Peter . . . how could she have forgotten?
Stuffed from the food, logy from the spumante and the special Chianti Papa had broken out for the occasion, Gin got back to her apartment around half past ten. She washed up, brushed her teeth, and headed straight for the bedroom. But before hitting the sack, she dialed the ICU at Lynnbrook.
"Hello, this is Dr. Panzella. I just wanted to check on Mrs. Thompson."
"Who?" said the ward clerk.
Gin was suddenly queasy. "Harriet Thompson. Dr. Conway's patient. She had a hemothorax and was on a respira,"
"Oh, yeah. Here it is. Sorry, Dr. Panzella. I just came on. She was pronounced a couple of hours ago. Nine-thirty-four, to be exact. Dr. Conway was here."
Gin felt her throat constrict. She managed a faint "Thank you" and hung up.
She pounded a fist on the mattress. Damn, damn, damn! Harriet Thompson's death certificate probably would list her cause of death as respiratory failure due to hemothorax due to fractured ribs due to complications of accidental trauma.
But it hadn't been any of those.
What had really killed her were administrators who hadn't examined her and didn't even know her but made decisions about her medical care, who had been more concerned about the bottom line than the patient. Harriet Thompson had died of guidelines.
Gin pulled down the covers and slipped between the sheets Senator Marsden was going to get an earful this weekend.
One last thing to do before sleep, that call to Peter.
He was in, he was awake, after all it was an hour earlier in Louisiana, and he was glad to hear from her. At least he was at first.
His voice changed when she told him about getting the spot on Marsden's staff.
"Is this really what you want?" She was getting fed up with that question. The only one who seemed to be on her side completely was Gerry.
'"You know, I wish people would stop asking me that."
"If you're hearing it that often, maybe there's something to it."
"Look, Peter, I don't want to argue,"
"Aren't we good together, Gin? Are there any people better together than us? Remember those nights wandering around the Quarter, drinking wine and listening to the street musicians, and then afterward going back to the apartment."
"Please, Peter." Those had been good times, wonderful times. "I'm lonely enough here as it is."
"We're both lonely. Isn't that dumb? Come back, Gin. This is where you should be. You know that." So tempting, and if she'd been turned down by Marsden's office this morning she might be pulling out her suitcases and starting to pack. But . . .
"I know that I've got an opportunity here that I can't pass up. I may never forgive myself if I do. Can you understand that, Peter?" There was a prolonged silence on the other end. Peter's voice was thick when he finally spoke.
"I guess this is it, then. I'd been hoping you'd run up against a wall with these senators and finally come to your senses and get back where you belong. Back with me. But I guess that's not going to happen now that you're on somebody's staff."
"Peter . . . " Gin found she couldn't get words past the lump swelling in her throat.
He was right. She hadn't seen that becoming part of Marsden's staff would put a match to her last bridge back to Peter.
It was over. Whatever they'd had had been moribund for months, but tonight, without realizing it, she'd officially pronounced it dead.
'"I'm sorry, Peter."
"Me too. Good-bye, Gin." And then he hung up.
Gin cradled the receiver, turned out the light, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
God, I hope I'm doing the right thing. I hope it's worth it.
Then the sobs and the tears started. It was Peter, but maybe it was Harriet Thompson too. She hadn't cried herself to sleep in a long, long time Not since her Pasta days.
"Wha. . . ? " Gin opened her eyes. Dark. And noisy. A bell ringing. Loud. Almost in her ear. The phone.
She picked it up and heard a familiar voice.
"Gin? It's Gerry. Sorry to call you at this hour but I'm in a jam."
What hour is it? She glanced at the clock, 2:33.
"Something wrong?" she said. The urgency in Gerry's voice dispersed the fog of sleep.
'"We've had a break in a kidnapping case and I've got to go out."
"What kidnapping?"
"I can't say. We've kept it out of the papers. But the thing is, Mrs. Snedecker can't come over and I struck out with my backups. I was wondering, hoping . . . "
"I'll be right over." He gave her directions to his apartment complex in Arlington. She smiled ruefully at the irony. Just four hours ago she had been only a couple of miles from him.
