Another glance in the rearview showed no Mercedes, didn't show much of anything through the rain and fogged up glass. The traffic behind her was a mass of blurred gray shapes. He could be anywhere.
Dupont Circle was dead ahead. She could see traffic slowing, backing up. A perfect spot for Duncan to pull up alongside and . . .
Her hands became slippery on the wheel as she began to weave through the traffic. Had to get through the circle. She made a few reckless moves, earned a few more angry horn blasts, but moments later she was cruising toward the circle.
She blew through an amber light and then slowed to get her bearings.
As she swung around the curve she checked the rearview again. She twisted left and right, peering out the side windows. No Mercedes.
She leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. Maybe it hadn't been Duncan after all. Lots of big black Mercedes in this town. The diplomats loved them.
She swung off the circle onto Connecticut again.
Okay. She was on her way. With a pang she suddenly realized where she was. Only a few blocks from Galileo. Seemed like so much longer, but only a dozen hours had passed since she'd been dining with Duncan, feeling happy, carefree.
Now she was running for her life. Or if not her life, her sanity.
She put the painful memory aside and concentrated on the now. Not far to the FBBuilding from here. Had to calm herself, gather her wits.
Couldn't act as frazzled as she felt. Had to be convincing. Had to . . .
In her left sideview mirror . . . rising out of the Dupont Circle underpass like some dark demon from the netherworld . . . looming ever larger, ever closer . . . a black Mercedes. And this time she could make out the MD plates.
Duncan!
He'd bypassed the circle by going under it. Now he was nearly on top of her.
Her heart raced ahead of her engine as the Mercedes pulled in behind her and began riding her rear bumper. She sprang ahead, darting in and out of the traffic, squeezing her smaller car through openings where the Mercedes could not hope to follow, especially on this wet pavement.
She pushed the lights, gunning through intersections whenever one threatened to turn red.
It was working. Slowly but steadily she increased the distance between them.
But she was coming to the end of Connecticut. The traffic lights of K Street loomed ahead. Green now. Traffic was flowing through. Good.
Where to now? Normally she'd swing onto Seventeenth past Farragut Square and head down to Pennsylvania, but Duncan was only two cars back. And just ahead, the light was turning amber. Again, NO LEFT TURN hung over the intersection.
It hadn't worked before, but maybe this time . . .
But then the BMW in front of her began to brake for the light.
"Oh, no! " she cried aloud. "You wimp! " Instead of slowing, Gin set her jaw, punched the gas, and wrenched the steering wheel to the right, swerving around the Beamer and into the middle of the intersection.
Then she yanked it back into a hard left to head east on K.
She cried out as she hit a puddle and felt the tires begin to slip sideways on the wet pavement. She floored the brake pedal but the car didn't slow. It was completely out of her control. She saw the curb and the sidewalk careening toward her.
'"Oh, God, no!" Gin braced herself for the impact as the Sunbird slammed into the curb. The right rear wheel bounced over onto the sidewalk and the car tilted and threatened to tip over. Gin's head hit her side window as the car fell back onto four wheels. She shook her head to clear it. The window was okay and the car, thank you, God, had finally come to a halt without hitting anybody.
Gin wanted to cry, wanted to be sick, but she didn't have time for that. Except for a bruised scalp she was all right. Her seat belt had kept her from being tossed about the inside of the car. Horns were blaring all around her, frightened pedestrians were staring and either pointing fingers or shaking fists her way.
And her engine had stalled. She restarted it and tried to turn back into traffic, but her wheels were locked. She couldn't turn the steering wheel. She got out and ran around to the other side of the car and gasped when she saw the front wheel. The tire had been knocked off the rim and the wheel itself was bent, canted under the car. She didn't know if that meant a broken axle or what, but she did know her little Sunbird wasn't going anywhere without extensive repairs.
She was at the top of Farragut Square, a block of grass and shrubs and park benches with a statue of the admiral at its center. A wide-open area. She felt exposed. She looked around and Saw Duncan's Mercedes pull into the curb on the other side of Seventeenth Street.
With a small cry she turned and bolted into Farragut Square. Her sneakers slipped on the wet grass as she ran. She found a walk and slowed enough to look over her shoulder. No sign of Duncan's car back at the curb. Good. That meant he wasn't following her on foot.
But where was he? She'd feel better if she knew. Because she didn't know the effective reach of whatever ultrasound device he might be carrying.
Ahead and to her right, across Eye Street, she spotted a Metro sign.
Immediately her spirits lifted. The Orange Line would leave her a couple of blocks from the FBBuilding. She picked up her pace and cut across the grass toward the entrance. She was less than thirty yards from it when a black Mercedes pulled up and Duncan stepped out.
"Oh, no." He stood by the Metro stairs, looking around. When he spotted her, he started walking toward her with a determined stride.
Gin made a sharp right turn and hurried on an angle back toward the corner of K and Seventeenth. A glance over her shoulder revealed that Duncan must have changed his mind about following her on foot. He was heading back to his car.
Gin broke into a run and turned down K. She had to get off the street.
She was a sitting duck out here. She passed a CVS and ducked inside.
