F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (18 page)

 
          
Then
she called Gerry. He seemed genuinely happy for her, but not as surprised as
she'd expected.

 
          
"See,"
she told him. "Sometimes things work out. It doesn't do you any good to be
cynical all the time Hard work and persistence still pay off."

 
          
"I
knew all along you were the best person for the job. Now I guess this guy Blair
and the senator know it too. But what's really great is that it means you'll be
down in my neighborhood a lot more often."

 
          
"That's
right, isn't it?" She hadn't thought of that. "I'm glad of that
too." She liked Gerry more each time she saw him.

 
          
Maybe
an FBI agent wasn't as glamorous as a high-powered internist like Peter, but
she sensed something deeply caring in Gerry. If this kept up . . .

 
          
"By
the way," he said. "I located a death certificate on Lisa Lathram in
Fairfax
County
."

           
Gin felt her breath catch. One part
of her wanted to tell him never mind, leave the dead alone, another part
wouldn't rest until all her questions were answered. She tried to keep her tone
casual.

 
          
"That
was quick. What does it say?"

           
"It's on its way. I'll let you
know when I get it."

 
          
"Thanks,
Gerry. You're becoming indispensable."

           
"I hope so."

 
          
"I'm
afraid I'm going to have to cut back some of my hours . . . here."

 
          
She
and Duncan were halfway through a tummy tuck. Gin had a wide retractor hooked
around a six-inch layer of abdominal wall and was positioning it where Duncan
could resect the redundant layers of yellow fat. She hadn't planned to tell him
until the surgery was over, but he'd begun talking about tomorrow's surgery
schedule and it had simply popped out.

 
          
"Oh?"
he said. "And why's that?"

           
"I . . . I got the job on
Senator Marsden's staff." There. I said it.

 
          
She
watched him closely, remembering his explosion last time. How was he going to
react this time?

 
          
His
blue eyes glanced up at her for a second or two, then returned to the surgical
field.

 
          
"Congratulations.
When do you start?" Gin didn't answer immediately. She'd been steeled for
anger. This quiet acceptance was almost as intimidating.

 
          
"Uh,
this weekend."

 
          
"So
you're leaving us high and dry."

           
"Cassidy said he'd fill
in."

           
"I hope you'll still find some
time for medicine."

           
"I'll have to cut back, but I
don't want to quit."

 
          
"Good.
I don't want to lose you. Your work here has been excellent."

 
          
"Thank
you," she said, basking in the rare praise.

 
          
"The
Hill will be educational for you,"
Duncan
said. "Give you a chance to see the
kakistocracy at work. You'll witness firsthand the rampant sophistry of the congressional
solipsists. They'll,"

           
Marie the anesthetist groaned.
"Oh, no. Here we go."

           
Joanna glared at Gin in mock anger.
"We were breezing along here. Did you have to get him started?"

           
"Sorry, " Gin said.

 
          
"All
right, all right,"
Duncan
said, glancing around and smiling behind his mask. The skin around his
eyes crinkled with amusement. "Despite your bumptious insubordination,
I'll spare you all a lecture this time. But let me just say this," Marie
groaned again.

 
          
"Wait
now,"
Duncan
said. "All I'm going to say, and I
want you all to listen and remember that you heard it here first, I predict Gin
will not last a year on the Hill before she throws her hands up in
disgust."

           
"There's always a chance of
that, " Gin said, thinking of Joe Blair, "but I know these hearings
are going to be interesting. I can't wait till they begin."

           
Duncan
glanced up at her." Neither can I, my
dear. Neither can I."

           
Gin stared back at him. Something
in those bright blue eyes . . . something almost feral, reminding her of how he
looked on the Capitol portico with Congressman Allard. An icy tendril traced a
chill up her spine.

 
          
Gin
left the Lathram office early and put in another call to the ICU when she got
back to the apartment.

 
          
"She's
having some BP problems," the charge nurse said. "Real shocky. Dr.
Conway's here. Want to talk to him?"

           
"No. Don't bother him. Just
tell him I was asking about her." Gin hung up. Damn. That didn't sound
good.

 
          
She
called her folks next. Her mother answered and Gin told her the good news.

 
          
"Is
this what you want, Gin?" Mama said.

 
          
Why
did everybody ask her that?

 
          
"Yes,
Mama," she said patiently. "For the time being."

