F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (16 page)

 
          
If
only . . .

 
          
Bright
light in
Duncan
's eyes brought him back to the present. The
sun had broken through the clouds. He shook off the memory and threw the
Mercedes into gear. I was all right, he thought. And I'd have stayed all right
if not for the president's resurrection of the damn Guidelines bill. It all
came back, all the pain, the rage, because of him.

 
          
But
he'll get his. His turn is coming.

ON THE HILL

           
SENATOR MARSDEN MADE HER WAIT ONLY
A FEW minutes, then Gin was ushered in.

 
          
The
office was pretty much as she remembered it, the stacked files, overflowing
bookcases, photos, plaques, and the miniature basketball hoop over the
wastepaper basket.

 
          
Joe
Blair was there, again in a white, short-sleeve shirt, a different but equally
nondescript tie, and dark slacks. Strangely, he greeted her warmly, a smile
beneath the wispy mustache as he moved forward to shake her hand and lead her
toward the senator's battered old desk.

 
          
Gin
wasn't sure what to make of the uncharacteristically gracious behavior. An act
for his boss? It was in Blair's honor that she had worn a longer skirt today.

 
          
Senator
Hugh Marsden leaned forward over his desk and extended his hand. He was average
height, sixtyish, balding, portly, but possessed a commanding presence. It was
his eyes, Gin decided, intensely, piercingly blue, they caught her and held her
as firmly as his hand gripped hers. His voice was deep and commanding as well.

 
          
"Dr.
Panzella. Welcome." A third person was in the room, a short, compact,
darkhaired woman of about forty. She introduced herself.

 
          
"Hello,
Dr. Panzella," she said, extending her hand. She had a warm, easy smile
and bright brown eyff. Gin liked her immediately. "I'm Alicia Downs, the
senator's press secretary."

 
          
"Gin.
Please call me Gin."

 
          
"All
right, Gin," the senator said. "Pull up a chair. I hope you don't
mind if we get right down to business. Senator Moynihan moved a
five o'clock
budget briefing up to four-thirty, so time
is short." He seated himself in the straight-backed chair behind the desk
and cleared the files from his desk blotter. Gin took one of the two chairs on
the other side of the desk, Alicia took the other. Blair stayed on his feet,
hovering. Positioning himself where he could get a good look at her legs,
maybe?

 
          
"I
can't help being intrigued by the fact that a young physician with your
qualifications would want this position," he said. "I'd say you were
overqualified. What is it you hope to accomplish here?" Here we go again,
Gin thought.

 
          
She
went into her spiel of how she thought the impact of the Medical Ethics and
Practice Guidelines Act would be so far-reaching, so important to the future of
medical practice, that she couldn't sit idly by without attempting to have some
input.

 
          
"You
can't have guidelines that smother individuality," she concluded.

 
          
"Do
you want all doctors to be exactly the same? I hope not. Minimum standards of
training and care, sure. But then allow variety in style of practice. Each
practice should have its own personality, otherwise you've deprived patients of
a critically important choice." The senator studied her a moment in
silence, his blue eyes intent on her.

 
          
Gin
was beginning to feel uncomfortable when finally he spoke.

 
          
"You
realize that this is a part-time position for which I doubt we'll be able to
squeeze twenty thousand, if that, out of the budget."

   
        
"I explained that to her, Senator,"
Blair said. He seemed vaguely anxious, while not actually moving, he seemed to
be pacing in place.

 
          
"The
money's not important," she said. "I've-got the rest of my life to
make money. This is a chance to matter, to be part of something that will
affect the rest of my professional life. If I were already in practice, with a
mortgage, kids in school, I wouldn't be able to drop everything and devote
months to this committee. But I'm not. There's only me to worry about. This is
something I want to do, something I can do, and do well. And if I don't do it
now, I'll never do it. And. . . " dare she say it? "your committee
will be poorer for it."

 
          
"Is
that so?" Senator Marsden said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of
his mouth.

 
          
Out
of the corner of her eye she saw Blair bite his upper lip and ever so slightly
shake his head.

 
          
Had
she overplayed it? "At least that's my opinion."

 
          
"Yes,
well, you may have a point there. Will you give me a day to make a final decision?"

           
"Of course." Do I have a
choice?

 
          
"Fine."
He glanced at his watch, rose, and extended his hand. "Sorry to cut this
short, but that budget briefing, you know."

           
Gin smiled as she shook his hand.
"I understand."

 
          
"I'll
walk you out," Alicia said.

 
          
Gin
glanced back as she exited and saw Joe Blair leaning over the senator's desk,
yammering in a low voice.

 
          
'"I
don't think your chief of staff is in my corner," Gin said as she and
Alicia wound through the cubicles.

 
          
Alicia
snorted. "Joe's a dickhead. He's pissed because he already told the
senator you're not right for the job but the boss wanted to meet you
anyway."

