F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (48 page)

 
          
Gin
allowed herself a tight, wry smile. She thought she was used to seeing blood.
Other people's blood. Not quite the same as seeing her own.

 
          
She
touched the wound edge and jerked her hand back. Exquisitely tender. Those
severed nerve ends were screaming. This was when she really could have used
some anesthetic.

 
          
Replacing
the washcloth between her teeth, she clamped down on it and groaned as she
separated the wound edges. The subcutaneous fat was blood-red instead of its
natural yellow. Gingerly she probed the fat with her pinky. A strange, curious,
slightly sickening sensation, this groping among her own fat cells. Painful,
but it wasn't the pain that was making her queasy. She'd never touched human
fat with her bare hands before. Like playing with greasy tapioca.

 
          
The
pain increased as she pressed deeper, searching for an opening, a depression, a
channel, any clue that would tell her what course the trocar had followed.

 
          
And
then her fingertip slipped a little deeper into one area of the fat. She
stiffened. Could that be it? She probed further, but gently, feeling the fat
give way easily before her. Yes. Something had been this way before. And
recently.

 
          
And
then her fingertip came to rest against something soft but firmer and smoother
than fat.

 
          
Gin
didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. At least she hadn't imagined
all this. There was an implant in her leg and only one man could have put it
there.

 
          
And
it had to come out. Now. And she had to remove it without breaking it. If she
ruptured it, or even caused a tiny leak, she'd have done
Duncan
's job for him.

 
          
Biting
down harder on the washcloth, Gin dug her finger deeper into the fat. Propelled
by pain, air hissed in and out of her nostrils as she worked to get around the
implant. Had to get behind it. Gently . . .

 
          
.
. . gently . . .

 
          
Gerry
slammed the phone down in the middle of Gin's instructions to leave a message
after the beep. He'd already left two on her machine.

 
          
Where
is she?

 
          
He
glanced at his watch again. What for, he didn't know.

 
          
Only
half a minute had passed since the last time he'd looked.

 
          
He
stretched his neck to relieve the growing lump of tension between his shoulder
blades. She should have been here by now. Visions of Gin wandering around the
District, dazed and confused, replayed in his mind.

 
          
Or
worse yet, huddled behind a Dumpster in some alley, hiding from imaginary
enemies.

 
          
Damn
it. He couldn't concentrate on anything. All he could think about was Gin. The
way she'd sounded . . . like her world was coming to an end.

 
          
Only
one thing to do. Go out and look for her.

 
          
He
picked up his car keys and called the switchboard. He left instructions that if
a Gin Panzella or a Dr. Panzella called, or anyone called about her, or if she
showed up in person, to put her through to his car phone.

 
          
On
the chance that she might be hiding in her apartment, afraid to pick up the
phone, refusing to answer the door, he grabbed the Electropick on his way out.
Just in case.

 
          
He
got his car out of the Bureau's underground lot and drove up
Pennsylvania
toward the White House, trying to backtrack
along the most logical route for her to follow from Adams Morgan. She'd have to
come down
Connecticut
, but after that it was anybody's guess.

 
          
He
worked his way up to
K Street
where he saw a couple of cops standing outside their unit at the top of
Farragut
Square
watching a sanit man sweep up some broken glass. He flashed his ID and
asked what had happened. The older of the pair, heavyset with a mustache,
leaned in the window. His breath reeked of old coffee.

 
          
"A
one-car M.V.A. Nobody hurt. Driver hopped out and took off. You can bet what
that means." Gerry nodded. "Hot."

 
          
"You
got it." Just so no stone was left unturned, Gerry said, "You
remember what make it was?

 
          
"The
cop shrugged. "Nh. It was already towed when we got here. They're running
the plates, though. Somebody you looking for?"

           
"Not likely. Just thought I'd
ask." As he drove away, he made a mental note of the location. If he
couldn't find Gin, he'd check with the locals later on the registration of that
car.

 
          
He
turned back and headed up
Connecticut
. Maybe the best place to start was Gin's apartment.

 
          
Gin
leaned, gasping, trembling, against the side wall of the tub alcove. When the
pain receded from excruciating to merely brutal, she opened her hand and looked
at the bloody little lump lying in her palm.

 
          
G
ha.

