F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (30 page)

 
          
Well,
she couldn't let that stop her. She jumped out of her car and hurried for the
rear entrance.

 
          
She'd
use the old, as yet untried Forgot-my-Senate-lD badge excuse if anyone asked
why she was here. The whole procedure would take ten seconds, log into the hard
drive
Del
the file with the triptolinic diethylamide
data, log out, then get the hell out of Dodge.

 
          
Simple.

 
          
God,
it better be.

 
          
Duncan
had logged in to the FDA database but that
was no help. No way to tell what Gin had done. He'd even called the FDA, but
three different clerks hadn't the vaguest idea how to help him.

 
          
Seething
with frustration, he exited the program and back, staring at the C-prompt.
There had to be a way . . but what if there wasn't anything to find? And even
if eye had been searching for TPD, she may never have found it. Years back,
Duncan himself had had a devil of a time accessing it and he'd known where to
look. But if she had and it and simply read the information on the screen,
There'd be no trail, no way for him to know. Only if she'd downloaded the file,
Duncan
straightened in his chair.

 
          
Download.
She'd have to create a download file, have to a the incoming data before it
could be written to the hard drive. He punched in DIR/OD and entered it. The
entire contents of the hard drive, every directory and free file scrolled up
before him at an unreadable pace.

 
          
No
matter. If , it had downloaded directly to the hard drive, he'd find it somewhere
near the end of the list. If she'd routed it into one of the directories, he'd
have to search it out directory by directory. And if she'd erased it . . .
well, then he'd just be wasting his time

 
          
And
how would he recognize it, anyway? Would she have labeled it TPD?

 
          
Hardly.

 
          
And
suddenly there it was, at the bottom of the screen.

 
          
The
last file. "RFP" followed by yesterday's date.

 
          
Regina
F. Panzella. He'd forgotten what the F.
stood for, as if that mattered. What was in that file?

 
          
He
punched in TYPE RFP and watched the lines zip up the screen. When the scrolling
stopped at the end of the file, he read the final line.

 
          
CURRENT
STATUS, Further investigation of triptolinic diethylamide disrontinved.

 
          
No!
He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see that.

 
          
He
pushed away from the chair and wandered the room, turning this way and that
with sharp, agitated movements. He couldn't be still. He felt as if some unseen
force were at his back, propelling him around his office. This hurt like a
sucker punch. Gin had been in his locked drawer, she'd picked the damn lock!
How could she? Why would she?

 
          
That
was the most unnerving question. Why? She couldn't suspect anything. He'd been
too careful. He'd used a cutting-edge system only a few people were aware of to
deliver a drug hardly anyone knew existed.

 
          
There
had to be something else.

 
          
How
much does she know?

 
          
Obviously
she knows about the TPD. But what else?

 
          
And
how to find out? He couldn't simply sit her down and ask her.

 
          
His
peregrination took him near the door then and he heard Barbara call good-bye to
someone. Suddenly he had to know who. His privacy had been violated, his little
fortress had been broached. He wanted the name, rank, and serial number of
everyone who walked through those doors.

 
          
He
stuck his head through the door. "Who was that?" Barbara turned.

 
          
"Dr.
Panzella."

 
          
"Really."
He kept a calm facade as alarms clanged anew in his head. "I hadn't
realized she was here."

 
          
"Oh,
she just popped in to pick up something she left yesterday." Her
lock-picking kit? he wondered as he nodded and closed the door.

 
          
What
was Gin up to now? What was she doing sneaking around here on her day off? Prying
into more of his private affairs?

 
          
He
made a fist.

 
          
Betrayed.
By Gin.

 
          
He
wanted to punch something.

 
          
I
saved your life, child!

 
          
How
could she? And what had she done just now?

 
          
A
thought struck him. He stepped back to his terminal and reran a DIR on the hard
drive. The scroll of directories blurred past as before, but ended in a
different place.

 
          
No
"RFP" file.

 
          
She
must have realized she'd left the file on the disk and came back to cover her
tracks. The perfidious little ingrate. What was she up to?

 
          
And
dammit, how much did she know?

 
          
He
had to have answers, and soon. Before next Friday.

GINA

           
GINA YAWNED AND SHOOK HERSELF AS
SHE WOVE through the traffic on
Connecticut Avenue
.

 
          
Tired.

 
          
Not
just tired. Exhausted.

