implant
by
F. Paul Willson

Welcome to Federal World.

She cut diagonally across to her left, weaving between suited federal
employees and T-shirted tourists, and came out on First Street. She
comulted her hand-drawn mapþshe'd been to the Capitol area many times
as a child, but never to a Senate office building. Up ahead the white
blocks of the Russell Building sat to the right, the Dirksen Building
to the left. She hurried past the Dirksen's shrub and flower-lined
parking lot labeled "Federal Employees Only"þhopefully she'd have a
spot there soonþand up to Constitution, then left past the Dirksen and
a scruffy clutch of helmeted bike messengers lounging on the sidewalk,
waiting for a call on the walkie-talkies protruding from their vests.

Her destination was the adjoining block of white marble, the Hart
Building.

In the white marble lobby she gave her name to the uniformed security
guard and signed in. She was directed to place her bag on a conveyor
belt. As it was swallowed by the X-ray box, Gin stepped through the
metal detector. Just like an airport.

More white marble beyond the guardsþthe whole building seemed to be
made of it. A short walk down a corridor lined with potted trees and
she came to the Hart's huge central atrium.

She stopped, struck by the sheer mass of the enormous black steel
sculpture that dominated the space. A series of jagged black peaks,
stark against the white of their surroundings, thrust upward, reaching
for the sunlight streaming through the ceiling beyond. Between the
skylight and the peaks floated a gargantuan mobile of equally black
disks.

Black mountains and black clouds in a white room. Arresting. But the
tension coiled inside prevented her from fully appreciating it. Had to
move, keep going, get upstairs to Senator Marsden's office.

As she passed through the atrium she noticed a man staring at her. In
his gray suit he could have been any one of the thousands of Senate
aides who worked on the Hill. He was good-looking, though, thirtyish,
fair, tall, close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw. But why
was he staring at her like that? She wasn't dressed in any way to make
her stand out from any of the other women passing through the atrium.

Nothing special about her sedate, navy pinstripe suitþjust a
knee-length skirt and a short fitted jacket. So why was he ogling her
like she was wearing a micromini and a halter top?

It made her uncomfortable. She was glad when she found the bank of
elevators. She turned a corner and put some of that white marble
between them.

The elevator on the end was marked "Senators Only." Gin rode one of
the brightly lit peon cars to the seventh floor and began to look for
Senator Marsden's office.

The oEhces occupied the perimeter of the Hart Building, the
hallwayþactually a ramp that ran around the inner wallsþoverlooked the
atrium and the sculpture. She noticed a gray, powdery coating on the
upper surfaces of the mobile. The clouds needed a good dusting.

Down on the floor she noticed someone standing in the center of the
atrium, becalmed while everyone else flowed around him. That same man,
the one in the gray suit, was staring up at her.

What's year problem, mister?

She looked away and walked on. Quickly. She found 752 at the far end
of the hall. A simple black nameplate on the oak door said Sen. H.

Marsden.

Vertical blinds blocked her view through the full-length windows that
flanked the entrance. She reached for the door, then hesitated.

This is ridiculous, she thought, blotting her moist palms on her
skirt.

I've been through premed, med school, internal medicine residency, I've
brought people back from the dead, I've been up to my elbows in blood
and guts, and here I am nervous as a sixth grader outside the
principal's office.

She grabbed the handle and stepped into the front office.

I know her.

Gerald Canney continued to stare up at the seventh-floor walkway where
that attractive brunette had disappeared from view.

But from where?

He prided himself on his ability to remember faces and match them with
names. Part of it seemed to come naturally, part from his training at
the FBAcademy in Quantico. Special agents had to spot faces through
extra hair, dark glasses, any sort of disguise.

Only with this gal, no disguise. Her face had been there right in
front of him, all but daring him to recognize her. Why couldn't he?
Could she be in some way connected to the case? The late, great
Senator Richard A. Schulz used to have an office in Hartþstill did, in
a way, until his successor was named. Gerry had just been up there,
sifting through the senator's files.

He sighed. The Schulz case was something of an embarrassment to the
Bureau. They'd been tipped that the good senator was laundering
honoraria, since Gerry was attached to the public corruption unit, he'd
been assigned to the team looking into it.

Schulz was suspected of various other dealings of questionable
legality. The corruption team was tightening the noose when he dropped
to his death from his apartment balcony.

Did he fall or did he jump? The Bureau did not know. They were
reasonably sure that he was alone in the apartment when he went over
the balcony rail.

How could he fall? The railing was four feet high. He'd have had to
climb onto it to fall, and there was no logical reason for him to
climbþno plants to water, no hanging decorations that needed
attention.

That left a jump. Had he heard about the investigation and decided he
couldn't stand the heat? Not likely. Gerry had interviewed both his
current mistressesþneither of whom knew about the other. One was
listed on his office payroll as an "assistant" for forty-one thousand
dollars a year. No one on his staff knew what she looked like, she'd
never been to the office.

The other was a lobbyist for an electronics trade association. Many
members of Congress could be accused of being in bedþfigurativelyþwith
certain political interests, Schulz apparently took the phrase
literally. Neither woman said she'd noticed the slightest sign of
stress or apprehension in the senator at any time before he died. Even
his physical therapist, who gave him an ultrasound treatment on his
back only an hour before his death, said he seemed to be in excellent
spirits.

So what had happened to Senator Schulz?

Gerry didn't know. Which was why he'd been at Schulz's officer this
morning. That officer was right down the same hall the mystery girl
had been traveling a moment ago. And Schulz had been quite a
womanizer, a legendary womanizer in . . .

this TIME

A third mistress?
No. Gerry didn't think that was it. Schulz's office had been sealed
since his death. No point in anyone going there. She couldn't get
in.

But this gal didn't work here. Gerry could tell by the uncertain way
she'd walked through the atrium, gawking at the sculpture, looking for
the elevators, this was her first time in the Hart Building.

So who was she?

Easy enough to find out. Just go over to the visitors log by the
Constitution entrance and check out the names. But that would be
cheating.

Hey, I'm a trained special agent, he told himself. I can solve The
Mystery of the Strangely Familiar Foxy Brunette without stooping to
checking the visitors log.

So FBI special agent Gerald Canney stood in the center of the atrium
and flipped through his mental files. After five minutes he walked
over to the visitors gate and showed the guards his ID.

'"I'd like to see this morning's visitor sheet." The woman slid a
clipboard across the table. Gerry scanned through the names, picking
out the female ones. If he saw it, he'd know it. No doubt. It would
click.

He slid past one and jumped back to it.

Regzna Panzella.

Regina Panzella . . . why did that ring a bell? Panzella sounded
familiar, but not with that first name. Not Regina . . . not Gin .

. .

What went with Panzella?

Pasta.

Oh, Christ! Pasta Panzella. It couldn't be. Absolutely no way Pasta
had been . . . well . . . fat. That was how she got the name. A
real chubette. This gal was anything but fat.

And yet . . .

Something about her face . . . slim down the rounded cheeks he
remembered, do something with Pasta's wild tangle of hair, and it could
be. It had been ten years or more since he'd last seen her, but yes,
it could damn well be Pasta.

Gerry glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be back at the office
soon to meet with Ketter on the Schulz case, but they hadn't set a
definite time for the meeting. Maybe he'd hang around here for a while
and see if he could get another look.

Pasta Panzella . . . it was almost too much to believe.

'"Okay, " said Joe Blair, Senator Marsden's chief of staff. "Enough
about the officer. Let's talk about you." Really? Gin thought.

You're finally going to stop talking about yourself and actually
interview me? Can you stand it?

Blair was about her age, with thinning brown hair, brown eyes, pale
skin, and a wispy mustache. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt, a
nondescript tie, and dark blue slacks. He looked too young to be a
U.S. senator's chief of staff, but from the stories he'd been telling
herþall starring a certain Joseph Biairþhe'd been on the Hill for the
entire eight years since his graduation from Cornell with a poli-sci
degree. This was the third senator he'd worked for, and to hear Joe
tell it, he'd written more legislation than any of the members he'd
staffed for.

What a guy. Reminded her of some of the orthopedic residents in
Tulane.

Gin had been under the impression that she was going to be interviewed
by Senator Marsden himself.

"The senator is on the floor, " Joe Blair had told her.

Gin had looked around. "I don't understand." '"That means he's in the
Senate, " Blair said with a condescending smile. "On the floor of the
Senate."

"I see." She did her best to hide her disappointment.

"Besides, the senator doesn't do the hiring and firing. I do.

Oh, great. Her disappointment was swept away by a wave of
apprehension.

She had the distinct impression that Blair didn't like her.

Blair gave her a quick tour of the office. She'd already seen the
small front section with its two receptionistsþone male, one femaleþand
its antiseptic, dentist's waiting-room ambience. The rear space was
much larger and sloppier, looking like a real working office with
modular work spaces, cluttered desks, sagging bookshelves, glaring
computer monitors, empty coffee cups, papers and folders Lying on every
available horizontal surface. And phones. Phones everywhere, each
bearing a little U. S. Senate seal.

The staff occupied two floors that communicated via a central
stairway.

The two-tiered space offered more room than most senators had, but
Marsden represented one of the larger states, and she knew
"appropriation by population" was religious dogma on the Hill.

The second floor was pretty much like the first except for a small
lounge and the computer room that housed the central processor for the
office's LAN. The striking feature of the second floor was the mail
room with its binsþmany binsþ of letters. Blair told her anywhere from
ten to fifteen thousand pieces of mail were sorted, filed, and answered
on a weekly basis by the staffs legislative correspondents.

Blair decided to interview her in the senator's office. Gin was
surprised at the Spartan decor. She'd expected heavy oak paneling,
plush carpeting, indirect lighting, a big leather chair, a huge
impressive desk sporting a U. S. Senate seal and flanked by state and
national flagsþthe works. Apparently Marsden wasn't impressed by the
trappings of his office. The desk and its straight-back chair were of
some nondescript wood, looking plain and slightly battered in the late
morning sunlight that poured through the high windows. Files were
stacked on the desk and floor. A few plaques and diplomas adorned the
walls along with pictures of his family. A single bookcase was
overflowing. A miniature basketball hoop was set up over the
wastepaper basket.

Gin had a pretty good idea right then that she was going to like
Senator Marsden.

But first she had to get past his chief of staff.

She and Blair settled themselves on opposite sides of the coffee table
in the sitting area of the office. Blair spent another ten minutes or
so talking about his prowess in helping guide the senator's bills
through the many pitfalls of the legislative process, his gaze all the
while drifting between her legs and her breasts. Gin drew the skirt
hem closer to her knees.

She had decent legs and wore a 54-C bra. What else did he want to
know?
Maybe she should have worn a pantsuit.

 Finally he began shuffling through her resume.

"Very impressive, ' he said, "but I don't see anything here about party
affiliation."

"I'm an independent, " Gin said.

He glanced up at her as if she'd burped, then cleared his throat.

"Party affiliation is very important. We have to know whom we can
trust."

"If I'm on your staff, you can trust me. If you want a straight
answer, I'll give it to you. If I don't know an answer, I'll find
out." He stared at her. "I don't know . . . the senator was
impressed that a practicing physician, especially a young one, would
apply for a position as a legislative assistant on the Guidelines
bill.

Tell me, What do you think you can bring to the committee that we don't
already have? " Finally, here was the question Gin had been waiting
for.

"I can bring a lot of things. First offþ'' "You know the history of
the committee, don't you? ' he said. Gin did, but that wasn't going
to stop Blair "Well, back when you were still in training, before a
national healthcare program and universal coverage became hot topics,
Senator McCready, a ranking member of the Committee on Labor and Human
Resources, introduced his Medical Practice Guidelines Bill in the
Senate at about the same time Congressman Allard introduced a very
similar bill in the House. In a rare show of cooperation a joint
committee was formed. Senator McCready chaired the hearings but died
before the bill could be sent to the floor of either house. With one
of its chief sponsors gone, the bill died in committee." Gin nodded.

"But earlier this year the president stepped in.

Yes He persofally asked Senator Marsden to revive the McCready
committee. But he wanted the legislation to include not only practice
guidelines, but mandates on medical ethics as well. ' "And that's why
you need me, " Gin said, rushing in before Blair could drone on further
with his recitation. "I'm a board-eligible internist who came through
the medicine and public policy residency at Tulane. I'm a fully
trained physician who's well versed in public health issues.

You're going to be collecting reams of testimony, much of it
conflicting. You'll need someone like me to sift through it and
septate the wheat from the chaff. If Senator Marsdenþ" "Quite frankly,
I don't share the senator's enthusiasm for having a doctor on board, "
Blair said, staring at her. "I think it could cause too much
confusion, maybe even dissension. So, what can you say or do that will
change my mind? " Gin's skin crawled at the way he looked at her when
he said that. She decided to ignore it.

"I think you need all points of view to draw up a well balanced plan. I
can provide the senator with a valuable perspective, one he's not
seeing now, one he has little access to. The best generals always keep
abreast of the conditions in the trenches. I can offerþ" Blair glanced
at his watch. "Look at the TIME We've already carried this over the
limit I'd set for it." He closed her file and stood up.

"Well, thank you, Dr. Panzella" He walked to the door and opened it
for her. "I'll discuss your application with the senator. We'll be in
touch if he decides to hire you." His expression was perfectly flat,
his eyes empty. "Can you find your way out? " "Of course, " Gin said,
forcing a smile.

Her heart sank as the message came through loud and clean Don't call
us, we'll call you.

Gin let the smile fade as she wound past the cubicles and out through
the reception area. What a nightmare of an interview. She couldn't
imagine how it could have gone worse. What was Blair's problem? Was
he threatened by her? Or was he looking for something from her? What
can you say or do that will change my mind? What was that all about?

What had he expected her to do, lift her skirt?

She felt her jaw muscles bunch in anger. A little man with a little
power equaled a big problem. Was this the way it was going to be?

She had the elevator down all to herself. She leaned against a side
wall and fought the disappointment. Okay, so she probably wasn't going
to get on the chairman's staff. She'd been prepared for thatþnot for a
screw up like this, but for the real possibility that the senator
wouldn't think he'd need her. There were six other membersþno, check
that, Congressman Lane had died in that car accident a while back. So
at the moment there were five other legislators who were members of the
Guidelines committee. As the ranking House member, Congressman Allard
was the next obvious choice. Gin had set up a fail-safe appointment
with him on Wednesday morning. Looked like she'd be keeping it.

She left the elevator and rounded the corner into the atrium. That was
when she heard a man's voice from her left.

"Excuse me, but does the word Pasta' hold any special significance for
you? " She froze. It was a name she hadn't heard since high school.
A name she'd never wanted to hear again.

Gin turned. Him again. Or still. The blond guy in the suit. She now
saw some fine linear scars across his forehead and down his right cheek
that she hadn't noticed before. He was edging closer, staring at her
face like the kids in pediatrics stared at "Where's Waldo" puzzles.

What was his problem?

But then she was struck by something familiar about him. If she
imagined his hair four or five inches longer . . .

He stuck out his hand. "My God, it's really you. I don't know if you
remember me from high school, but I'mþ" The name leapt into her mind.

"Gerry! " She grasped his hand. "Gerry Canney! " "Right! I'm
flattered you remember." Remember? How could she forget? Co-captain
and quarterback for the football team, captain of the swim team, and an
honor student to boot.

She'd had a monstrous crush on Gerry Canney all through Washington-Lee
High in Arlington. She  remembered positioning herself in the hall
outside social studies after third period every day just to watch him
stroll by. The scars on his face had wrought subtle changes on his
looks, but he was still gorgeous.

"Yox're flattered I remember you? " she said. "I'm flabbergasted you
remember me." He grinned. "I've got a great memory for faces. And
who could forget a girl with a name like Pasta." He'd said it again.

She'd have to nip this in the bud.

"It's Gin, Gerry. Gin." He blinked. "Got you. I don't think I ever
knew your real first name. Gin it is. But I barely recognized you.

You look great." He winced and waved his hands in the space between
them, as if trying to erase The words. "Wait. That didn't come out
right. I didn't meanþ" "It's okay, " she laughed, placing a hand on
his sleeve. "I understand. I'm not half the girl I used to be. And
you . . . last time I saw you, you had huge sideburns and hair over
your ears. ' He rubbed his clean-shaven cheeks. "Yeah. The
seventi.

Can you believe how we dressed back then? But tell me, What've you
been doing with yourself? " "I just finished an internal medicine
residency."

"You're a doctor? That's great! " He glanced at his watch. "Look,
I've been waiting down here to meet you since you walked in. I mean, I
just had to see if it was really you. But now I'm late for a meeting
and I've got to run. But let's get together soon."

"That'd be nice."

"How about tomorrow night? Are you free?

} She sensed he was asking about more than just TIME

"Tomorrow? No, I'm moonlighting Tuesday night." She started a
twelve-hour shift at Lynnbrook at eight.

"Wednesday night? " '"Sorry. Moonlighting again." But she didn't
want to turn him down flat. "Maybe we could get together for an early
bite before I go on duty. Or wait till Friday." '"Friday's a long way
off. An early bite it will be. Anyplace special you'd like to go?

" "You schoose."

"Okay. I will." He pulled a small leather folder from his pocket and
gave her two cards along with a pen. "Give me your number and I'll
call when I think of an appropriate place." She wrote down her number
and handed back the cards. He returned the bottom card to her.

"That one's for you. Call me any time you witness a federal crime. "
He waved and moved off. "I'll call you tonight or tomorrow." And then
he was hurrying through the glistening marble whiteness toward the
exit. Gin glanced at his card, Gerald Canney, Special Agent, Federal
Bgreav of Investigation.

She smiled. Gerry was an FBI man? Amazing. She'd always imagined him
going into business. Who'd have ever thought? And now the former
major heartthrob of Washington-Lee High wanted to take her out. Who'd
ever believe that?

She just hoped they didn't wind up at a pasta place. That wouldn't be
funny.

Pasta . . . when had she picked up that name? Freshman year?

Somewhere around the time her hormones had begun to flow. Overnight
she'd seemed to balloon. It was horrible.

She couldn't squeeze into her clothes. Her breasts were growing, which
was fine, but so were her thighs and hips and waistline. She hadn't
changed her eating habits but her body seemed to have stopped burning
off the calories she'd once been able to pack away. She'd gone from
slightly above average to obese in less than a year. She'd wanted to
die.

Her father couldn't see a problemþ"There's more of you to love! " was
definitely not a solution to her misery. Mama understood, and together
they started a diet, but already it was too late. The school comedians
couldn't resist "Pasta" Panzella.

She changed internally as well, becoming moody and reclusive. Looking
back now, from the far side of a medical education, Gin realized Pasta
had sunk into a clinical depression. She'd tell people she didn't care
about her weight or what anybody called her, and to prove it, she'd b inge. Especially on lonely weekend nights. Primarily on chocolate.

Pasta loved chocolate. Chocolate cake, chocolate donuts, Hershey's
with almonds, and Snickers. God, she loved Snickers. And bingeing
only made her fatter, which made her even more depressed.

Pasta missed the junior and senior proms, and lots of other high-school
activities in her self-imposed exile. The only bright spots in those
dark days had been her novels and her part-time job in Dr. Lathram's
office. Her grades began to slip but not enough to keep her out of the
Ivy League.

The summer before going off to college she realized that she had a
chance to start all over again. The kids in Princeton had never heard
her called Pasta. She vowed that none of them ever would. She began a
strict dietþno bulimia, no starvation, no trading one problem for
another, just low fat and calorie restriction, plus a grueling exercise
program. She remembered the constant hunger, the burning lungs, the
aching legs as she forced her body to jog one more mile . . .

just one more. By the time she registered at Princeton she was proud
to be merely overweight. According to her charts, her weight hit the
fiftieth percentile for her age, height, and sex during sophomore year,
as a junior she overshot and got too thin, so she backed off. When she
graduated she was the person she wanted to be, She had her BS in
biology, was on her way to U. of P. med school, and she liked what she
saw in the mirror.

She'd maintained that weight through four years of med school and three
years of residency. Pasta Panzella was gone.

Well, almost gone. The ghost of Pasta still haunted her, and every so
often she'd propel Gin to the chocolate section of a candy store, and
Gin would give in and let Pasta have a Snickers. But only once in a
while, and only one.

And now Gerry Canney was asking her out. Strange how things come full
circle.

She frowned. Hadn't she heard somewhere along the line that Gerry was
married?
She wanted to get to know Gerryþshe certainly hadn't known him well in
high schoolþbut she wasn't into games.

