F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (43 page)

THURSDAY MORNING

           
GINA AWOKE WITH GLUE IN HER MOUTH,
SAND IN HER eyes, and heavy metal pounding in her ears. She rolled out of bed
and stumbled across the floor with her hand stretched toward the snooze button.
She always left her clock radio on a hard-core metal station.

 
          
Never
failed to get her up. No way she could stay in bed with that stuff playing.

 
          
Only
now she wished she'd spun the dial to something else, anything else, before
passing out last night. Noise equaled pain this morning, but speed metal went
beyond pain into torture. The throbbing bass and drums were piercing straight
through to the center of her brain. One of these groups should name itself
Torquemada.

 
          
She
banged her fist on SNOOZE, then turned around and headed for the bed again. She
looked down and noticed she was still in her dress.

 
          
Damn!

 
          
It
looked like hell. So did she, most likely.

 
          
Like
a failing tree, she collapsed facedown on the mattress.

 
          
Why
did she feel so rotten? She hadn't had that much to drink last night. The
combination, maybe?

 
          
Whatever
it was, she didn't like it. Her stomach was queasy, and her head . . . God, her
head.

 
          
She
was just dozing off when the howling guitar riffs filled the room again. This
time she got up and turned off the radio. She staggered to the bathroom,
removing the dress along the way. She looked at herself in the mirror.

 
          
Yuck.
Awful. Simply awful.

 
          
She
turned on the shower and stripped. As soon as the water was warm, she stepped
in and let it run over her head and down her body.

 
          
God,
that felt good.

 
          
She
began lathering herself, starting with her face and working down.

 
          
The
water and the scrubbing action began to revive her. She was returning from the
dead, reentering the world of the, "Ow! " She twisted and looked down
at the lateral aspect of her right thigh.

 
          
She'd
felt a stab of pain while scrubbing the area. Tender there.

 
          
She
ran a hand over the spot and noticed a small bruise. She must have collided
with the corner of a table or her nightstand on her way to bed last night.

 
          
But
wait . . . this bruise was more toward the rear of her thigh than the front.
The only way she could do that was by walking backward.

 
          
She
braced her foot on the edge of the tub and took a closer look.

 
          
More
than a bruise. The skin had been broken. A little semicircular cut in the
center of the bruise. Almost like the one she'd seen on . . . Senator . . .
Marsden . . .

 
          
Gin's
knees buckled and she grabbed the towel rack to steady herself.

 
          
No,
wait, stop, she told herself as the bathroom wobbled around her and she fought
to regain her balance. This is crazy. This is impossible.

 
          
But
when she looked again the tiny laceration was still there. She probed it. She
could feel the fine ridge of the edge. Had to be fresh. She pushed harder. A
tiny droplet of blood appeared at its center. She probed deeper around the
bruise, palpating the subcutaneous fat, looking for, her fingers froze. Was it
her imagination or was something there?

 
          
Something
soft like fat but too smooth to be fat. Something oblong, cylindrical. Like an
implant.

 
          
The
bathroom wobbled again. And even with the hot water coursing over her, Gin
suddenly felt cold. And sick. She stepped out of the shower and bent dripping
over the toilet and retched. Nothing came up.

 
          
Her
head throbbed even more painfully as she sank to her knees. When the room
steadied, she took another, closer look at her thigh. She touched the spot
again, but gingerly this time If there really was something under it, and if
that something was an implant, she didn't want to disturb it or . . . rupture
it.

 
          
But
how could it possibly be an implant?
Duncan
had dropped her off, and she'd locked the
door . . .

 
          
Wait.
Duncan
had had the keys. He'd opened the door for
her and let her in. And then he'd left. Had he handed her the keys? No. Had she
seen him leave them? No. She hadn't seen much of anything. The door latched
automatically, and she hadn't bothered with the chain lock.

 
          
All
she'd wanted was to hit the pillow.

 
          
Gin
pulled herself to her feet, wrapped a towel around her, and shut off the water.
She shivered.

 
          
The
coffee in
Duncan
's office last night. She'd believed the
bitterness was due to some strange black sambuca he'd said he was trying. But
it could have been something else. Could have been chloral hydrate.

 
          
An
old-fashioned Mickey Finn.

 
          
He'd
had her keys. He could have kept them, driven around the block a few times,
come back, let himself in, and stuck an implant in her thigh while she was out
cold.

