F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (13 page)

 
          
"The
insurance company was footing the bill, so it wasn't a question of money. Why
wouldn't he help me?" She was tempted to say, Because he won’t operate on
anyone who needs him, just people who want him. Just vanity surgery, the more
famous and narcissistic, the better. No trauma repair. But how could Gin
explain what she herself didn't understand? Better not to get into it.

 
          
"I
don't know, Gerry. He's got some strange ideas about who he takes as
patients."

 
          
"And
some of his patients have had some bad luck lately."

 
          
"You
mean like Congressman Allard?" Gerry stiffened in his seat. "That guy
who fell this morning? On the Capitol steps? He was a Lathram patient
too?"

           
"What do you mean, too?"

          
 
Gerry didn't answer immediately. His eyes took
on a faraway look. What was he thinking?

 
          
And
how did the FBI know, and why should they care, who was and wasn't
Duncan
's patient?

 
          
His
mind racing, Gerry stared past Gin at the chicken fajitas poster on the window
behind her.

 
          
Allard
was a Duncan Lathram patient too. That made three . . . three Lathram patients
with fatal or near-fatal accidents in the past month or so. What could,?

 
          
He
shook himself free of speculation and focused on Gin again.

 
          
God,
he was drawn to her. All that glossy black hair and deep brown, almost-black
eyes, and he loved the way her mouth curved up at the corners when she smiled.
He'd never noticed any of that when she was an overweight kid. But then, he'd
never looked at her much when she was Pasta.

 
          
That
had to be part of it. They had a history. He'd known her when, back in the Bad
Old Days when she was a homely chubette, and again, now, when she was sleek and
turning heads.

 
          
But
he hadn't known her then, not really, and he certainly didn't know her now. But
he sensed things about her, strength and confidence surging within her, and
that was as sexy as anything external.

 
          
She'd
remade herself, decided how she wanted to be, who she wanted to be, and become
that person.

 
          
And
now that person was waiting for an answer.

 
          
He
said, "Two powerful legislators have died in the past month. Congressman
Lane and Senator Schulz. Both were,"

           
"Patients of Duncan Lathram. I
know. But they were accidents. Weren't they?"

 
          
"That's what they appear to be
so far."

 
          
"How
did you know they were both
Duncan
's patients?"

           
He narrowed his eyes and said,
"Vee haf ways . . . " while his mind ranged ahead, calculating how
much he should and could tell her.

 
          
"I'm
serious, Gerry." She seemed upset. Why? Lathram was just her boss. Or was
there more to it?

 
          
"It
just happened to come up in the investigations."

 
          
"I
heard about the investigations. Why?"

           
"Two political bigwigs?
Violent deaths within a few weeks of each other? The Bureau investigates. If
there is a connection, we want to be the first to know."

           
"Oh," she said, leaning
back. "I guess that makes sense."

 
          
"Allard's
accident wasn't fatal, but he won't be doing much legislating for a
while."

 
          
"What
do you mean?"

           
"Apparently he's been babbling
nonsense since he came to in the hospital."

 
          
"Really?"
she said, her brow furrowing. "Must be some sort of postconcussion
syndrome. Poor guy."

 
          
"Must
be." Three disabling mishaps, two permanently so, and all patients of
Duncan
I'm sorry - but - the - doctor - doesn't
handle post-trauma Lathram.

 
          
Gerry
wondered what other links the three men might have to the good doctor.

 
          
"
‘Scuse me, Dad." Gerry looked around as Martha nudged him with her hip.

 
          
"Where
do you think you're going, miss?"

           
"Need another Mountain
Dew."

           
"Think you can handle it
yourself?"

           
She rolled her eyes. "Da-deee!"

           
"Okay, but only half a
cup." He slid off the bench to let her out.

 
          
"Got
enough money?"

            
Another roll of the baby blues.
"Free refills, Dad!"

           
"Right. I knew that." He
sat down again but never let her out of his sight as she made her way to the
drink dispenser. She knew exactly what to do, and half of her fun in coming
here was holding the cup under the ice dispenser and letting the cubes clunk
into it, then filling it from the Mountain Dew spigot. So he let her do it on
her own. But Gerry was watching her and everybody around her. Anybody got the
least bit frisky with Martha and he'd been on them like a pit bull on a T-bone.

 
          
"She's
a doll, " Gin said.

 
          
That
she is," he replied, never taking his eyes off her.

 
          
'"You
never mentioned her mother." He glanced at Gin's intent expression, then
back toward the drink dispenser.