Pasta Panzella had been a vulnerable adolescent.

Gin Panzella, MD, was anything but.

'"Sorry I'm late, " Gerry said as he burst into Marvin Ketter's cramped
officer on the EYE Street side of the Bureau building. He was puffing a
little and he'd broken a sweat on the rush up from the parking
garage.

"Took me a little longer than I planned.

Which was true. It had taken Pastaþno. . . Ginaþa long time to finish
her business in the Hart Building. And all the way back here his mind
had been on her instead of Senator Schulz. God, she was beautiful
now.

The metamorphosis from Pasta to Gin fascinated him. Reminded him of
the time as a kid he'd left a caterpillar in a dry aquarium and
returned after a weekend away to find a graceful butterfly fluttering
against the glass. He'd let it fly around his room, watching it in awe
for hours before opening the screen to let it glide out the window.

"Well, you've had all mornin' to scratch, ' Ketter said. "Find any
worms? " Marvin Ketter had ten years on Gerry. His dark curly hair
was just starting to gray at the temples and he wore it very very
short. His eyebrows were his outstanding featureþenormous, bushy,
Groucho-league tangles that were longer and thicker than the hair on
his head. Give him a wide black mustache and a cigar and he could join
Harpo and Chico without a hitch. Until he opened his mouth. Groucho
didn't have a Georgia accent.

Ketter was SSAþsupervising special agent. One notch above Gerry.

Gerry wanted his job. He didn't want to kick him out or make him look
badþhe liked Ketterþbut when Ketter moved up, Gerry wanted to move into
his chair. Not simply as a career move or because he'd been a field
agent long enough, there were other, more important reasons.

"Found a few goodies, but I don't know if they mean anything. And the
more I learn about our boy, the less I like him. I mean, there didn't
seem to be anything too small for this guy to steal."

"Plenty like him down here."

"So I'm beginning to see. Hell, I used to think I had few illusions
about what really goes on up there on the Hill, but I'm beginning to
think I've been a Pollyanna." He'd learned more than he wanted to know
about Washington's honoraria industry.

Years ago the Senate had voted to cap the amount of honoraria each
member could collect in a year. This did not deter senators from
accepting "speaking engagements, " however. They continued to be flown
to plush resorts, put up in lavish suites, wined and dined for days
before and after their 'speech"þusually a few after-dinner remarks to
the corporate sales conference attendeesþand then flown back to
Washington loaded down with gifts. The thousand-dollar honorarium for
speaking? That was donatedþvery visiblyþ to a charity.

The all-expense-paid vacation and gifts were enough of a haul for most
of the legislators, but not enough for Senator Schulz. He accepted
every speaking invitation that came along, demanded high honoraria, but
graciously donated every dime to a church in his hometown where his
uncle was minister. Gerry's investigation had uncovered evidence that
the minister was keeping only a quarter of the donations for the church
and funneling the rest back to Schulz.

But then Gerry had come across a connection between Schultz and
Representative Hugo Lane. Both were cozy with one of the Japanese auto
lobbies. A Japanese auto corporation had bought an $800, 000 condo in
Palm Beach. It was registered in the company's name, but its use was
reserved exclusively for Schulz and Lane. Whenever they wanted some
fun in the Florida sun, it was theirs. They simply had to work it out
between themselves so they wouldn't arrive at the same TIME

Congressman Lane had died in a car crashþran it into a deep ravine in
Rock Creek Parkþtwo weeks before Schulz's death.

A connection? Maybe. Gerry was looking into that. So far he'd come
up with zilch, but he was still looking.

"One interesting note, " he said to Ketter. "I came across a fat
canceled check for plastic surgery."

"Let me guess, drawn on his reelection campaign funds. ' Of course.

"So what's the point? " "Well, seems to me people who've looking to
end it all don't drop a bundle on cosmetic surgery. Sounds more like
someone who's looking toward the future.

'"Possibly. Or someone who's unhappy with himself, tries plastic
surgery to improve his looks, finds out it doesn't make him feel the
least bit better, so he dives for the dirt."

"Spoilsport, " Gerry muttered.

"Leave the second-guessing to the shrinks. Got anything concrete? "
"Yes. An odd little correlation popped out of the database. What if I
told you that both Lane and Schulz had plastic surgery this summer? "
Ketter shrugged. So? ' '"And what if I told you they both used the
same surgeon? " "Same response. These Old Boys go to the same
dentist, the same chiropractor, eat at the same restaurants, have the
same personal trainer, sometimes the same mistresses. So why not use
the same plastic surgeon? Who's the doc? " "Duncan Lathram." Ketter
stared at him a moment. "Well now, " he drawled. "Seems I've heard
that name before. And I do believe I heard it from you. Or am I
wrong? " "No, you're right."

"Seems to me you had yourself a bit of a hard-on for this Doc Lathram a
while back." '"We had a disagreement. That's all. ' More than a
disagreement, actually.

Duncan Lathram had flat out refused to operate on Gerry's face after
the car accident. It had been a very bad time for Gerry. The worst.

And Lathram's brush-off had almost put him over the edge. He still
smarted from the sting of that rejection.

"You seemed pretty heated up at the time, if I remember." '"Look.

The computer spit out the correlation on its own. I didn't go looking
for it. But you've got to admit it seems a little strange that a
congressman and a senator both die a month or so after plastic surgery
performed by the same doctor."

"One in a car accident, the other in a fall. I don't exactly see a
trend here."

"Neither do I. Just mentioning it as a curiosity. ' "Fine. So
basically we've got no evidence of foul play in the Schulz death. '
"None."

"Okay. Then let's fold up that tent and move on without muddying the
water with plastic surgeons."

"Will do." . .

But Gerry's interest was piqued. It might be nothingþ doubtless was
nothingþbut he'd keep an eye out for any other Lathram patients who
wound up in the morgue.

Just for the sheer hell of it.

SURGERY DR. PANZELLA? " Gin sat before a computer terminal,
completing a pre-op physical, summarizing her evaluation of a patient's
cardiopulmonary status and suitability for surgery. At least that was
what she was supposed to be doing. Actually she was staring at the
screen ruminating about yesterday's disaster at Marsden's office and
that officious littleþ Don't think about it.

She looked up. A young black woman, dressed in surgical scrubs and
cap, had poked her head and upper body through the door of the record
room and was looking at her expectantly.

'"He's ready to scrub, " said Joanna, the surgicenter's OR nurse.

"Be right there, " Gin said.

She hit F10 to save the H and P, jotted down the file name so she could
finish it later, and headed upstairs for the operating suite. Even on
a V.I.P morning, with only one very important patient, Duncan Lathram
did not like to be kept waiting. She hustled.

Not that she had that far to go. Lathram Surgical Associates sounded
like a multicenter medical group, but actually it was one surgeon at
one location in Chevy Chase. That location was an old single-story
stone building, somewhat Gothic looking, that had once been a bank.

Duncan Lathram and his brother Oliver, also a doctor, but a PhD in
pharmacology, had maintained the old facade while completely gutting
and refitting the interior into a state-of-the-art prlyate
surgicenter.

The main floor offered a two-room operating suite, a large recovery
room with six cubicles, a private V.I.P recovery room, an
examination/consultation room, and Duncan's office. The records room,
lounge, and Oliver's lab took up the basement.

Gin rushed into the scrub room, shucked her white coat, tucked her
unruly black hair under a disposable cap, and joined Duncan at the
sink.

His forearms were already coated with tan lather.

"Morning, Duncan." Since her first day here he'd insisted that since
she was now a full-fledged physician, she must call him by his first
nameþ"Call me Doctor Lathram' once more and you're fired." But she had
to make a conscious effort to say Duncan. He'd been her hero since she
was ten.

He grunted and nodded absently as he continued working the Betadine
into his skin with the disposable brush.

Hmmm. Preoccupied this morning.

Gin watched him out of the corner of her eye as she adjusted the water
temperature with the foot controls and began her own scrub. Assisting
Duncan Lathram at surgeryþstill hard to believe it was true. Simply
being alongside him like this never failed to give her a warm tingle.

She'd been working with him for months now and still marveled at how
good he looked for a man of sixty-two. Neat as the proverbial pin,
with dark, glossy, perfectly combed hair graying at the temples,
piercing blue eyes over a generous nose set in a longish, rugged face
that creased deeply when he smiled, which wasn't all that often. Six
feet, maybe six-one, with a weathered Gary Cooper-Randolph Scott look,
more like a saddle hand than a plastic surgeon. Long, lean, and close
to the bone, a rack of baby-back ribs.

The image made her smile and took her back to her childhood when she
worked in the family's Italian deli and meat market. Her dad made a
practice thenþstill did, no doubtþof labeling certain customers with
the names of cuts of meat or one of his Italian specialty dishes. Mrs.
Fusco, who always had to touch everything, was a calatnan, potbellied
Mr. Prizzi was a pork loin, Mrs. Bellini, who'd always leave her
shopping list home and could never remember what she needed, was
capozella, and once when he'd thought she was in the front of the
store, Gin had heard Dad ask one of the butchers if he'd got a load of
the cannolis on Mrs. Phillips.

Little Gin adopted the practice and began categorizing the kids she
knew by cuts of meat. Duncan Lathram was definitely a rack of
baby-backs.

But Duncan's hands didn't quite go with the rest of himþlong, delicate,
agile fingers that could perform miracles, do medical origami with
human tissues.

She felt awkward even thinking it, but the old guy was sexy.

Listen to me, she thought. He's older than my dad.

But no getting around it, Duncan Lathram was an attractive man. Not
that she felt any libidinous tugs toward him. God, no. But from a
purely esthetic standpoint, he was pretty hot for an old dude.

Must be our history, she thought. We go back a long way. And I've got
the scars to prove it.

The big guy was quiet today. Duncan almost always had something to
talk about. A news junkie. Read all the District papers, plus the
Baltimore San and the northern Virginia rags. Had them strewn all over
his office every morning. Never missed MacNeil/Lehrer and Meet the
Press.

And never failed to find something to tick him off.

Duncan had his Permanently-Ticks-Me-Off list and his Ticks-MeOff-Today
list. Always had something to talk about.

But not today.

The silence was starting to get to Gin.

"Hear about Senator Schulz? " she said.

She thought he seemed to stiffen at the name.

"Schulz? " Duncan's voice was smooth, deeply melodic. "What about
him? " "According to the TV there's rumors that his cause of death is
being investigated." Duncan began to rinse the honey-colored foam from
his arms and hands.

"The scuttlebutt on Schulz is that he jumped. And with reason. He
wasþplease excuse the demotic crookeder than most, and his scams were
unraveling." Duncan shook his head sadly. "Twenty stories straight
down, flat on his face." He sighed. "All that exceptional plastic
work, all those hours of toil, wasted."

"Duncan!"

"Well, it's true. If I'd known defenestration was in his future, I
wouldn't have taken such pains with him." Gin thought she was used to
his dark sense of humor, so often skating along the line between
mordant and sick. But sometimes he did veer over the line.

He pressed his elbow against a chrome disk in the wall and the OR doors
swung open. "Hurry up. Another of the kakistocracy's finest awaits
us." Gin glanced at the clock. Another minute to go with her scrub.

She felt a warm flush as she remembered yesterday's chance encounter
with Gerry Canney, and wondered if he'd call. Not the end of the world
if he didn't, but it would certainly be nice. She reviewed the obscure
words she'd collected to spring on Duncan today, and then her thoughts
probed the enigma that was Duncan Lathram.

When they first met nineteen years ago he wasn't a plastic surgeon.

At age ten she woke up in a hospital with everything hurting.

Struggling through the maze of her jumbled thoughts was the memory of
horsing around with two of the neighborhood boys, proving to them that
she could ride a bike as well as they could, and matching any dare they
wanted to try. Suddenly she was in the middle of Lee Highway with a
panel truck screeching and swerving toward her. She remembered the
pale blurs of the driver's bared teeth and wide, shocked, terrified
eyes through the dirty windshield as he stood on his brake pedal and
tried to miss her.

Pain shoved the memories aside . . . pain and fear ... Where was
her mama and who were these strange people bustling around her? Who
was this big doctor bending over her and pressing his fingers into her
tummy? Some deep part of her subconscious must have felt her life
slipping away. She remembered asking him if she was going to die, and
how he'd looked so shocked that she was conscious. Most of all she
remembered the giant doctor going down on one knee beside the gurney so
that his face was only inches from hers, squeezing her hand and saying,
"Not if I've got anything to say about it. And around here, what I say
goes." Something about his supreme confidence soothe her. She
believed him.

She closed her eyes and slipped back into unconsciousness .

That big doctor had been Duncan Lathram. And Duncan Lathram had been a
vascular surgeon then. Not just a run-of the-mill type who spent his
days doing varicose-vein strippings, but a gonzo with a scalpel,
unafraid to take on any vascular catastrophe, the messier the better.

Like hers. The impact with the truck had ruptured her spleen and torn
her renal artery. Duncan had removed her spleen and repaired The
gushing artery, saving her kidney and her life.

Gin remembered being absolutely infatuated with the man. He became a
demigod in her eyes. From age ten on she sent him a card every
Christmas. Even went to work for him at sixteen as a part-time clerk
in the record room of his office in Alexandria. She learned how hard
he worked, putting in fourteen- and sixteen-hour days in the hospital
and office, and often being called to the emergency at one or two
in the morning to repair leaking or severed arteries damaged by
everything from atherosclerosis to car wrecks to knife fights. He
could be gruff, self-absorbed, even arrogant at times, but Gin didn't
mind. After all, wasn't that part of being a demigod? His stamina
amazed her, his dedication and boundless enthusiasm for his work
inspired her so much that when she registered as a freshman at
Princeton, she chose premed biology as her major. The course of her
life had been set.

Eleven years later she returned to the D. C. area as a board eligible
internist and was shocked to learn that Duncan Lathram was no longer
the gung-ho, life-saving surgical whirlwind she had left behind, somehow
he had metamorphosed into a cosmetic surgeon who devoted his
abbreviated workdays to prettifying the rich and powerful of Washington
society.

From gonzo to dilettanteþor something close to a dilettante. What had
happened during those seven years? Gin had tried to piece it together
but got nowhere. No one who knew was talking.
Only Gin seemed to care. Something was missing. Duncan used to fight
bleeders, now he fought wrinkles. If he'd been specializing in tummy
tucks instead of vascular repair nineteen years ago, she might not be
here today. So Gin's perspective differed from all the youth-chasing
ninnies who flocked to Duncan to help them turn back the clock. They
worshiped this man who could help them escape the unsightly dues that nature , nurture, genetics, and lifestyle demanded they pay.

Duncan had become someone else's god.

"Morning, Gin, " said a voice behind her.

Over her shoulder she saw Duncan's younger brother Oliver delivering a
sterile tray of implants to the OR. He smiled and waved as he
passed.

If Duncan was a rack of baby-backs, Oliver was a roast beef, rounder,
heavier, with thinning hair, thick hornrimmed glasses, and a protective
layer of fat. Also softer, gentler, far more easygoing than his older
brother. A sweetheart. He made sure all the women on the staff
received flowers on their birthday. And when Joanna's son got arrested
for joyriding, Oliver was there to bail him out. Everybody loved
him.

Gin rinsed, shook, and entered OR-1 just as Marie, the nurse
anesthetist, said, "He's out." Gin took in OR-1 as Marie tied her mask
and Joanna helped gown and glove her. Smaller than anything at Tulane,
but the skill and professionalism here could hold their own against any
tertiary medical center. Odorlessþthe laminar airflow kept it that
wayþand cold. Duncan liked to work under almost arctic conditions.

She approached the table where a middle-aged man, fiftyish or so, lay
supine, his face covered except for the lips, chin, and throat, which
were prepped for surgery. He looked something other than human with
his skin stained yellow brown from the Betadine and his chin and throat marked up with the lines Duncan had drawn to guide his surgery.

Gin had met him last week when she'd done his pre-op history and
physical, Senator Harold Vincent. Another member of the recently
revived joint committee.

Like Congressman Allard.

She was struck by the coincidence, but only for a moment. Hell, half
of Washington's officials or their wives had been Duncan's patients at
one time or another since he'd started in plastic surgery, and the
other half probably were on the waiting list. Not surprising,
really.

His technical skills were second to none and he saw to it that people
who considered themselves V.I.Ps were treated accordingly, they got
absolute discretion, and, thanks to his brother, he had exclusive use
of an innovative technique that halved the healing TIME greatly reduced.



"Ready to begin, Gin? " Duncan said. "The senator is getting
impatient.

He's got a bunch of lobbyists camped out in his office with pockets
full of cash. We don't want to keep them waiting, do we? " Joanna
tittered behind her mask.

Duncan made his first incision under the chin, carefully following the
natural lines of cleavage, then began the delicate task of dissecting
away and trimming off portions of the stretched muscleþthe
platysmaþthat gave the senator's neck a sagging, aged look. Senatot
Vincent had a particularly large amount of excess tissue, giving him a
Tom-turkey wattle that fluttered when he spoke and flapped back and
forth when he walked.

"Senator Impatience here couldn't wait, " Duncan said as he worked.

"An emergency, he told me. Had to have it immediately. Any one care
to guess what the emergency is? " "Has to be TV, " Marie said from her
spot at the top of the senator's head.

"Bingo. Give that woman a cigar." Marie didn't miss a beat, "Not
while the o2 is running, thank you."

"It's the Joint Committee on Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines, of
course, " Duncan said.

Gin stifled a groan. Here we go again. The joint committee was on
Duncan's Permanently-Ticks-Me-Off list. He hated it and everything it
was set up to do. He could go on for hours. Today the subject was a
particularly uncomfortable one for Gin, what with no word from Senator Marsden's office, and her pending interview with Congressman Allard
tomorrow.

"I've seen Senator Vincent on TV plenty of times, " Gin said, sponging
the blood that began pooling in the incision.

"Sure. C-SPAN. But who besides you and I watches CSPAN? This boy has
his eye on a much larger audience. Suction. Daily sound and video
bites for all the network news shows, even looking for some live
prime-time coverage. And our self-styled Champion of the Working
Person' wants to look pretty for the nation. Clamp." Gin glanced at
Joanna who rolled her dark eyes as she slapped the handles of the clamp
into Duncan's gloved palm. He' olf to the races.

All right, so Duncan had a few fixations. Everybody had one or two.

His just happened to be the Old-Boy network in the federal government
and its intrusion into the practice of medicine. But even from his
ramblings you could learn something.

"Some champion, " he continued. "Voted himself a
thirty-one-thousand-dollar pay raise during the recession, not to
mention a government-issued Diners Club Card. Hand me the curved
hemostat. That's the one. Here he is, vocal supporter of the Equal
Pay Act, the Age Discrimination in Employment Act, the Occupational
Health and Safety Act, and the National Labor Relations Act, as he'll
remind you at every opportunity. But what he doesn't say is that
behind closed doors he voted to keep the U. S. Senate exempt from all
those acts. Suction." He was silent as he made another incision.

Gin continued to marvel at the grace and precision of his scalpel
work.

He made it look so easy.

Gin knew it was anything but.

"But I'm thankful I'm only his plastic surgeon. Can you imagine being
his proctologist? " He looked up and winked at her. "I mean, where to
begin? ' Marie guffawed.

"As always, ' Duncan said, "laws imposed to assure fair play among the
constituency do not apply to the kakistoc . .

racy.

Gin didn't want to, but felt compelled to ask. "All right, I give
up.

What's this kakistocracy you're always talking about? I can't find it
in the dictionary. ' "You won't unless you use an unabridged
edition.

The kakistocracy reflects the anomie of our times."

"Oh, that helps a lot." '"It is rulership by the worst." Perfect time
to spring one of my own words for the day, Gin thought.

'"I guess then you might say that the members of the kakistocracy excel
at casuistry." She saw Duncan smile behind his mask. "Very good! "
Marie turned to Joanna. "Great. Now neither of them are speaking
English." Gin said, "I'm merely participating in the lingua franca.

' Two! she thought. I got two of them in!
Duncan's eyes sparkled as he turned to Marie and Joanna. "Casuistry is
the rationalization of matters of conscience, but I wonder if we can
presume that the Senator Vincents of the world even have a
conscience.