Gin found Gerry standing outside the front door of his duplex, keys in hand. Apparently he'd shaved, put on fresh clothes, and was alert and ready to go. Even at this unholy hour he looked good.
Better than I do, she thought. She knew she looked rumpled, she felt rumpled in her flannel shirt, jeans, and raincoat, but she'd got here as quickly as she could.
"You made great time" He kissed her, a friendly peck on the cheek. His voice was a machine gun. "I can't tell you how much this means to me. I'd never have imposed if I'd had any other place to turn."
"Don't be silly. I,"
"Martha's upstairs. She's a sound sleeper. You can just sack out yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can get free, but I don't know exactly when that'll be."
"Take your time," Gin said. "I'll stay as long as you need me. I don't have surgery today."
He kissed her again, on the lips this time. "You're the greatest. See you soon." And then he was sprinting for the parking lot. When he reached his car he turned and called to her. "Oh, by the way. I left something for you on the kitchen table."
Gin watched him drive off, then went inside and locked the door behind her. Shucking her raincoat, she wandered through the living room of the duplex and into the adjoining dining room, wall-to-wall carpet in the former, an area rug in the latter. Danish modern furniture. Neat, clean, functional. Not much personality. No lingering telltale odors to identify the cook's favorite food. Hard to tell if anyone really lived here until she got to the kitchen. A miniature art gallery there.
Everywhere she looked, on the walls, on the cork bulletin board, on the refrigerator, the room was festooned with a child's drawings. A riot of colors. Martha, it seemed, believed in using every crayon in her box, and it had to be quite a box. Nor was she exactly traditional in her color designations. In one drawing green people might stand on yellow lawns next to pink trees under orange skies, in the next drawing the color scheme would be completely different.
A munchkin van Gogh. With a father who obviously adored every squiggle she put to paper.
She looked in the fridge. Lots of prepackaged meals in the freezer.
Just what she'd expect with a single father on the go.
Then she remembered what Gerry had said about leaving something for her on the kitchen table. She turned and saw nothing on the table . . . except a sheet of paper. She recognized it before she picked it up. A death certificate.
Lisa Lathram was typed on the name line. Gin noted that the certifier was Stanley Metelski, MD, Fairfax County coroner at the time of the accident. Which meant Lisa's death had been a coroner's case. Of course it would be. Any eighteen-year-old dying suddenly is an automatic coroner's case.
She scanned down to the cause-of-death section.
Immediate cause of death, Intracerebral hemorrhage.
Due to or as a consequence of, Left parietal skull fracture.
due to or as a consequence of, Intentional drug overdose.
Gin nearly dropped the sheet. A suicide?
Suddenly shaky, she lowered herself into a chair and leaned on the table.
Oh, God. Poor Duncan. No wonder no one wanted to talk about it. He must have pulled some heavy strings and called in a lot of favors to keep that last line from getting out to the public.
Was that w
hy he ended his marriage, closed up his practice, stopped being a Virginia vascular specialist and became a Maryland cosmetic surgeon?
Or was there more?
The drug overdose . . . why? The fall . . . obviously the coroner thought it was a result of the overdose. Was it?
Gin had thought the death certificate would answer some questions, but it only raised more.
Rising, she dropped it back onto the kitchen table and wandered toward the front of the duplex. She pushed Lisa Lathram to the back of her mind and brought Martha Canney front and center. Gin had a sudden urge to look in on her.
She crept upstairs. Two bedrooms and a bath there. She peeked in the first. In The dim light seeping up from the first floor she could see Martha's little head framed by her pillow and the covers. Lots of Disney characters on the walls and shelves. Gin stepped closer and snugged the covers a little more tightly around her shoulders. As she turned away she spotted a framed photo standing on Martha's dresser.
She picked it up and angled it toward the light.
