presence yesterday had been another complication, one of those perverse
coincidences that might one day trip him up and expose what he'd been doing.

 
          
Slim
as it was, the possibility of exposure knotted his gut.

 
          
Indictment
for murder, a circus of a trial, then jail. The scandal . . . what would it do
to Brad? His son was one of the few things left in his life that mattered to him.

 
          
He'd
do anything to avoid that. Anything.

 
          
But
where was the risk, really? He had a virtually untraceable toxin, and an
all-but-invisible means of delivery. The only one who might put it together
would be Oliver, but his preoccupied brother tended to take little notice of
events outside his lab. The only other real risk was someone like Gin. Someone
who knew the patients, knew about the implants, and was bright enough to put
all the pieces together.

 
          
Remote
as it was, he grimaced at the possibility. What a frightful quandary that would
be. What would he do if Gin stumbled onto him?

 
          
He'd
have to find a way to neutralize her. He couldn't allow her to . . .

 
          
He
shook off the grim train of thought. It wouldn't happen. Vincent would be the
next to last. One more after him and then Duncan would close this chapter of
his life.

 
          
But
the last one would be the big one. The biggest.

MARTHA

GINA DELAYED HER
RETURN TO THE APARTMENT. SHE didn't want to hear any bad news. And no news was
bad news as far as the Hill was concerned. The capper would be a message from
Gerry telling her he had to call off their dinner plans, or worse yet, no call
from Gerry at all.

 
          
Gimme
a break, she thought. Something's got to go right this week.

 
          
So
she got off the Metro at the zoo and did a slow walk along
Calvert Street
across the
Duke
Ellington
Bridge
into her neighborhood.

 
          
Adams
Morgan was sometimes described as funky, sometimes eclectic, but most times
just plain weird. Gin loved the area. A big triangle on the hill sloping down
toward Dupont Circle, roughly bordered by Calvert Street and Florida and
Connecticut avenues, where you could find ethnic jewelry, folk art, and
cutting-edge music while breathing the exotic aromas of an array of cuisines
that could rival the entire United Nations for diversity. Where else in the
District could you find an Argentine cafe flanked by a top-notch French
restaurant and a
Caribbean
bistro? Even Ethiopian restaurants. Who'd
ever heard of an Ethiopian restaurant? Yet there were three in her
neighborhood.

 
          
Gin
browsed an African bookstore, did touchy-feely with some Guatemalan fabric,
tried on some Turkish shoes, then decided she'd delayed the inevitable long
enough. She walked to her building, an old brick row house on Kalorama between
Columbia
and Eighteenth, it had a tower on its
downhill side and was painted sky blue. She let herself into her third-floor
apartment.

 
          
The
rental agency had listed it as "furnished." Gin thought "not
unfurnished'' would have been more in line with most truth-in-advertising laws.
The rickety furniture had been varnished so many times that the type of wood
underlying all those coats was a mystery. - Sometimes she suspected the varnish
was the only thing holding some of the pieces together. But it was clean, and
she loved her front bay window high over the street. She'd had a new mattress
delivered and added a few of her own touches, a bright yellow throw rug and her
three posters of Monet's Le J Nyrntheas. She kept meaning to brighten up the place,
maybe with some new curtains. As soon as she had the time She went straight to
her bedroom where the answering machine crouched on the nightstand. The message
light was blinking. A good start.

 
          
The
first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be able to come
over for a family dinner.

 
          
"Soon,
Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her
much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old homestead in
Arlington
at least twice a month.

 
          
The
next voice was Gerry's.

 
          
"Hi,
Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the way I'd hoped
for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excuse?

 
          
"But
I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that we'll have to
eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet at a, uh, Taco Bell?
There's one up your way on
Connecticut
, near Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all when
you get there. If you get there. Which I hope you do. But if you can't make it
I'll understand. Just let me know if you're not gonna show, otherwise, see you
there at six. Hasta la vista." Gin pressed the repeat button. Yes, she'd
heard it right, Taco Bell.

 
          
Truth
was, she liked Taco Bell, but it didn't quite make her short list of
restaurants for a rendezvous with an old high school crush.

 
          
On
the bright side, at least he hadn't stood her up.

 
          
But
Taco
Bell
?

 
          
Gin
hunted for a parking space amid the flow of D. C. workers heading home to
Maryland
. Connecticut Avenue was mostly residential
at its northern end, strips of street-front shops interspersed with low-rise
apartments and an occasional office building, all flanked by magnificent oaks
and elms. Only three or four miles from Capitol Hill but like another country.

 
          
She
found a spot up the street from the Taco Bell and turned off the engine.

 
          
Now
what?

 
          
She
scanned the curb and sidewalk around the storefront. No sign of Gerry. She
didn't know what his car looked like. She didn't feel like going inside just to
stand around, waiting. In fact, she didn't like any of this. Where was his
wife, if he still had one? Why Taco
Bell
?

 
          
Why
had she even come?

 
          
Lighten
up, Panzella.

 
          
Five
minutes of watching a steady stream of bodies of all races and ages in and out
of the door and no Gerry.

 
          
All
right. Let's get this over with.

