"All right," Gerry said. "We've got the senator here in the emergency room. Let me just go over this again to make sure there's no mistake. We're all set up to do a magnetic resonance image of his right leg. That's what we want, right?"
"Right. An MRI with special attention to the lateral midthigh. Tell them to look for the healing puncture wound in the skin. The implant should be somewhere within a three- or four-inch radius from there."
"Okay. Just triple-checking."
"And Gerry." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Don't let anyone use an ultrasound to find it, okay? Sometimes they use ultrasound to locate foreign bodies in soft tissue, but don't let them. Don't let anyone even near him with an ultrasound." Diagnostic ultrasound used a tiny fraction of the power of the therapeutic modality, but why chance it?
"Okay. No ultrasound. Look, I've got to run. We should have the answer soon."
"Call me."
"Soon as I can. Once we identify it, we've got to tell Marsden and convince him it should come out immediately. That may not be so easy."
"Just save him, okay?"
"I'm doing my damnedest."
"I know you are. Love you." He was silent a moment, probably as surprised as Gin herself that she'd come out and said that. Where had it come from?
From the heart, I guess, she told herself.
"I feel the same way," he said, and she had to smile. He probably had a dozen other agents around him. "Let's get together after the dust settles here. We need to talk."
"Think you'll be able to come over for dinner tonight?"
"I think that can be arranged. Want me to bring something?"
"Just Martha."
"Martha?"
"Yeah. I haven't seen her in a while."
"Great."
"We'll stay in. I'll cook again. How's broccoli and linguine sound?"
"Martha will love it."
"Great. Bye." Gin sat there a moment, staring into space. She hadn't wanted to be alone tonight. With Gerry and Martha as company, maybe she wouldn't feel so terrible about all this.
Gerry had sounded both excited and tense. Gin felt only nausea. When they found the implant, Gerry's job would be done. They'd hand Senator Marsden over to the doctors for its removal and the case to the federal prosecutors.
But Gin's involvement would not end. Somewhere along the line she'd have to face Duncan.
She shuddered. She felt like a rat. He'd saved her life, given her a job in high school, and now another. He'd been unfailingly generous for as long as she'd known him, and this was how she repaid him.
But how could she let him go on doing what he'd been doing?
She'd done the right thing, damn it. Ethically, morally, legally, the right thing.
So why did she feel so rotten?
The morning's procedures completed, Duncan sat in his office, his back to his desk, a cup of Kenya AA cooling between his hands. He stared through the glass at the rock garden, idly noting that the red leaves of the dwarf five-finger maple were beginning to brown. Fall was taking hold. Winter was approaching. A winter of the heart.
Gin, Gin, Gina . . . how much lo you know?
She did know something, and suspected more. Any doubts had been laid to rest by the way she'd stuck like a second skin to that senator of hers.
Duncan wondered at his growing animosity toward Senator Marsden. A decent man by all accounts, even if he was engaged in extending the domain of the kakistocracy. Was it personal? Could it be he was feeling piqued by Gin's devotion to someone else, a veritable stranger?
More crucial than what Gin knew was the question of what she meant to do about it. He couldn't get a reading from her this morning . . . she'd been unusually quiet, distant, rarely looking him in the eyes.
Something was up . . .
The intercom buzzed. He swiveled and picked up.
"A Dr. Melendez on oh-two about Senator Marsden." An electric tingle coursed through Duncan's limbs. Melendez? Who the hell was Dr. Melendez?
He punched 02.
Melendez, it turned out, was one of the E.R docs at G.W.U hospital. In a minimally accented voice he told Duncan that Marsden had been involved in an M.V.A this morning and had mentioned having surgery the preceding day. Melendez just wanted to check out if he was on any analgesics or other meds.
"Nothing stronger than ibuprofen or Tylenol," Duncan said. "Is he hurt?"
"Not a scratch. The dressing on his ear wasn't disturbed in the least."
"Good."
"If you want, I can take a look under the bandage when he gets back from radiology."
"I thought you said there wasn't a scratch."