' He held out a gloved hand. "The implant, Gin. Time's a-wasting. "
'"Oh sure. Sorry." Joanna uncovered the sterile tray, revealing the
implants, tiny cylinders, soft, shiny, and slightly curved, looking
like sausages or hot dogs. Hot dogs for a Barbie Doll. They came in
all sizes. These on the tray were the mediums, twenty millimeters
long, maybe five millimeters in diameter, each filled with Oliver's
"secret sauce, " an enzyme solution that promoted healing, reduced
edema, and retarded scar formation.

Here was the real key to Duncan's phenomenal popularity. He had the
best hands in the business, but that was only part of his appeal.

These implants did the rest, allowing his patients the fastest recovery
time, speeding them back into circulation to show off their new
faces.

The brainchild of Duncan's younger brother, the implants were a
crystal-protein matrix consisting of magnesium and albumin. Shortly
after Gin came on staff, Oliver had shown her serial magnetic-resonance
images of the implants after surgery. Each successive MRI showed a
shrinking, shriveling membrane as the implant released its enzyme
contents into the subcutaneous tissues to reduce scarring and
post-operative edema. The final MRI a few weeks post-op showed
nothing, After the implant had done its work, the crystals dissolved
and the body's enzymes broke down the albumin to its component ammo
acids, those were absorbed along with the magnesium into the
surrounding tissues and eventually into the bloodstream, leaving no
trace.

With a probe, Gin nudged one of the implants onto the special narrow,
oblong spoon Duncan had custom-made after too many implants ruptured in
the grip of an ordinary forceps. She reached over and gently deposited
it in the incision. Duncan used a probe to position the implant where
he wanted it, then signaled for another. When he had four of them
placed deep in the incision, he moved his field closer to the
surface.

"He looks younger already, ' Gin said.

Right, Duncan thought as he trimmed a wedge of platysma. Just what I
want to do, make this bastard look younger.

What he really would have liked to do was restructure Vincent's
features into a configuration that reflected the man within. Not too
hard with Vincent . . . slant the eyes, tilt up the nose, spread the
nostrils, flare the lips . . . and find some way to make him say "I'm

Senator Harold Hogg, potentate of the pork barrel.

He smiled under the mask. He'd had so many of Congress's Old Boys on
the table, he could have changed the face of American politics by
nowþliterally.

I could be Dr. Moreau in reverse. Instead of vivisecting animals into
men, I'd recast pols into the animals and reptiles they emulate. I
could wear a mask and skulk through the halls of the Capitol, Duncan
Lathramþthe anti-Moreau, demon doctor of devolution, Phantom of the
Longworth Building, scourge of the Senate shuttle. A peal of insane laughter now and I'll be ready for Hollywood .

He sighed. Nothing so melodramatic for Senator Vincent. But Duncan
did have definite plans for him.

Don't worry, Senator. You'll get yours. Trust me.

As he was placing the final implants he heard Gin's voice but didn't
catch what she said.

"Hmmm? " "I said, what is it exactly that so irks you about the joint
committee?

Gin's dark, dark eyes were fixed on him expectantly, as if his answer
mattered very much to her. Under that cap and mask was a sultry
Mediterranean beauty with wild, glossy black hair, full lips, high
cheekbones, and flawless skin. A narrow waist and a perfect bust.

Nothing at all like the pimply, pudgy adolescent who'd worked in his
file room a dozen or so years ago. In fact, when she'd shown up last
June looking for part-time work as a physician, and told him who she
was, he'd half considered having her investigated as an impostor.

The ugly duckling had returned as a swan. A dark swan. A cygnet.

But if he had been twenty minutes later in getting to that emergency
room nineteen years ago, she wouldn't be anywhere now. That had been
the great perk of his former life, saving someone who might make a
difference in the world.

And he loved the way she'd started coming up with new words for him.

One day she'd stump him, but that was all right.

Seems I did us all a favor when I put your insides back together,
Gin.

Not for the first time, he questioned having changed his field of
practice, but only for a heartbeat. The choice had been made for
him.

No going back.

But where was Gin going with all her brains and hardwon education?

"What irks me? " he said slowly as he began restructuring Vincent's
trimmed platysma. "I don't think too much of the Joint Committee on
Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines." He made a point of
enunciating the committee's name in its entirety. Simply saying the
joint committee didn't do justice to the pretentiousness of its
title.

"I don't like its name, I don't approve of its mission, and I think it
is staffed with arrivistes, parvenus, Pecksniffs, and bumptious ... yanoos He watched Gin's dark eyes crinkle at the corners.

I made her smile.

'"Hey, don't hold back, " she said. "Tell me what you really think. '
He would have liked to tell her the truth about what they did to his
life, his family, but that would serve no purpose.

Never complain, never explain.

"Do you know what they're up to? " he said.

"Well, I understand it was the president's idea to revive the old
McCready committee." Duncan straightened and paused in his suturing.

He didn't trust himself with a scalpel in his hand and McCready on his
mind.

"Alas, our dear president didn't get his health-care plan, so he's
taking it out on the medical profession. A medical guidelines bill
wasn't good enough7 wasn't broad enough. No. Now it's mandates on
medical ethics." Duncan closed his eyes to control his fury.

"Can you imagine it? Mark Twain said there's no distinct American
criminal class except for Congress. And yet this collection of
edacious, minatory pharisees is going to deliver ethical guidelines to
a profession'that has had a code of ethics since the time of Babylon.
" "We're not all so perfect, either, ' Gin said.

'"If all you've got is larceny in your heart, you don't spend four
years in premed, four years in med school, three to ten years in
postgraduate training working hundred-hour weeks at slightly more than
minimum wage, all for the privilege of being six figures in debt by the
time you hang out your shingle."

"Of course not, " Gin said. "You do it SQ you can work seventy-hour
weeks for the rest of your life." Duncan smiled and felt his muscles
relax. My dear cygnet. It's good to have you around.

He'd finished resecting and tightening the platysma. Time to close.

He asked for 6-o gut on a curved needle. Using a continuous
subcutaneous technique, he began suturing.

"Anyway, " she said, "since Senator Marsden is McCready's successor,
he's been asked to chair the joint committee. Got any dirt on him? '
Why was she so interested?

"Actually7 no7 Duncan said. "But he hasn't been around all that
long.

Give him TIME You know what the committee's up to, don't you? "
"Holding public hearings to gather information to help them write the
bill? " "Their stated purposeþat the president's behestþis to set
rigid standards for medical practice. What they're really out to do is
parade a bunch of horror stories before the public present a lot of
one-sided testimony on the worst cases of negligence and medical
malfeasance they can find and paint the whole medical profession as a
cartel of reckless, irresponsible, knife-happy, money-grubbing brigands
who must be brought to heel."

"Um? don't you think you sound just a
little paranoid? " With good reason7 he thought.

"Even paranoids have real enemies7 Gin. They're out to get usþpure and
simple. I know how that sounds, but that's how I see it. They're at
the bottom of the heap in public confidenceþand they want to draw
attention away from their own unwillingness to police themselves. "
'"But their ethics committees go after people all the TIME" Duncan
laughed. "Congressional ethicsþthere's an oxymoron for you. Only on
those rare occasions when the press turns up the heat, only when their
backs are to the wall and they have to do something."

"Well, whether we like it or not, I kind of think the shape of medical
practice in the future is going to be decided at these hearings. So
I'd like to be an aide on that committee. In fact, I had an interview
at Senator Marsden's office yesterday mornmg.

Duncan froze and stared at her, and found Gin staring right back.

Gin's insides were wound into a Gordian knot. She'd waited until he'd
almost closed the incision before mentioning this.

Why did I tell him? she wondered. I may nor even get the job.

Duncan said nothing as he finished closing the incision, leaving not a
single stitch on the surface. Only a hair-thin line remained along the
underside of the chin.

Gin had seen him do this a hundred times at least7 but still it awed
her.

When he was done he looked up at her again.

"You what? "

"IþI had an interview withþ"

"You are incomprehensible. You have a brilliant mind? an excellent medical education? and you want
to be a Hill rat? "

"Only part-time. I justþ" " How can you even
think of cooperating with that committee? " '"Doesn't someone have to
make sure the rer their facts straight? "  O "Facts? Since when is
Congress interested in facts? " He stepped back from the table and
began ripping off his gloves. "I thought I was working with a doctor,
not a Hill-rat wannabe." That hurtþ stung like a slap in the face.

"Duncanþ" '"You can't have it both ways, Gin. When you decide which
one you want to be, let me know. ' He tossed his gloves on the floor
and stormed out.

Gin had feared he might be a little upset, but she hadn't expected
anything like this. She stood in the suddenly silent OR, with Marie
and Joanna avoiding eye contact. She wondered what would have happened
if she'd mentioned her appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow
morning. As it was she felt as if the floor had opened beneath her.

RECOVERY WITH THE MORNING'S TRUNCATED SURGERY SCHEDULE finished, the
halls were quiet. Too quiet. Gin's stomach was still tight as she
completed her dictation on Thursday's scheduled procedures.

Why did you open your big mouth?

Because he had to know sooner or later. . . especially when she began
asking for extra time off.

But you may never get the job.

Right. Too right.

She finished the last H and P, logged off her terminal, and sat
there.

Now what?

She had to face him. Had to clear the air. Had to find out where she
stood. Was she still welcome here as a pre-op evaluator and surgical
assistant? or was she to be cast into the outer darkness?

Only one way to find out.

She gathered her courage and hurried upstairs to the main floor. From
there a short walk down the hall.

Duncan's slim, pretty, blond receptionist-secretary guarded the door to
his office.

"Hi, Barbara. Is he in? ' She smiled up at Gin. "Just missed him.

Said he was going to look in on the senator, thenþ" "þhead for the golf
course, " Gin said. That was Duncan's routine.

"He may still be here. If you hurryþ"

"Thanks, Barb." She hurried
toward the V.I.P recovery room. Along the way she saw Sharon Collins,
the recovery RN, standing in the hall and talking to Joanna. She
slowed as she passed.

"Excuse me, Sharon. Aren't youþ? ' "Doing recovery on the V.I.P? "
She was short, dark, and built like a Ninja turtle, but one sharp nurse.

"Yeah. Dr. D.

told me to take a break while he double-checked his needlework. I'm
just about to head back."

"Good. Maybe I can catch him."

"You sure you want to? " Joanna said.

Gin flashed her a smile. "No." She scooted around the corner to the
V.I.P recovery roomþ a plain, unmarked doorþand knocked gently.

When there was no answer she tried again.

"Duncan?

She pushed the door open.

Noon brightness filtered through the full-length beige drapes across
the picture window. Carpeting instead of linoleum, mahogany instead of
Formica. A veneer of luxury for the sort who craved it, but very
functional beneath.

In the bed, Senator Vincent snored softly, sleeping off the general
anesthetic. But no Duncan.

Damn. She'd missed him. He couldn't have got that far.

She was half turned to leave when she saw Senator Vincent move his
leg.

An unfolding length of sheet revealed a spot of red on the white over
his thigh. She leaned closer.

Blood.

Just a tiny spot. No more than a drop. But there shouldn't have been
any blood down by his leg. On his pillow, maybe, but not there.

She lifted the sheet and looked at the senator's leg. A small,
semicircular puncture wound, less than a quarter inch in length on the
outer aspect of the thigh, slightly toward the rear.

She probed the area around it and the senator moved again. Within the
bandages his lids struggled open. His glazed eyes stared at her, then
closed again.

"Shot, " he mumbled.

"What? " "Gave me shot."

"Who gave you a shot? " "Docker Lafram." He opened his eyes again and
smiled. "Summin special.

Only choice patients." The senator smacked his lips and closed his
eyes. He began to snore.

Gin stood over him. A shot? Since when did Duncan give injections?

Never. It was unheard of.

Vincent had to be wrong . . . and yet there definitely was a puncture
wound in his thigh.

She adjusted the covers back over him.

Weird. Very weird.

A noise behind her made her turn. Collins was slipping through the
door. She glanced around.
"He's gone? " "Gone when I got here. Did Dr. Lathram say anything
about giving the senator an injection? " Collins checked the order
sheet. "No. Just the usualþ Tylenol, two P-O every four hours P-R-N."

"No, I mean himselfþgiving the senator an injection himself."

Collins's wide face broke into a grin. "Dr. D. ? Giving meds
personally? No way. That's what us RNs are for. Where'd you get an
idea like that?

" "There's a puncture on his thigh and he said something about Dr.
Lathram giving him a shot." Collins stepped over to the bed and
examined his thigh.

"Hmmm. Where'd that come from? Looks more like a tiny cut than a
needle mark."

"He saidþ" Collins gave Senator Vincent's shoulder a gentle shake.

"Senator? Are you awake? " He snorted and his eyes fluttered but
didn't open.

"Okay, Mom, " he said.

Collins grinned again. "You see? I'd sooner believe the Man in the
Moon gave him an injection than Dr. D. And besides, where's the
syringe?

Where's the injection vial? " She had a point.

"You're right." Gin turned and headed for the door. "I'm out of
here.

See you Thursday." It was strange, it didn't add up, but Gin pushed it
out of her mind.

She had other things to think about. Like her appointment with
Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. Another of Duncan's patients, by
the way. She'd assisted on his abdominal liposuction a while back.

And if he didn't work out, she could come back to Senator Vincent.

She hadn't realized it when she signed on here, but here was one of the
perks of working with Duncan, If they had juice and they wanted
cosmetic surgery, Duncan Lathram was the man to see.

DUNCAN DUNCAN Lathram, MD, STOOD AMONG THE EARLY morning regulars at
the self-serve coffee counter at the rear of the 7-Eleven on F Street
offFifth. Not exactly his purlieu. He felt a little out of place in
his pale blue oxford shirt, blue blazer, and tan slacks, but no one
seemed to pay him much mind.

He considered the array of partially filled glass urns before him.

They leave the pots on the heaters, he thought. Barbaric.

Grimacing, he reached for a medium-sized cupþfoam, no lessþemblazoned
with the red-and-green corporate logo, and poured himself a cup of the
loi-disant coffee.

He could tell from the colorþhe was sure he could read the morning
paper through itþthat they were stretching the grounds by adding too
much water. The aromaþmake that smell--this acrid effluvium did
not deserve three syllables þtestified that it had been sitting on the
burner far too long.

He'd always drunk his coffee black and, even though he knew he was
going to regret this, he wasn't about to change now. He blew steam off
the dark surface, sipped . . .

And shuddered. It tasted like . . . like . . .

Words failed him.

He watched the man in the blue flannel shirt next to him lighten his
coffee with half-and-half, then spoon in three sugars.

"Does that kill the taste? " The man glanced up at him, apparently
startled at being spoken to. "Uh, sorta. I don't really like coffee,
but I need it to get going in the morning."

"Yes. You might say I'm abstemious in all matters except coffee. What
we won't do to render ourselves properly caffeinated, ay? " He got in
line at the cash register. The flannel shirt followed him.

Ahead of him, Duncan watched a steatopygous woman with rollers wound
into her orange hair dump three cans of Arizona Iced Tea and twenty
creamsicles onto the counter, then ask for two packs of
Parliamentþboxes, please.

Half turning to the flannel shirt, Duncan said, "I've always believed
that one can augur the course of a civilization through observation of
its indigenous cuisine, don't you agree? " The flannel shirt said,
"What? " ' Exactly." Then it was Duncan's turn to pay.

"Anything else? " said the Middle Eastern gentleman behind the
counter.

"Sorry, no, " Duncan said. "My doctor won't allow me more than one
medium-size kerosene a day."

"Yes, sir, " the man said and took his money. "Have a nice . . ,
day.

Outside he walked south, crossed Constitution and strolled up the Mall,
gingerly sipping the coffeelike substance as he approached the
Capitol.

Here it was Wednesday, a nosurgery day. He should have been relaxed,
but a fine tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in
the cup. He knew it wasn't the caffeine.

Admit it, he told himself. If you were wound any tighter you'd
implode.

But why shouldn't you be? This is an important day. Even more
important for a certain congressman.

He distracted himself by admiring the scenery.

He rarely got downtown anymore. Too bad. It had rained last night,
and now a fine mist hazed the air and the grass coruscated in the early
morning sunlight. Starlings managed to make themselves heard over the
growing thunder of the stampeding herd of arriving federal workers.

He'd forgotten how beautiful the Mall could be before the tourists
arrived.

The last time he'd ventured this way had been a big mistake. He'd come
down in May during the annual invasion by busloads of eighth graders
from everywhere east of the Rockies. The National Gallery had been
crawling with roving, cachinnating packs of barely bridled hormones
wrapped in scabrous, whelk-laden skin to whom the epitome of true art
and intimate self-expression was spray painting the name of their
favorite heavy metal group on a wall.

But then, one of the central pieces on exhibit at the National Gallery
at the time had been a huge mural, ten feet high, twenty long, all
stark white except for a beige vertical stripe two feet from the left
edge.

Maybe the kids were onto something after all, Megadeth Rules indeed.

Duncan hadn't been back since.

Further on, a dirty, unshaven man approached him, wearing a black trash
bag, he had the drawstring around his waist, his head and arms poking
through appropriately placed slits.

"Got some spare change for an old soldier? " the tatterdemalion
said.

Duncan stopped and reached into his pocket. "Which war was that? "
"Which one were you in? " the man said.

'"The Korean Conflict, as it is now known." Not true. He'd been in
college thenþpremed. But he wanted to see what this "old soldier"
would say.

"Me too." Duncan had to smile. "What if I'd said Vietnam? " '"Was in
that one too. I'm the Unknown Soldier." Duncan figured he probably
meant Universal Soldier but then again, it was very likely that he
couldn't remember his name.

'"Clever rain gear you've got there, soldier. The latest from the
House of Hefty, if I'm not mistaken." '"Does the job." Duncan handed
him a twenty-dollar bill. The man glanced at it, then did a double
take.

"God, man! Thanks! Thanks a million! " "Why not? I expect this to
be a good day for me. Might as well be a good one for you too." The
fellow began backing away, most likely trying to put some distance
between them before Duncan changed his mind. "I'll spend this wisely, I assure you, sir." Duncan laughed. "I'm sure you will."

"And you have a good day."

"I assure you I will. A very good day." It all goes according to plan
this TIME

Anxiety nibbled at his stomach lining like hungry fish. Timing was
everything here, but with so many variables beyond his control, luck
was a considerable factor as well. And Duncan hated to depend on
luck.

He walked on until he spotted the camera crew setting up on the House
side at the base of the steps leading up to the west portico of the
Capitol.

"Something big happening? " Duncan asked.

"Just an interview, " the bearded cameraman said. "Congressman . "
"Which one? " "Allard." '"Not Kenneth Allard! The Kenneth Allard?

Here? Right here? " Duncan clapped his hands. "He's one of my
favorites! " The cameraman grinned at the soundman. "First time I
ever heard anyone say that. ' "Oh, he's a great statesman. A
wonderful intellect. An isle of probity in a sea of venality."

"If you say so." Obviously the cameraman had lost what little interest
he'd had in talking to Duncan. Not that Duncan could blame him.

Make sure that camera's working, Duncan thought. You're going to see
the end of someone's career.

He headed up the four flights of granite steps that led to the
Capitol.

He had to get to Congressman Allard before Allard got to the camera.

Last night he'd heard a TV newsreader mention that they'd be
interviewing Congressman Allard today on the revival of the Joint
Committee on Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines. Duncan had
decided then to be here bright and early. This was too rare an
opportunity to miss.

He climbed to the top of the Capitol steps and gazed back along the
green expanse of the Mall. A mile and a half away, past the Capitol
Reflecting Pool, past the towers of the Smithsonian and the museums and
galleries that lined the Mall, the obelisk of the Washington Monument
gleamed like a spearhead in the morning sunlight and cast a narrow
shaft of shadow toward the white rectangle of the Lincoln Memorial
behind it. Above them, the Delta shuttle glided toward a landing at
Washington National.

Flanking the Mall to the right and left, Pennsylvania, Constitution,
and Independence avenues were thick with traffic, all heading this
way.

And all around him a steady stream of men and womenþ mostly menþdressed
in suits and carrying briefcases or attache cases, scurrying up the
steps. They obviously were not touristsþno Bermuda shorts, cameras,
and "I't Washington" capsþand he knew they weren't senators or
representatives or staffers. The people who worked here, who belonged
here, moved back and forth between the Senate and House office
buildings on underground shuttles. These were lobbyists, armed with
checkbooks loaded with the grease that keeps the wheels of Congress
turning.

The kakistocracy was in session.

Duncan sighed as he watched their hurried, purposeful climb toward the
House and Senate chambers. God, there were an awful lot of them.