 
          
Still
dripping, she stumbled out of the bathroom and went to the front door. The
chain wasn't on, but she didn't remember fastening it. And her keys . . .

 
          
She
looked around and spotted them on the coffee table.

 
          
But
of course he'd leave them behind after he'd finished with her.

 
          
What
use were they to him then?

 
          
But
why? Why would he do this to her just hours after asking her to assist on the
president's surgery? It didn't make sense. Unless . . .

 
          
Unless
he thought she knew too much. What if he'd found out about the FBI and the
staged accident and the MRI done on Senator Marsden's leg?

 
          
What
if Oliver had told him that she'd guessed about the president?

 
          
He'd
want to make sure she was out of the way. Before Friday. He'd. The phone rang.
Her hand trembled as she lifted the receiver. When she recognized
Duncan
's voice, she almost screamed.

 
          
"How
are you feeling?" Controlling her terror, the hurt, Gin forced herself to
reply calmly.

 
          
"Fine.
A little headache, maybe."

 
          
"Glad
to hear it. You were sailing last night. For a while there I,"

           
"
Duncan
!" Unable to repress them any longer,
the words burst from her. "
Duncan
, how could you do this to me!"

           
"Do what?"

           
"You know damn well what! You
stuck an implant in me last night!"

           
"What? Hold on just a
minute." He put me on hold! she thought. I don't believe this!

 
          
She
was just about to slam the receiver down when she heard a click and pressed it
back to her ear.

 
          
"Now,
Gin," he said. "I don't understand this. What do you think I've
done?"

           
"Don't play dumb with me,
Duncan. I know all about it. You slipped me a Mickey last night and put an implant
filled with TPD in my leg."

           
"You think I broke into your
apartment and did surgery on you? And what's TDP?"

           
"You know damn well what it is!
It causes psychotic symptoms."

           
"Gin, listen. Think. If I
wanted to dose you with something, why bother with an implant? Why not just inject
you with it?" That took her back. Why hadn't he just shot her up and been
done with it? And then suddenly she knew.

 
          
"Because
you were out with me last night. We were seen together. You want a comfortable
buffer zone between when you were with me and when I have a breakdown."

 
          
"I
fear you're having one now, Gin."

 
          
"Just
what you'd like people to think, isn't it? Well, listen,
Duncan
,"

           
"Have you heard enough,
Barbara?" And then Gin heard Barbara's voice, husky with pity. "Gin,
you've got to calm down. We're you're friends here. We only want to help you.
Please. You've got to believe that."

           
Gin nearly dropped the phone.

 
          
"Oh
my God! Barbara! He's conning you!" The bastard! He'd put Barbara on the
line while she was on hold. Now he had a witness that she was making wild
accusations before her complete breakdown.

 
          
"Just
stay where you are, Gin,"
Duncan
said. "I'm calling an ambulance to
come to your place. We'll get you to where you can receive the help you
need."

 
          
"NO!"
She slammed the phone down and ran for her bedroom.

 
          
"Damn
me! How could I be so stupid!" She pulled on her clothes. She had to get
out of here. She could see it all now . . .

 
          
He
had set all this up, and so cleverly. First the fake-out on Marsden. She must
have made it too obvious that she suspected something.

 
          
So
he'd pulled a reverse on her by puncturing the senator's thigh with an empty
trocar. He'd led her into making a complete fool out of herself. But that was
the least of it. Now her rationality and soundness of judgment were suspect.

 
          
But
how in the world did he know how much she knew? Unless he had a security camera
in the office or something.

 
          
My
God! Was that possible? Then he would have seen her picking the lock on his
desk drawer, seen her peeking behind that book two days ago. She groaned. No
wonder he wanted her out of the way.

 
          
She
pulled on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, grabbed her purse, and headed for
the door. She stuttered to a halt at the threshold.

 
          
Where
am I going?

 
          
Home?
But that was the first place he'd look for her. And she did not want to get her
folks involved.

 
          
Gerry?
He had awful doubts about her reliability. But this time she had proof. Right
here in her leg. An implant nestled there in the fatty layer.

 
          
She
leapt back to the phone and dialed Gerry's home. He'd still be there now. At
least she hoped so. As the phone began to ring, she worked to keep her voice
under control. She wanted to sound sane while she explained something insane.
How to say it all in as few words as possible? And make it believable. She had
to make Gerry believe.