"There isn't. But he's getting an MRI anyway. The feds are making a big deal out of this, I guess, his being a senator and all."
"Feds?" A larval suspicion began worming through his gut.
"Yeah. Couple of FBI types lurking about. I don't get it. I mean, he's not hurt so an MRI isn't medically indicated in the least, but hey, I'm just a doctor."
"A lowly health-care provider," Duncan said, trying to keep his tone light.
"You got it."
"Well, Dr. Melendez, I thank you for the courtesy of the call."
"Any time" Duncan drummed his fingers on the desk. An MRI? Of what?
The head? Or a leg? He'd been rattled by the mention of the FBI and had forgotten to ask.
And that young man Gin had been seeing lately, wasn't he with the FBI?
His fingers stopped drumming and curled into a fist.
A little too much to be coincidence.
He snatched up the phone. Bob Rubinstein had been with G.W.U radiology for years. Duncan gave Barbara the job of tracking him down, and five minutes later he was on the line.
After the obligatory long-time-no-see small talk, Duncan broached the subject. "The reason I'm bothering you, Bob, is that I understand one of my patients, a Senator Marsden, had an accident this morning and is getting an MRI. I was wondering how he's doing."
"Don't know anything about it. MRI's another section. But I can find out, if you want. Can you hold?" Duncan could and he did, listening to tinny Muzak while trying to quell The tension rising slowly within him.
Rubinstein was back in a couple of minutes.
"Just spoke to Sal Vecchiarelli, the chief of MRI. Know him?"
"No."
"A good man. And is he pissed! Your senator's all right, but they're doing this MRI on him anyway. It seems, this is all sub rosa, so don't repeat it, okay?"
"Trust me. Not a word."
"Okay. Seems the FBI commandeered this time for an MRI of the senator last night. Some twelve hours before his accident. Looks like they knew he was going to have it. Pretty strange, wouldn't you say?"
Duncan felt himself going cold. "I certainly would."
"Wonder what they're up to."
"I couldn't imagine. I operated on his ear yesterday. Are they, ?"
"No. It's his leg they're interested in. His right leg, I believe." Duncan closed his eyes and swallowed. His mouth was parched. He did not want to ask the next question. "Any idea what they're looking for?"
"Some sort of foreign body." He slammed his fist against his thigh.
No! No, dammit! He forced his voice to remain calm, steady.
"Are the results in yet?"
"Not yet. The senator's in the tunnel as we speak. Sal's fuming. He just wants to get the study done, give them a reading, and send them on their way so he can get to patients who really need the test."
"Can't say as I blame him."
"Since the senator's your patient, I can call you back with the reading if you want."
"No, thanks, Bob," Duncan said slowly as a weight grew in his chest. "Not necessary." I already know the reading.
His hand trembled as he hung up the receiver. He stared at his fingers. What were they vibrating with? Rage? Or heartache?
Gin knows.
He'd guessed she knew something, but until this moment he'd had no idea how much. Now there was
no more guessing. Somehow she'd pieced together the who and the how, and maybe even the why.
But instead of coming to him, she'd gone to the FBI.
He wanted to break something, punch a hole in the wall, grab his chair and fling it through the picture window.
But no. He was not a maniac. He was in control. Although, looking at all this from Gin's perspective, she had to think he was psychotic. A paranoid schiz. He'd no doubt have thought the same thing if situations were reversed.
But he'd have gone to her first. He wouldn't have sneaked off and betrayed her to the kakistocracy.
Gin, my dear sygnet . . . how could you?
She'd cut him deeply today. He didn't know if he'd ever forgive her for this. But that was a question for another time Much more pressing was the question of what was he going to do now?
27
FALLOUT
GINA WAITED, shuffling BETWEEN THE DICTATION DESK and the recovery rooms, checking on this morning's post-ops. A light load today, two rhinoplasties and a thigh liposuction. She wished there was more to do.
This waiting was killing her.
She glanced out the window of the main recovery room and noticed Duncan's cat was gone. She stopped by Barbara's desk on her way back.