 
          
"Then
good. I'm happy for you. We'll expect you about six."

           
"Expect me where?"

           
"Here, of course. We'll
celebrate. We'll open some spumante, and I'll make you your favorites, stuffed
shells and three-cheese lasagna."

           
Gin's mouth began to water. But she
was so tired. And this was the stuff that had turned little
Regina
into big fat Pasta Panzella.

 
          
"I'm
really beat, Mama. I was up,"

           
"Gin, Gin, ' she said in that
voice that always got to her. "You haven't been here in so long. You live
a few minutes away and yet you never visit your family. Are you going to forget
your Mama and Papa?"

           
Gin repressed a sigh. "What
time again?"

           
"Your father will be home by
six. Get some sleep and we'll see you then." Gin collapsed on the bed and
let sleep take her.

FAMILY

           
GINA PULLED UP IN FRONT OF THE
FAMILY HOME IN Arlington and stared at its aged brick front. During the first
dozen years of her life it had been a two-story brick box sitting on a rise
along with all the other brick boxes in this little postwar development. She
remembered learning to ride a bike on that gently sloped driveway, watching the
cars go by from her bedroom window up there on the second floor, helping Papa
pull dandelions from the lawn every spring. Papa and his lawn, she thought,
looking at the flawlessly green, precisely manicured front yard. Still perfect.

 
          
As
Papa's butcher shop grew to an Italian specialty food store, and a little money
was left over to play with, they added a screened porch to the front, enlarged
the kitchen and master bedroom in the rear, and built on a deck. A nice, roomy,
comfortable house now. Thirty years her folks had lived here, and probably
intended to stay another thirty.

 
          
They
weren't exactly into change.

 
          
Gin
shook her head. Change? They were both born in
America
, her father was barely into his fifties
now, her mother just fifty last April, yet they were old-world Italian in so
many ways. Attitude-wise, they were barely into the twentieth century.

 
          
They'd
actually arranged a marriage for her when she was two. Thank God that hadn't
been mentioned in years. Apparently the fits both she and her intended had
pitched during their adolescence had caused both families to reconsider.

 
          
She
climbed the two steps to the front door and walked in without knocking. The
delicious odor of sauteing garlic enveloped her. God, she loved that smell.

 
          
Her
father sprang from his chair in front of the TV. He was only an inch taller
than Gin, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, his full head of black hair
was a little grayer every time she saw him, but he still had the vitality of a
twenty-year-old.

 
          
"Gin!"
He wrapped her in his bear arms and twirled her around. "How's my little
scswngzle?"

           
She hugged him around the neck and
kissed each cheek. "Fine, Papa."

       
    
He released her and held her at arm's
length. "So, being a doctor's not enough for you, eh? Now a politician
too?"

           
"I'm not,"

           
"Gin! " It was Mama,
wiping her hands on her apron as she trotted in from the kitchen. More hugs and
kisses.

 
          
It
was always this way. Gin came home for dinner and family affairs every two or
three weeks, but each time they acted as if she'd been away for a year. She
supposed an only child had to expect that.

 
          
Soon
the three of them were standing around in the kitchen, sipping spumante,
sneaking pieces of bread into Mama's sauce, laughing, reminiscing, talking
about the future.

 
          
So
good to be here. Times like this made her wish she visited more often. She
loved the warmth, the security. She'd be taken care of here. She didn't have to
prove anything here, she wouldn't be so tired all the time, she wouldn't have
to be running in four different directions trying to do too many things, trying
to learn where she fit, trying to make her life matter.

 
          
She
fit here. She mattered here.

 
          
And
she knew it was a velvet trap. As much as she loved her folks, she knew she'd
go crazy here. Despite all the hustle and running and stress of her life now,
she knew deep down she wouldn't want it any other way.

 
          
But
the main thing was that her folks still didn't quite get it. As proud as they
were of her, Gin knew they wondered when she was going to have time to give
them grandchildren, bambinos to bounce on their knees.

 
          
She
knew in the backs of their minds they felt their daughter would be better off
being married to a doctor than being one, a nice Italian doctor, of course.

 
          
They
knew something about Peter, but had no idea that they'd been living together.

 
          
Oh,
God. Peter. She should have called him and told him about her new job. She'd
have to do that first thing when she got home.

 
          
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.