 
          
She
was safe. Even if
Duncan
bathe the entire hotel with ultrasound, he couldn't harm her. But she
wasn't out of the woods yet. She had a deep, wide gash in her leg that had to
be closed.

 
          
But
first, save the evidence.

 
          
She
reached over to the counter and grabbed the Coricidin bottle.

 
          
Carefully
she scraped the sticky implant off her palm with the lip of the bottle. She'd
already learned the hard way how much more fragile these things became once
they'd been implanted. The implant slid down the inside of the bottle, slowly,
like some sort of scarlet slug, and came to rest on the bottom. She capped the
bottle and returned her attention to the incision in her leg.

 
          
Bleeding
had slowed considerably. The blood oozing around the growing clot was thick,
almost syrupy. She reached for the sewing kit and began threading a needle. The
adrenaline tremor from the pain and stress caused her to miss on the first few
tries. She was beginning to fear that she'd never get it threaded, but finally
the tip slipped through the eye.

 
          
She
considered sterilizing the needle with the Cricket but discarded the idea. She
couldn't sterilize the thread that way, and the wound was already grossly
contaminated. She was covered for tetanus, but she had to get herself some
antibiotic, a broad-spectrum cephalosporin preferably, to fend off the
inevitable infection that would follow this egregiously unsterile little
surgical procedure.

 
          
By
way of compromise, she doused the needle and soaked the thread with hydrogen
peroxide. She laid that aside and replaced the washcloth in her mouth. Then she
expressed the clot from the wound and poured the peroxide directly into it. She
groaned into the cloth as pink foam erupted from the opening. She writhe from
the sharp, stinging agony of the nest of enraged hornets trapped inside her
thigh.

 
          
When
that passed, she wiped the sweat and tears from her eyes, pressed the wound
edges together, and began suturing. She started at the distal end, figuring it
would be easier to work her way up.

 
          
Gin
winced as she forced the needle through her skin. Painful, but nothing compared
to what she'd already put herself through. The needle was sharp enough, but it
was designed for fabric, not the toughness of human skin. And it was straight,
which made the job all the more difficult .

 
          
Forget
the lidocaine, she thought. I'll settle for a hemostat and a curved needle now.

 
          
A
few subcutaneous sutures and a vertical mattress repair would have been ideal,
but out of the question without gut and a curved needle.

 
          
She
had to settle for a simple, single loop.

 
          
She
tied the first suture carefully, afraid to pull too hard and break the thread.
She'd bought the heaviest she could find, but still this wasn't silk or nylon,
this was plain old thread. If this repair was going to hold, she'd have to
place the sutures close together, no more than an eighth of an inch apart.

 
          
She
finished the first knot and cut the free ends with the little scissors from the
kit. There. One done. Only fourteen or fifteen more to go.

 
          
Half
an hour later, she was done. She foamed the blood off her skin with peroxide
and examined her handiwork. Sixteen puckered sutures in a neat row. She blotted
it dry, smeared some bacitracin ointment over it, then covered it with gauze.
She held that in place with a few strips of adhesive tape, then wound the
six-inch Ace bandage around her thigh to make a pressure dressing. Then she
swung her legs out of the tub and stood up.

 
          
And
almost fell as black spots exploded in her vision and a diesel-engine roar
filled her head. She went down on one knee and clung to the vanity until the
room stopped swaying and spinning.

 
          
She
pressed her forehead against the cool marble and gathered her strength.

 
          
Weak.
She'd figured she'd be weak afterward, but not this bad. She reached for the
other little bag she'd picked up in CVS and pulled out a package of Snickers
bars. Good old Pasta had always suffered chocolate attacks in times of stress
and hadn't been able to resist all that Halloween candy. Gin was glad she'd
given in to her. She'd need some extra calories for healing, some glucose for
energy. Another thing she knew she needed was fluids. After wolfing down three
of the Snickers, she filled the glass by the sink with cold water and gulped it
down. She washed down four more Tylenols with a second glassful.

 
          
She
felt a little better, but no way ready for the road. She pushed herself to her
feet and, keeping a hand on the wall for support, made her way to the bed. She
turned off the TV as she passed.

 
          
She
yanked down the covers and gingerly, gently, eased herself between the cool
sheets. She shivered. Had to get some rest. She was safe now.

