F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (14 page)

 
          
"Fucking
Mace!" screamed the third.

 
          
Duncan
caught him square in the mouth with a
squirt and that was the last he heard from him.

 
          
Duncan
sagged back against his car, gasping,
panting as if he'd run a marathon. He could feel his underwear sticking to his
sweaty skin.

 
          
How
long had it taken? Three seconds? Five? Seemed like so much longer.

 
          
Whatever
the interval, the three attackers had been reduced to writhing, wheezing,
groaning, gagging, cursing lumps of blind flesh.

 
          
"Thank
God, Dad!" Brad said. "I didn't know you carried Mace."

           
Actually it was pepper spray,
five-percent capsicum.
Duncan
had never had occasion to use it before now. He was impressed. And
almost giddy with relief. He held it up to the light.

 
          
"Not
exactly a
Wayne
thing, I know,"
Duncan
said. "But since I'm not exactly a
street fighter, I figured it was the prudent thing to do." He slipped the
canister back into his pocket. "Maybe we should,'' The rattle of steel on
concrete made
Duncan
turn. One of the skinheads had picked up the pipe and was on his feet,
careening their way. His eyes were puffy slits, streaming tears. He couldn't
see. He had to be homing in on their voices.
Duncan
lurched out of the way as he saw the bar
swing wildly in his direction. It left a chipped dent in the car ender near
where he'd been leaning an instant before.

 
          
Rage
flared in
Duncan
. Impulsively he grabbed the steel shaft of
the pipe and ripped it from the staggering skinhead's grasp. Then he swung it
like a bat, catching him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling into
his two companions, who had struggled to their hands and knees.

 
          
Duncan
found himself standing over them, flailing
away with the pipe, "You . . . " muttering through clenched teeth
". . . dirty . . . " as he cracked a head, ". . . filthy . . .
" broke a rib, ". . . rotten . . . " crushed a nose ". . .
lousy . . . " Then someone had hold of his arm and a familiar voice was
shouting in his ear.

 
          
"Dad!
For Christ sake! Dad!" He turned. Brad's face was inches from his, staring
at him with wide, frightened eyes.

 
          
"Dad,
you're gonna kill them!"
Duncan
looked down at the squirming, bloody tangle
of their attackers.

 
          
He
dropped the steel bar and turned toward the car. "Let's get out of
here." The keys rattled in his shaking hand as he fished them out of his
jacket pocket. "You drive." The next few minutes were a blur, a fugue
state in which he was vaguely aware of the car moving, pulling away, joining
the flow of traffic on M Street. He sat in the passenger seat, shaking,
shivering, trembling with the aftereffects of the adrenaline that had surged
into his system moments before. High-pitched beeps brought him around.

 
          
Brad
was punching the buttons on the car phone.

 
          
"What
are you doing?"

           
"Calling nine-one-one."

           
Duncan
gently pulled the phone from his son's
fingers and turned it off.

 
          
"No
police. Let them crawl back to their cave and lick their wounds. Maybe they'll
think twice or even three times - before they jump another faggot."

 
          
"Shouldn't
we report,?"

       
    
"If we involve ourselves, you know
what will happen? We'll be on trial for assaulting them. That's the way our
legal system works."

 
          
They
drove in silence for a while before Brad spoke again. "Why wouldn't you
tell them?"

           
"Tell them what?"

           
"That we're not gay."

           
Gay. He hated that term. He
couldn't imagine anything gay about being a homosexual. And he was a little
disappointed in Brad. He just didn't get it.

 
          
"That's
not the point. If I want to put my arm around my son's shoulder, that's my
business. I don't need anyone's permission but yours. I will no more allow
myself to be dictated to by these troglodytes on the street than by the
decerebrates on Capitol Hill. Once you start backing down, you've got to keep
backing down. So you don't start."

 
          
"But
what happened to you back there, Dad? I've never seen you like that."

 
          
"That's
because I've never been like that." He was nonplussed at the volatility of
the rage seething within him.

 
          
He'd
long been aware of its presence, had felt it percolating through him for years,
but he'd thought he had it focused now, slowly bleeding off in the direction of
the proper targets. He hadn't realized it was so near the surface, so ready to
break free and hurl him at the nearest target.

           
"You're a scary guy,
Dad."

           
He nodded.

 
          
"Sometimes
I scare myself."

GINA

           
GINA HAD JUST FINISHED CHECKING A
PATIENT WITH chest pain on Three North at Lynnbrook. She couldn't help thinking
about Gerry and what a nice time she'd had with him and Martha earlier at that
little Taco Bell.

 
          
Dinner
at the Palms wouldn't have been half as warm. She'd hated to leave.

 
          
As
she passed the nurses station she spotted Dr. Conway leaning on the counter,
writing orders. She was surprised to see him. It was almost
midnight
, and usually she was the only doctor in the
house at this hour.

 
          
He
looked up and smiled as she took a seat on the other side of the counter. He
tapped the chart in front of him.

 
          
'"Hey,
Panzella. If I'd known you were in the house tonight I'd've let you handle this
guy."

           
"Maybe you should have. You
look beat." She wasn't exaggerating. He had circles under his eyes.
"Go get some sleep."

 
          
"Soon
as I finish this progress note, I'm gone."

 
          
Gin spotted Harriet Thompson's chart and pulled it out of the rack.
"I see your favorite little old lady is still here."

