" And? " His sigh was full of angst. "They say he's not having surgery tomorrow or any other day. As a matter of fact, he's leaving in the morning for Camp David for a long weekend." '"To recover from the surgery! " "According to the Secret Service, there's no surgery, Gin."
"But how . . . ? " Oh, God, why hadn't she thought of that? "Gerry, of course they're going to deny it. It's all hushhush. He doesn't want anyone to know it's being done."
"I already thought of that. Look, Gin, you can't keep doing this.
You're a doctor. Don't you see a pattern here? There's no surgery on the president, just like there was no implant in Senator Marsden's leg.
" "Well, there's one in mine! I can show you! " '"Gin, you need help." She heard real pain in his voice now. "Let me get you in touch with someone we use at the Bureau. Maybe he can, " Tears of frustration welled in Gin's eyes. "I'm not paranoid, Gerry.
Duncan has done a beautiful job of manipulating events to make me look that way, but I'm not. And I've got the implant in my leg to prove it.
" "Gin, ' was all he said.
t .
, . T . S , , "All right. That does it. ' She was angry now. "You don't believe me, so I'll show you. I'm coming down there right now and I'll prove to you that there's an implant in my leg. And you leave word at the desk that I'm coming."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Gin."
"Maybe not, but it seems to be my only option now. So get ready, Gerry.
I'm on my way. ' "Gina, " She hung up on him and stood inside the door trembling with anger and fright. What if she couldn't get anyone to believe her? She realized how she must have sounded. She had to stay calm and sound rational. She wasn't going to convince anyone if she kept flying off the handle.
But I'm scared, dammit.
And worse than the fear was the question that had begun tapping with increasing insistence on the back door of her consciousness.
g everybody thinks you're crazy, maybe you shogldn't completely dismiss the possibility they might be right.
Feeling utterly miserable, she leaned against the door and pressed her right temple against the cool glass. The caffeine and a couple of Tylenol had helped, but her head still throbbed. And the doubts only intensified the pain.
Am I sane?
Could all this be simply the fabrication of a mind sent off course because her brain had begun synthesizing faulty neurochemicals or producing the right ones in the wrong proportions? How many paranoids had she seen in her psych rounds who were utterly convinced of the veracity of their absurd claims? They'd heard with their own ears, seen with their own eyes. If you can't trust your senses and your own ability to interpret their input, who or what can you trust?
Gin rubbed her thigh, gently. Maybe that mark was nothing more than a bruise. And maybe the hangover this morning was nothing more than too much amarone and sambuca. And maybe Duncan hadn't asked her to assist on the president's surgery tomorrow.
God, what was real?
She slammed her palm once against the pay phone.
No! She wasn't crazy!
That's what they all say . . .
Something black and gleaming caught her eye. Duncan's Mercedes, or one exactly like it, was passing on the street. It turned onto Kalorama.
Abruptly the doubts were gone, the fatigue and the eadache forgotten.
She ducked back to her booth, threw a couple of dollars on her table, and returned to the door. The car was out of sight now. She stepped outside. The cool, damp air refreshed her. A drop of water hit her forehead. She glanced up. The low, gray, moisture-laden clouds seemed to be sinking under their own weight.
She begged the rain to hold off a few more minutes.
She hurried across Columbia and trotted downhill to Kalorama. She stopped under the front canopy of an apartment house on the corner and craned her neck to peer down the street. She could see her building from here.
Duncan, looking very dapper in his blue blazer and charcoal slacks, was on his way up the front steps.
She watched him step inside the front door. Unless someone let him in, unlikely because everybody worked, he'd spend the next few minutes waiting for her to answer his rings. As soon as he left, she'd jump in her car and head straight downtown to the FBBuilding.
She waited. What was he doing in there? Why didn't he come out?
Then she glanced up at the third floor and gasped when she saw a man standing in her bay window.
Duncan! He had a key. He must have had a copy made last nighc Sure.
He establishes with Barbara that Gin's . _ acting irrationally, so he rushes down, supposedly to see what he can do. He finds her, zaps the implant in her leg, and then reports that the poor girl was sitting there drooling and babbling incoherently when he found her.
Well, guess what, Duncan, Gin thought as her jaw muscles bunched.
Gin's not there. And she's not letting you within striking distance.
It began to rain. Only a gentle drizzle now, but cold.
Great. What else could go wrong? She was wearing only jeans, an old Tulane sweatshirt, and no hat. If her hair and her clothes got wet, how convincing would she be if she looked like a drowned rat when she got to Gerry?
, . Duncan gazed down at the street from the empty apartment, his right hand gripping the ultrasound transducer in his pocket.
What am I doing here?
. , He hated this. He'd regretted implanting Gin with the TPD almost as soon as he'd done it. But performing the act was like burning a bridge behind you, Once done, there was no going back. He had to follow through and dissolve it.
He seemed to be spiraling out of control. It was never supposed to turn out like this. But he couldn't stop himself. He had to keep going until he got to the president. After that he didn't care.
The situation was deteriorating, as well. Gin had been scheduled to show up at the surgicenter this morning, they were to go through their usual routines, then, somewhere around lunchtime, he'd intended to give her leg a burst of ultrasound and leave for the day. He'd have been miles away before she began to show the first effects. Maybe some visual hallucinations, maybe auditory, maybe both. She'd become disoriented, incoherent, might even start pulling at her hair and screaming. Or she might simply withdraw into a catatonic state, curled in a fetal position and drooling in a corner of the records room.
The images nauseated Duncan. He swallowed back the acid creeping up from his stomach.
Why couldn't you have stayed out of this, Gin?
Bad enough he'd have to pull the trigger on her. But she'd somehow discovered what he'd done to her last night. So now he had to hunt her down. That implant was a two-edged sword. Knowing it was there, she could use it against him, if she could get someone to believe her. He had to catch up with her before she had it removed.
Where was Gin now? Couldn't be too far. Her car was parked on the street below. Maybe she was out there, watching him, waiting to see his next move.
He nodded slowly. Yes . . . that would be just like her. Let him find her gone, then return to her place and ponder her next move calmly and in comfort while he ran around in circles.
All right. He'd do a circle. Circle the block and see if he could catch sight oњ her.
Lord, he hated this. The whole idea sickened him. He wanted to have it all over and done with.
And after that he'd have to find a way to live with himself.
Gin watched Duncan hurry down her front steps and get into his car.
Where to now, Duncan? A little worried, perhaps, now that your pigeon has flown?
She watched him drive away. She waited until he turned off Kalorama onto 18th, then she sprinted for her Sunbird. She jumped in and started her up.
The drizzle graduared to full-fledged rain as she headed down Kalorama, following Duncan's path. Only she wasn't following him. He was probably on his way back to Chevy Chase, she was headed downtown.