 
          
Just
a nap for an hour or so, then she'd call Gerry. She had the implant. She could
show him hard evidence now. He'd have to believe.

 
          
Every
one would believe.

 
          
After
she had some sleep . . .

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

           
GERRY WAS BEGINNING TO FEEL A
LITTLE FRANTIC.

 
          
He
couldn't help it. He'd been to Gin's apartment earlier. He hadn't been able to
find her car on the street. He got no response to his repeated knocks on the
door, so he'd used the Electropick to let himself in and found the place
deserted. No sign of a struggle, no note left, no indication that Gin hadn't
made a routine departure this morning fully expecting to return at her usual
time tonight.

 
          
He'd
even called Lathram's surgicenter. The receptionist had said Gin wasn't there
and wasn't expected in today. He thought he'd heard something in her voice, as
if she wanted to say more, but that could have been wishful thinking.

 
          
He'd
checked all eleven of the District's emergency rooms and even a few in northern
Virginia
and southern
Maryland
. No Gin Panzella or Jane Doe fitting her
description had come through. Same with all the local police departments. No
one named Panzella or anyone like her on the arrest records.

 
          
And
then he'd remembered the accident over by
Farragut Square
. He'd placed a call to the D. C. Police and
was hanging around his desk waiting for a call-back now. He didn't have much
hope of help from them, but he wasn't ignoring any possibility.

 
          
The
phone rang.

 
          
"Agent
Canney?" said a nasal voice. "We have the ID on the vehicle in that
one-car M.V.A you inquired about. Belongs to a Regina Panzella of Kalorama Road
here in the District."

 
          
"Damn!"
Gerry said. He should have checked this out hours ago. "And the report
says she left the scene of the accident?"

           
"Driver abandoned vehicle,
according to the report."

           
"Nothing else?"

 
          
"Witnesses
said she was female, dark hair, and was the sole occupant."

           
That fit Gin.

 
          
"Okay.
Thanks a lot."

 
          
"Any
time" So where was she? She'd cracked up her car and run away.

 
          
Where
to? It had rained most of the morning.

 
          
How
far could she go on foot in the rain?

 
          
Gerry
reached for his coat. Better go and inspect the scene. But another thought
occurred to him as he was leaving. He called down to the data center and told
them to research the credit sources for Regina Panzella. Find out what credit
cards she carried and see if she made any charges today, and where.

 
          
Who
knew? Maybe she rented a car. Or bought a motorcycle. Who could tell what she
was going to do next?

 
          
Gerry
left for
Farragut Square
. Without knowing Gin's credit card number
or even her card company, it would take a while. The information would be
waiting when he got back.

 
          
He
hoped he wouldn't need it.

* * *

 
          
Duncan
was exhausted, frustrated, angry, and not a
little afraid.

 
          
But
at least the rain had stopped.

 
          
That
was about the only good thing
Duncan
could say about the afternoon. He stood on
Seventeenth Street
, on the edge of
Farragut Square
, and eyed the pedestrians. So many more now
that it was getting late. Workers, released from their offices, were beginning
to crowd the sidewalks. He lifted his gaze to the square's eponymous statue.

 
          
Appropriately
enough, a seagull was squatting on its hat.

 
          
About
time to give it up. He'd patrolled the area for hours on foot and in his car,
ranging as far north as
Scott Circle
and as far south as the White House itself, and had found not a single
trace of Gin.

 
          
It
was fear that kept him from packing up and heading for home. Or for the hills.

 
          
What
if Gin had managed to convince her FBI boyfriend that she carried an implant in
her leg? And what if he'd been able to arrange its removal? The tables might
have been turned on him this afternoon while he was wandering around. His role
might already have changed from hunter to hunted.

 
          
He'd
better find out.

 
          
Duncan
glanced at his watch. Barbara still would
be in the officer. He pulled out his cellular phone and called in.

 
          
"Did
you find her?" were the first words out of Barbara's mouth.

 
          
"No
luck yet," he said. "Just checking in. No word from Gin, I take
it."

 
          
"Nothing,"
Barbara said. "Someone called for her, but,"

           
"Who?"

           
"That guy she's been seeing.
Gerry Canney."

