F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (50 page)

 
          
He
removed the transducer from his pocket. She'd be in range She'd feel a twinge
in her thigh, but that would be it. She'd probably get all the way to the
FBI
Building
before the TPD kicked in.

 
          
All
he had to do was wait. He'd been waiting all day. He could wait a little
longer.

 
          
"I
want her room number, and I want the key, and I want them now!" Gerry
said.

 
          
The
desk man had called out the manager, Joel Heinrich, according to his name tag.
A fussy little man with a thin mustache "I'm sure you need a warrant for
that kind of search. I'm certainly not authorized to barge into a guest's
room,"

           
"Dr. Panzella has not been
well lately," Gerry said, improvising. "She's not answering her
phone. She may be unconscious." That got him.

 
          
"Sick?"
The fussy manager evaporated. "You mean with something contagious?"

           
Gerry lowered his voice and moved
in for the kill. "We don't know. We hope not. Something went wrong at the
lab. We want to find her and quarantine her with as little fuss as possible, if
you know what I mean." Heinrich knew exactly what Gerry meant. He nodded
curtly and reached for his phone. "Very well. Just let me check her room
once." He punched in four numbers, listened for a moment, then hung up.

 
          
"She
might simply have gone out to eat."

 
          
"Let's
hope so," Gerry said, but didn't mean it He wanted to find Gin and settle
this mess.

 
          
"If
that's the case, I'll wait down here for her return." Heinrich searched
the key rack, selected one, then pointed across the lobby.

 
          
"I'll
meet you by the elevators." A few minutes later they were on the fifth
floor and Heinrich was knocking on the door to 532. Gerry hovered impatiently
behind him, anxious to get in there, yet dreading what he might find.

 
          
"Dr.
Panzella? Dr. Panzella, this is the manager." No reply.

 
          
Please,
God, nothing nasty, Gerry thought as Heinrich fitted the key into the lock.
Please.

 
          
As
soon as he heard the latch click, Gerry pushed past him and barged inside.

 
          
"Wait
here." The lights were on. A half-eaten burger and fries swam in spilled
cola on a rolling cart by the rumpled, empty bed.

 
          
"Gin?"
He stepped into the bathroom. An iron fist slammed into his chest at the sight
of the bloody razor blade by the sink. He stepped closer and the red in the tub
caught his eye. He groaned. The porcelain was splattered up and down with
blood.

 
          
Christ,
what happened here?

 
          
He
put a hand out and leaned against the wall for support as he dragged his gaze
from the tub back to the sink counter. The bloody razor, and bottles of alcohol
and peroxide as well, and a needle and thread . . . a bloody needle.

 
          
First
some fantasy about the president having surgery, now . . . this.

 
          
Whatever
it was.

 
          
"Aw,
Gin," he whispered. "Gin, Gin, what have you done?" He stepped
back into the other room and found Heinrich standing there, looking bewildered.

 
          
"Is
something wrong? Is she here?" Gerry brushed past him and checked the
closet. Empty. A glance at the bed told him there wasn't room to hide under the
box spring.

 
          
"She's
gone." He propelled Heinrich out into the hall.

 
          
"Look.
I want this room sealed. No one, no one, is to go in there. Not housekeeping,
not room service, not you, not anybody. Is that clear?"

           
"But why?"

           
"For the moment I'm treating
it as a crime scene. So if that room is disturbed in the least, I'll have you
up on charges of obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact. Do we
understand each other?"

           
"Yes. Yes, certainly."
Heinrich pulled the DO NOT DISTURB sign from inside the door and hung it on the
outside knob. Then he closed the door and rattled it to make sure it was
locked.

 
          
"I'll
leave word that 552 is off-limits until further notice."

           
"Good." Yeah, good. Fine.
Heinrich knew what he had to do. But what was Gerry's next move? He was worried
sick. What had she done to herself in that bathroom? And where was she now?

 
          
He
had to find her. And soon. If it wasn't already too late.

 
          
Something's
wrong.

 
          
Duncan
was baffled and disappointed when Canney
returned to the lobby without Gin, but then he noticed his grave expression and
agitated manner and knew he hadn't found what he'd expected in Gin's room. Or
had he found more than he'd expected?

 
          
Duncan
wished he had a key to that room. What had
Canney seen up there?

 
          
Just
one look was all he asked.

 
          
"Any
questions?" he heard Canney say to the manager. "You've got her
description and you've got my card. Any one sees her, you call me right away.
Clear?" The manager nodded and mumbled something that
Duncan
missed. It wasn't important. What mattered
was that Gin wasn't here. She'd left without checking out. And Canney didn't
expect her back soon, otherwise he'd be hanging around.

 
          
He
watched Canney's departure, but stayed behind the fern a while longer, giving
the agent plenty of time to reach his car. And giving himself time to plan his
next move.