 
          
She'd
done a shift as house doc last night. Tried to get out of it, tried to trade,
but no one was buying.

 
          
At
least she'd been able to get Jim Grady to agree to take the last two hours of
her shift. But much as she'd love to, she wouldn't be using the time for sleep.
She wanted to get the jump on
Duncan
before today's surgery. She was going to be
there first, be there when
Duncan
arrived, and keep an eye on him until Senator Marsden arrived. After
that she was going to stick to the senator like Krazy Glue, Assist with his
surgery and not let him out of her sight until he walked out to his waiting
car.

 
          
She
turned into the office parking lot and skidded to a halt.
Duncan
's black Mercedes was already in his space.

 
          
She
pounded her fist against the steering wheel. Damn it!

 
          
All
right. She'd have to adjust. If
Duncan
asked she'd simply say she got off her
shift early but not early enough to go home first.

 
          
She
pulled into one of the staff spaces and hurried to the door. Once inside she
stopped. Muzak filtered through the air, a lush, inappropriate string
arrangement of a Beatles tune, accompanied by the rich aroma of
Duncan
's fresh coffee. Gin wasn't tempted. She'd
been drinking coffee all night.

 
          
Her
shoes were soft-soled and made no sound and she walked slowly down the hall
toward his office. She slipped past Barbara's desk and listened a moment at the
open door. No sound from within. Not even the television.
Duncan
almost always had CNN or C-SPAN running.
She tapped lightly as she peeked inside.

 
          
"Duncan?"
Empty. Except for the heavy aroma of coffee, the office was pretty much as
she'd left it on Tuesday. But where was he?

 
          
As
she turned to leave, a glint of light from the desktop caught her eye. She
stepped closer. A bottle.

 
          
Her
mouth went dry as she recognized the TPD. It sat on a metal tray.

 
          
So
did the trocar and obturator, now sealed inside an autoclave pouch.

 
          
The
assembly had been sterilized. Why? Being readied for use? Beside it lay an
uncapped syringe. And a large implant. A full implant.

 
          
She
felt sick. The room swayed and nausea rippled through her stomach.

 
          
Oh,
Duncan
! It's true!

 
          
Tears
welled in her eyes, a sob bubbled in her throat. How could he?

 
          
Then
Gin heard a door slam somewhere out in the hall. Panic bolted through her. She
couldn't let him catch her in here.

 
          
She
spun and ran to the door. No one in sight but she could hear footsteps
approaching from around the corner. Her heart pounding madly, she scampered two
doors down and ducked into the employee restroom. She stood-there gasping,
sweating as the nausea surged back.

 
          
Then
she bent over the toilet and retched.

 
          
Nothing
came up. As she turned and sagged against the sink, tasting the acid in her
throat, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, pale, sick, trembling.

 
          
Duncan
. . . Duncan . . .
Duncan
. . . this can't be happening.

 
          
This
Can't be you!

 
          
But
it was
Duncan
. The pieces all fit. Her wildest
speculations had been right on target.
Duncan
was poisoning these men, implanting a
neurotoxin in their tissues, sending them over the edge into psychosis . . .

 
          
Where
he himself already was.

 
          
Gin
gripped the edge of the sink and steadied herself. She splashed water on her
face and tried to focus her thoughts.

 
          
Duncan
had had a breakdown.

 
          
Not
a breakdown, she told herself. Let's get clinical. Use your training.

 
          
Not
easy to do when it was someone so close, but she had to take a couple of steps
back and look at him.

 
          
Duncan
. . . some form of paranoid schizophrenia .
. . taking revenge on the Guidelines committee for ruining his practice years
ago . . . and now, in his mind, threatening to destroy all medical practice.

 
          
Paranoid
delusions were often anchored, however tenuously, in reality, but the psychosis
magnified the threat. Every one was a potential enemy. He could rely on no one,
so his only recourse was to take drastic action on his own.

 
          
Left
alone,
Duncan
most likely was a danger to no one but the
Guidelines committee. But if challenged, if threatened, if cornered, he could be
unpredictable, could become a danger to anyone within reach.

 
          
So
what do I do? she asked her reflection as she dried her face. Her color was
better now. Her sick expression had faded. She felt a little more in control,
but only a little. Her stomach had settled and she wasn't looking to run.

 
          
One
thing she knew not to do, Confront Duncan. He might go wild, do something
crazy. Except he's already done that. Four times. Possibly more.