"I don't know if he's coming back or not," Barbara said. "I looked up and there he was, breezing past me. Didn't even say goodbye."
"It's not even noon yet."
Barbara shrugged. "Maybe he's got a big weekend planned and wants an early starr."
Gin wondered about that.
Usually he stayed later on Fridays, going over a list of things he wanted done or set up before surgery began again Monday morning. Why the change in routine today? Did he suspect something?
Got to stop thinking like that, she told herself, rubbing her upper arms as a chill of apprehension skittered across her shoulders. Nothing is different today. No reason to suspect a thing.
She would have loved to leave herself, but she was required to stay on duty until the last patient went home. So she stayed on, doing everything as usual, behaving as if nothing were wrong. It hadn't been such a tough decision. The thought of sitting alone in her apartment, waiting for the phone to ring, was hardly an enticing alternative.
Lunch hour came and went without her having a bite, couldn't think of eating a thing, and Gerry hadn't called. The afternoon dragged on.
Still no call. Gin was all caught up on her dictation and paperwork, and was running out of things to do. She heard Oliver puttering in his lab. She could have wandered over to help him out, but now, after what she knew, the thought of even being near those implants repulsed her.
Better to try to look busy until Gerry called.
By quarter after three Gin still hadn't heard, and she was beginning to worry. They should have had the reading by midmorning. Why hadn't he called?
Unless . . . her chest constricted at the thought . . . unless the MRI showed that the implant had ruptured in the accident. They'd have had to rush Senator Marsden into emergency surgery before too much of the TPD leaked into his circulation.
What a nightmare scenario. But still, Gerry would have called to tell her.
She got up, wandered around upstairs, then came back. She couldn't sit still. What was happening downtown?
Finally she picked up the phone. Enough waiting. Time to make a call of her own. She dialed the FBI and asked for Gerry. After a moment on hold, the receptionist came back, "I'm sorry, but Special Agent Canney is not available now. Would you care to leave a message?" No, she wouldn't.
Gerry wasn't back yet? Could that be? She felt her anxiety level rising. The chart-lined walls around her seemed to lean over her, closing in.
Keep calm, she told herself. Everything's under control.
Quickly she dialed Senator Marsden's officer. When she asked how he was after the accident, Doris, the receptionist, said, "Oh, he's fine, Dr, Panzella. Want to speak to him?" Nonplussed, Gin mumbled something that vaguely resembled yes. "Gin," the senator said without preamble, "I wish you could have been with me today. If ever there was an example of the need for the Guidelines act, it was the fiasco I witnessed this morning."
"Are you all right?"
"Of course, I'm all right! There was never anything wrong with me. Yet they insisted on shoving me into this MRI machine and scanning my legs. Everything happened so fast, I was squeezed into that tube before I was sure of what was going on and had a chance to protest."
"I'm sure they had good reason,"
"They had no reason! Just trying to pad the bill! I'm curious."
"Maybe it was because you're a U. S. Senator," she said, trying to mollify him. This was not what she wanted to talk about. "I'm sure they don't do that to everyone."
"Wait till I get the bill," he said. "Just wait. Then they'll hear from me."
Gin figured he'd have a long, long wait ''Uh, did they find anything?" she asked and then held her breath.
'"Find anything? Of course not! There wasn't anything to find! Wasted half my morning because of a stupid hit-and run fender bender."
Found nothing . . . hadn't they told him? Why not? What was going on?
Gin fumbled through the next minute of conversation, only half listening, replying with what she was sure were non sequiturs, and then somewhat less than gracefully ended the conversation.
Her mind spinning, she immediately called the FBI again, and again, Gerry was "not available at this time." She left her name and an urgent message to call her as soon as possible.
And then she was up and moving. She had to get out, get some fresh air.
She hurried to her car and turned the heater on high. She was cold, but that wasn't why she was shivering. Dread settled around her like a tenebrous shroud.
Somewhere, somehow, something was terribly wrong.
The late afternoon had been endless. She'd taken a shower, fixed a sandwich that she didn't touch, tried to watch talk shows. She was going nuts.