A pretty young blond. Although they'd moved in entirely different circles during their high school years, Gin recognized Karen Shannick.
The late Mrs. Gerald Canney. Martha's mother.
God, she'd been beautiful. Classic, clean, all-American girl looks.
She married an all-American guy. And they'd had a child. A Happy Days life until . . .
She thought of Harriet Thompson, also gone, but who'd had seventy-eight years. Poor Karen had had maybe a third of that. And what a shame she couldn't see the doll she'd brought into the world.
Life really sucked sometimes.
Gin stared down at Martha for a moment and was struck by the realization that this was Gerry's child. His alone. This little person was totally dependent on him, and he was completely responsible for her.
She wondered how that would feel.
Scary, she thought. Very scary.
She replaced the photo on the dresser but the leg that angled out of the back of the frame collapsed and it fell flat on the dresser top.
Gin winced. Not a loud noise, but it sounded like a gunshot in the little bedroom.
"Daddy?" Oh, no.
Quickly Gin turned and knelt beside the bed. Martha was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, not quite awake yet. She looked at Gin.
"Where's my daddy?"
"He had to go out," Gin whispered. "He asked me to stay with you. Remember me? Gin? From Taco Bell?"
"You're the doctor."
"Right. What a great memory you have."
"Where's Mrs. Snedecker?"
"She's away. That's why I'm here." Am I doing this right? she wondered. If Martha were sick Gin would know exactly what to do, but she'd never had any younger sibs, so she wasn't too sure of herself here. Getting her back to sleep seemed like the best thing. She straightened the covers.
"Here. Why don't you just lie back down and close your eyes. I'll be right downstairs. If you need anything, you just call and I'll be right here. Okay? " Martha didn't say anything as she lay back and pulled the covers up.
Gin adjusted them around her and then, on impulse, leaned over and kissed her cheek.
"Good night, Martha." As she rose and turned toward the door, she heard a sob from the bed. She knelt back down again.
"What's wrong, Martha?"
"I get scuh-scared when my daddy's not here at nuh-nuhnight." She started to cry.
"He'll be home soon, Martha," she said, searching for a way to comfort her. "What if I stay here with you?" Martha sniffled and sat up.
"Can you?"
"Sure. It'll be fun."
"Will you get under the covers?" She wriggled over to make room. Her fears seemed to have evaporated.
"This'll be like a sleep-over." Gin hesitated, then shrugged. Not much room in that little bed, but what the heck. She kicked off her sneakers and slid under the covers. Martha immediately nestled into the crook of her arm and snuggled against her. In minutes she was asleep.
Gin lay there and listened to the gentle sound of Martha's breathing.
She stroked her soft hair and felt strangely content, at peace.
Peace . . . what a strange sensation. It seeped through her like warm water through a dry sponge. Throughout her brain and her body she sensed all the various engines that were driving her begin to downshift, finally going into neutral, idling.
And through the peace crept an ancient need, long unnoticed amid the adrenalized buzz of her day-to-day life.
She squeezed Martha closer. Is this what I'm missing? Isn't this what it's all about? Her throat tightened. A child of my own? God, I'll be thirty next year . . . Damn! Where are my priorities? What is better than this?
Gerry pulled into his parking space in front of the house. Night was leaching from the eastern sky. Dawn wasn't far off. Somewhere in the trees a bird called.
He headed for his front door, bounding over the curb and up the steps.
He was pumped. And relieved. A successful operation tonight. At the last minute the Bureau had called out every available agent, the kidnapper had made a mistake, and they got the little Walker boy back safe and sound.
Gerry could have stayed and celebrated with the rest of the guys, but this case had made him anxious to get back to his own child.
And it reinforced his determination to move up to a position with regular hours. And soon.
Gerry stood inside his front door and surveyed the empty living room. Gin's raincoat was there, but where was she?
"Gin?" A little louder.