 
          
With
Senator Marsden next.

 
          
A
violent tremor rattled through her, starting in her spine and rolling outward.
An after shock.

 
          
Get
a grip, Panzella. You can handle this.

 
          
She
straightened, smoothed her blouse, shook her hair back, and tried to think of a
plan.

 
          
She
wouldn't say or do anything this morning. Act naturally. Give
Duncan
no hint that she suspected a thing. She'd
do what was expected and maybe a little more, assist on the surgery, sit with
the senator through recovery, see him off, then leave. But as soon as she got
home she'd call Gerry, tell him about the TPD, the ultrasound and trocar, fax
him the newspaper clippings, and let the FBI or the Secret Service or whoever
take over.

 
          
Act
naturally. Right.

 
          
She
stepped out into the hall and walked back toward
Duncan
's office, trying to look casual. Barbara's
desk was empty. Still too early for her. As before, Gin stepped around and
approached the door. This time there was sound from within. The TV was on.

 
          
She
tapped and called
Duncan
's name but no one replied. She stepped inside. A quick glance around,
still empty, and then her eyes went to the desk.

 
          
The
desktop was clear except for the computer terminal and the usual papers and
journals.

 
          
The
tray with the TPD, the syringe, the trocar, and the implant was gone.

 
          
Another
tremor, another wave of dizziness, but short-lived this time

 
          
She
was in control again.

 
          
What
did you expect? He's not going to leave that stuff on display all morning.
Locked away in the drawer now, ready for use.

 
          
She
set her jaw. Not today,
Duncan
. Not on my senator.

 
          
"Well!
You're early today." Gin almost yelped with surprise as
Duncan
breezed by her and crossed the office to
his coffeemaker.

 
          
"I
got out early," she managed to say.

 
          
"Good.
We've got a lot to do today." He filled a cup from the carafe and held it
up. "Coffee?"

           
"No, thanks."

 
          
"Nonsense.
It's genuine pure Kona, shipped directly from a plantation south of
Kailua
. You must have some. I insist." Maybe
she'd better, just to be sociable '"Okay. Just a taste."

 
          
"You'll
love this, ' he said, pouring and handing her a steaming cup.

 
          
He
hovered as she sipped, and beamed when she nodded.

 
          
"Hmmm.
This is great." She watched him fuss with his funnel and filter. He was
dressed in gray slacks, a blue oxford button-down shirt, and a maroon crew-neck
sweater.

 
          
He
looked so relaxed, so damn normal. But she knew that was often the way with the
paranoid schiz. Perfectly sane and normal in every aspect of their lives except
the one delusional facet. She remembered a case study about a successful
businessman, ran three companies, an exemplary husband and father, loved by
all, one day going berserk when one of his vice presidents tapped a cigarette
ash into the urn that housed the little blue man who advised him.

 
          
Duncan
stopped what he was doing to stare a moment
at the TV. C-SPAN was replaying an interview with the Speaker of the House. He
grimaced.

 
          
"They
shouldn't allow this stuff on during the day."

 
          
"Why
not?"

           
"Children might see it, "
he said with a mischievous wink. "C-SPAN should be limited to late-night
broadcasts. Children in their formative years should not be exposed to
politicians. People whine about violence on TV, but this is far more
corrupting." Gin forced a smile. She could not find him funny now.

 
          
He
continued to stare at the screen. "Where do they find these people?"

           
"They were elected," Gin
said coldly. "It's the American way. They ran for office and they got the
most votes."

           
"Yes. Tweedledum and
Tweedledummer. No one you'd really like to see in public office has the bad
taste to run. And if he does, he's not going to win."

           
"I can think of at least one
exception, " she said, thinking of Senator Marsden.

 
          
"A
rara avis, I assure you. Think about it, Gin. On one side you've got a man of
intelligence and integrity. Against his better judgment he agrees to run,
thinking he might be able to do something meaningful. But he won't suck up to
ward bosses, won't kiss babies or judge hog contests or put on an apron and a
white cap for a bake shop photo op. He insists on being judged by his positions
on the issues. On the other side, however, you've got a political hanger-on
who'll promise anything to anyone, make deals left and right, and pose any time
someone lifts a camera, do anything it takes, anything at all, to get a
vote."
Duncan
turned to her. Suddenly he was fiercely
intent. "Tell me, Gin. Who's going to win that election?"