When she hadn't heard from Gerry by half past six, Gin called his office again and was told he was gone for the day.
Why hadn't he called? Had he missed her message?
She called his home. He answered on the second ring.
"Gerry. Thank God!"
"Gin. Hello." His voice sounded flat, lifeless.
"I've been trying to reach you all day. I've been going crazy here. Didn't you get my message?"
"Going crazy," he said. "That's a good one." A wave of cold formed at her center and spread outward. With the cordless phone tight against her ear, she stepped out of her bedroom and began pacing the front room.
"Gerry, what's wrong?"
"What's wrong? Gin . . . " he sighed, then said nothing. The few silent seconds seemed to stretch into the night falling outside her bay window.
"Gin, there was nothing there." It wasn't a complete shock. Some part of her subconscious must have expected this but hadn't allowed her to face it directly. Now she had no choice.
Still, she couldn't accept it.
Her words came in a rush. "There had to be. Gerry, I saw it. Less than an hour before the surgery he had the trocar and an implant filled with TPD sitting on his desk ready to go. I left the recovery room for a few minutes, and when I returned there was a puncture wound on the senator's thigh. It was still bleeding."
"We had that puncture wound checked in the hospital. It was little more than a scratch."
"Gerry, it,"
"But it doesn't matter whether there was a scratch or a puncture in the skin, Gin, the fact remains that there wasn't anything under the skin. The MRI didn't pick up a single trace of a foreign body. Not in the right leg, and not in the left leg either, because we checked both of them. There's nothing under Marsden's skin but fat and muscle and bone. No implant, no nothing!"
"Gerry, that can't be. If it's not in the senator's leg then it's got to be somewhere else. I know,"
"That's the trouble, Gin. You didn't know. And you don't know now. I thought you did
. I never should have," He cut himself off.
"Gerry, I'm so sorry. I was so sure. Why else would he have that implant out and ready to go just before the senator's surgery?"
"I don't know, Gin." She sensed a growing edge to his voice. "You tell me. You're the only one who saw it . . . or that TPD stuff."
"Do you think I imagined it?"
"I don't know what to think anymore. Look, I know I started you on this, but I must have been crazy, and I made you a little crazy too. I do know that Ketter and I are the big joke around the Bureau."
"Oh, God. I'm so sorry. Look, you sound tired. When you and Martha come over we'll have some wine and you can relax while I,"
"I don't think we'll be able to make it, Gin. Not tonight." Something in his voice made her sit down in the nearest chair. She bit her lip.
"Gerry, what's wrong?"
"Wrong? Everything's wrong, Gin." She heard the hurt, the disappointment in his voice. "I'm really not very hungry. And to tell the truth, I don't think I'll be very good company tonight."
Gin felt tears well in her eyes. "I feel terrible about this, Gerry."
"That makes two of us. Maybe you've been working too hard, stretching yourself too thin. I shouldn't have got you wired on my little conspiracy theory."
She felt as if she'd been punched. "You do think I imagined all this! Did I imagine all those newspaper articles?"
"I told you, Gin, I don't know what to think anymore. Maybe this isn't a good time for us to be discussing it. I know it's not a good time for me. I've got to get dinner for Martha. We'll talk some other time, okay?"
"Talking it out tonight might,"
"The last thing I need is to talk about Duncan Lathram. Frankly, if I never hear his name again, it will be too soon. What I need is to cool down and get this day over with."
"You're sure?"
"I'm truly sorry for begging off at the last minute like this, but trust me, it's for the best." She didn't want to hang up but sensed he didn't want to talk anymore.
"Call me tomorrow?"
"Will do."
"All right. Good night."
"Good night, Gin." And then she hung up.
Bewildered, Gin sat and stared down at Kalorama Road.
"He thinks I'm crazy," she whispered to the empty apartment. But she'd been so certain, so damn sure that Duncan had stuck an implant into Senator Marsden. She'd seen it lying on his desk just before the surgery. Why else would it have been there?