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 rerurned 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 triethylwhatever-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.