 
          
She
went inside and looked around. This storefront Taco Bell wasn't as heavy on the
southwestern motif as its freestanding kin she'd seen in Louisiana, it sported
a few adobe touches, but the service counter, the soft drink machine, the
booths and tables were all generic fast-food decor. Nothing generic about the
aromas, though. The air was redolent of onions and spices. Gin realized how
hungry she was.

 
          
She
heard her name, turned, and saw Gerry waving from the other side of a
partition. He stood as she approached but when she reached his booth she saw
that he wasn't alone. Another female occupied the opposite bench. She was
adorable, with short, wavy blond hair and huge blue eyes.

 
          
She
looked to be about five and was working on a burrito half the length of her
arm.

 
          
"I'm
really sorry about this," Gerry said. "My sitter had unbreakable
plans for this evening. This is my daughter Martha. Martha, say hello to Gina,
I mean, Dr. Panzella." Martha waved and smiled around a mouthful of
burrito.

 
          
'"Martha's
a vegetarian," he said.

 
          
Gin
stared at her. "Get out."

           
He raised his right hand, palm out.
"True. I swear. I could put you on and say it's an ethical position but
the fact is she just doesn't like meat. Never did. Even as a baby she used to
spit out her junior foods if they were so much as flavored with meat."

 
          
"But
she'll eat tacos?"

           
"Bean burritos. Loves bean
burritos, with green sauce and extra cheese. Right, Martha? " The little
blonde looked up and nodded vigorously.

 
          
Obviously
she'd been following every word. "And hold the onions," she added in
a squeaky voice.

 
          
Gerry
beamed at her. "Right. Always hold the onions. So that's why we're here.
Miss Fussy-tummy has a very limited palate, so there was no point in bringing
her anywhere else. I’ll hope you don't mind. I'll make it up to you, I
promise." Gin had been taken completely by surprise by Martha but was
charmed and touched by the warm father-daughter bond she sensed.

 
          
"Don't
be silly. I'm glad you brought her. In fact, I'm honored to meet her."

 
          
"Great.
What can I get you?"

           
"How about two bean burritos
with extra cheese . . . " She winked at Martha. "And hold the
onions." Martha grinned and scrinched up one side of her face in a
grotesque attempt to return the wink. Gin laughed and sat down opposite her.

 
          
"Are
you a real doctor?" Martha said, cocking her head and looking up at her.
Her cheeks were pink roses, her skin flawless.

 
          
'"Yes,
I am."

 
          
"Do
you give shots?"

           
"Sometimes."

 
          
"I
don't like shots." She held up a pair of fingers. "I had to get two
shots before they let me into kinnergarden." What a darling. So relaxed,
so comfortable with a stranger. Obviously she liked people, and that spoke
volumes about her home life.

 
          
"Shots
keep you from getting sick." She gave a Jackie Mason shrug.

 
          
"I
still get sick!" Gin was saved by Gerry's return.

 
          
'"I
brought you a Mountain Dew. Through extensive research and experimentation,
Martha and I have determined that Taco Bell food goes best with a Dew."

 
          
"Mountain
Deeeew! " Martha said and raised her cup. Gerry clicked his own against
it, then Martha waited, eyeing Gin expectantly. She clicked her own cup against
Martha's, then they all sipped.

 
          
"Sorry
there's nothing higher octane available," Gerry said.

 
          
"Since
I have to play doctor in less than two hours, Mountain Dew has all the octane I
need." Gin watched across the table as Gerry slid in next to his daughter.

 
          
She
saw the resemblance between the two, same blond hair, same blue eyes, same nose
and smile. And the way that little smile flashed for Gerry . . . here was a
little girl who loved her daddy.

 
          
Gin
was intrigued, maybe even fascinated. She'd been looking forward to this time
with Gerry as a way of tying up one of her life's loose ends. A date, if you
could call it that, with the big man on campus, something she'd dreamed of all
through high school. But Gerry was so much more than she'd expected. He was
warm, he was open, and he was a doting father. She liked that. Liked it a lot.
She wanted to know more about him. The closure she'd sought here was opening to
something new.

 
          
Between
bites and sips they caught up on the decade or so since high school. Gerry told
her about joining the PBI after graduating U.V.A with a criminology degree but
never mentioned marriage or where Martha came from. It took all her will to
keep from asking. He nodded encouragingly as Gina took her turn and skimmed
through her education, but his head snapped up when she mentioned Duncan
Lathram.

 
          
"You
work for Lathram? The celebrity surgeon?"

           
"He's not the celebrity, just
his patients."

 
          
"Yeah,"
Gerry said sourly. "And you've got to be a celebrity to be treated by
him."

           
Gin wondered at the sudden note of
hostility in his voice.

 
          
"Every
day he treats people no one's ever heard of." Gerry leaned forward and
pointed to the hairline scars on his face.

           
"He wouldn't take me."

 
          
"How
. . . ?"

           
"M.V.A." He glanced
quickly at Martha. "Tell you about it sometime." Motor vehicle
accident. So that explained the scars.

 
          
"Whoever
worked on you did a nice job."

 
          
"Dr.
Hernandez is tops. But I requested Lathram first and he wouldn't even give me a
consultation."

           
"
Duncan
takes only certain kinds of cases."