 
          
"Harriet?"
He nodded and sighed. "Yeah. And still not ready to go home,
unfortunately. Weak as a kitten, she says."

    
       
Gin flipped through the chart. "All
her numbers still look good."

 
          
"Perfect."

 
          
"You
think there might be some secondary gains here? Like maybe she gets more
attention here than at home?"

           
"No. She's a real independent
old lady. Hates it here. I think she's got some sort of postinfection asthenia.
I've seen it before, especially after a pneumonia like hers. You can't see it,
can't touch it, there's no lab test to confirm it. Mostly a diagnosis by
exclusion."

 
          
"The
administration still on your back?"

           
"That's only half the
story." He shook his head wearily. "It's getting a little ugly. They've
brought in reinforcements. I've had calls from the head of the family practice
section and from the chief of staff himself. Nothing's been said in so many
words, but they've dropped broad hints that I might have a rough time moving up
to full attending here if I don't prove myself to be a team player." No
wonder he looked harried.

 
          
"You
can't get any family involved?"

           
"Called the daughter in
San Diego
. Talked to her myself. She can't get away.
It's not a ‘good time’ for her."

           
"So what's your next
step?"

           
"Same as ever. Screw em. She
stays till she's ready to go." He closed the chart in front of him, left
it where the charge nurse could review it, and pushed away from the counter.
"See you, Panzella."

 
          
"Hang
in there, " she said as she watched him go.

 
          
Gin
was worried. He could be headed for trouble here if he didn't back down soon.

 
          
Her
thoughts drifted back to Gerry and what he'd said earlier about
Duncan
's patients. Lane, Schulz, and now Allard .
. . Gerry seemed to suspect a connection. What would he think if Gin told him
that
Duncan
had been on the Capitol portico this
morning, talking to Allard just before he fell? That he'd mentioned his dead
daughter's name as a parting shot?

 
          
But
how could she describe the frightening look in
Duncan
's eyes as he'd turned away from the
congressman. The memory still gave her a chill. This was silly. What connection
could there be between Congressman Allard and
Duncan
's daughter? She died five years ago. Gin
was pretty damn sure from the presurgical history and physical she'd done on
the congressman that he'd never met Duncan until he'd come in for a surgical consultation.

 
          
But
still . . . it bothered her. She promised herself that when she had some time
she'd do a little independent research on the late Lisa Lathram.

 
          
Gin
was just stepping out of the stairwell on the first floor when she got paged
again. She called the switchboard from the doctors lounge.

 
          
"Personal
call," said the operator. "Long distance." Who, she wondered,
would be calling her here, long distance?

 
          
"Gin?"
came a familiar drawl. "Gin, is that you?"

           
"Peter! How did you find me
here?"

           
"Wasn't easy."

 
          
She
sat on the bunk and leaned back. Peter Hanson's dark eyes and strong, angular
features floated before her.

 
          
"It's
so good to hear your voice."

           
"I miss you, Gin."

 
          
"Oh,
and I miss you." She felt almost guilty now about dinner with Gerry
tonight and enjoying it so much. They were two different types, really, why was
she thinking about Gerry with Peter on the phone?

 
          
He
was talking about how empty their old apartment was without her, how lonely he was.

 
          
'"We
really could use another internist here, Gin. Someone with your talent, your
personality, and, being a woman to boot, I guarantee you'd have a beautiful
practice in three months. We need you, Gin. I need you." Needed . . .
wouldn't that be nice. No one seemed to need her around here.

 
          
She'd
spent the last two years of her residency with Peter. He joined a multi-specialty
medical group in
Baton Rouge
. Gin had had an offer from the same group but turned it down. She'd
felt she had to come to
Washington
and wanted Peter to come with her. They'd gone around and around with
it until she'd finally left to return east.

 
          
As
she listened to his voice she realized how much she missed him, missed
Louisiana
with its slower pace and rich, spicy food.
And Peter.

 
          
And
now, after the cool reception at Senator Marsden's office and still no call, it
was so tempting to call it quits here and run back to
New Orleans
.

 
          
She
ached to be with him but she couldn't go back. Not even for a visit. She might
never leave, might never have the strength to say good-bye again.

 
          
"Peter,
I need to see if I can work things out with this committee."

           
"You don't need a damn
committee, Gin. You need to be practicing medicine." They'd had this
conversation dozens of times and it always ended the same, Peter angry and Gin
upset.

 
          
How
could she say it without hurting him?

 
          
I
still care very deeply for you, Peter, but the power here, the enormity of the
decisions being made every day . . . it's an adrenaline buzz like nowhere else
in the world. It's, well, it's intoxicating.

 
          
She
opted for her old standby instead.

 
          
"We've
been over this so many times, Peter. I'm not ready to commit myself to a
practice yet. There are a few things I want to try first, and this is the only
place I can try them."

 
          
"How
long am I supposed to wait? " he said with a hint of an edge in his voice.

 
          
"I'm
waiting, too, Peter. I'm going half crazy waiting."

           
He sighed. "Fine. Keep me
hanging. Let me know when you find out what you're going to do. As soon as you
find out."

 
          
"I
will. And I'm sorry."

 
          
"That
makes two of us. Bye, Gin. Call me soon."

           
She sat in the doctors lounge for a
long time with the phone in her lap, wondering how she could be right if
everyone else thought she was wrong. Her beeper chirped before she came up with
an answer.

 
          
They
wanted her on Two South.