 
          
"Remember
Karen Shannick? The tall blond?"

           
"The cheerleader? Sure."

           
"Well, she went to U.V.A too.
We got serious in college and were married right after. Martha came along about
a year later."

 
          
"You
still together?" He pointed to the scars on his face and spoke quickly to
get the story out before Martha came back.

 
          
"These
are from a windshield. A rainy night on 50. Truck jackknifed in front of us. I
was driving, Karen was in the passenger seat, Martha in her car seat behind me.
We slid right into the truck. Martha was fine, my face was hamburger, and Karen
. . . Karen didn't make it." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gin's
hand dart to her mouth.

 
          
"Oh,
my God! I'm so sorry!" Not as sorry as I was.

 
          
"The
really sad part is, Martha doesn't remember her mother. We have pictures, but
that's all Karen is to Martha. I wish . . . " His throat constricted.
Karen had been the careful one, and she'd been wearing her seat belt, Gerry
hadn't bothered with his that night. Yet Karen was dead and Gerry was alive.

 
          
Wasn't
fair.

 
          
He
saw them sliding across the wet pavement, swerving out of control, his hands
hauling on the steering wheel as he rammed the brakes to the floor, watching the
rear corner of the truck loom in the passenger window before It smashed through
the glass into Karen. . . .

 
          
Not
fair.

 
          
He'd
been an emotional basket case afterward, and his cutup face only added to the
misery. Martha hadn't recognized him, screamed whenever she saw him. He looked
like the Frankenstein monster. And Dr. Duncan Lathram had refused to treat him
. . .

 
          
He
blinked and saw Martha hurrying back to him with her brimming plastic cup of
Mountain Dew clutched between her little hands. She'd never finish it all, but
so what? She'd gone and filled it herself.

 
          
'"So
Martha and I are managing on our own, " he said as he helped her back into
her seat. "And trying to spend as much time together as my schedule
permits." Which wasn't nearly enough for him. But what could he expect as
a field agent? This wouldn't last much longer, he hoped. As soon as he was
offered an S.S.A spot, he was taking it, no matter where it was, so he could
get on a nine-to-five schedule and be with her more.

 
          
Right
now she went to kindergarten, then after school to Mrs. Snedecker's. Thank God
for Mrs. Snedecker.

 
          
He
smoothed Martha's blond bangs and adjusted her Minnie Mouse barrettes.
Incredible how much he'd learned. He could bathe Martha, shampoo hair, wash
clothes, iron dresses, buy tights. His mother had helped some, but last year
her heart had given out.

 
          
So
it was Gerry and Martha. And God he was glad to have her. She'd filled some of
the void Karen had left in his life. He might have gone to pieces but he'd had
to hold together for Martha.

 
          
He
still saw Karen. She came to him in his dreams. He'd ask her how he was doing
with Martha but she never answered.

 
          
How
was he doing?

 
          
Martha'smiled
up at him and he kissed her forehead.

 
          
"But
enough about me," he said to Gin. "What were you doing in the
Hart
Building
today? It's not exactly a doctor
hangout." She told him about her quest to have a say in the Guidelines
bill, her lackluster interview with Senator Marsden's chief of staff, and her
aborted interview with Allard.

 
          
"All
that medical cramming and you want to hang with the pols?" She laughed,
"You sound like
Duncan
."

 
          
"Well,
maybe he's got a point."

 
          
"It's
not all I want to do, just a part. And I am going to do it. All of it."
She rattled the cubes in her cup. "I think I could use a refill too."

           
Gerry reached for her cup and
started to rise. "Let me,"

           
"Thanks, " she said,
holding it out of his reach, "but I may want a different flavor this
time" Gerry watched her stroll to the drink dispenser, watched most of the
other guys in sight follow her progress.

 
          
Yes,
she was definitely worth a second look. Even a third.

 
          
And
I am going to do it. All of it.

 
          
The
fiery determination in her eyes made her even more attractive. A self-made
woman. She'd gone from a girl who could only be described as a schlub, to a
woman with limitless possibilities. "Martha, " he whispered, "I
do believe I'm becoming infatuated."

           
Martha didn't look up. "That's
cause there's beans in this stuff.

 
          
Gerry
laughed out loud.

 
          
"But
don't worry, " Martha said. "We can tell Gin about it. She'll make
you better She's a doctor."

           
"No, no, " Gerry said,
gently pressing a finger over her lips. "We won't tell Gin anything about
it. At least not yet."

