F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (39 page)

 
          
But
she could look like she was.

 
          
She
grabbed an extra stethoscope from her glove compartment, hung her Senate ID
badge around her neck, and hurried after him.

 
          
She
wished she knew D. C. General. The brick building ahead was a big one and had a
jury-rigged look. Eight stories high at the front end, six at the rear, it
looked as if it had started out considerably smaller and grown by accretion, a
wing here, a few extra floors there.

 
          
This
could be tricky. She kept up the quick pace as she passed the guard perched on
a stool inside the entrance, smiling and waving with the hand holding the
stethoscope, hoping he wouldn't notice that her photo ID wasn't for D. C.
General.

 
          
The
guard smiled back and nodded, then went back to reading his newspaper.

 
          
About
fifty feet ahead of her she saw Duncan heading down the hall.

 
          
She
broke into a delicate trot to close the distance between them. She knew if she
lost sight of him, she'd never find him again in this maze.

 
          
He
led her on a tortuous course that ended before a bank of elevators.

 
          
Gin
hung back, uncertain. If she didn't get on that elevator with him, she'd lose
him. She wouldn't even know which floor to search.

 
          
Only
one thing to do. She tucked her Senate ID badge away and stepped forward.

 
          
"
Duncan
! " she said, tapping him on the shoulder.
"What are you doing here?" He turned and started when he saw her.
Something flashed in his eyes.

 
          
Shock?
Anger? Suspicion? She wasn't sure which. Maybe all three.

 
          
Whatever
it was, it was gone in an instant.

 
          
He
smiled. "Gin! I never expected to see you here." Which doesn't answer
my question, she thought. She felt her heart pick up tempo.

 
          
What's
he going to do now?

 
          
"I
was just visiting a hematology resident I know. An old friend from
U.
of
P.
But how about you?"

           
He sighed unhappily and rubbed his
jaw.

 
          
"Well,
I didn't want anyone to know about this. If word ever got out . . . " Oh,
God, she thought. He's sick.

 
          
Terminal
diagnoses like cancer and AIDS raced through her brain. . .

 
          
He
sighed again. "Easier to show you than explain it all." A battered
elevator door wobbled open to their left. He pressed his hand gently against
her back and guided her toward the emptying car. "Let's go."

 
          
He
took her up to the maxillofacial clinic where the nurses beamed at him and the
patients seated in the waiting room stared with wide eyes and whispered to
their companions as they pointed to him.

 
          
She
sat with
Duncan
in an examining room and watched in dazed
wonder as he evaluated prospective patients and inspected his handiwork in post-surgical
follow-ups .

 
          
It
was the post-surgical patients who got to Gin. Some were effusive in their
praise, some were almost inarticulate in their gratitude, but one and all they
worshiped him, all but falling down on their knees before him for what he had
done for them.

 
          
And
finally the last patient was gone and she was alone with him in that tiny room,
watching him scribble a progress note.

 
          
So
this was where he'd been sneaking off to when he'd said he was playing golf.
She was baffled.

 
          
"Why,
Duncan
?"

           
"Hmmm?" He looked up from
the last chart and flipped it closed.

 
          
"Why
are you here?"

           
He shrugged. "I had a few
empty hours to fill. Face-lifts get boring after a while and I like to do
something different now and then."

 
          
"But
this is a free clinic and you're Duncan Cash-upfront-I-don't-give-a-damn-what-insurance-you-have
Lathram." His smile was sad as he shook his head slowly. "It was
never about money. It's never been about money."

 
          
"Then
what is it about?"

           
"Someday I'll tell you. I'm
not ready just yet."

           
Gin bit back her frustration.
"Okay, then. Why do you keep this a secret?"

           
Another shrug. "When I opened
up my cosmetic surgery practice I proclaimed to anyone who would listen about
limiting myself exclusively to elective surgery and not accepting insurance of
any type. Which was all fine at first, but quickly became stultifying."

 
          
He
looked away.

 
          
"Despite
heroic efforts to avoid it, I could not resist the urge to direct my skills
toward a somewhat more meaningful application."

           
"Somewhat?" she said.
"This is wonderful. I'm so proud of you."

 
          
He
looked at her now, and again something flashed in his eyes, different this time
Almost like pain.

 
          
"Don't
get carried away now, Gin. This isn't a one-way street here. I get something
out of it too." At that moment Gin felt very close to him. Her throat
constricted and tears swelled against the backs of her lids. Shame made her
cringe inside. How could she ever have suspected him of hurting anybody?

 
          
She
wanted to hug him.

