F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (35 page)

 
          
Unless
. . .

 
          
Unless
Duncan
had been setting her up.

 
          
But
how? He had no inkling of what she knew. She'd relocked his desk drawer, erased
the FDA download from the computer. She'd left no trail.

 
          
No
reason in the world for
Duncan
to suspect she had the vaguest due.

 
          
So
why would he set her up?

 
          
Maybe
he had'ntr. Maybe he'd tried to jab an implant into the senator's thigh but
didn't have time to complete the job, leaving a skin wound but no implant.

 
          
And
maybe he wasn't up to what she thought he was. Maybe she'd misinterpreted
everything.

 
          
Was
that possible? Could she have been that far off the mark?

 
          
And
poor Gerry. He'd stuck his neck out on account of what she'd told him. Sounded
as if he'd been damn near decapitated as a result. He had a right to be hurt
and angry.

 
          
But
so do I, dammit.

 
          
She
wandered over to the kitchenette and saw the heads of broccoli sitting on the
counter, waiting to be sliced up into flowerets. Enough for three or four. And
she wasn't the least bit hungry.

 
          
I've
really screwed things up, haven't I, she thought as she returned to the bay
window and curled up on the seat.

 
          
The
streetlights were on. She stared down at the passing singles and couples. She
felt utterly alone, but she wasn't going to cry.

 
          
Gerry
sat in his easy chair with Martha on his lap. He had his arms around her,
holding her close and warm against him in her
OshKosh
corduroys while she read him a story. It
was the Martha Canney variation of Madeline. She couldn't read just yet, but she'd
heard the story so many times that she knew it almost word for word.

 
          
So
did Gerry. So his mind drifted. It would have drifted no matter what Martha was
reading. What a godawful, rotten day. If only . . .

 
          
Yeah.
If only. He must have had a million if-onlys since this morning when the Mr I
report had come back negative.

 
          
Damn!
If only he hadn't rushed it, taken a little more time to check things out. But
dammit, they couldn't take too much time Marsden was supposedly in danger.

 
          
Supposedly
. . .

 
          
He'd
bought into Gin's scenario completely. If only he'd been a little more
skeptical.

 
          
He
winced as he remembered the excruciating moment when he'd had to call Ketter
and tell him that they'd come up empty-handed. The little operation that was to
make them a couple of fair-haired. boys had left them the big jokes of the
Bureau. And then Cavanaugh, one of the assistant directors, had called them
into his office and dressed them down but good. Gerry couldn't remember ever
feeling so embarrassed and humiliated. He'd wanted to crawl under a rock.

 
          
But
the worst of it was that lost amid all the reprimands was the fact that the
operation Gerry had designed and managed had gone off like clockwork.
Everything as planned, on time and under budget. Marsden's car had been hit
without damage to him, he'd been whisked off to the hospital, examined, and
delivered back to. his office without the slightest hint that it had all been
arranged.

 
          
At
least the Bureau itself had been spared any public embarrassment.

 
          
Thank
God for that.

 
          
But
no one would remember his well-oiled operation. Only that there'd been no
poison pill in the senator's leg, and that Gerry Canney had to be the most
gullible agent in the Bureau.

 
          
But
what hurt most was knowing that any hopes he'd had of moving up to SSA soon had
been dashed but good.

 
          
He
held Martha closer.

 
          
Looks
like it's business as usual, kid, he thought glumly.

 
          
Catch-as-catch-can
fatherhood for the foreseeable future.

 
          
"Daddy,
you're squeezing too tight!"

       
    
"Sorry, honey. What happens to
Madeline next?"

           
"She has her operation."

 
          
"Tell
me all about it." His mind drifted again. What about Gin?

 
          
What
was going on inside her?

 
          
Where
had she come up with that wild fantasy? From me, dammit. At least initially.
But she'd pushed it a few steps further . . .

 
          
Marsden
. . . that triethyl whatever-it-was . . . and he'd bought into it on the
strength of her conviction, on the basis of his faith in her . . .

 
          
Looking
back, knowing now that it had been the proverbial wild-goose chase, he couldn't
believe he'd got sucked in like that. But thinking about it, he guessed he had
been primed to believe anything shady about the uppity Dr. Lathram.

 
          
He
wished today had never happened.

 
          
Gerry
suppressed a growl as he closed his eyes. He knew he was feeling sorry for
himself. He hated self-pity. Tomorrow was a new day. He'd suck this mess in,
chew it up, spit it out, and get back on the job.

 
          
But
tonight . . . tonight he was feeling pretty goddamn low.