Upstairs with Martha? Had to be. But an unreasoning fear made him pad up the stairs, taking them three at a time as silently as he could, hurrying to Martha's bedroom. He stopped at the door, struck dumb by the sight of his child curled up under Gin's protective arm. Both were asleep, both faces so smooth, so relaxed, so innocent in the growing light.
He'd taken a chance asking Gin tonight. He hadn't known how she'd react, how it would work out, but he'd sensed a rapport between Gin and Martha during their first meeting and, well, he'd longed to see her.
And who better than a trained physician?
But this?
He stood staring, captured by the rightness of the scene. It was as if their little duplex, his and Martha's little world, had changed, their fragmented family briefly made whole again.
He realized that tears were sliding down his cheeks.
You belong with us, Gin, he thought.
He wiped the tears away and had to fight the urge to crawl in with them. Besides, there was no room left in that tiny bed.
So Gerry pulled up the rocker Karen had bought for nursing Martha and sat there watching the two women in his life until the sun came up.
16
THE WEEK OF OCTOBER
THE HEARING RELAX, GINA, SENATOR MARSDEN SAID AS HE GATHered the papers on his desk. "You look as if you're about to jump out of your skin." His desk was piled high with folders, reprints, charts, graphs, and detailed analyses of medical statistics. Joe Blair had been in earlier, reviewing his last-minute strategies on networking with other chiefs of staff. He was cool and professional toward Gin but decidedly distant.
And Alicia was a whirling dervish, darting in and out of the office like an overweight hummingbird. She'd conscripted a couple of the officer's legislative correspondents to field the endlessly ringing phones. This was her big day and she seemed to thrive on the pressure.
The past four days had been a whirlwind of activity. Gin felt as if she'd moved into these offices. She'd met Charlie and Zach, the other two legislative aides assigned to the Guidelines committee, and had been impressed with the amount of research they'd collected. They had copies of guidelines and codes of ethics from every state medical board in the country.
The amount of material to be reviewed and absorbed was daunting. But she'd waded in with the rest of them.
"I'll be fine," Gin told the senator.
And she would be. It was just that not only was this her first da
y of actually attending a congressional hearing as a participant, but the chairman of the committee would be depending on her medical knowledge to interpret the testimony being given, all of which would occur before cameras broadcasting the proceedings to the nation.
Nothing to it.
Right. That was why her hands were cold and her palms were sweaty and her stomach had shrunk to a walnut-sized knot.
But she was all set to go, she had a pad, a supply of pens, and she had her brand new photo-ID badge slung on a chain around her neck.
"I know you will. Remember, Your job is to listen and take notes. Alert me immediately, pass me a note, tap me on the shoulder and whisper, whenever you think someone's blowing medical smoke my way. And I do mean immediately. I don't want to find out days later that someone was running double-talk by me. Your responsibility is to keep the medical testimony honest." She held up her steno pad and pens.
She didn't know shorthand but the steno pad was a convenient size.
"I'm ready." She hoped she sounded confident. She was beginning to feel the weight of the responsibility she'd taken on. And she'd be shouldering it in public.
She'd watched congressional hearings on TV before and seen aides passing notes or whispering in committee members' ears, hard to believe people would be watching her doing. the same today. Her father was staying home from the store this morning to watch C-SPAN.
Senator Marsden winked at her. "And maybe when this is over you can write a more evenhanded op-ed piece for the Tiones-Piaaygne." Gin stiffened. "You know about that?"
"Sure. Joe showed it to me shortly after the interview. It's his job to background anyone joining my staff."
"I was afraid it might put you off." He rose and tucked a bulging file folder under his arm.
"I spent forty years in business. I learned the worst thing you can do is surround yourself with yes-men. That's why I like to keep a devil's advocate around." Gin felt a burst of warmth for this man. Alicia had called him "one of the good guys" and now Gin believed her.
"I'll be it."
"Then let's go." The hearing room was gorgeous, paneled floor to ceiling in gleaming mahogany. The carved ceiling would have been at home in Versailles, nearly twenty feet high, white with delicate, hand-painted blue designs. Rich red carpet stretched wall to wall.