 
          
"I've
got to go," she said when she could trust her voice.

 
          
"I'll
walk you out."

           
He guided her back to the
elevators. On the way down, she couldn't resist another nagging question.

 
          
'"So,
who were those men you were touring around today?"

           
"Back at the office? Just some
people who wanted to look around."

 
          
"Are
you selling the place?"

           
"I should say not."

 
          
"Remodeling?"

           
"They simply wanted to look
around."

 
          
"Oh.
Well. That clears that up." He put his arm around her shoulder and
laughed. "Gin, Gin, Gin. You always think you have to know everything.
Life is full of little mysteries."

 
          
"And
this is one of them, right?"

           
He laughed again.
"Right." He escorted her to her car, held the door for her, and waved
as she pulled away.

 
          
Gin's
emotions were in turmoil. She felt like a swimmer in a sea of wild and
capricious currents. Where was land?

 
          
After
thinking the worst of him just days ago, she now found
Duncan
regaining his hero status. He was almost
like . . . she searched for a comparison . . . almost like Zorro. To most of
the world he presented a dilettantish demeanor, like the foppish Don Diego in
the story, but to the poor, scarred people at the maxillofacial clinic in D. C.
's innermost city, he was the dashing Dr. Duncan, Dr. Zorro, with the flashing
blade that made things right.

 
          
Duncan
probably reveled in the paradox, Insouciant,
money-hungry plastic surgeon to the rich and powerful who sneaks off to treat
the poor and homeless at a free clinic. But what impressed Gin most was the
sneaking. Most people trumpeted their charity.
Duncan
kept his hidden, as if it embarrassed him.
Charming.

 
          
Duncan
was almost back on his demigod pedestal.
Almost. He'd be at the pinnacle of her personal pantheon if it weren't for that
bottle of TPD hidden in his officer.

 
          
That
damn bottle.

 
          
All
in all,
Duncan
thought as he made his way to his own car,
that turned out pretty well.

 
          
But
nonetheless disturbing.

 
          
The
inescapable fact was that Gin had followed him here and he hadn't a clue she'd
been on his tail. The question now was, how long had she been tailing him?

 
          
Not
that it mattered really. What could anyone learn from tailing him?

 
          
He
led a drearily mundane existence, never ranging far from home. He almost pitied
anyone who had to spend days traipsing after him.

 
          
.
But Gin was still suspicious enough to devote an afternoon to following him to
D. C. General, and that was disturbing. And she had been following him. Not for
a second did he buy that story about an old college friend, the hematology
resident. D. C. . General was not in a neighborhood that invited casual
visitors.

 
          
He
smiled as he pulled out and headed back to
Chevy Chase
. But sometimes things work out for the
best. What was that old saw? When somebody hands you a lemon, make lemonade.

 
          
He'd
fought the impulse to launch a verbal assault when Gin had tapped him on the
shoulder by the elevator, accuse her of shadowing him, invading his privacy. A
wiser part of him knew that would be counterproductive. Instead, why not let
her in on his little secret?

 
          
It
was too late to keep her out, so he might as well welcome her along.

 
          
And
it had worked. She'd been completely disarmed. He could see it in her eyes as
she saw the "before'' photos and the living, breathing "after"
results.

 
          
And
why shouldn't she be disarmed? he thought. I do damn good work.

 
          
Good
work . . . good works. Weren't good works supposed to be their own reward? Up
to now they'd been just that. He'd found satisfaction in removing scars and
correcting nature's mistakes in people who'd otherwise have no chance at proper
repair.

 
          
But
today they'd brought an unexpected lagniappe. His altruistic participation in
the clinic had blunted, if not completely deflected, the suspicions of one very
bright and very nosy young woman.

 
          
Perhaps
the good men do was not necessarily interred with their bones.

 
          
But
he couldn't let down his guard. Not yet. Not until after Friday.

 
          
And
that reminded him of the video camera in his office. . .

 
          
Duncan
stood alone in his office. The building was
empty except for him, which was just the way he wanted it. He pushed the
videocassette into the VCR and hit the REWIND button. The machine hummed and
stopped almost immediately. Good sign.

 
          
He
hit PLAY, then FFWD. A high-angle shot of his office flickered into focus and
he recognized his retreating back. Then Barbara fast-walked to and from his
desk to drop off his dictation, then again with his mail, then once more with
what appeared to be more dictation. And then he saw himself, strolling into the
room, sifting through the mail and papers on his desk. Strange to watch himself
in fast motion. He looked like a Keystone Kop. Then he approached the counter
below the camera's field of vision, reached forward, and . . .