 
          
Gin
was proving damnably unpredictable. He felt his nerves fraying with every
passing hour that she remained out of reach. He wondered how much more of this
he could take. When had she rented the room?

 
          
How
long had she been there? And where the hell was she now? Back in her apartment?

 
          
Duncan
sighed. Where else could he look? He'd go
back to Adams Morgan and check it out. If she wasn't there, he could see
nothing else to do but go home and wait.

 
          
If
he didn't find her soon, he'd have to change his plans for tomorrow.

 
          
And
he did not want to do that.

THURSDAY NIGHT

           
GINA STUCK HER HEAD OUT THE WINDOW
OF THE CAB and glanced nervously up and down
Connecticut Avenue
.

 
          
"Shouldn't
it be here by now?" The cabby leaned against the fender by the open hood
of his vehicle and puffed on a little cigar.

 
          
"I
call in. He be along any minute. Any minute. You wait." She withdrew into
the interior. She didn't want to stand out on the street in plain view. That
was why she'd asked the driver to call her another cab. But maybe she should
have risked hailing one. Dozens of cabs had passed. She'd be well on her way to
Oliver's by now if she'd grabbed one.

 
          
But
that call back at the hotel . . . her heart was still racing from the fright it
had given her. She'd knocked over her Coke and nearly choked on a french fry
when the phone had started ringing.

 
          
Maybe
it had been an accident, a misdial, someone calling 533 or 432, and maybe it
hadn't. Maybe it had been Duncan, God, she didn't want to think that. Or maybe
it had been Gerry.

 
          
Maybe
she'd never know.

 
          
Whatever
its origin, the sudden jangle of the phone had completely unnerved her. She'd
stared at it in horror for a few pounding heartbeats, thinking someone had
found her, someone knew she was there, and then she'd bolted. No precautions,
no stealth. She hadn't even waited for an elevator, taking the stairs instead
and limping through the lobby for the street.

 
          
In
retrospect, now, she realized how foolish that had been. But she'd had to get
out, right then, not a second later. The hotel that had been her refuge all
afternoon suddenly had become a trap.

 
          
Fortunately
the lobby had been empty. That had been her good luck.

 
          
Her
bad luck had been picking a taxi that would gasp and die a couple of blocks
from the hotel.

 
          
"He
comes now," said her driver.

 
          
Gin
craned her neck and saw another Diamond cab pull up behind hers.

 
          
She
jumped out, waved her thanks to her driver, and hopped into the newcomer. She
gave the driver Oliver's address and was jounced back into her seat as the cab
lurched ahead. She winced with the stab of pain from her left leg.

 
          
Okay.
She was on her way again. No more mishaps. Really, what were the odds of having
two cabs in a row break down? Astronomical. She allowed herself to relax and
began rehearsing how she'd break the news to Oliver.

 
          
As
the cab pulled to a stop at
Dupont Circle
, Gin glanced out the window to her right. A
cold tingle spread across her shoulders as a black hood with a familiar
three-armed ornament slid into view. She caught her breath and froze keeping the
cab's rear post between herself and the other car.

 
          
Just
a black Mercedes, she told herself. Thousands of them in the District.

 
          
The
Mercedes inched ahead, anxious for the green. The windshield came into view,
then the steering wheel and the hands gripping it. A man's hands. And then the
driver himself.

 
          
Gin
gasped and pressed herself back into the seat.

 
          
Duncan
.

 
          
Keep
calm, keep calm, he can't see you.

 
          
But
he was here, not half a dozen feet away. Had he been downtown all this while?
My God, she could have run into him outside the hotel.

 
          
That
must have been him on the phone. But he hadn't been in the lobby.

 
          
Maybe
he'd been calling all the hotels downtown asking for Gin Panzella's room. But
then why was he heading away from the Tremont instead of toward it? This made
no sense, no sense at all, She huddled there begging the light to turn green.
When it finally did, the cab and the Mercedes entered the circle together. But
halfway around,
Duncan
's car turned off onto
Connecticut
while her cab stayed on until
P Street
.

 
          
Gin
slumped in the seat. Safe. But where was he going?
Connecticut
wouldn't take him home. That was the way to
. . .

 
          
.
. . my place.

 
          
As
the cab turned off P and took
Wisconsin
uphill toward
Bethesda
, Gin considered her options. Her original
plan had been to call Oliver from her room before heading uptown. But she'd
fled before making that call.

 
          
Maybe
that would work to her advantage. Maybe it was better to drop in on him cold.
What if he spoke to
Duncan
between her call and her arrival? She shuddered. Better, safer, to
knock on Oliver's door and wing it from there.

 
          
She
spotted the Naval Observatory on her right and knew she was getting close.