           
Duncan
stiffened. The FBI man? That didn't bode
well.

 
          
"When
did he call?"

    
       
"Late this morning. He was looking
for her."

           
"You remembered what I told
you, didn't you?"

           
"Yes. I just said she wasn't
here and wasn't expected in."

 
          
"Excellent.
We need to protect Gin until we can find out what's wrong with her and get her
some help."

           
"I know. It's just that he
sounded worried."

 
          
"We're
all worried, Barbara." Especially me. "Any calls for me?"

           
"A couple of people looking
for appointments. Mr. Covington called to complain about your canceling all
surgery this morning. He said his wife was hysterical."

           
"She's had that nose for
almost fifty years, she'll survive another week with it. No others? No
visitors?"

           
"No. It's been pretty
quiet." That was a relief. No calls or visits from any law enforcement
agencies looking for Dr. Lathram. A good indication that Gin had yet to
convince anyone.

 
          
Maybe
there was still time

 
          
Time
for what? He couldn't see much use in patrolling this area any longer. He had
to face it, Gin was gone. She'd hopped a cab, or sneaked into the Metro, or
simply walked away. She could be in
Virginia
or
Maryland
by now. Or down at the FBI Building. If she
was still around here he would have seen her.

 
          
He
reached into his pocket for the car keys and found the pager-transducer.
Conflicting emotions swirled within him. If Gin walked past right now he'd use
it on her, without hesitation, not out of malice but out of the most basic
drive of all, self-preservation.

 
          
And
yet . . . some small part of him was almost glad that she had eluded him.

 
          
He
found his keys. Time to go. But where? Home to sit and wait for the ax to fall?
Even if no one came to put the cuffs on him, his plans for the president
tomorrow would have to be changed. He would simply do the surgery and forget
about the implant. He would destroy the TPD, and then it would be Gin's word
against his.

 
          
Except
for that implant in her leg.

 
          
Damn,
damn, damn! His options were becoming narrower with each passing hour.

 
          
As
Duncan
turned to head for his car, he saw a
monotone sedan pass and pull into the curb a few dozen feet from him, stopping
directly under a no-parking sign. A warning alarm rang in his brain, so he
turned and crossed Seventeenth, keeping his face averred until he reached the
other side. As he mingled with the thickening rush-hour crowd there, he glanced
over his shoulder and saw a young, fair-haired man standing on the sidewalk,
surveying the square. He seemed to be looking for someone.

 
          
Terror
slammed
Duncan
from behind but he resisted the urge to
run. He had seen him before, with Gin at the Guidelines committee hearing.

 
          
Canney
the FBI agent.

 
          
Is
he looking for me?

 
          
Keep
calm,
Duncan
told himself. How could he be? He drove
right past me. And besides, why, of all the possible places in the District,
would he look for me here?

 
          
He
had to be looking for someone else.

 
          
For
Gin.

 
          
Excitement
surged through
Duncan
as he stepped back into a doorway and continued to watch Agent Canney.

 
          
I'm
still safe, he thought. If the FBI doesn't know Gin's whereabouts, then no one
does, at least no one who matters.

 
          
He
watched Canney walk across the grass and among the shrubs and benches of
Farragut Square
, watched him search the entire perimeter,
pausing where Gin's car had hit the curb. His movements were quick, efficient,
but
Duncan
detected an underlying anxiety and
uncertainty.

 
          
Duncan
could have told him, You're wasting your
time.

 
          
He
watched Canney canvas the area, then get into his car and leave.

 
          
And
with the agent's departure
Duncan
suddenly found himself refreshed, invigorated. He wasn't going home.
Not just yet.

 
          
He'd
hang around a little longer. At least until dark.

 
          
Gin
awoke in pain and confusion. She'd rolled over onto her right side and felt as
if something were taking a bite out of her thigh.

 
          
She
was hot, wet, bathe in sweat. Her bra and panties were glued to her skin. She
threw off the covers. Dark . . . where?

 
          
A
few blinks and she recognized the hotel room. It all came back to her. Sitting
on the tub, cutting into herself . . .

 
          
She
sat up and experienced only an instant of light headedness. No question, the
rest had done her good, but how long had she been out?

 
          
She
turned the clock radio toward her.
5:05
.