As good a place as any to hide. Big and crowded with other people getting out of the rain.
She moved toward the side wall and wandered among the nail-care items hung on the Peg-Boards. She pretended to be shopping but all the while her eyes were fixed on the front doors. She migrated toward the rear, near the pharmacy counter where the first-aid items were stocked. She ducked behind a condom display as she saw Duncan walk past the front windows, under an umbrella no less. She hung there with her nose poking among the party-colored boxes. Any one watching would have thought she had a hot time planned for tonight.
When she thought she'd waited long enough, she stepped out into the aisle and made her way toward the front of the store.
Halfway there she saw Duncan on the sidewalk outside again. Only this time he didn't pass. This time he pushed through the door and came inside.
Gin dropped to a crouch. In case anyone was watching, she quickly untied and retied her shoelace. She glanced around. No one was paying her any attention. She half straightened and looked around. Her heart tripped over a beat when she saw Duncan heading her way, his head rotating back and forth like a radar dish as he roamed the aisles.
She ducked down and cowered near the Halloween candy displays, frantically casting about for a plan. She could run, get up and sprint for the doors and the street, but that would give her away. Duncan wasn't sure where she was right now, couldn't even know she was in the store. If she ran, he'd have her. And worse, fleeing at full speed might bring the store detectives after her. If they grabbed her and held her, all Duncan would have to do was walk by, let loose an ultrasonic pulse, and she'd join Senator Vincent in the psych ward.
She glanced up and noticed one of the convex antishoplifter mirrors overhead. In it she saw a dapper-looking man in a blue blazer with a folded umbrella coming down the aisle on the other side of the counter.
Duncan. No more than three feet away.
Head down, she ran in a crouch in the opposite direction and stopped at a break in the display counter. She checked the mirror again. Duncan was at the far end and turning into her aisle. She
scurried around into the aisle he'd just left, moved along a dozen or so feet, and huddled, waiting, barely breathing as she pretended to compare the prices of the various widths and sizes of bandage gauze and adhesive tape.
She didn't dare peek at the mirror again. Not yet. If she'd been able to see Duncan in it, he'd could just as easily use it to see her.
Finally she reared up and cautiously peeked around a display of Ace bandages. It took her a moment before she spotted him. Near the front of the store now. Pushing through the door. Leaving.
But he wouldn't be leaving the area. He'd be wandering around, watching the Metro entrance, cruising the streets. He knew she was somewhere around here, and he wasn't going away. Trying to slip past him was too dangerous, especially in daylight. She needed a place to hide until it was dark.
Gin's fists knotted in frustration. She was so damn vulnerable with this . . . this thing in her leg. She wished she could be rid of it.
Then she could walk up to Duncan and thumb her nose at him. If only . .
She looked at the tape and bandages in her hands.
And came to a decision.
Where the hell is she?
Duncan opened the umbrella and looked up and down K Street as the rain increased its intensity, falling in sheets. The weather matched his mood.
This wasn't going well at all.
He tried to look on the bright side, If nothing else, the downpour was driving people indoors. That would make anyone still wandering about outside even more conspicuous. Gin would be easier to spot if she made a break for it. Obviously she'd ducked into one of the stores on this side of the street. She hadn't had time to cross to the other side o reach the far end of the block before he'd arrived.
She was here. This side. And she had to come out sometime.
But what if her fellow from the FBI was on his way to meet her here now?
That could be trouble. But not insurmountable. All he had to do was sidle up within range, press a button on the transducer, and TPD would begin seeping into her bloodstream.
But that scenario was risky. Far better to find her before the cavalry arrived . . . if it was even coming.
Duncan sighed. He'd have to search these stores one by one. Most of them were small. It wouldn't take long.
He noticed a Burger King down the block. A perfect place to hide. She could sit in the back and sip a cola and no one would make her move.
He'd start there.
Gin clutched a white plastic bag filled with her purchases and checked the street and sidewalk outside as best she could from inside of the window. Duncan was nowhere to be seen. But that didn't mean he wasn't somewhere out there watching.
Her knees shook. Her hands nervously rolled and twisted the loops of the bag. She didn't want to go out there. She wanted to stay here where it was safe and dry, where Duncan had already searched and probably wouldn't search again. At least not for a while.
But she couldn't. Couldn't crawl into a hole and pull the earth over her. She'd made up her mind to do something about this, and dammit, that was it. She would not stay here and be a sitting duck any longer.
Across the street she could make out a bank, a copy shop, and a dingy marquee that read The Tremont. That little old hotel held one part of the key. The contents of the paper bag another. The rest was up to her.
She watched the traffic outside, waiting for a break . . .
Finally it came. Setting her teeth, she leaned against the door and burst from CVS into The downpour at a dead run, straight across the street and into the lobby of the Tremont.
Inside the revolving door she stopped and looked back on K Street. No sign of a blue-blazered man with an umbrella dashing across to intercept her. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be along soon.
As she hurried to the reservation desk she scanned the aged glory of the lobby. The brass needed polishing, the mirrors were smudged, and the carpet was showing its age. But there was still dignity here in the carved wood and dark green wallpaper. An old, independent dowager refusing to yield to the age of international hotel chains.