 
          
"So
he's back there now trying to scuttle me?"

           
"Maybe. Don't take it
personally. He's a control freak. Wants it to be his staff, handpicked by Joe
Blair."

 
          
"Fair
enough, guess," Gin said with far more equanimity than she felt.

 
          
"Maybe,
but he's still a dickhead."

 
          
"Gin!"
She was almost to the elevators. She turned and saw Joe Blair hurrying after
her.

 
          
"Glad
I caught you," he said as he reached her.

 
          
"What's
up?" she said, watching him closely. "Has he made up his mind?"
She didn't trust this guy. And there was something in his eyes . . .

 
          
"Despite
my strong recommendation, the senator's still undecided. More of a budgeting
problem than any difficulty with your qualifications." He unfolded the
piece of paper in his hand and passed it to her. "But we need to figure
out how to respond when he sees this."

           
We? Gin thought. Since when are we
a we?

 
          
She
looked at the sheet and suppressed a groan. It was a Xerox of an article she'd
written for the New Orleans Times/Picayune during the second year of her
residency. She'd been in a particularly grouchy mood after reading that paper's
series on what was wrong with American medicine. She'd fired off a long letter
vehemently disagreeing with their delineation of the problems and the proposed
solutions. The paper told her if she'd expand it they'd publish it as an op-ed
piece.

 
          
Giddy
with the prospect of having an audience, Gin had fired all her guns, sparing no
one. It was a diatribe Duncan himself would have been proud of.

 
          
But
. . . a very negative, even strident article, with no attempt at a balanced
argument, and she'd cringed when she'd reread it on the day it was published.
If only she'd put it in a drawer for a week before sending it in, she certainly
would have leavened some of her remarks.

 
          
She
hadn't given it much thought since, and yet here it was, resurrected and staring
her in the face.

 
          
"This
isn't really me," she said.

 
          
"I'm
sure it isn't." Blair touched her hand solicitously. "But we've got
to do some brainstorming to assess our options if it reaches the senator's
desk." She backed up an inch and his hand broke contact.

 
          
There
it was again, we.

 
          
"What
do you suggest?"

           
"Oh," he said so
casually, "how about my place? Tonight. And wear something nice." Gin
felt her hands close into fists. She wanted to ram one of them into his nose,
and then yank out that wimpy mustache one hair at a time.

 
          
"Sorry,"
she said calmly, moving her jaw so she wouldn't be talking through gritted
teeth. "I've got plans for tonight."

 
          
"Tomorrow
night, then. We haven't much time" We have no time.

 
          
She
regarded him coolly, levelly. "Nope. Sorry. I'm busy. Tonight, tomorrow
night, every night." He stared back at her, obviously confused. Then his
eyes narrowed, but only for a second. He shrugged carelessly and turned away.

 
          
"Okay,"
he said over his shoulder. "Your loss. But don't say I didn't offer to
help."

 
          
"I
won't," she said softly as she stretched a trembling finger toward the
DOWN button.

 
          
She
dammed up the rage and humiliation as she waited. It wasn't supposed to be like
this, wasn't supposed to work this way.

 
          
The
car finally came, the doors closed behind her and the box began its slow fall.
Alone, sealed off, she wanted to scream, wanted to sob.

 
          
She
did neither. She wiped a single tear from her right eye and whispered one word.

 
          
"Damn."
She found Gerry waiting for her in the atrium. She forced a smile and hoped her
eyes weren't red.

 
          
"What
are you doing here?"

           
"Waiting for you. What
else?"

           
He looked good. Even at the end of
a workday with a little
five-o'clock
shadow stippling his cheeks, he looked damn
good. But the excitement Gin had felt the last couple of times they were
together was missing today.

 
          
She
didn't want to be with anyone now.

 
          
"But
how did you know?"

           
"You told me. Remember? On the
phone? Maybe five hours ago?"

           
"Oh. Right." Her mind
wasn't working too well at the moment.

 
          
"So
how about a drink?"

           
A polite demurral began in her
throat but she held it back. She'd been injured and her instincts urged her to
retreat to a corner and be alone.

 
          
But
that was what Pasta would have done.

 
          
"Sure.
I'd love one."

 
          
"Great.
I know just the place. We'll take a shortcut." He took her arm and led her
toward the rear of the
Hart
Building
. "A celebratory drink, I hope."

 
          
"No,"
she said slowly. "I'm afraid not."

 
          
"You're
kidding. Why?"

           
"I’ll tell you about it."

* * *

           
Gerry clenched and unclenched his
fists under the table as Gin told her story.

 
          
They
sat at an isolated table near the window. He'd brought her to the Sommelier, a
little wine bar on Mass, because he'd learned that she preferred wine to
liquor, and had a fondness for Italian reds.