 
          
The
cab turned left off
Wisconsin
and soon she was leaning forward, scanning the street for any sign of a
black Mercedes. She couldn't imagine how
Duncan
could have beaten them here after turning
off on
Connecticut
, but she'd learned the hard way never to
take anything for granted where that man was concerned. No Mercedes in sight.
She paid the cabby and hurried up the walk. She rang the bell, dreading to see
who'd answer. Her life seemed to have turned into a Hitchcock movie. She'd be
only mildly surprised if it turned out to be
Duncan
.

 
          
"Gin?"
Oliver said as he opened the door. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He pushed open the screen door for her. "Come in, come in. "

           
"I hope I'm not interrupting
anything," Gin said, her eyes quickly searching the cluttered living room
and what she could see of the dining room beyond. "You don't have company,
do you?" He smiled and shut the door behind her. He wore a V-necked
sweater over his usual white shirt, and ankle-high slippers on his feet.

 
          
"No.
Although I probably should have. I'm too excited about tomorrow to sleep. I'm
glad you came."

           
"You may not be when I'm
finished."

            
His smile faded. "Is
something wrong?"

           
"Yes, " she said, pulling
the vial from her pocket and pressing it into his hand. "This."

           
He stared at it. "An implant?"

           
"Yes. I dug it out of my leg
this morning."

           
Oliver stared at her
uncomprehendingly. "What? How . . . ?"

           
Gin decided to hit him with
everything at once. She watched his expression carefully. If for even an
instant he looked as if he weren't shocked, or was faking surprise, she'd be
running for the door.

 
          
"
Duncan
jammed it into my leg last night while I
was out cold. He's been after me all day trying to dissolve it with
ultrasound."

           
A tentative smile flickered across
his lips. "This is a joke, right? You and Duncan,"

           
"It's no joke, Oliver. That
thing's filled with TPD."

           
"TPD? " he said, still
smiling. "What's,?" And then the smile faded. "TPD? How could
you know about TPD?"

           
"Triptolinic diethylamide.
Duncan
keeps a vial of it in his office."

 
          
"Impossible.
That's a defunct compound."

 
          
"I
know. Tested and discarded by GEM Pharma, your old company."

 
          
"Right.
I have the last sample."

           
"Really? Where?"

           
"In my basement. I'll show
you." He led her through the dining room to the kitchen, and from there
down a flight of steps. "This is my private little lab, " he said as
he turned on the overhead fluorescents. "For years I spent every night of
the week and every spare moment on weekends here."

           
Gin looked around the largely
unfinished basement at the benches, retorts, ovens, centrifuges, and rows of
other equipment she didn't recognize, all dusty with disuse.

 
          
"Is
this where . . . ?"

           
"Uh-huh. I developed the
implant membrane here. And over there . . . " He flicked on another set of
lights. "I call it my rogues' gallery. All the useless or discontinued
compounds I worked on during my years with GEM. I kept a sample of each
one."

           
Gin was startled by the array of
bottles lining an entire wall. There had to be hundreds there, perhaps even a
thousand.

 
          
"So
many. How would you ever find a particular one?"

           
"Easy. They're in alphabetical
order." He gave her a sheepish look. "I can't help it. That's the way
I am." He stooped and ran a finger along one of the rows. "R . . . .
. . T . . . " He squinted at a few bottles, grunted a few nes, then
straightened and turned to Gin. "The, um, TPD . . . it's missing."

 
          
"I
know," she said. She pointed to the pill bottle he still clutched in his
left hand. "Some of it's in there.
Duncan
has the rest."

           
He stared down at the bottle, then
at her. "You've got to be mistaken.
Duncan
wouldn't do something like that. What
reason would he have?"

           
"Because I know about the
others."

 
          
"Others?"

           
"Let's go upstairs and I'll
explain everything."

           
They sat in the kitchen, Gin
sipping a can of Pepsi, the bottle containing the implant sitting between them
in the center of the table, and Oliver leaning forward, listening intently, a
look of growing horror on his face as Gin explained what she suspected about
the deaths and mishaps involving Senators Vincent and Schulz and Congressmen Allard
and Lane.

 
          
She
shivered with a sudden chill. Was it the Pepsi or was she starting a fever? Her
strength seemed to be fading.

 
          
"Are
you okay?" Oliver said.

 
          
"My
incision might be getting infected."

 
          
"What
incision?" Since showing was better than telling, she stood, unzipped her
jeans, and turned sideways as she slid them down to her knees. "Gin!
" Oliver said, averting his face at first, then staring as the Ace bandage
was revealed.

 
          
Gin
unwrapped the Ace, then peeled the gauze halfway back to reveal the incision.
An angry red had invaded the edges.

 
          
Oliver
sucked in a breath. "Oh, dear Lord. You did that? To yourself?"