The Congress of the United States, he thought with a grim smile. The
best government money can buy.

Far below, at the bottom of the steps, the soundman nodded as the
reporter checked his mike. Good. They were ready. All set up and
waiting for U. S. representative Kenneth Allard. Duncan was waiting
for him too.

And then he saw him. Allard stepped out on the House side flanked by
three of his aides. Pushing sixty, medium height, and on the glabrous
protuberance that passed for his head, a thatch of dark brown hair that
had once belonged to someone else. He had a paunch but a small one.

It had been much larger before Duncan had gone to work on it with the
liposuction tube. What had been protuberant and tremulose was now
flattened and firm.

Not a bad job, he thought as Allard started moving toward him across
the open, granite-paved expanse, even if I do say so myself.

But a face only a bacteriologist could love.

A good many of the arriving lobbyists smiled deferentially and waved to
Allard as they passed. He was something of a legend on the Hill,
admired, almost revered, by his colleagues in the kakistocracy for the
innovative approach to campaign financing he developed while serving on
the Committee on Energy and Commerce. A couple of campaigns ago, when
Congressman Allard became aware that his reelection coffers were down
to their last million or two, and the PACs weren't coming up with fresh
money fast enough, he introduced a flurry of bills that would have
devastating impact on the coal, oil, gas, and timber industries.

Suddenly the energy PACs and lumber trade associations, not to mention
the associated unions that would be hit hard by the new Allard bills,
were swarming around him with open checkbooks. He collected eight
million in three monthsþ some of which probably paid for his surgery.

After gorging himself on the pecuniary viands, he withdrew the bills
from committee. The procedure had been imitated by his colleagues many
times since.

But none of that had anything to do with why Duncan was here today.

He watched Allard nod to a few of the passing lobbyists, but the
congressman was more interested in conferring with his aides, he looked
like a quarterback huddling with his coaches, only they were all in
suits.

Duncan wondered if he was the only one on Capitol Hill wearing
something other than a business suit.

"Good morning, Kent, " Duncan said as he neared the group.

Allard looked up at the sound of his sobriquet and squinted at
Duncan.
An instant of confusionþDuncan could almost hear him thinking Who the
hell? þand then recognition.

"Docþ" He cleared his throat. "Duncan! What are you doing up here?

Welcome to the Hill." His expression was wary instead of welcoming.

Doesn't want to call me Dr. Lathram. Probably afraid someone will
recognize the name and want to know what fixups I performed on him.

Duncan stuck out his hand and delivered his lines smoothly.

'"Waiting for some relatives from out of town. Promised to show them
the sights . . . tour guide for a day. You know the drill, I'm
sure.

" Chicklet caps flashed. "I sure do." Casually, Duncan reached into
his blazer pocket and gripped the oblong bulk of his pager. He felt
the sweat collecting under his arms. He was close now, but he wanted
to be closer still. Just to be sure.

"You're looking good, Kent. The cameras down there are going to love
you." Bat nowhere near as mach as you love them.

The smile faded. The wariness reemerged. "Thank you. ' Don't worry,
Congressman, Duncan thought. I'm not going to say anything about the
liposuction.

But he couldn't resist turning the screw a little tighter.

"How do you stay so young looking? " Allard's smile returned, but
looked forced now. "Clean living." You son of a bitch.

"I must try that sometime.

They both laughed. Duncan flipped the ON switch on his pager and it
began to beep. He pulled it from his pocket. A vintage model,
considerably larger than the new ones. He stared at the blank message
window, trying to still the ague tremor of his hand.

"Looks like my service wants me. I'd better find a phone and see what
they want." He edged past Allard and his aides, coming within a few
inches of the congressman.

This is as close as I'm going to get, he thought.

His finger found another button on his pager. The special button. But
he hesitated. No turning back once he pressed it.

Old questions assailed him again. Isn't this going too far? Is it
really worth the risk? What if I'm caught? And the most disturbing of
all, Is this something a sane man would do?

Then he remembered what Allard had participated in five years ago .

.

. and today's clean-living remark.

Duncan pressed the button.

This time the pager made no sound, but he felt it vibrate against his
palm.

Allard winced and rubbed his right thigh.

"Good luck with the TV folks, Kent, " Duncan said. "And think of an
eighteen-year-old named Lisa."

"Pardon>" Allard said.

"Her name was Lisa. Keep that in mind." I want it to be your last
coherent thought.

He turned and almost bumped into a dark-haired young woman.

wIn"T Gin tried to speak but found her voice locked. Not from the
shock of seeing Duncan on the Capitol steps, but from the look on his
face as he'd turned away from Congressman Allard. His eyes, arctic
cold, cobalt hard, full of rage and hatred so intense she thought
they'd leap from their sockets. Never in her life had she seen an
expression like that.

For an instant she thought she was facing a feral stranger.

And suddenly it was gone. As soon as he spoke her name his face
changed, metamorphosed into the Duncan Lathram she knew.

And then she could speak.

'"Duncan. You're the last person I expected to run into down here. "
He stared at her for a few heartbeats. When he finally spoke, his
voice was cool, distant.

"I might have said the same about you . . . until yesterday. How long
have you been standing here? " She'd arrived early at the Rayburn
Building for her meeting and had been told that Congressman Allard
would be slightly delayed because of his television interview. Rather
than sit cooling her heels, Gin had opted to stroll across Independence
to catch the interview live.

Staying a discreet distance from the congressman's group she'd noticed
a man who reminded her of Duncan, but she couldn't be sure from the
rear, and besides, what would Duncan be doing down here? She'd edged
closer, had been almost on top of him when he'd turned and they'd come
nose to nose.

How long have you been standing here? The answer seemed important to
him. Very important.

Long enough to hear you say something very strange, she thought.

'-Just a few seconds. But what on earth are you doing here? " "Me? "
He looked around. I love the Capitol area . . . the Mall . . .

the monuments . . . they're beautiful."

"Knowing how you feel about politicians" "Let's just say I consider it
a beautiful mansion that happens to be infested by termites and all
sorts of vermin." His eyes bored into her.

"So why are you here? " The question she'd been dreading. "I, uh,
have an appointment with Congressman Allard this morning." He
grimaced. "You want to be on his staff? " "I'll be on anybody's
staff. I want to be on this committee .

He stared at her again. "Yes. Yes, I see you do. Why didn't you
mention this yesterday? " "You didn't exactly give me a chance." He
made a soft guttural sound and glanced at the oldfashioned beeper
clutched in his handþa dinosaur of a beeper, at least six inches
long.

Odd, she thought. She hadn't realized Duncan carried a pager. He
wasn't on emergency call, but she guessed there was always the chance
of a postsurgical complication.

Suddenly he seemed in a rush. He spoke quickly.

"I want to discuss something with you, Gin, but I have to make a call
and this is neither the time nor the place. I will see you in my
office after lunch this afternoon. Can you be there? " . . .

something to discuss with you . . . She didn-t like the sound of
that.

"I think so."

"Good. See you then." He turned and headed for one of the doors into
the south wing. Gin watched him for a few seconds, then turned her
attention to where Congressman Allard continued to huddle with his
aides. The totaled ages of the three younger men probably exceeded
Allard's by very little, yet they were doing all the talking. Good
haircuts, expensive suits, six-figure incomes or close to it for many
of the more experienced aides, and a smug We're-where-it's-at look.

Too many of the Hill rats she'd met seemed to adopt that attitude after
a couple of years on the job. She promisedþ sworeþthat wouldn't happen
to her.

No doubt doing some last-minute fine tuning of his remarks before the
camera.

Finally he seemed ready. He nodded to his aides, straightened his tie,
adjusted his suit coat, patted his toupee, then started down the
steps.

Gin sidled to her right to where she had an unobstructed view of the
steps. She watched Allard descend on an angle toward the waiting
camera and reporter. His movements were smooth and fluid during the
first two flights, then he stopped on the landing halfway down.

He paused and rubbed his eyes, shook his head as if to clear it, then
continued down. At the top of the last flight he stopped again.

A warning bell sounded in Gin's brain. Something was wrong.

Allard leaned against the bronze handrail and pressed a hand over his
eyes. Even from here Gin could see that the hand was shaking.

He lowered his hand and began to sway. He grasped the rail and turned
around to stare back up at the Capitol. His expression was
frightened.

He looked lost, confused, as if he didn't know where he was. He took a
faltering step to his left but wobbled backward instead.

Gd, he's going to fall!

As his arms windmilled for balance, his aides cried out and rushed down
to him. But Allard was already toppling. He managed to twist around
but could not break his fall. He hit the granite steps and began to
roll.

Shouts now from the TV crew as the reporter rushed toward the falling
legislator. The cameraman followed her, taping all the way A couple of
Capitol Police started running from the other end of the steps.

Gin was already on her way down as Congressman Allard landed in a heap
at the base of the steps and lay still, arms akimbo, his toupee skewed
so that it hung over his left ear. His aides, the TV crew, and the
cops converged on him from three directions.

Gin reached the growing knot and forced her way in.

'"I'm a doctor, " she said. "Let me through. ' The onlookers made way
for her and soon she was kneeling at Allard's side. He was on his
back, his face was a mess, blood everywhere. Gin dug her index and
middle fingers into the side of his throat, probing for a carotid. She
found it, pulsing rapidly, but strong and regular.

She saw his chest moving with respirations, small bubbles of saliva
fluttering at the corner of his bloodied lips as air flowed in and
out.

Pulse and respiration okay. Good. But he did seem to be in shock.

"All right, ' she announced to the onlookers. "His heart's beating and
he's breathing. No need for CPR. But nobody move him. He may have a
spinal injury." She looked around. "Is somebody calling an
ambulance?

' One of the Capitol cops pointed to his partner who was babbling into
his radio. We're on it, " he said.

Gin returned her attention to Allard. She couldn't do a neurological
evaluation here, but if she had to bet she'd put her money on a
stroke.

Maybe he'd flipped an embolus to his brain.

She glanced up and saw someone standing at the railing along the edge
of the west portico, looking down. She blinked. It was Duncan. She
couldn't read his expression. He stood there staring for a moment,
then turned and disappeared from view.

Duncan? she thought. Aren't you going to help?

COFFEE GINA DIDN'T GET BACK TO THE SURGICENTER until shortly before
noon. She'd hovered by Congressman Allard's side until the E.M.Ts
arrived. She watched them bandage his face, strap him to a back board,
load him into their rig, and howl away toward G. W. Medical Center.

She stopped back at Allard's office to let them know what had happened,
and after that she'd been at loose ends, wandering around the Capitol
area, thinking, wondering . . .

Duncan had acted so strange this morning, and he hadn't shown the
slightest concern for the fate of the congressman, who wasn't just some
strangerþhe was one of Duncan's patients.
And who was this Lisa he'd been talking about to Allard? It had seemed
like such a non sequitur.

She took the Metro Red Line up to Friendship Heights and walked the
rest of the way, still thinking, still wondering.

By the time she reached the surgicenter she still didn-t have an
answer.

"He wanted to see me, ' she told Barbara as she paused at her reception
desk.

"He mentioned it, but right now he's conferencing with another
doctor.

Strict orders not to disturb." "Really? Anybody we know? " Barbara
shrugged. "All he tells me is to block out half an hour for Dr. V.

Now you know as much as I do. But he's very good-looking." Barbara's
eyebrows oscillated as her voice took on a Mae West tone. "This is his
second visit, and I hope it's not the last." Why so mysterious about
the name? A doctor who wanted cosmetic surgery maybe?

Gin shrugged. Not her business.

"Let him know I'm here."

"Will do." A few minutes later she was sitting in the basement lab
across the workbench from Oliver, diffidently watching him fill the
next batch of a dozen or so implants for tomorrow's surgery. She
already had a headache, and the residual olfactory tang of solvents was
conspiring with the bright overhead fluorescents to make it worse. She
should have been working with Oliver, learning the technique, but she
couldn't muster the concentration.

Her chin rested on her hands and her elbows were propped on the marred
black counter. She felt leaden, as if someone had siphoned off all her
energy . . . the aftermath of. the morning's events, and the
certainty that Duncan was going to fire her.

'"He's not going to fire you, " Oliver said.

She glanced up at him. He sat calmly in his white coat, his pudgy
hands folded in front of him. But she read genuine sympathy in the
round, pale face and in the blue eyes behind the thick horn-rimmed
lenses. Hard to believe he and Duncan shared the same gene pool.

"How can you be so sure? ' "He tends to fly off the handle lately.

Ever since they reconvened that darn committee. ' "What is it with him
and that committee? " '"Well, years ago he had a bit of trouble . .

.

' His voice trailed off.

"What sort of trouble? " '"Nothing. Forget I said anything." Gin
wasn't forgetting anything. Especially after this morning. Another
question was burning through her brainpan.

"All right then. Tell me this, Who's Lisa? " "Lisa? " "Yes. I heard
Duncan mention something about a Lisa this . , .

morning.

The implant Oliver was filling suddenly burst. "I . . . I don't
know.

He had a daughter named Lisa."

"Had? " "Yes, wellþ" The phone rang.

Oliver picked it up and listened. "She's right here, " he said, then
handed it across to her. Duncan's voice, "Gin, please come to my
office." Her mouth went dry. "Okay. Sure." The other end clicked
dead. That in itself was not indicative of anythingþDuncan rarely said
hello or good-bye on the phoneþbut she could feel her insides coiling
into knots. She handed the receiver back to Oliver. "He wants to see
me." Oliver smiled. "See?

He's cooled down already."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that."

"I'll talk to him if you want."

"Thanks, but I'd better handle this myself.

" With the knots inside pulling even tighter, she rose and headed for
Duncan's office. This was it. She'd been in his office before, many
times, but usually just a quick stop before surgery to discuss some
potential problem with one of his patients. This was the first time
he'd actually called and asked her to his office.

He's going to fire me.

Financially, that would not be a catastrophe. She wasn't getting paid
all that much here and she could take an extra shift as house doctor at
Lynnbrook. But still . . .
Her throat constricted.

Fired . . . being fired by anyone from any job would hurt. But to be
kicked out by Duncan Lathram . . .

Devastating.

She wasn't going to back down, though. Not when she was doing the
right thing. But how to explain it to him? From what she could see,
the days when doctors could focus solely on their patients and ignore
what Washington was up to were gone. Dead as the Jurassic age.

For their patients' sake as well as their own, doctors had to get
involved in the process. And any doctor who thought otherwise was a
dinosaur, already extinct but simply unaware of the fact.

Sure, she thought. That's it. Tell Duncan he's the best surgeon
alive, but he's a dinosaur. He'll definitely want to keep me on
then.

Gin forced a smile as she approached Barbara's desk.

"He's expecting me."

"I know, " Barbara said. "He told me to hold his calls." Oh, great.

Gin hesitated at the door, then pushed through.

Duncan's officer was a spacious quadrangle with floor-to ceiling glass
along most of the far wall. The last of the morning sun was slipping
from the room but still shining brightly on the oriental rock garden
and koi pond outside.

Very little of the off-white walls was visible, the few sections not
obscured by mahogany bookcases filled with medical texts and surgical
journals were studded with plaques, degrees, diplomas, and certificates
from licensing and specialty boards. An oversized antique partners
desk stretched before the window-wall. A glorious Persian rug covered
most of the hardwood floor.

The wall on the far right angled to a large cabinet custombuilt for the
narrow corner. Duncan had the cabinet open and stood before it now,
his back to her, engrossed in whatever he was doing.

He half turned as she closed the door behind her.

'"Good. You're just in TIME" He motioned her closer. "Come watch
this." A little off balance from the casual greetingþhe seemed a
changed man since this morningþand more than a little unsure of
herself, she complied. As she approached she heard a whirring noise,
like an electric drill. When she reached his side she was startled to
see what he was up to.

Grinding coffee.

'"Just got these in, ' he said. "Costa Rican La Minita Tarrazu. A
superb batch of beans." He dumped the ground coffee into the open end
of a chrome funnel set in the top of an insulated carafe.

Gin didn't see any white inside the funnel. "You forgot the filter.

" '"Don't worry. It's in there. I use a gold mesh filter. Paper
soaks up too many of the oils that give a coffee its character.

Remember that.

Always use a gold filter. And here's something else to remember." He
reached into the little microwave to his left and removed a half-quart
Pyrex cup full of steaming water. He took two tablespoons of water and
added them to the cone.

"Always wet your grounds first. Give them about thirty seconds to
swell, then add the rest of the water. But not boiling water.

You don't want scalded coffee. Bring the water to a boil and let it
sit for about a minute, then pour it over the damp grounds. But not
just any water. Use spring water. Don't use that chemical-laden junk
from the tap." He emptied the Pyrex cup into the cone, then rubbed his
. . . . . .

hands in anticipation.

"You're about to have a real experience, Gin. Just possibly the best
cup of coffee in the world." He turned to her. "Any news from
Marsden's office yet? " "No. I'm not terribly sanguine about my
chances. ' Sanguine? She never used that word. Must be Duncan's
influence. "My interview wasn't with Senator Marsden, you know. It
was with his chief of staff. We didn't exactly hit it off."

"Shot down by the senator's staff, eh? And I guess you didn't get
your chance to impress Allard either."

"Hardly. That was some fall he had. Lucky to be In one piece after
the way he hit the sidewalk."

"Right in front of the TV cameras.

They've been replaying it all morning on CNN. Too bad." Too bad?

He'd been there, watching, and hadn't helped. Or didn't he want to
admit that?

"Had some nasty facial lacerations. Chances are he'll be calling you
to fix him up." '"He can save his dime, " Duncan said. "You ought to
know by now I don't operate on people who need surgeryþ only those who
want it. By the way, sorry about my outburst yesterday morning. You
didn't deserve that." Just like that, Oh, by the way, sorry I damn
near gave you a heart attack.

But relief blotted out his offhandedness. The bunched muscles in her
shoulders and the back of her neck began to uncoil.

'"You mean I'm not fired? " He laughed. "Hell, no! But I do want to
talk to you." His smile faded.

"I want to know why a bright, talented young woman like you wants to
get involved with the Harold Vincents and Kenneth Allards of the
world.

" Oh, God, she thought as she took a deep breath. Here we go.

'"Somebody's got to, Duncan. They're calling all the shots. But when
they want to know what's going on with doctors and medical care, look
who they ask, insurance companies, A.M.A officers, public service
doctors, VA doctors, whoever's handy." Duncan grimaced with
distaste.

"Or even worse, Samuel Fox." Gin nodded. She remembered sitting
around with her fellow residents and laughing at Fox's asinine
statements during a Donahue appearance a couple of years ago. But he
had a knack for PR and had parlayed his alarmist books and press
releases into a position of credibility with Congress.

"Exactly. Congress gets its input from doctors who aren't
physicians.

" "Stands to reason, ' Duncan said. "Real doctors are out in the
trenches practicing medicine. They've got too many sick people on
their hands to hang around Capitol Hill."

"Too true. But that's got to change." Duncan's jaw jutted at her.

"Why? " "Because the government's got its sights on health care. The
big reform package didn't fly, but that doesn't mean the government's
going to go away.

It's going to keep inching in, the old salami-slicing method.

Nothing's going to stop it." Duncan sighed. "Yeah, I know. Don't get
me wrong. I'm not opposed to everyone having some sort of coverage. I
hate the thought of anyone, especially a child, going untreated. But I
loathe the idea of the kakistocracy designing and administering the
program, imposing guidelines for medical decisions that should be a
matter solely between doctor and patient." His voice took on a TV
announcer's tone, " And now, from the people who brought you the House
Post Office scandal and the debatable, Health care!

" He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Doesn't it make sense to standardize medical care and costs across the
country? " His gaze was hard as steel. "Don't you think we've got
enough guidelines already?

" She thought of old Mrs. Thompson at Lynnbrook Hospital. "Well .

.

. " "What this bill will do is enforce cookbook medicine. The real
thrust of all this legislation isn't quality assuranceþit's cost
control.

They'll save a few bucks but the human costs will be huge."

"It doesn't have to be that way. Weþ" Duncan glanced at the carafe and
held up a hand. "Coffee's ready." He lifted the cone from the carafe
and placed it in the small chrome sink next to the microwave. Then he
filled two thick white diner-style mugs with the fresh, steaming
coffee. He handed one to Gin.

"Now this is coffee. Taste." Gin sniffedþthe aroma was fabulousþthen
sipped. Usually she drank her coffee black with a little sugar. This
didn't need sugar. The tSavor was so deep, so rich . .