 
          
His
thoughts ran to Gin again. He'd been pretty rough on her. Hadn't meant to be,
but the bitterness was like a pressure, he'd had to blow off at least some of
it. Couldn'r on Ketter, who'd backed him a hundred percent, and certainly not
on Martha.

 
          
That
left Gin.

 
          
Maybe
she needed some help. She certainly hadn't been fully connected to reality
imagining that implant in Marsden.

 
          
Gin
. . . he felt a need for her but didn't want to be in the same room with her.
At least not tonight. Maybe he'd get past this and maybe not. Where did they go
from here? The fallout from today could poison their relationship.

 
          
He
shifted in the chair. Enough wallowing. He had someone very real and very
important sitting on his lap. Time to focus on Martha, and on the problem of
Madeline's tummy ache.

 
          
But
a vision of Gin sitting alone in her apartment came to him. He wondered if she
had anyone to turn to tonight. He wondered if she knew someone was thinking
about her.

 
          
Duncan
sat before MaeNeil/Lehrer, sipping a scotch
and soda, barely listening. He was envisioning Gin. His earlier anger was gone
and now he was wondering what slue was thinking.

 
          
Poor
girl. Probably couldn't figure up from down at the moment.

 
          
Probably
questioning her sanity.

 
          
He
sighed. He wished he could feel good about hoodwinking the poor thing, but
frankly, it hadn't taken much. He'd been all primed for her yesterday morning.
He'd had the TPD, the trocar, and a saline-filled implant sitting on his desk
where she could see them. He'd dosed her coffee with twenty milligrams of
Lasix. The diuretic had achieved the desired effect, she'd had to leave
Marsden's side for a trip to the john. And while she was gone he'd ducked in
and given Marsden a quick jab with the tip of the trocar. After that it was
simply a matter of waiting.

 
          
All
to see what she knew. Obviously she suspected something, but how much?

 
          
Now
he knew.

 
          
Gin
knew everything. Or at least enough to go to her fellow in the FBI and convince
him to save her dear senator from the wicked Dr. Lathram.

 
          
The
call from the hospital that the FBI was involved had come as a mind-numbing
shock.

 
          
He
sipped his scotch. But he was better now. Everything was under control again.

 
          
But
poor Gin. She must have been so sure.

 
          
And
right now she probably wasn't sure of anything at all, except that the FBI
considered her an unreliable source.

 
          
He'd
neutralized her without harming a hair on her head.

 
          
Pretty
slick.

 
          
So
now she had to put this behind her. Write it off as a bad dream and let things
return to normal. If he were smart he'd find an excuse to fire her. Play it
safe and get her off the premises.

 
          
But
he couldn't do that. He still remembered that skinny, raven-haired little girl
with the huge brown eyes, wide with fright, asking him if she was going to die,
and later his hands inside her abdomen, her blood pooling around his wrists as
he fought to find the bleeders and mend her damaged arteries. As much as he
hated to admit it, he missed those days. He missed the adrenaline rush of the
emergencies, opening up a patient and searching for the leak, racing against
the falling blood pressure, the falling hematocrit, the impending
cardiovascular collapse and shock.

 
          
Or
rushing to tie off a bulging abdominal aneurysm before it blew and splashed red
against the ceiling. He missed saving lives.

 
          
But
McCready, Ailard, Lane, Schulz, Vincent, and the rest of them had made that
impossible.

 
          
He
rubbed his eyes as bitter memories rushed in. . . memories of poor Lisa . . .

 
          
Lisa
Lathram . . . a euphonious name, such an up sound to it. And yet Lisa herself .
. .

 
          
He
remembered her as such a happy child, could still hear her dulcet laugh, see
her bright eyes, her effulgent smile, Lord, that smile . . .

 
          
Lisa
was always smiling, accepting everyone and everything, hugs and kisses all
around.

 
          
When
Brad came along,
Duncan
loved him equally, but as a son. There was a difference there.

 
          
Lisa
remained the light of his life. At times he was sure Diana was jealous of their
relationship. When he arrived home from the hospital or the office, Lisa was
the first one he looked for, and she always came running when she heard his
voice. How he cosseted her. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, a piano
to play, a horse to ride, a balance beam for gymnastics practice, was hers for
the asking.

 
          
But
the halcyon days of her childhood evanesced as puberty took hold, and Duncan
came to understand firsthand the origin of the changeling myth. As her body
changed, so did Lisa's personality. At first he and Diana chalked up the
moodiness to the new hormones pulsing through her.

 
          
After
all, what was there to be grumpy about? With her flowing blond hair and lissom
figure, she was only getting prettier.