"I'd like a single please," she told the beige-suited young black woman behind the counter. "Just for the night."
The woman said, "Of course," and placed a card on the counter. "Please fill this out."
Gin paused with the pen poised over the NAME line. She didn't want to put her own name, but how much cash did she have? Thirty bucks? Maybe forty? Nowhere near enough to cover a room in the heart of D. C. And if she was going to use cash instead of a credit card, the hotel would be looking for at least one night in advance.
Reluctantly, she wrote in "Gin Panzella" and handed over her Visa with the registration card.
"Any luggage?"
"I'm having that sent over later." She was tempted to make up a place from which her bags would be arriving and a story as to why she didn't have them with her, but decided to clam up. This woman didn't care and too much talk might make her sound as if she was hiding something. She was inexperienced at the art but guessed that lies, like medical reports and research papers, worked best when one observed the KISS rule, Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Five minutes later she was in a narrow room on the top floor with one double bed and an alley view.
Perfect.
She put on the chain lock, dropped into the single chair by the writing table, and closed her eyes. So good to feel safe. Temporarily safe.
At least she didn't have to worry about running into Duncan here.
Gin looked at the phone and thought about calling Gerry, to tell him that she was going to be delayed. Maybe she should tell him why, because of his insistence on objective proof.
Well, she was going to give him his damn objective proof.
Forget calling Gerry. He'd only try to stop her.
She closed her eyes again. Why couldn't she simply stay here?
Hibernate for a week or a month. Order room service and watch the movies on cable all day. Anything but go outside again and dodge Duncan so she could prove to Gerry that she wasn't nuts.
Her life seemed to be a lose-lose proposition right now. Why not just, She bounded from the chair. No. She had to do this. And now. Had to go on autopilot. Couldn't think about what she was asking of herself.
Had to fight the nausea and the revulsion and fear. Had to keep up the momentum. If she stopped or even slowed she might not be able to go through with this.
And the longer she waited, the greater the chance of Duncan tracking her here.
She grabbed the ice bucket and scurried down the hall to the service nook where she quickly filled it with cubes. Once back in her room, she replaced the chain lock, drew the curtains, and turned on the TV.
She punched the remote until she found a noisy game show, then turned up the volume. Not too loud, but enough to mask any incidental noise.
She checked the thermostat and pushed it up to 75.
She turned on the light in the bathroom. Bright, clean, white the and tub, a marble vanity. She made sure the drain was open, then started the water running in the tub. As she waited for the temperature to reach a comfortable warm, she emptied the contents of the bag from CVS on the vanity counter. She set aside the smaller separate bag within, then opened the bottle of Tylenol Extra Strength and washed down four of them with a glass of water. Next she opened the bottle of Coricidin tablets. She would have preferred a test tube, but this glass cylinder full of cold tablets would have to do. She emptied the pills into the toilet. Then she began arranging the rest of her purchases.
The bacitracin ointment, gauze pads, Ace bandage, adhesive tape, and the hydrogen peroxide went to the rear of the counter, in front of them she placed the empty Coricidin bottle and the small traveler's sewing kit, along the edge she lined up the bag of cotton balls, the tweezers, the bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the Cricket lighter, and the package of single-edge razor blades.
The last item was an ice pack. She filled that with ice cubes and set it on the edge of the tub. She unbut
toned her jeans, slipped them off, and hung them on the towel rack. Gooseflesh ran up her thighs to the edges of her panties.
She soaked one of the cotton balls with the alcohol and then began rubbing it on her thigh, firmly but not too vigorously, in the area of the bruise. Didn't want to break anything under the skin. She then poured alcohol over the contact surface of the ice pack and pressed it over the bruise. This was welcomed by another rush of gooseflesh.
She glanced at the ceiling. No heat lamp. Too bad. Would have been nice.
Wedging the ice pack between her thigh and the vanity, she picked up the black and yellow box of razor blades. "SMITH single edge, Made in U. S. A. " said the top. On the side, "Fits all single edge scrapers. For industrial use." She had to smile at that. Industrial use? Not today.
She slipped one of the blades from the box, gripped it with the tweezers, then applied the Cricket flame to the cutting edge until it glowed red. As she let that cool on the edge of the marble vanity top, she pulled off her sweatshirt and tossed it toward her jeans.
Now she really could have used a heat lamp.
Still holding the ice pack to her thigh, she seated herself on the edge of the tub with her feet in the lukewarm water running from the spout.
Another ten minutes and the iced-down area of her thigh was good and numb. She swabbed the area again with alcohol, then poured some over her hands. She picked up the razor blade.
And began to shake.
I can't do this.
But another part of her said she could. Told her she had to. Had to do it now, before the numbing effect of the ice wore off.
But the first part of her brain screamed, Wait!
What if this whole situation was another elaborate scam by Duncan?
He'd already undermined her credibility, and made Gerry look like a fool. What if he'd. pulled the same on her? A double reverse? Slip her a Mickey, steal her key, sneak into her apartment, and jab an empty trocar into her leg while she was unconscious? Who'd expect him to pull the same stunt twice?