.

"It's . . . " She struggled for words. "It's like I've never had real
coffee before. This is amazing." Duncan beamed. "It's worth the
trouble, isn't it? An anodyne for weltschmerz. I'll grind you up some
beans to take home. But use them soon. And if you use a regular drip
machine, neverþneverþleave the pot on a heater. Always decant the
coffee immediately into a carafe. Even the best coffee gets bitter
when it's overheated."

"Thanks. I'll remember that." Gin had had no idea Duncan was such a
coffee connoisseur. The rituals, the rules .

. . it was like a religion. But the result was awfully good.

They sipped in silence for a moment. Gin wandered along the glass wall
and admired the koi pool, the rock garden, and the dwarf shrubs that
lined it. She continued on, passing his desk. The top right drawer
was open. Inside was a glass injection vial filled with a clear amber
fluid.

Something else too. Something metallic, almost like a large trocar .

.

Suddenly Duncan was beside her, sliding the drawer closed.

"You were saying? " "Where was I? Well, the point I was trying to
make is that if I can get on a committee member's staff, I can see to
it that he gets some straight dope on how these guidelines will affect
patient care. And if I can influence him even a little, won't it be
worth it? " Duncan stared at her, slowly shaking his head. "For some
time now I've been worrying that you had no direction. I was afraid
you were just going to drift, make a career of moonlighting and locum
tenens work. Now I almost wish that were the case." Had he actually
been thinking about her? "Maybe I'll simply devote myself to
lexiphania." Duncan appeared taken aback. Had she stumped him?

Lexiphaniaþthe tendency to use obscure and unusual words. The irony
would be rich. How wonderful to catch him with a word that described
himself.

Duncan laughed. "Where'd you find that one? " "Wasn't easy, believe
me. ' '"All right. I plead guilty to compulsive grandiloquism, to
singlehandedly trying to correct for the entire language's drift into
banality." Damn. He did know it.

She said, "I don't think it's working."

"More's the pity." He gazed at her, smiling. "Lexiphania . . . that
s wonderful. How can I stay angry at you? But seriously, Gin, you've
been trained for a higher sort of work than being legislative aide to
some pretentious pinhead pol. I hate to see you wasting your
talents."

For a moment she was struck by how much he sounded like Peter. He'd
said almost exactly the same thing when she'd told him she was leaving
Louisiana to get involved in medical politics.

Focusing on Duncan, Gin bit her tongue and thought, I could say the
same about your facelifts.

As if reading her mind he smiled crookedly and said, "Not that I'm one
to talk about wasting training." For an instant there was real pain in
his eyes. Her heart went out to him.

"Duncan . . . whateverþ" He held up the coffee carafe. "Refill? "
'"No, thanks. Can I askþ? " "I don't envy you, Gin." Obviously he
didn't want to talk about Duncan Lathram. "I wouldn't want to be
starting out in medicine today and facing the terrain that's ahead of
you.

"All the more reason to get involved." Why couldn't he see that?

'"But what do you hope to accomplish? What is your goal down there on
Capitol Hill? " "Fair guidelines. Realistie guidelines we can all
live with."

"Never happen, " Duncan said. He sighed. "I hope you know what you're
doing, Gin."

"I've given it a lot of thought."

"Have you? They're a pretty corrupt bunch, Gin, andþ" "And I'm so
impressionable? " "No. It's not that. It's just that, well, as
doctors, we're a different breed.

Our values are different. We don't speak the same language. We don't
walk in the same shoes as other people."

"That sounds just a little elitist to me." He shrugged.

"Maybe. But sometimes I think the weight of the life-and-death
decisions doctors have to make sets them apart from the rest of
humanity. When you've felt someone's life draining through your hands,
and you've reeled him back in and sent him home to his family, it does
something to you. You've seen things that regular folk will never see,
done things they'll never do, glimpsed them at their most vulnerable,
when they're stripped of all their pretenses. You've been master of
life and death, and that can't help but change you. It leaves you one
step removed from everybody else. ' Gin had run up against this
gods-who-walk attitude all through her residency.

"It's time we ditched the god thing, don't you think? We're not gods,
and it's damaging to us and our patients to foster that kind of
reverence. We can do extraordinary things, seemingly miraculous
things.

But we're not gods. We're just people." He was sullen as he sipped
his coffee in silence.

Finally Gin said, "Doesn't look like we'll ever see eye to eye, does
it? " '"No, it doesn't." '"Can we agree to disagree, then? " "I
don't suppose I have much choice." '"You could fire me."

"I don't want to do that. But don't expect my blessing." '"I never
did." Bat I want it, dammit. I wish I didn't, but I do. "I don't
even know if I'll get the job. But if I do I'll have to adjust my
schedule toþ" "Cassidy can take up the slack. We'll work it out."

Gin felt a trickle of warmth, seeping through her. This - was a
blessing of sorts, wasn't it? If not, it would have to do.

"Thank you, Duncan. I didn't expectþ" "I want to keep you nearby .

.

. where I can keep an eye on you.

The warm trickle became a chill. What was that supposed to mean?

"Just don't let us down, Gin, " he said, his blue eyes burning into
hers. "Don't betray us." He held her locked in his gaze a moment
longer, then turned away.

"I'm glad we had this talk, Gin. The first of many, I hope. I'm sure
you've got some dictation to catch up on. ' "Yes. Sure. I'll see you
later." '"Be sure to let me know as soon as you hear from Marsden.

As for me, I'm off to the links." He pulled out a key ring and
matter-of-factly locked his top drawer. "Surgery tomorrow at eight.

" Idly wondering why he bothered locking the drawer, Gin waved and left
him.

This was turning out to be one strange day.

i G IN. \ EASY NOW, OLIVER SAID SOFTLY, WATCHING OVER HER shoulder,
coaching her.

"That's it. Just go easy . . . easy . . . " Gin hadn't felt like
being alone this afternoon. No word from Marsden's office, or from
Gerry, so she'd arranged to spend a couple of hours in Oliver's lab
practicing her implant-filling technique. She'd learn and get paid for
it.

She smelled garlic on his breath and wondered what he'd had for
lunch.

Nothing low cal, she was sure. Oliver had a weakness for Italian food
and didn't seem to care what effect it had on his waistline. Probably
linguine and clam sauce, don't spare the garlicþ Better forget Oliver's
dietary indiscretions. She needed to concentrate on what she was
doing.

Gin had the 26-gauge needle of a tuberculin syringe inserted in the end
of one of Oliver's medium, -size membranous implants and was injecting
it with normal saline. Had this been for real, she'd be working under
sterile conditions and filling the implant with Oliver's "secret
sauce." Staring through the magnifying lens centered in the round head
of the fluorescent examination lamp, she watched the half-inch-long
tubular membrane swell and stretch. Like filling the world's tiniest
water balloon.

"It's full now, " Oliver said. "Feel that back pressure? " She hadn't
felt any until nowþwhich was why half a dozen membranes lay ruptured on
the side of the tray. But this time she did feel a hint of resistance
on the plunger.

"Believe it or not, I think I do."

"Swell! Now it's time for the zapper." Gin repressed a smile as she
reached for the cautery handle. Did anyone else on earth still say
swell? Oliver had to be the last.

He was a bit of an enigma. Didn't seem to have much of a life outside
his lab. No wife or family. No significant other that she knew of.

He'd had the staff over to his house for a dinner party one night and
Gin had felt she knew less about him afterward than before.

'"Okay, " she said. "I'm ready."

"You know what to do. Just take your TIME" Gin had seen Oliver do
this a hundred times but had never got this far. She readied the
flattened tip of the cautery unit in position near the puncture site,
slowly withdrew the needle, then stepped on the round power pedal near
her left foot. A tiny blue spark arced from the tip to the implant,
searing and coagulating the protein membrane around the puncture.

She watched through the magnifying lens, waiting for a telltale bead of fluid to form, signaling the need for another zap. But the membrane
remained dry. She'd sealed the opening.

Success. Finally. A tiny triumph. Hardly made up for the fiasco in
Marsden's officer Monday or Allard's accident this morning, but right
now she'd take anything.

Gin looked up and found Oliver's round face grinning at her.

"It's going to be swell having someone else around who can fill these
things. I'm sick to death of it."

"Why don't you just hire an assistant or two to help with the scut
work? " "There's really not all that much to be done at this stage of
the studies. And I'd like to limit the number of people who know what
we're working with."

"And just what are we working with? " "Secret sauce."

"Oliver, come on.

Don't you think I have a right to know.

He thought a moment. "All right. Fair enough. But keep it under your
hat. This solution is not patentable, sodon't want anyone stealing my
thunder by beating me to market with it."

"Mum's the word, " she said.

"I'm sure I can trust you, " he murmured as if he'd just now realized
it.

He removed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses as he sat down next to her.

He began to talk, rapidly, as if someone had opened a valve. Gin
realized he must have been dying to expound on his secret sauce.

'"Are you familiar with the work done by the Department of Cell and
Structural Biology in the University of Manchester in England? "
"No.

Not a bit."

"Not many clinicians are. Okay then, how about fetal surgery? Have
you seen any of that? " "Some down in Tulane. It wasn't part of the
internal medicine rotation, obviously, but I picked up some information
by osmosis."

"Good. Then you know that a fetus can have surgery in utero and be
born months later completely scar free.

" "Yes, I remember a couple of OB residents talking about that. This
high-risk baby they'd delivered had had a mass removed from its
abdominal wall at about sixteen weeks' gestation and was born without a
trace of an incision."

"Exactly. But the surgery has to be performed during the first five
months. Any procedure done later leaves a scar just as it would on an
adult. Cellular biologists have wondered about it for years. What's
happening in there? What's different? What prevents the usual excess
amount of collagen from being laid down and forming the scars we all
know so well? The folks at the University of Manchester came up with
the answer a few years ago." Gin snapped her fingers. She remembered
something . . . where had she seen it? "Some sort of growth factor,
wasn't it? " Oliver clapped his hands.
"Excellent! Transforming growth factor beta, to be precise. They
identified three types of the growth factor, and found that the third,
beta type 3, falls off sharply at the end of the second tnmester of
pregnancy. The type-three moleculeþI call it beta-3 for shortþhas been
synthesized since then and that's the key ingredient in the secret
sauce." '"So that's the secret behind Duncan's incredible results. "
''llh-uh, " Oliver said, wagging a finger. "Duncan has the eyes and
the hands that do the remodeling. Even without a drop of beta-3 his
patients would have minimal scarring. All I've done is find a way to
gild the lily."

"But why the implants? Couldn't he just coat the incisions with
beta-3? ' "No. You need it in the final phase of healing. Remember
the three stages of wound repair, inflammation, proliferas ion, and
remodeling?

Beta-3 does its work in stage three where scar tissue forms to replace
granulation tissue. At suturing time, beta-3 would accomplish
nothing.

You need a means of delayed release." as, slaving away, testing
antidepressants on rats in Skinner boxes as a psychopharmacologist at
GEM Pharm during the day, and at night working in my home on a
continuous delivery system for medication. Norplant was the hot topic
then, but the Norplant implants have to be removed after five years. I
thought I could improve on that, develop an implant that would deliver
its medication in a metered dose for five years, maybe longer, and then
dissolve. Great idea, no? " "I take it that didn't happen."

"Not completely. I developed a soft, flexible, crystalprotein matrix
that would indeed dissolve without a trace.

However, it was nonpermeable. Wouldn't allow a drop of anything on one
side to pass through to the otherþuntil it dissolved, and then it would
dump its entire contents into the surrounding tissues. I'd come up
with nothing more than a very elaborate and expensive way of giving
someone an injection. I was terribly discouraged. ' "And then along
came Duncan."

"Right. After his . . . well, after he left vascular surgery, I heard
about Manchester's results with transforming growth factor beta type 3
and saw how my imperfect slow-delivery membrane might be perfect for
delivering something else. The FDA approved us for clinical trials and
the results have been astounding." Gin had seen patients on
postsurgical follow-up visits and only with a magnifying glass was it
possible to tell they'd had surgery. Suddenly Gin was struck by the
enormous potential for Oliver's implants.

"But plastic surgery is just icing on the cake, " she said. "Think of
what you could do in general surgery." Oliver was nodding excitedly.

"Of course. The implants would-have the most value in trauma cases,
but they'll become routine in procedures like hysterectomies and
appendectomies. A few weeks post-op you could wear your bikiniþheck,
you could even go to a nxde beach if you wishedþand no one would even
guess you'd had surgery." Gin's hand strayed to the front of her
blouse. Through the fabric she could feel the upper end of the thick,
numb, puckered ridge of scar that ran the length of her abdomen.

Duncan's scar.

Bikini? she thought. I've never owned even a two-piece. Never even
considered it.

"But the biggest benefit I see is in pediatrics, " Oliver was saying.

"Kids scar more than adults, and some of those scars, depending where
they are, can be disabling because they don't stretch as the rest of
the body grows." Tell me about it.

"That sounds wonderful."

"It will be. And the word is out. Other surgeons want to try the
implant. Companies are calling every day wanting to license it and the
FDA has put it on the fast track for approval. And that's only the
start. Duncan came up with an innovative idea on how to enhance the
implant, and I've just about got the bugs worked out of the new,
improved model. And . . . " He raised his hand and wagged his index
finger in the air. "And . . . someone very important has taken a very
personal interest in the implant procedure." ' Who? " "Sorry. I
can't tell you. Not yet, anyway." She didn't want to care, but the
way his eyes shone with excitement piqued her curiosity.

"Come on, Oliver. You just told me about beta-3, you can trust me with
this too."

"No. Duncan would kill me. It's his secret after all.

And it's big."

"Okay, " she declaimed with her best forlorn sigh. "I guess I'll just
have to read about it in the papers." '"Oh, dear. I hope you never do
that. But I have a feeling Duncan may tell you himself when the time
comes."

"Speaking of Duncan, you started telling me about the daughter Lisa he
had. Does that mean what I think it does? " Oliver nodded glumly.

"She was just eighteen when she died five years ago." From her days as
a teenaged file clerk in Duncan's office, Gin vaguely remembered an
occasional mention of his two children, a boy and a girl, both younger
than she.

"Five years ago . . . I was away in medical school then. I never
heard about it. What happened? " "A fall. She never regained
consciousness. It was terrible. Duncan was devastated. It was the
straw that almost broke his back."

"Why? Was there something else?

" "I've said enough. If Duncan wants you to know, I'm sure he'll tell
you. He's put it all behind him." His gaze wandered away. "He's put
a lot of things behind him." He took a deep breath. "But as for the
here and now, why don't you solidify your technique by filling a few
more membranes? Then call it "Will do, " she said, and patted his
shoulder. "One thing's for sure, Oliver, it looks to me like these
implants are going to make you a very rich man."

"Oh, I hope so."

"What are you going to do then? " "Get as far away from here as I
can.

" "Really? Where? Hawaii? " He sighed. "Anyplace where I don't have
to watch Duncan wasting his talents like he is . . . prettifying twits
and playing . . . golf! " And then he hurried out with his white lab
coat flapping around him.

Gin stared after him in shock.

DUNCAN

DUNCAN GRIPPED THE LITTLE GIRL'S CHIN BETWEEN HIS thumb and
forefinger.

He tilted her head up, then down, then rotated it left and right.

Her name was Kanesha and she was six. She wouldn't meet his gaze
directly, and her hand kept rising and fluttering about the left corner
of her mouth, hovering there like a hummingbird that had found a
nectar-loaded blossom. Only there was nothing sweet or flowerlike
about the thick wad of scar tissue massed at that corner of her
mouth.

Her skin was a glossy milk chocolate, her eyes huge and a deeper brown,
the color of espresso. She had big white teeth and a smile that would
have been knockout beautiful if not for that scar, fusing the lips at
the corner, cutting every smile in half.

Her skin was scrubbed, her hair was braided, her shirt and shorts had
been ironed. Kanesha and her mother had dressed up for her visit to
the doctor.

Duncan liked that, not simply because it showed respect for him, but
for themselves as well. Some of the people he saw in the clinic had
estranged relations with all species of the soap genus and didn't give
a damn. What the hell, it was a free clinic, right' Right. The
maxillofacial clinic occupied a fifth-floor corner of one of D. C.

General Hospital's older buildings. The seats and fixtures in the
waiting room were worn but clean, the examining room smelled faintly of
the bleach that had been used to wipe the counters, its sickly yellow
paint was chipped, its examination table needed reupholstering, but the
staff was efficient and, more important, they cared.

Duncan turned to Kanesha's mother. "When did this happen, Mrs.
Green?

" No father was listed on the intake form, but Duncan had never been
able to adjust to the noncommittal "Ms " Cindy Green was young, barely
into her twenties, probably little more than a baby herself when she'd
had Kanesha. The intake form said she worked as a waitress. She was
very pretty in a round-faced, full-lipped way. Duncan studied those
lips.

Kanesha's mouth would look exactly like her mother's if nOt for the
cicatricial deformity.

"About four and a half years ago. When she was seventeen months old.

Happened before I knew it." How many times had he heard that one?

But he kept his voice neutral, "They're a handful at that age, aren't
they." ' One minute she was sitting on the floor playing with the pots
and pans. I turn to clean the sink and I hear her scream. I turn
around and she . . . " Her throat worked and her voice grew thick.

"She was knocked out and her mouth was smoking. I knew she was
teething but I never dreamed she'd bite an electrical cord."

"Happens more often than you'd think." Which was true. Obviously it
happened more often in neglected kids, but he didn't think Kanesha was
neglected. Just one of those tragic accidents.

Near tragic, actually.

Duncan could fix it.

He was mapping out the incisions now . . . debride the scar tissue,
restore the mouth to full width, evert some mucosa for the lips . .

.

This wasn't the first time he'd reconsmlcted an electrical burn on a
child's face, and it wouldn't be the last. Kanesha was a lucky one.

She'd survived without brain damage, and she had a mother who cared.

And now she had him.

A shame he couldn't use the beta-3 on her, but a clinic was no place
for an experimental protocol. The hospital didn't want the hassles,
and he couldn't blame them. As soon as free-clinic patients heard the
word "experimental" they started thinking Frankenstein and feared
someone was going to use them as guinea pigs.

"Can you fix her, Dr. Duncan? When I saw what you did for little
Kenniqueþ" "Who? " "Kennique LeFave . . . you know . . . her cheek
was allþ" "Oh, yes. Of course." The names people came up with these
days. But he certainly remembered the three-year-old who'd fallen from
a window last year and ripped the right side of her face to the bone.

That had been a real challenge.

"All her mommy does is sing the praises of Dr. Duncan, Dr. Duncan.

So I knew I just had to bring Kanesha to you. Do you think you can .

. . ? " Duncan nodded. "It will take a couple of procedures, but yes,
I think we can fix her up good as new." The mother's eyes were intent
on Duncan's. "Can you? Can you really? " "Is that a note of doubt I
detect? ' "No, it's justþ" "Smile for me, ' Duncan said.

" What? " '"Go ahead. Smile." The mother smiledþa lovely smile, even
when forced.

Duncan reached out and grasped her chin just as he had Kanesha's.

"I'd like to make your daughter's smile look just like yours.

'"You can do that? ' the mother whispered.

Yes. He could. This was the age of miracles, and he was a miracle
worker.

But still . . . never promise too much. Better to give them more than
they're expecting.

"A certain amount depends on Kanesha. Not everyone heals the same. So
. . . a smile like yours . . . that'll be okay? " The mother smiled
softly, hesitantly, but genuinely this TIME "Yes.
That will be okay."

"Good! " He pressed a buzzer on the wall. A heavyset black nurse
entered. "Marge, see if we can set up Kanesha for a facial
reconstructionþleft upper and lower labialþf. or late Wednesday,
morning.

" "Next week? " the mother said.

"Too soon? " "Well, no, I just . . .

"She's had that scar long enough, don't you think? " The mother looked
at him, staring into his eyes, looking for assurance there.

"Yes, " she said finally. "Too long." As Marge led them out, Cassie
Trainor stepped into the room and slipped behind him. She was tall,
blond, and well proportioned, her uniforms were tailored to maximize
the effect of her ample bust. Midforties, trim, and sexy. She gripped
his shoulders and began to knead the muscles at the back of his neck
with her thumbs.

"How's Dr. Duncan today? ' Duncan had everyone at the clinic refer to
him as "Dr. Duncan." It was a legitimate moniker and it obscured the
Lathram name.