DUNCAN

           
DUNCAN AND BRAD STEPPED OUT OF IL
GIARDINELLO INTO the sulfurous air of
Georgetown
's M Street. The traffic streaming in from
Virginia
was stop-and-go, and the carbon monoxide
from the idling cars mixed with the light fog drifting up from the nearby
Potomac
. The concoction hung in the still fall air
like a toxic pall.

 
          
They
turned east and headed back toward the car, passing a gallimaufry of
restaurants, bars, bistros, upscale clothing and jewelry stores, alternative
music shops, and, yes, even a condom shop.

 
          
"Not
a bad meal," Brad said.

 
          
"No,
not bad at all if you like your pasta overcooked, your veal practically raw,
air thick with smoke, and acoustics so bad you can barely hear yourself think.
The service was dilatory and indifferent at best, the decor was like one of the
Borgias' bad dreams, the wine list wouldn't pass on the Bowery, and the
espresso . . . " He shuddered.

 
          
"Execrable."
Suddenly he smiled. "I must remember to recommend the place to your
mother."

 
          
Brad gave his father a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Come on, now.
None of that."

 
          
"All
right."

 
          
"I
guess we won't be back here real soon."

 
          
"Of
course we will. As soon as it changes its name, owner, and chef."

 
          
Brad
only shook his head, smiling.

 
          
Duncan
loved this boy, this young man, this good-natured twenty-something with his
open face and guileless blue eyes, his long, lean body, his too-long brown
hair, the way he never wore socks and never cinched his tie all the way up and
never fastened the top button on his shirt.

 
          
Memories
swirled around him like the leaves starting to drop from the trees, swimming
lessons in grammar school, middle school science projects, the trauma of not
making the varsity cut for the high-school basketball team, all the ups and
downs of raising a child.

 
          
Somehow,
he thought, we did all right with Brad. We weren't the best parents, what with
our preoccupation with Lisa and all her problems, my own self-absorption, but
somehow, in spite of everything, Brad turned out all right. A testament to the
primacy of nature over nurture.

 
          
Impulsively,
Duncan
threw an arm around his son's shoulder and
pulled him close. He wasn't given much to outward displays of affection, but
God he loved this boy.

 
          
"Thanks
for tolerating me." Brad put an arm around
Duncan
's waist.

 
          
"Somebody
has to."

 
          
Each
with an arm still around the other, they crossed
Wisconsin
and followed M Street's gentle down slope
toward Rock Creek.

 
          
"So
you're not disappointed?" Brad said.

 
          
"What
do I have to do,"
Duncan
said, "have it tattooed on my forehead? No. En-oh. I am not
disappointed."

 
          
"That's
such an awesome relief, I can't tell you." Brad had told him he wanted to
get together and talk about the future, his plans for his own future.
Duncan
had suggested dinner. But turned out Brad
hadn't so much wanted to discuss what he planned to do with his future, as what
he planned not to do.

 
          
And
he did not plan to go to medical school.

 
          
Years
ago, before his public lapidation by the Guidelines committee, before managed
care snared the medical profession in its tendrils,
Duncan
would have been bitterly disappointed .

 
          
But
tonight he was almost thrilled.

 
          
"Why
should I be upset because you don't want to spend another eight-to-ten years in
brain-busting study for the privilege of answering to panels of political
appointees? The only thing medicine's got going for it anymore is job . . .
security.

 
          
"Yeah.
People will always need doctors, I guess."

           
"That they will. But the doctor-patient
relationship is eroding. There used to be an almost sacred bond between a
doctor and a patient that no one could break. The examination room was the
equivalent of a confessional. The intimate secrets that used to be
hieroglyphically recorded in our crabbed shorthand and hermetically sealed
behind the inviolable walls of our offices are now open to any government or
insurance company hireling who wants to see them."

 
          
"So
I've got to be careful what I tell my doctor."

 
          
"Damn
right. And for your sake he's got to be choosy about what he sets down on paper."

          
"Sounds pretty grim. But none
of that's why. The main reason is it's just not my thing."

           
He gave Brad's shoulder a gentle
squeeze. "Just what is?"

           
"I don't know, Dad. I just
don't know."

           
Duncan
sighed. So many of this so-called
Generation X seemed to have no-idea what they wanted or where they were going.
Duncan
couldn't understand that. All his life he'd
wanted to be a doctor.

 
          
He'd
set a course for it when he was a child.

 
          
Never
could he recall even an instant of uncertainty.