He didn't want it getting around that Duncan Lathram was doing charity
work. He'd made such a point of refusing to deal with insurance
companiesþprivate, government, or whateverþand about performing no
surgery that was necessary, that he didn't want to have to explain why
he was fixing up ghetto kids for free.

He had stopped explaining.

"I'm fine, and that feels good."

"So, what're you doing after we finish here? Ready to buy that drink
you've been promising? " Duncan tried to keep his shoulders from
tightening. He'd been ducking Cassie for months now. Not long after
his divorce they'd had a little fling.

Very hot. Too hot not to cool down, as the song went. She was an
excellent nurse and uninhibited under the covers. He remembered one
night when . . . no, now was not the time to relive that, not with her
fingers kneading his shoulders. Eventually, they'd gone their own
ways, but every now and again Cassie seemed to like to fan the embers
of old blazes. Duncan knew there were plenty of old blazes in Cassie's
past.

Too many for comfort nowadays when casual sex had stopped being a
recreational sport and metamorphosed into serious business, grim
business, requiring research and background checks, especially with
someone with such a busy and enthusiastically varied history as Cassie
Trainor.

He hated that something so basic and so wonderful as sex had become a
source of paranoia and anxiety, a new religious sect with purification
rites and latex Eucharists.

What a world. What a goddamn screwed-up world.

Casual sex was all he had the heart for these days, and casual sex was
like Russian roulette. No time or heart to invest in a lasting
relationship, and no desire to pursue one, not after what had happened
to his marriage.

What had happened to him since the divorce? Where had his passion for
life gone? He'd withdrawn from all his old friends. Not
consciously.

He hadn't even realized what was happening until it was done. He spent
a lot of time alone now, but that didn't seem to bother him. He didn't
know this preoccupied, isolated man he had become.

Maybe Lisa hadn't been an aberration. Maybe it ran in the family.

Whatever the reason, he realized he'd become a man who feared intimacy
more than solitude.

But at least today he could tell Cassie the truth.

"I'd love to, Cassie, but I'm meeting my son for dinner." '"Too bad.

How old is he now? ' "Twenty-one last month." Lisa would have been 23
last spring, already graduated a year. "Starting his senior year in
college. We're trying that new Italian restaurant in Georgetown. "
"Giardia? " Duncan laughed. "Not funny." Giardinello. I'd ask you
along but we're going to talk about the flare."

"I getcha. Okay.

Maybe next TIME"

"Definitely." She glided away and he watched the white fabric of her
uniform slide back and forth over her buttocks, an urge rose within and
he almost changed his mind, almost called her back. Instead he looked
at his watch. He'd have to pick Brad up soon at the house.

The house . . .

 Used to be his house too. Now it was just Diana's. He wondered how
she could live there, walk through that foyer where . . .

Duncan rubbed his eyes and rose from the chair. When things finally
fell apart, he didn't contest the divorce action. So while it wasn't
exactly an amicable dichotomy, it never got vicious. He let Diana have
what she wanted, agreed to generous alimony payments, and, of course,
he'd seen to it that Brad had whatever he needed. He loved his son,
wanted to stay close to him, and most of all, wanted to spare him the
spectacle of his parents hissing and clawing at each other.

And Duncan got . . . what?

What did I get besides out?

He and Diana still were on speaking terms, but only on neutral,
practical matters, never anything personal. And he would never set
foot in that house again.

He tended to heal slowly, sometimes not at all. He had no implant full
of beta-3 for the soul.

Which was why he had been on the west portico of the Capitol yesterday
morning. Trying to heal himself by balancing the scales, by closing
the circle, by imposing a symmetry on the chaos his life had become.

Only then would this cancerous rage cease its relentless metastasis and
allow him to get on with his life.

He barked a laugh in the empty room. His life? What life?

Marge poked her head in. "Dr. Duncan . . . you all right? " "Fine,
Marge. Just fine." That's a laugh, he thought, waving her off.

Nothing at all is fine.

Yesterday morning . . . another failure. Why wasn't anything ever
simple? Why couldn't things go the way he planned?

Neither of the other two had gone the way he'd intended either.

Lane and Schulz, both dead, one in a car, the other in a twenty-story
swan dive.

And yesterday . . . Allard was supposed to crack up in front of the
cameras, not crack his skull on the Capitol steps. Duncan hadn't
wanted him physically hurt. Hell, any hired thug could do that. He'd
come prepared to see Allard mortally embarrassed, terminally
humiliated, politically ruined, he'd wanted his credibility bloodied,
not his head.
Damn! All the planning, the exquisite timing, wasted. Now Allard was
just a victim of a bad fall, pitied, pathetic, an object of sympathy
instead of ridicule.

Duncan wondered at his own coldheartedness, but only briefly. He had
plenty of warm emotions left, but they were already spoken for. No
leftovers for the likes of Congressman Allard.

Allard, at least, was still alive.

Next time . . . next time he'd get it right.

Duncan rubbed his eyes. He'd started this for a payback in kind, not
to kill or maim. Merely devastate their careers, their marriages,
their reputations, and let them live among the ruins. A living
death.

Li/ee 7nine.

Although not his intent, the fatalities didn't particularly bother
him.

After all, Lisa was dead because of them, and she was worth ten,
twenty, a hundred of them.

Gin's presence yesterday had been another complication, one of those
perverse coincidences that might one day trip him up and expose what
he'd been doing.

Slim as it was, the possibility of exposure knotted his gut.

Indictment for murder, a circus of a trial, then jail. The scandal .

. . what would it do to Brad? His son was one of the few things left
in his life that mattered to him.

He'd do anything to avoid that. Anything.

But where W'dS the risk, really? He had a virtually untraceable toxin,
and an all-but-invisible means of delivery. The only one who might put
it together would be Oliver, but his preoccupied brother tended to take
little notice of events outside his lab. The only other real risk was
someone like Gin. Someone who knew the patients, knew about the
implants, and was bright enough to put all the pieces together.

Remote as it was, he grimaced at the possibility. What a frightful
quandary that would be. What would he do if Gin stumbled onto him?

He'd have to find a way to neutralize her. He couldn't allow her to
.

. .

He shook off the grim train of thought. It wouldn't happen. Vincent
would be the next to last. One more after him and then Duncan would
close this chapter of his life.

But the last one would be the big one. The biggest.

MARTHA GINA DELAYED HER RETURN TO THE APARTMENT. SHE didn't want to
hear any bad news. And no news was bad news as far as the Hill was
concerned. The capper would be a message from Gerry telling her he had
to call off their dinner plans, or worse yet, no call from Gerry at
all.

Gimme a break, she thought. Something's got to go right this week.

So she got off the Metro at the zoo and did a slow walk along Calvert
Street across the Duke Ellington Bridge into her neighborhood.

Adams Morgan was sometimes described as funky, sometimes eclectic, but
most times just plain weird. Gin loved the area. A big triangle on
the hill sloping down toward Dupont Circle, roughly bordered by Calvert
Street and Florida and Connecticut avenues, where you could find ethnic jewelry, folk art, and cutting-edge music while breathing the exotic
aromas of an array of cuisines that could rival the entire United
Nations for diversity. Where else in the District could you find an
Argentine cafe flanked by a top-notch French restaurant and a Caribbean
bistro? Even Ethiopian restaurants. Who'd ever heard of an Ethiopian
restaurant? Yet there were three in her neighborhood.

Gin browsed an African bookstore, did touchy-feely with some Guatemalan
fabric, tried on some Turkish shoes, then decided she'd delayed the
inevitable long enough. She walked to her building, an old brick row
house on Kalorama between Columbia and Eighteenth, it had a tower on
its downhill side and was painted sky blue. She let herself into her
third-floor apartment.

The rental agency had listed it as "furnished." Gin thought "not
unfurnished'' would have been more in line with most
truth-in-advertising laws. The rickety furniture had been varnished so
many times that the type of wood underlying all those coats was a
mystery. - Sometimes she suspected the varnish was the only thing
holding some of the pieces together. But it was clean, and she loved
her front bay window high over the street. She'd had a new mattress
delivered and added a few of her own touchesþa bright yellow throw rug
and her three posters of Monet's Le J Nyrntheas. She kept meaning to brighten up the place, maybe with some new curtains. As soon as she
had the TIME
She went straight to her bedroom where the answering machine crouched
on the nightstand. The message light was blinking. A good start.

The first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be
able to come over for a family dinner.

"Soon, Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her
much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old
homestead in Arlington at least twice a month.

The next voice was Gerry's.

"Hi, Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the
way I'd hoped for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excse?

"But I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that
we'll have to eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet
at a, uh, Taco Bell? There's one up your way on Connecticut, near
Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all when you
get there. 6 you get there. Which I hope you do. But if you can't
make it I'll understand. Just let me know if you're not gonna show,
otherwise, see you there at six. Hasta la vista." Gin pressed the
repeat button. Yes, she'd heard it right, Taco Bell.

Truth was, she liked Taco Bell, but it didn't quite make her short list
of restaurants for a rendezvous with an old high school crush.

On the bright side, at least he hadn't stood her up.

But Taco Bell?

Gin hunted for a parking space amid the flow of D. C. workers heading
home to Maryland. Connecticut Avenue was mostly residential at its
northern endþstrips of street-front shops interspersed with low-rise
apartments and an occasional office building, all flanked by
magnificent oaks and elms. Only three or four miles from Capitol Hill
but like another country.

She found a spot up the street from the Taco Bell and turned off the
engine.

Now what?

She scanned the curb and sidewalk around the storefronr. No sign of
Gerry. She didn't know what his car looked like. She didn't feel like
going inside just to stand around, waiting. In fact, she didn't like
any of this. Where was his wife, if he still had one? Why Taco
Bell?

Why had she even come?

Lighten up, Panzella.

Five minutes of watching a steady stream of bodies of all races and
ages in and out of the door and no Gerry.

All right. Let's get this over with.

She went inside and looked around. This storefront Taco Bell wasn't as
heavy on the southwestern motif as its freestanding kin she'd seen in
Louisiana, it sported a few adobe touches, but the service counter, the
soft drink machine, the booths and tables were all generic fast-food
decor. Nothing generic about the aromas, though. The air was redolent
of onions and spices. Gin realized how hungry she was.

She heard her name, turned, and saw Gerry waving from the other side of
a partition. He stood as she approached but when she reached his booth
she saw that he wasn't alone. Another female occupied the opposite
bench. She was adorable, with short, wavy blond hair and huge blue
eyes.

She looked to be about five and was working on a burrito half the
length of her arm.

"I'm really sorry about this, " Gerry said. "My sitter had unbreakable
plans for this evening. This is my daughter Martha. Martha, say hello
to GinaþI mean, Dr. Panzella." Martha waved and smiled around a
mouthful of burrito.

'"Martha's a vegetarian, " he said.

Gin stared at her. "Get out." He raised his right hand, palm out.

"True. I swear. I could put you on and say it's an ethical position
but the fact is she just doesn't like meat. Never did. Even as a baby
she used to spit out her junior foods if they were so much as flavored
with meat."

"But she'll eat tacos? " "Bean burritos. Loves bean burritosþwith
green sauce and extra cheese.

Right, Martha? " The little blonde looked up and nodded vigorously.

Obviously she'd been following every word. "And hold the onions, " she
added in a squeaky voice.

Gerry beamed at her. "Right. Always hold the onions. So that's why
we're here. Miss Fussytummy has a very limited palate, so there was no
point in bringing her anywhere else. I il hope you don't mind. I'll
make it up to you, I promise." Gin had been taken completely by
surprise by Martha but was charmed and touched by the warm
father-daughter bond she sensed.

"Don't be silly. I'm glad you brought her. In fact, I'm honored to
meet her."

"Great. What can I get you? " "How about two bean burritos with extra
cheese . . . " She winked at Martha. "And hold the onions. ' Martha
grinned and scrinched up one side of her face in a grotesque attempt to
return the wink. Gin laughed and sat down opposite her.

"Are you a real doctor? " Martha said, cocking her head and looking up
at her. Her cheeks were pink roses, her skin flawless.

'"Yes, I am."

"Do you give shots? " "Sometimes."

"I don't like shots." She held up a pair of fingers. "I had to get
two shots before they let me into kinnergarden." What a darling. So
relaxed, so comfortable with a stranger. Obviously she liked people,
and that spoke volumes about her home life.

"Shots keep you from getting sick." She gave a Jackie Mason shrug.

"I still get sick! " Gin was saved by Gerry's return.

'"I brought you a Mountain Dew. Through extensive research and
experimentation, Martha and I have determined that Taco Bell food goes
best with a Dew."

"Mountain Deeeew! " Martha said and raised her cup. Gerry clicked his
own against it, then Martha waited, eyeing Gin expectantly. She
clicked her own cup against Martha's, then they all sipped.

"Sorry there's nothing higher octane available, " Gerry said.

"Since I have to play doctor in less than two hours, Mountain Dew has
all the octane I need." Gin watched across the table as Gerry slid in
next to his daughter.

She saw the resemblance between the twoþsame blond hair, same blue
eyes, same nose and smile. And the way that little smile flashed for
Gerry .

. . here was a little girl who loved her daddy.

Gin was intrigued, maybe even fascinated. She'd been looking forward
to this time with Gerry as a way of tying up one of her life's loose
ends. A dateþif you could call it thatþwith the big man on campus,
something she'd dreamed of all through high school. But Gerry was so
much more than she'd expected. He was warm, he was open, and he was a
doting father. She liked that. Liked it a lot. She wanted to know
more about him. The closure she'd sought here was opening to something
new.

Between bites and sips they caught up on the decade or so since high
school. Gerry told her about joining the PBI after graduating U.V.A
with a criminology degree but never mentioned marriage or where Martha
came from. It took all her will to keep from asking. He nodded
encouragingly as Gina took her turn and skimmed through her education,
but his head snapped up when she mentioned Duncan Lathram.

"You work for Lathram? The celebrity surgeon? " "He's not the
celebrity, just his patients."

"Yeah, " Gerry said sourly. "And you've got to be a celebrity to be
treated by him." Gin wondered at the sudden note of hostility in his
voice.

"Every day he treats people no one's ever heard of." Gerry leaned
forward and pointed to the hairline scars on his face. "He wouldn't
take me."

"How . . . ? " "M.V.A." He glanced quickly at Martha.

"Tell you about it sometime." Motor vehicle accident. So that
explained the scars.

"Whoever worked on you did a nice job."

"Dr. Hernandez is tops. But I requested Lathram first and he wouldn't
even give me a consultation.

" '"Duncan takes only certain kinds of cases."

"The insurance company was footing the bill, so it wasn't a question of
money. Why wouldn't he help me? " She was tempted to say, Because he
wonnt operate on anyone who needs him, just people who want him. just
vanity surgery, the more famous and narcissistic, the better. No
trauma repair. But how could Gin explain what she herself didn't
understand? Better not to get into it.

"I don't know, Gerry. He's got some strange ideas about who he takes
as patients."

"And some of his patients have had some bad luck lately."

"You mean like Congressman Allard? " Gerry stiffened in his seat.
"That guy who fell this morning? On the Capitol steps? He was a
Lathram patient too? ' "What do you mean, too? " Gerry didn't answer
immediately. His eyes took on a faraway look. What was he thinking?

And how did the FBI knowþand why should they careþwho was and wasn't
Duncan's patient?

His mind racing, Gerry stared past Gin at the chicken faiitas poster on
the window behind her.

Allard was a Duncan Lathram patient too. That made three . . . three
Lathram patients with fatal or near-fatal accidents in the past month
or so. What couldþ?

werryf He shook himself free of speculation and focused on Gin again.

God, he was drawn to her. All that glossy black hair and deep brown,
almost-black eyes, and he loved the way her mouth curved up at the
corners when she smiled. He'd never noticed any of that when she was
an overweight kid. But then, he'd never looked at her much when she
was Pasta.

That had to be part of it. They had a history. He'd known her when,
back in the Bad Old Days when she was a homely . chubette, and again,
now, when she was sleek and turning heads.

But he hadn't known her then, not really, and he certainly didn't know
her now. But he sensed things about her, strength and confidence
surging within her, and that was as sexy as anything external.

She'd remade herselfþdecided how she wanted to be, who she wanted to
be, and become that person.

And now that person was waiting for an answer.

He said, "Two powerful legislators have died in the past month.

Congressman Lane and Senator Schulz. Both wereþ" "Patients of Duncan
Lathram. I know. But they were accidents.

Weren't they? " "That's what they appear to be so far."

"How did you know they were both Duncan's patients? " He narrowed his
eyes and said, "Vee haf ways . . . " while his mind ranged ahead,
calculating how much he should and could tell her.

" I'm serious, Gerry." She seemed upset. Why? Lathram was just her
boss. Or was there more to it?

"It just happened to come up in the investigations."

"I heard about the investigations. Why? " '"Two political bigwigs?

Violent deaths within a few weeks of each other? The Bureau
investigates. If there is a connection, we want to be the firsr to
know. ' '"Oh, " she said, leaning back. "I guess that makes sense."

"Allard's accident wasn't fatal, but he won't be doing much legislating
for a while."

"What do you mean? " '"Apparently he's been babbling nonsense since he
came to in the hospital."

"Really? ' she said, her brow furrowing. "Must be some sort of
postconcussion syndrome. Poor guy."

"Must be." Three disabling mishapsþtwo permanently soþand all patients
of Duncan I'm sorry - but - the - doctor - doesn't handle ^ posttrauma
Lathram.

Gerry wondered what other links the three men might have to the good
doctor.

""Scuse me, Dad." Gerry looked around as Martha nudged him with her
hip.

"Where do you think you're going, miss? ' "Need another Mountain
Dew.

" "Think you can handle it yourself? " She rolled her eyes.

"Da-deee!

" "Okay, but only half a cup." He slid off the bench to let her out.

"Got enough money? " Another roll of the baby blues. "Free refills,
Dad! " "Right. I knew that." He sat down again but never let her out
of his sight as she made her way to the drink dispenser. She knew
exactly what to do, and half of her fun in coming here was holding the
cup under the ice dispenser and letting the cubes clunk into it, then
filling it from the Mountain Dew spigot. So he let her do it on her
own. But Gerry was watching her and everybody around her. Anybody got
the least bit frisky with Martha and he'd been on them like a pit bull
on a T-bone.

"She's a doli, " Gin said.

That she is, " he replied, never taking his eyes off her.

'"You never mentioned her mother." He glanced at Gin's intent
expression, then back toward the drink dispenser.

"Remember Karen Shannick? The tall blond? " "The cheerleader?

Sure.

" '"Well, she went to U.V.A too. We got serious in college and were
married right after. Martha came along about a year later."

"You still together? " He pointed to the scars on his face and spoke
quickly to get the story out before Martha came back.

- "These are from a windshield. A rainy night on 50. Truck jackknifed
in front of us. I was driving, Karen was in the passenger seat, Martha
in her car seat behind me. We slid right into the truck. Martha was
fine, my face was hamburger, and Karen . . . Karen didn't make it. "
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gin's hand dart to her mouth.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! " Not as sorry as I was.

"The really sad part is, Martha doesn't remember her mother. We have
pictures, but that's all Karen is to Martha. I wish . . . " His
throat constricted. Karen had been the careful one, and she'd been
wearing her seat belt, Gerry hadn't bothered with his that night. Yet
Karen was dead and Gerry was alive.

Wasn't fair.

He saw them sliding across the wet pavement, swerving out of control,
his hands hauling on the steering wheel as he rammed the brakes to the
floor, watching the rear corner of the truck loom in the passenger
window before It smashed through the glass into Karen. . . .

Not fair.

He'd been an emotional basket case afterward, and his cutup face only
added to the misery. Martha hadn't recognized him, screamed whenever
she saw him. He looked like the Frankenstein monster. And Dr. Duncan
Lathram had refused to treat him . . .

He blinked and saw Martha hurrying back to him with her brimming
plastic cup of Mountain Dew clutched between her little hands. She'd
never finish it all, but so what? She'd gone and filled it herself.

'"So Martha and I are managing on our own, " he said as he helped her
back into her seat. "And trying to spend as much time together as my
schedule permits." Which wasn't nearly enough for him. But what could
he expect as a field agent? This wouldn't last much longer, he
hoped.
As soon as he was offered an S.S.A spot, he was taking itþno matter
where it wasþso he could get on a nine-to-five schedule and be with her
more.

Right now she went to kindergarten, then after school to Mrs.
Snedecker's. Thank God for Mrs. Snedecker.

He smoothed Martha's blond bangs and adjusted her Minnie Mouse
barrettes. Incredible how much he'd learned. He could bathe Martha,
shampoo hair, wash clothes, iron dresses, buy tights. His mother had
helped some, but last year her heart had given out.

So it was Gerry and Martha. And God he was glad to have her. She'd
filled some of the void Karen had left in his life. He might have gone
to pieces but he'd had to hold together for Martha.

He still saw Karen. She came to him in his dreams. He'd ask her how
he was doing with Martha but she never answered.

How was he doing?

Martha'smiled up at him and he kissed her forehead.

"But enough about me, " he said to Gin. "What were you doing in the
Hart Building today? It's not exactly a doctor hangout." She told him
about her quest to have a say in the Guidelines bill, her lackluster
interview with Senator Marsden's chief of staff, and her aborted
interview with Allard.

"All that medical cramming and you want to hang with the pols? " She
laughed, "You sound like Duncan."

"Well, maybe he's got a point."

"It's not all I want to doþjust a part. And I am going to do it. All
of it." She rattled the cubes in her cup. "I think I could use a
refill too. ' Gerry reached for her cup and started to rise. "Let
meþ" "Thanks, " she said, holding it out of his reach, "but I may want
a different flavor this TIME" Gerry watched her stroll to the drink
dispenser, watched most of the other guys in sight follow her
progress.

Yes, she was definitely worth a second look. Even a third.

And I am going to do it. All of it.

The fiery determination in her eyes made her even more attractive. A
self-made woman. She'd gone from a girl who could only be described as
a schlub, to a woman with Iimitless possibilities.
"Martha, " he whispered, "I do believe I'm becoming infatuated. "
Martha didn't look up. "That's cause there's beans in this stuff.

Gerry laughed out loud.

"But don't worry, " Martha said. "We can tell Gin about it. She'll
make you better She's a doctor. ' '"No, no, " Gerry said, gently
pressing a finger over her lips. "We won't tell Gin anything about
it.

At least not yet." DUNCAN -)UNCAN AND BRAD STEPPED OUT OF IL
GIARDINELLO INTO the sulfurous air of Georgetown's M Street. The
traffic streaming in from Virginia was stop-and-go, and the carbon
monoxide from the idling cars mixed with the light fog drifting up from
the nearby Potomac. The concoction hung in the still fall air like a
toxic pall.

They turned east and headed back toward the car, passing a gallimaufry
of restaurants, bars, bistros, upscale clothing and jewelry stores,
alternative music shops, and, yes, even a condom shop.

"Not a bad meal, ' Brad said.

"No, not bad at all if you like your pasta overcooked, your veal
practically raw, air thick with smoke, and acoustics so bad you can
barely hear yourself think. The service was dilatory and indifferent
at best, the decor was like one of the Borgias' bad dreams, the wine
list wouldn't pass on the Bowery, and the espresso . . . " He
shuddered.

"Execrable." Suddenly he smiled. "I must remember to recommend the
place to your mother." Brad gave his father a gentle punch on the
shoulder. "Come on, now.

None of that."

"All right."

"I guess we won't be back here real soon."

"Of course we will. As soon as it changes its name, owner, and
chef."

Brad only shook his head, smiling.

Duncan loved this boy, this young man, this good-natured
twenty-something with his open face and guileless blue eyes, his long,
lean body, his too-long brown hair, the way he never wore socks and
never cinched his tie all the way up and never fastened the top button
on his shirt.

Memories swirled around him like the leaves starting to drop from the
treesþswimming lessons in grammar school, middle school science
projects, the trauma of not making the varsity cut for the high-school
basketball team, all the ups and downs of raising a child.

Somehow, he thought, we did all right with Brad. We weren't the best
parents, what with our preoccupation with Lisa and all her problems, my
own self-absorption, but somehow, in spite of everything, Brad turned
out all right. A testament to the primacy of nature over nurture.

Impulsively, Duncan threw an arm around his son's shoulder and pulled
him close. He wasn't given much to outward displays of affection, but
God he loved this boy.

"Thanks for tolerating me." Brad put an arm around Duncan's waist.

"Somebody has to.

Each with an arm still around the other, they crossed Wisconsin and
followed M Street's gentle down slope toward Rock Creek.

"So you're not disappointed? " Brad said.

"What do I have to do, " Duncan said, 'have it tattooed on my
forehead?

No. En-oh. I am not disappointed."

"That's such an awesome relief, I can't tell you." Brad had told him
he wanted to get together and talk about the futureþhis plans for his
own future. Duncan had suggested dinner. œt turned out Brad hadn't so
much wanted to discuss what he planned to do with his future, as what
he planned not to do.

And he did not plan to go to medical school.

Years ago, before his public lapidation by the Guidelines committee,
before managed care snared the medical profession in its tendrils,
Duncan would have been bitterly disappointed .

But tonight he was almost thrilled.

"Why should I be upset because you don't want to spend another
eight-to-ten years in brain-busting study for the privilege of
answering to panels of political appointees? The only thing medicine's
got going for it anymore is job . , , security.

'"Yeah. People will always need doctors, I guess."
"That they will.

But the doctor-patient relationship is eroding. There used to be an
almost sacred bond between a doctor and a patient that no one could
break. The examination room was the equivalent of a confessional. The
intimate secrets that used to be hieroglyphically recorded in our
crabbed shorthand and hermetically sealed behind the inviolable walls
of our offices are now open to any government or insurance company
hireling who wants to see them."

"So I've got to be careful what I tell my doctor."

"-Damn right. And for your sake he's got to be choosy about what he
sets down on paper. ' "Sounds pretty grim. But none of that's why.

The main reason is it's just not my thing." He gave Brad's shoulder a
gentle squeeze. "Just what is? " '"I don't know, Dad. I just don't
know." Duncan sighed. So many of this so-called Generation X seemed
to have no-idea what they wanted or where they were going. Duncan
couldn't understand that. All his life he'd wanted to be a doctor.

He'd set a course for it when he was a child.

Never could he recall even an instant of uncertainty.

Maybe that was why he felt such kinship with Gin. She was as
determined to do things her way as he'd been at her age. Her way
wasn't his, but he could forgive her thatþ she'd see the error of her
ways. She was almost like a daughter. Maybe he'd subconsciously
slipped Gin into the empty place within that he'd reserved for Lisa.

Yes . . . like a daughter. After all, he'd given her life in a way,
sewing her insides back together.

But not knowing the next step . . . the anxiety that had to cause.

What uncertainties roiled through Brad when he lay in bed at night,
asking the dark where his life was headed?

"Whatever you decide, I'm behind you. Any time youþ" "Faggots! "
Duncan started at the word and glanced around. To his right, three
shadowy figures slouched in predatory poses in a darkened recessed
doorway, each with a bottle or can of some sort in hand. Light from
the street reflected from their bare scalps. He kept walking.

"Skinheads, " Brad whispered and began to pull his arm from around
Duncan's waist.

Duncan grabbed his wrist. "Don't you dare."
"Dad, they think we'reþ" "Are you going to let them be the arbiters of
how a father and son can walk down the street? " "I know how you are
with the never complain, never explain stuff, but these guys are
crazy." Duncan reached his free hand into his jacket pocket and
wrapped his fingers around the metal cylinder there.

"Maybe I'm crazier." The M Street-Wisconsin Avenue area had always
been the tacky section of Georgetown. A farrago of trendily overpriced
boutiques, bars, clubs, and evanescent restaurants ranging from upscale
ethnic cuisine to Little Tavern Hamburgers, peopled by roaming
demimondaines and boulevardiers in search of something called fun.

Folksingers had peopled the cafes in the early sixties, giving way to
the hippies at the end of the decade. Discos came and went in the
seventies. Through it all, the Georgetown street people had upheld a
noble tradition of remaining determinedly dissolute but generally
good-natured.

Until lately. Strolling the area these days was like navigating a
third world bazaar. The boutiques bedizening Wisconsin's terminal
slope were cheaper and gaudier, nobody seemed to speak English or be on
speaking terms with a bar of soap, and lumpen denizens panhandled on
every corner. The slovens of the grunge cadre were as unwashed as the
hippies of old, but they lacked the latter's sense of style and
humor.

The atmosphere was as blowzy as ever, but the mood had turned grim.

Despite a new mall and brighter lighting, the Georgetown street scene,
like everything else, was changing for the worse.

What a world. What a screwed-up world.

They moved out of the pedestrian traffic and turned right onto 2gth,
Duncan had parked the Mercedes on the hill that fell away toward the
C8cO Canal. He was just turning the key in the lock when something
whizzed by his head and smashed on the sidewalk half a dozen feet
away.

" Faggots! " The light wasn't as good here as up on M, but he had no
trouble recognizing the skinheads. The three of them were trotting
down the hill. They must have belonged to some sort of gang because
they all wore jeans, black leather jackets, and fingerless black
leather gloves. One carried a Budweiser can, one was empty-handed but
repeatedly pounded his fist into his palm, and the guy in the lead
carried some sort of metal pipe.

"Shit, Dad, " Brad said. "Let's get out of here." Duncan's mouth was
dry. His legs urged him to run but his feet seemed anchored to the
pavement. The thugs were too close and moving too fast. No time to
get in the car, get it started, and maneuver out of the parking spot.

His heart began to hammer as he pulled the little cylinder from his
pocket and held it down by his thigh, out of sight.

"Time to make some faggo-burgers, " said the leader, grinning as he
raised the pipe and charged. His two companions were close behind.

"Hey, listen! " Brad shouted. "We're notþ" "Quiet, Brad." Duncan's
thumb found the trigger atop the little cylinder. It slipped and
swiveled in his sweaty palm. His hand shook wildly as he raised the
canister and shot a stream of liquid at the leader's face.

It missed, arcing past the raised pipe to splash against the throat and
upper chest of the second in line. As that one gagged and turned,
throwing his arms across his eyes and mouth, Duncan adjusted the stream
and caught the leader square in the face. He dropped the pipe and fell
to his knees, choking, clawing at his eyes. Meanwhile the third
skinhead had run into the second, who had skidded to a stop and doubled
over. The two went down in a tangled heap.

"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 sprayþfive-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 shouldþ''
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 ". . . Iousy . . . " 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 reportþ? " "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,
reallyþ 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 multispecialty 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 offhce 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, bxt the power here, the
enormity of the decisions being made every day . . . it's an
adrenaline bgzz 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.

THE WEEK OF SEPTEMBER LM GINA OVER A WEEK NOW SINCE THE INTERVIEW AND
STILL no word from Senator Marsden's office. Chances of a call from
Joe Blair seemed slim to none but Gin kept hoping the senator himself
might intervene. Because throughout her meeting with Blair she'd got
the impression that he was deigning to interview her only because his
boss wanted it.

The waiting was affecting her concentration. She had to resist the
urge to call her answering machine every hour. The Guidelines
committee started hearings in another week. Time was getting short.

True to her promise, though, she wasn't forgetting about looking into
Lisa Lathram. The question was how. She had a feeling Oliver had said
all he was going to say, and she couldn't very well ask Duncan.

Wouldn't the sudden death of the daughter of a prominent local warrant
some newspaper coverage?

Yes, it would. She called the D. C. Public Library and they connected
her with their periodicals section. They were most L cooperative but
could come up with only one reference to Lisa Lathram.

In the August 17 issue of the Washington Post, her obituary. Gin
stopped in the main branch on G Street and found it on microfilm.

No help there. Except for mention of the survivors, it might as well
have been a high school yearbook entry.

Gin would have liked to surf through the microfilm but she was due at
Lynnbrook to do her house-doctor thing, so she left that for another
day.

She wasn't giving up on this. When Gin had left for medical school,
Duncan was a top Virginia vascular surgeon with a wife and two
children, when she returned from residency he was a divorced Maryland
plastic surgeon with one child.

Something had happened in that interval to turn his life upside down.

Lisa's death? Maybe. Or maybe that was just a part of it. There had
to be more. And Gin made up her mind to find out what it was.

While on Three North at Lynnbrook she passed Mrs. Thompson's room and
decided to stick her head in the door to see how she was doing. She
saw the old woman shuffling between the chair and the bed. She
tottered forward and would have hllen if she hadn't caught hold of the
metal footboard.

Gin stepped into the room as Harriet eased herself onto the bed.

"You should call for a nurse before you try anything like that, " Gin
said as she helped her under the covers.

"I'm practicing. I've got to go home. I don't want to get Dr. Conway
in trouble." Curious, Gin sat on the end of the bed. "What makes you
think he's in trouble? " "I overheard two of the nurses talking.

They said the TRO and the hospital were on his back because of me. "
"That's PROþ Physician Review Organization. And don't you worry about
Dr. Conway. He can take care of himself. You just worry about
getting stronger."

"Don't worry. I'll be strong enough to go home real soon. You can
count on that. Real soon."

"Good for you, " Gin said. "And remember, Call the nurse when you need
to get up. You fall and break a hip you'll never get out of here."
"That will never happen. I'll not be a burden on anyone.

I'll be out of here sooner than you think."

"That's the spirit." Gin liked the old woman's determination. Maybe
things would work out for Dr. Conway after all.

A September storm was drenching the city when Gin dragged herself into
her apartment around half past eight. As she passed the bedroom she
noticed the message light on her -. answering machine blinking.

Probably Gerry again. She'd been playing telephone tag with him since
Taco Bell. Their schedules weren't meshing.

When he was free, she was moonlighting. But they'd managed to connect
last Friday when Gerry delivered on his promise to take her out to 'a
real restaurant for a real dinner." That turned out to be a delightful
evening. A little French place on Massachusetts. Good wine, good
food, and good conversation. They talked and talked, lingering over
coffee until the maitre d' informed them that the place was closing.

She learned that Gerry Canney was not only a dedicated father, he was a
dedicated FBI agent as well.

She yawned. Tired. This was no way to live. The rest of the city was
up and about and starting the day while hers was just finishing.

Luckily she didn't have to assist Duncan today.

She sat in the bay window, watched the rain splatter and run down the
panes, then sifted through her mail. Mostly "Occupant" fliers and the
throwaway medical journals that had tracked her down and followed her
from Tulane. The pile yielded two letters, both from medical headhunters looking for board-certified or board-eligible internists or
family practitioners to fill primary-care slots. She averaged half a
dozen offers a week.

"Tired of being on call? Need a change of scenery? " As a matter of
fact, yes.

"Move to sunny Nevada." She read on. A new Las Vegas megahotel was
opening an on-premises clinic for its ten thousand employees.
No thanks.

The other letter played coy with the precise location, but guaranteed $ 1 20,000 plus benefits to start as the fifth member of a family
practice group "located just ninety minutes from beach, mountains, and
D. C. " Gin thought about $120,000 to start . . . wouldn't that be
nice. The profession had been running low on primary-care docs for
years, probably because they occupied the bottom rung in prestige and
income. But The growth of managed care had created a sudden demand for
the lowly generalist. Over twenty-three hundred dollars a week,
probably for fewer hours than she was working now. Tempting.

But not yet.

She dropped the letters into her lap and gazed down at the street
watching the fallen yellow leaves swirl as they floated down the gutter
toward 18th Street. Was she kidding herself? Was this whole idea of
hooking up with the Guidelines committee a fool's errand? Was Peter
right? Wasn't she wasting her training by doing presurgical medical
clearance on Duncan's patients when she could be in a real practice
treating her own patients?

Maybe. But this wouldn't last forever.

She spoke silently to the city beyond her window.

I know it looks like I'm just treading water, folks, but trust me, I
really do have a direction. It's just that lately the cgrrent always
seems to be running against me. But don't worry. The tide will
change.

At least she hoped it would.

I've got the blues, she thought. And why not? It's a damp, chilly,
crummy morning, I've been up all night, my energy has bottomed out, and
I'm overtired.

Not the best time to make big decisions.

She tossed the headhunters letters and occupant mail into the
wastebasket, and put the journals aside to skim later. Then she hit
the button on her answering machine. It would be good to hear Gerry's
voice.

- But instead of Gerry it was an unfamiliar woman's voice. "Ms.
Panzella. This is Senator Marsden's office. Mr. Blair asked me to
call and inform you that Senator Marsden wishes to personally interview
you tomorrow afternoon at four P. M. If you cannot make it at that
time, the senator will not be able to reschedule. Please call to
confirm that you will be there. ' She left a number and an
extension.

Gin realized with a start that the message had been left sometime
yesterday. "Tomorrow" was today.

She replayed it. She'd only met Joe Blair once, but she could smell
him all over that message. "His. "þincapable of calling her
"Doctor.

" The arbitrary time and no rescheduling. She could almost hear his
voice, Do or die, Panzella.

She sensed some sort of a power struggle. What was it? The senator
choosing new staff and his chief of staff resisting an intrusion into
his bailiwick? That could make for a tense atmosphere. Did she want
to get caught in the middle of that? Come in on the wrong side of Joe
Blair and have to buck him from the get go?

She'd love it.

Smiling tightly, Gin reached for the phone and jabbed in the number.

After confirming her meeting, she strode back to the window and looked
out on Kalorama Road.

See, fol/2s? What'd I tell you? The tide's turning.

DUNCAN M AMAZED, SAID SENATOR VINCENT. EVEN IN THE close confines of a
doctor's examining room he spoke as if he was delivering a speech.

"I'd been told how incredibly rapid your surgery healed, but didn't
appreciate exactly how rapid until I'd seen it with my own eyes.

Truly amazing." Duncan refrained from reacting to the man's
condescension and continued inspecting the hairline incisions under The
chin through an illuminated magnifier. Yes, the beta-3 was doing its
work. Only a week post-op and, except for some fading ecchymosis,
virtually all traces of the procedure were gone.

Too bad I coaldn't have done the Hogg reconstrsction. Then you'd
really be amazed.

Sometime since the surgery, Vincent had had his hair per med. It stuck
out from his head in frizzy tendrils, making him look like one of those
Chi Pets they hawked on TV.

Duncan backed up, examined Vincent's throat from the left, then the
right. "Damn, I do good work! " Vincent laughed nervously. "So I
guess it will be safe to go on TV next week."
"Oh? " Duncan said with all the ingenuousness he could muster. "Face
the Nation? " '"No.

More important. The hearings. On the Guidelines bill."

"Next week?

I didn't realize you'd be getting started so soon."

"Oh, yes. We're pressing on without Lane and Allard. The first
hearing is Wednesday.

" Got your sights set on any particular targets? Duncan wondered.

Who's life are you going to ruin this time around?

"You know, " Duncan said slowly, "I've never been to one of these
hearings. Do you think you could get me in to the opening session? "
Senator Vincent scratched his head. "I don't know. It's a pretty hot
ticket. And the hearing room's not that big . . . " "Well, I have
other patients on the committee who'll take care of it.

No problem."

"You do? " the senator said, his tone warbling between pique at
Duncan's implication that there was someone on the committee with more
juice than he and voracious curiosity as to who else was getting fixed
up for the hearings. "Who? " Duncan wagged a finger.

"Now, now. You should know that's privileged information."

"Yes, of course. But if you truly want a seat, Dr. Lathram, you've
got one.

I'll have my legislative director call you tomorrow. No problem. "
'"Thank you, Senator. I knew I could count on you. It promises to be
quite a show. And I bet yours will be a household name from the very
first day." I guarantee it.

* * * Later, Duncan stopped by Oliver's lab. He had to get down to
D.

C.

General for The surgery on little Kanesha Green, but first he wanted to
check his brother's progress on the latest refinement of the implant.

\ He found Oliver seated with a number of empty implants in a tray on
the counter before him. He handed one to Duncan who rolled it back and
forth in his palm. Light as a feather.

Duncan said, "How long can we count on the new model to sit in the
subcutaneous fat without dissolving? " Oliver shrugged. "How can I
say? Six months, two years, forever. We haven't tested them. We'll
have to do animal studies. I mean, really, Duncan, we haven't even
finished the clinical trials on the regular implants, and here you've
got me working on a whole new type."

"Got to stay ahead, Oliver. If we don't keep innovating, the
intellectual slovens and me-too artists will plunder our work."

"But why this new model? I thought the whole idea was to have it
dissolve shortly after surgery."

"Because I foresee a time when I may want an implant that dissolves
when I tell it to. In trauma cases, for instance, with wide, deep
wounds, premature release of beta-3 could prove counterproductive." He
had to choose his words carefully. Oliver was bright but he hadn't the
faintest idea what lay behind Duncan's insistence on an implant that
would dissolve on command, and no inkling of what Duncan had already
done with it.