 
          
Maybe
that was why he felt such kinship with Gin. She was as determined to do things
her way as he'd been at her age. Her way wasn't his, but he could forgive her
that, she'd see the error of her ways. She was almost like a daughter. Maybe
he'd subconsciously slipped Gin into the empty place within that he'd reserved
for Lisa.

 
          
Yes
. . . like a daughter. After all, he'd given her life in a way, sewing her
insides back together.

 
          
But
not knowing the next step . . . the anxiety that had to cause.

 
          
What
uncertainties roiled through Brad when he lay in bed at night, asking the dark
where his life was headed?

 
          
"Whatever
you decide, I'm behind you. Any time you,"

      
     
"Faggots!"

           
Duncan
started at the word and glanced around. To
his right, three shadowy figures slouched in predatory poses in a darkened
recessed doorway, each with a bottle or can of some sort in hand. Light from
the street reflected from their bare scalps. He kept walking.

 
          
"Skinheads,"
Brad whispered and began to pull his arm from around
Duncan
's waist.

 
          
Duncan
grabbed his wrist. "Don't you
dare."

           
"Dad, they think we're,"

           
"Are you going to let them be
the arbiters of how a father and son can walk down the street?"

           
"I know how you are with the
never complain, never explain stuff, but these guys are crazy."
Duncan
reached his free hand into his jacket
pocket and wrapped his fingers around the metal cylinder there.

 
          
"Maybe
I'm crazier." The M Street-Wisconsin Avenue area had always been the tacky
section of
Georgetown
. A farrago of trendily overpriced
boutiques, bars, clubs, and evanescent restaurants ranging from upscale ethnic
cuisine to Little Tavern Hamburgers, peopled by roaming demimondaines and
boulevardiers in search of something called fun.

 
          
Folksingers
had peopled the cafes in the early sixties, giving way to the hippies at the
end of the decade. Discos came and went in the seventies. Through it all, the
Georgetown street
people had upheld a noble tradition of
remaining determinedly dissolute but generally good-natured.

 
          
Until
lately. Strolling the area these days was like navigating a third world bazaar.
The boutiques bedizening
Wisconsin
's terminal slope were cheaper and gaudier, nobody seemed to speak
English or be on speaking terms with a bar of soap, and lumpen denizens
panhandled on every corner. The slovens of the grunge cadre were as unwashed as
the hippies of old, but they lacked the latter's sense of style and humor.

 
          
The
atmosphere was as blowzy as ever, but the mood had turned grim.

 
          
Despite
a new mall and brighter lighting, the
Georgetown street
scene, like everything else, was changing
for the worse.

 
          
What
a world. What a screwed-up world.

 
          
They
moved out of the pedestrian traffic and turned right onto 2gth,
Duncan
had parked the Mercedes on the hill that
fell away toward the C8cO Canal. He was just turning the key in the lock when
something whizzed by his head and smashed on the sidewalk half a dozen feet
away.

 
          
"Faggots!"
The light wasn't as good here as up on M, but he had no trouble recognizing the
skinheads. The three of them were trotting down the hill. They must have
belonged to some sort of gang because they all wore jeans, black leather
jackets, and fingerless black leather gloves. One carried a Budweiser can, one
was empty-handed but repeatedly pounded his fist into his palm, and the guy in
the lead carried some sort of metal pipe.

 
          
"Shit,
Dad," Brad said. "Let's get out of here."

           
Duncan
's mouth was dry. His legs urged him to run
but his feet seemed anchored to the pavement. The thugs were too close and
moving too fast. No time to get in the car, get it started, and maneuver out of
the parking spot.

 
          
His
heart began to hammer as he pulled the little cylinder from his pocket and held
it down by his thigh, out of sight.

 
          
"Time
to make some faggo-burgers," said the leader, grinning as he raised the
pipe and charged. His two companions were close behind.

 
          
"Hey,
listen!" Brad shouted. "We're not,"

           
"Quiet, Brad."
Duncan
's thumb found the trigger atop the little
cylinder. It slipped and swiveled in his sweaty palm. His hand shook wildly as
he raised the canister and shot a stream of liquid at the leader's face.

 
          
It
missed, arcing past the raised pipe to splash against the throat and upper
chest of the second in line. As that one gagged and turned, throwing his arms
across his eyes and mouth,
Duncan
adjusted the stream and caught the leader square in the face. He
dropped the pipe and fell to his knees, choking, clawing at his eyes. Meanwhile
the third skinhead had run into the second, who had skidded to a stop and
doubled over. The two went down in a tangled heap.