Duncan flipped the empty implant into the air and caught it.

"But you do think it's possible one of these things could nest in the
fat for a couple of years? " "I guess so. But I couldn't imagine why
anyone would want it to sit there that long. The time when its
dissolution would be of any benefit would have long since passed. "
Not exactly, Duncan thought. Not if it was filled with the right
substance and hidden in the tissues of the right person.

"Just wondering, " Duncan said.

Oliver's eyes lit. "But you mentioned trauma repair. Are you thinking
of returning to real surgery? " Duncan laughed. "You mean vascular
surgery? God, no. Why would I want to go back to being on call
twenty-four hours a day and getting rousted out of bed at all hours of
the night? For what? What good would that do me? " "You're a great
surgeon, Duncan. You'd be putting your talents to their best use. It
wouldn't just be good for others, it would be good for you as well. "
Moved by his brother's concern, and afraid Oliver might see something
in his eyes that he shouldn't, Duncan looked away. Oliver was a good
soul, the most decent of men. Complaisant, assiduous Oliver, his
irenic presence, his lambent insight were a balm on Ouncan's soul.

And he so admires me.

At times like these Duncan hated himself for putting Oliver's discovery
to uses that would horrify him. And Duncan himself was horrified by
the knowledge that if his machinations were ever brought to light,
Oliver's fulgent, indefectible character would be tainted.

But that doesn't stop me, does it.

Again he wondered what he'd do if Oliver found out. Or Gin. How far
would he go to protect himself?

He tried not to think about it.

"Why would it be good for me, Oliver? You know what happened when I
was in vascular surgery. The same thing might happen again. Why
should I make myself vulnerable again? Look at me now. I'm working
fewer hours, I have no calls to speak ofþwhoever heard of an emergency
tummy tuck in the middle of the night? I'm earning far more now with
half the effort."

"You never cared about money."

"The public did.

' "And you were saving lives then."

"But while I was saving or improving all those lives, I was publicly
stoned for unalloyed greed.

Remember that time, Oliver? Remember? ' Oliver nodded. "I
remember.

" "Now I rake in seven figures simply for resuscitating the vanity of
the local gentry, and no one says a word. No one even lifts an
eyebrow.

Truly we live in a remarkable society, Oliver. A remarkable society.

" What a world, Duncan thought, straining to hide the lava of rage
erupting in his chest, flowing through his gut. What a goddamn
world.

Oliver was staring at him. "You shouldn't have let them drive you out,
Duncan." '"Now, now, Oliver. We've been over this countless times.

I those to leave vascular surgery. And it's the best thing I ever
did.

" "But you could have gone into another surgical field where your work
actually meant something."

"But you had this new membrane you'd discovered, and then the Brits
came up with beta-3. The writing was on the wall, cosmetic surgery was
it. ' Actually, he had decided never again to deal with insurance
companies, or governments, or any mixture of the two. Cosmetic surgery
was perfect.

Only a rare insurance policy covered it anyway, and he could limit his
patients to those who wanted it and exclude those who needed it.

"If that's the case, " Oliver said, "then I wish I'd never developed
this membrane." Duncan gripped his brother's shoulder. "Don't ever
say that, Oliver.

These implants are going to transform a host of lives. People all over
the world, mothers of children who'd otherwise be scarred for life will
bless your name. And as for me, I've made peace with the past. Trust
me, Oliver. I'm at peace."

"I hope so, " Oliver said, searching Duncan's face. "I find it hard to
believe, but I hope it's true." Duncan glanced at his watch. "Oops.

Time to run. Got to get over to the club." Oliver's expression was
dismayed. "You can't play golf today. It's pouring. ' '"Poker,
Oliver, " he said, nudging his brother's ribs. "When it rains we play
poker. Want to join in? " '"No, " he sighed, turning back to his
implants. "I've got work to do.

" For a moment Duncan was tempted to tell his brother where he was
really going. It would make Oliver's dayþ make his year. But dear
Oliver was a blabbermouth. He'd be explaining to anyone who'd listen
that his brother really wasn't the coldhearted, cash-up-front bastard
he pretended to be. He was a saint in hiding.

No, Oliver would have to go on being disappointed in the older brother
he had once admired. And Duncan prayed he never found out about how he
was using the new implants.

"See you tomorrow, then." Duncan hurried across the wet parking lot,
jumped in the Mercedes, and started the engine. But instead of putting
it in gear, he sat staring at the hub of his steering wheel.

I've made peace with the past. Trast me, Oliver. I'm at pere.

How easily the lies come now. Peace? What was peace? He hadn't known
a moment of it since the day he'd found Lisa Lying in the foyer in a
pool of blood.

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
backþall the pain, the rageþbecause 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 otrice was pretty much as she remembered itþthe stacked files,
overflowing bookcases, photos, plaques, and the miniature basketball
hoop over the wastepaper tbasket.

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 theuncharacteristically 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 thousandþif thatþ 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 doþand do well. And if I don't do it now, I'll never
do it. And. . . "þdare she say it? þ"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 staffþhandpicked
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 TimesPicayvne 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. Wharþ? ' "I"II 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 broughr 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.

Gerry preferred Irish sipping whiskey, preferably Black Bush. But if
wine was the only thing, he usually toughed it out with white
zinfandel.

No wine snob he.

He could see Gin was hurt. She spoke softly, almost matter-offactly,
over her glass of valpolicella, swirling then sipping it, swirling and
sipping. Her voice was steady, as were her hands, she looked perfectly
composed. But Gerry sensed the pain.

As his mood darkened, he wished he hadn't brought her here. The
gleaming surfaces of the polished brass and chrome and marble of the
Sommelier were too clean, too bright for the story she told. They
should have been in a seedy cocktail lounge.

No. This was better. Clean and shiny suited her. Here it was only
the third time they'd been together and already he was feeling
protective.

And so attracted. He hadn't felt this way since college, when he and
Karen had started dating and getting serious. A good, warm feeling.

Thoughts of Gin were beginning to intrude on his work. He'd find
himself thinking about her at the most inconvenient times, wondering
what she was doing, wondering if she was thinking about him.

And now he was sharing her anger, her anguish. She had expected better
of a U. S. senator's office. She deserved better.

Sometimes he hated this goddamn town.

"That's the way it is here, " he told her after she finished. "Not
just with you. With everything. It's a mindset."

"So I shouldn't take it personally? ' Her eyes flashed. "Is that what
you're saying?

" . "Yes and no, " he said slowly. Had to choose his words carefully
here. He didn't want to wind up a lightning rod for that anger. "You
should be offended, angry, even feel humiliated, but realize too that
Blair is simply doing what comes naturally on the Hill. He's just
playing by the rules as he's learned them." '"Hill rat, " she said,
shaking her head. "Boy, if ever a term fit someone. But aren't there
lawsþ? " "Yeah, probably written by the Hill rats themselves, and
passed by their bosses. But for other people, for the constituents.

They don't apply up here on the Hill. You've entered an ethical
Twilight Zone."

"You seem so casual about it." Was he? Was she right? Had he been
investigating political corruption long enough to take it for
granted?

Maybe. He didn't like that answer.

But he wasn't talking about blatant graft here. No, it was more of an
atmosphere, an ambience. A different set of values.

"I can't be casual about you being hurt." She gave him a little
smile.
He loved the way her lips curled up at the corners. Her eyes said
thank you.

He reached across and gripped her hand. She didn't pull away.

"Look, Gin, " he said. "If you want to be a part of the doings on the
Hill, you're going to have to play by their rules. The people up here
aren't going to change for you."

"I never expected them to, butþ" "Think of yourself as having entered
the world's largest bazaar, where everything is for sale but no prices
are marked. The currency is influence, and the best hagglers walk away
with the fullest shopping carts."

"That's pretty damn grim, Gerry."

"Gin, " he said, leaning forward, "I'm sure you see influence peddling
in hospital politics, but that's penny-ante stuff. This is the major
leagues. This Blair guy, he's got influence with his senator to get
you something you want, you, in turn, have got something he wants.

Sounds as if he's experienced at the game, very circumspect in his
hallway negotiation, and that's just what it was, a negotiation. And
don't think that it occurred in an empty hallway by accident. No quid
pro quo proposition, just a generous offer to help you deal with a
possible hitch in your appointment. And no witnesses. Very smooth."

"You sound as if you almost admire him."

"I will admire my fist in his face if I ever meet up with him, " he
said.

Gerry was rewarded with another smile, this one big enough to reveal
the glistening white of Gin's teeth.

"Don't get yourself in trouble on my account."

"It's a good account.

" "Does that mean I can make a professional request? " "
Professional?

" "Yes. Police-type stuff. I'm trying to find out about Duncan
Lathram's daughter." Gerry felt his insides tighten as they always did
at mention of Lathram's name, but he remained impassive. Obviously she
was tired of talking about Joe Blair.

"What about her? She in trouble? " "No. She died in an accident five
years ago."
"What kind of accident? " "A fall at home."

"You're suspicious about something? " "Oh, no. Not at all. I just
can't find out anything about her. Nobody's talking."

"It's just idle curiosity, then? " He could tell from her manner it
was anything but.

She was holding something back.

"No. I don't know what it is, really. I was just wondering if you
could get hold of a copy of the death certificate." Now there was an
odd request. But not a difficult one if you knew who to call. And
perfectly legal. Death certificates were public records.

"No biggee. Just have to know where she lived at the TIME The rest
is easy."

"Alexandria, I believe. Northern Virginia for sure."

"Okay. Have it for you in a day or two." And he would. But first
he'd give it a thorough going over himself. His curiosity was
piqued.

"Unless there's a rush." He watched her closely as she answered.

"No. No rush. ' That settled, he could almost see her drift away as
she lapsed into silence. She sighed.

He said, "What are you thinking? " Was it about Lisa Lathram, or about
this Blair character, or something else?

"Maybe you and Duncan are right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this
town.

" So . . . it was back to Blair. An ache grew within him as he sensed
the disappointment in her voice, watched discouragement etch lines
around her frown. He wasn't sure what, but he was going to do
something.

"Don't give up hope, " he said. "Things have a way of working out. '
'"Maybe sometimes, " she said. "Not this TIME" He drained the white
zinfandel.

"You never know, Gin. You never know." Gerry stood in the wide,
fresh-smelling, brightly lit hallway outside the apartment door in the
Watergate-at-Landmark, a high-rise condo complex in northern Virginia,
and waited for his ring to be answered.

He knew Blair was homeþa hang-up phone call had confirmed that. Maybe
he was eating. Gerry hoped he was alone. If he wasn't, Gerry would
have to improvise. But one way or another, he was going to make this
creep see the light.

As soon as he'd left Gin at her car he'd hustled up Pennsylvania to the
Bureau. He ran a check on Blair, but no criminal record. Too bad.

That would have made things easier.

So he'd have to bluff.

Gerry shrugged some of the tension out of his tight shoulder muscles.

This sort of unofficial visit could land him in a serious load of
official trouble if Blair called his blu*.

But Gerry knew how these highly placed Hill rats operated. They
couldn't vote, but lots of times they had control of the line by line
wording of a bill, and that could be more important than a Yea or
Nay.

The lobbyists courted them with trips, gifts, and honoraria for
speaking engagements, just like their bosses. Gerry remembered one
case, still mentioned by Hill rats in awed tones, of two staffers,
Michaels and Bill Patterson, who netted a total of twenty eight
thousand dollars from a host of lobbyists in forty-eight hours.

Blair no doubt had dreams of topping that record.

Gerry meant to disturb those dreams.

Because if Blair planned to cash in all the influence chips that would
accrue from the Guidelines bill, the last thing he wanted was a
ticked-off FBI agent watching his every move.

But Gerry didn't have much TIME Mrs. Snedecker had said she'd keep
Martha a couple of extra hours today. Gerry would have to get to it
with Blair right away.

The condo door opened and a pale face with a see-through mustache
cautiously peered at him through the opening. This was a gated
building.

Drop-in company was not the norm.

"Yes? " Gerry held up the same badge that had got him past the
doorman.

"FBI, Mr. Blair." Blair opened the door a little wider for a better
look. He squinted at the badge.

"What is it? What do you want? " Gerry flipped the leather badge
folder closed and stepped closer, quietly wedging his foot against the
bottom edge of the door. He slipped the badge into his pocket.

'"Don't worry. It's not official business." . "Then whatþ? " Gerry
put a hand against Blair's chest and gently pushed him back into his
apartment. There were times when subtlety was called for and times
when it wasn't.

"You and me, Blair. We're gonna have us a little talk." GINA GINA
YAWNED AS SHE HEADED FOR THE DOCTORS lounge. A busy night at
Lynnbrook. Sometimes she could catch a catnap during the shift. Not
this TIME

Not that she would have got much more sleep if she'd stayed home. What
a state she was in. Worse than waiting to hear about her residency
match. Almost as bad as the months waiting to hear if she'd been
accepted into medical school.

She ran into Dr. Conway again.

"I see Mrs. Thompson finally went home. That must be a relief.

"I guess so. Everybody's making nice-nice now that they think I caved
in. Actually, she made a dramatic turnaround. Almost miraculous. One
day she's dragging around, next day she's chipper and demanding to go
home." A warning bell sounded in the back of Gin's brain.

"When was that? " "Wednesday."

"I wonder, ' Gin said uneasily. "I had a talk with her just the night
before and she said she'd heard you were in trouble I

because of her. I remember her saying something like, I won't be a
burden to anyone. I'll be out of here sooner than you think." Conway
stared at her. "Christ. That'd be just like her." He picked up the
phone and called medical records. He got Mrs. Thompson's phone number
and dialed. And listened. He redialed and listened again. Then he
hung up.

"No answer. I'm going over there."

"She could be out, " Gin said.

"At seven A. M. ? A seventy-eight-year-old lady? " "I'll go with
you.

' "You're on duty. I'll let you know how it goes." Gin spent the next
hour wondering what Conway would find. When she wasn't thinking about
that, it was back to the committee. At one point she found herself
dialing her apartment, readying to activate the remote playback on her
answering machine.

What am I doing? she thought, and hung up.

It was too early. No one from a senator's office would be calling
before ten. Before noon, more likely.

She was about to leave when she was paged by the emergency
department.

Dr. Conway was asking for her assistance.

Gin found him standing by the x-ray box, studying a chest film. She
took one look at the opacified right lung field and said, "Not Harriet,
I hope." Conway nodded. "Found her on her back steps, barely
conscious, a bunch of bread crusts in her hand. Looked like she'd gone
out to feed the birds last night and collapsed."

"She was out all night? " "Sure as hell looks that way. She's shocky,
hypothermic, and hypoxemic, plus"þhe tapped the chest filmþ"three
fractured ribs and I'll bet that's a hemothorax. I called in
Fielding.

He's going to intubate her and put her on a respirator, then it's up to ICU ." He snapped the film off the view box.

"Damn! I never should have sent her home! " "She told you she was
fine. What else were you going to do? " "I should have seen through
that. I believed her because I wanted to.

I was so damn glad to get the PRO and the rest of them off my back I
jumped at the chance to discharge her."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, " Gin said. "Where is she? " Conway
jerked a thumb over his shoulder at one of the curtained-off alcoves.

Gin wasn't sure which way to go until she saw Fielding, the
pulmonologist, step through a set of curtains and approach the nurses
station. She slipped behind the curtains.

Harriet Thompson was almost unrecognizable. The right side of her face
was swollen and purple where it must have struck pavement. A ribbed
plastic tube curved from the corner of her mouth, connected by a larger
tube to a hissing and puffing respirator. Her eyes were half open but
they weren't seeing anything. Gin gripped her hand and gave it a
squeeze.

'"Hang in there, Harriet, " she said. "You're in good hands." There
wasn't much Gin could do. Between Conway and Fielding and the ICU
staff, all bases were covered. When she came out, she patted Dr.
Conway on the back and wished both him and Harriet good luck.

She got behind the wheel of her Sunbird and rubbed her burning eyes.

She was scheduled to assist Duncan this morning. Despite her fatigue,
that had its up side, Time would move faster. But first a shower.

She noticed the message light blinking on her answering machine. She
hurried over to it but her finger hesitated, hovering above the replay
button. Dread and anticipation swirled through her. Was this it? The
big turndown?

She shook herself. She was going off the deep end. No way it could be
Marsden's office.

She hit the button. It was Gerry. A rush of warmth filled her at the
sound of his voice. He'd been so sympathetic yesterday.

Hi, Gin. It's about eleven now. I forgot you were moonlighting
tonight, so you probably won't hear this till tomorrow morning. But I
want to remind you to call me as soon as you hear from Marsden's office. the .

It's a good bet you'll be hearing early. When you get word, call me
at home. I won't be leaving till around nine. Good luck, but it'll be
their good luck to get you. Bye.

How sweet, she thought, smiling as she hit the erase button. And how
naive. She wouldn't be hearing early from anyone.

Funny, though, how sure Gerry seemed about the early call. And he was
anything but naive.

Gin heard the phone ringing as she stepped out of the shower. Still
dripping, she wrapped a towel around herself and rushed to the bedroom
to grab it. It was Alicia Downs.

"You're in, Gin." Gin was stunned, speechless for a moment.

"Hello? " Alicia said. "You still there? " "Yes. I'm here. I just
can't believe this. I'm in? " "You are. I heard Blair telling one of
the secretaries to call you and give you the word. I'm doing it for
her. ' "But howþ? " "Don't ask me. I put in my vote for you. I
don't know about Blair. All I know is that sometime between last night
and this morning the senator made up his mind. You're our new
legislative assistant on medical affairs." She felt weak. "This . .

. this is wonderful. Thanks for the call. And for your support. "
"Don't thank me. I mean, I think you're a nice person and bright and
I'm sure you'll do a good job and all, but I want you for other
reasons.

You'll be a good PR asset."

"An asset. Wow." Alicia laughed.

"Hey, you're not just a doctor, you're a bright, attractive, female
doctor fresh out of training. You're not Washington.

An outsider, no connections to the bureaucracy. You're now. Your
presence shows the senator's got a mind open to fresh ideas from the
medical profession." Gin felt herself going cold, and not from the
water dripping down her legs.

"Look, if I'm just going to be window dressing, you can tellþ" "No
way.

Not with this senator. He wants you for your medical expertise. I'm
the one who's concerned with appearances."

"That's a relief. I think." She laughed again. "Relax, Gin. You're
in. And you're in with one of the good guys. I've been earning my
living up here for twenty years now, and Senator Marsden is the first
guy in a long time to restore my faith in the electoral process. I
can't tell you what a joy it is to polish the image of a guy you really
like. ' "That's good to hear. Really good."

"Then I take it you accept? " "Of course I do." Great. Our staff is
meeting here tomorrow at ten A. M. t sharp.

I hope you don't have any major plans for the weekend."

"Well, nothing firm." She'd been hoping she and Gerry might get
together.

"Good. With the hearings opening next week, you can expect to work
through the weekend. Welcome aboard. See you tomorrow." Gin hung up
and stood in the center of her bedroom, grinning foolishly, absently
toweling herself off as she let the reality sink in.

"I'm in. I . . . am . . . in! " She pumped her fist into the air.

"Yes! " As she dried her hair, she began to dance around, shuffling
into the front room, blindly turning, gyrating, undulating her hips in
time to a regge tune on the radio.

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen! The latest, the greatest, the
hottest legislative assistant in the nation's capital, dancing under
her stage name, Pasta Primavera, with her own exclusive interpretation
of the Hill Rat Hustle!

Gin lowered the towel from her hair and found herself in front of the
bay window, standing nude as a jaybird over Kalorama Road.

"Whoa! " She ducked away and hurried back to her room. As she pulled
open her underwear drawer she caught sight of herself in the
full-length mirror.

She turned to give her body a closer look, twisting this way and that
to get different angles on her breasts and hips.

The hips were a little more generous than she liked. But her abdomen
was nice and flat. She ran her hand lightly over the puckered scar of
her old incision, then traced a fine line of hair down to the dark
tangle over her pubes. Time for another bikini wax.

Not too bad, she thought. Not too bad at all for an old broad looking
thirty in the eye.

She had two careers now. Why not go for a third as Pasta
Primaveraþexotic dancer? No . . . there was another term for it, a
Duncan word. What was it . . . ?

Ecdysiast flashed into her mind.

Right. Regina Panzella, doctor, legislative assistant, and
ecdysiast.

She tried a little bump and grind before the mirror.

Pretty lame.

Ah, well.

She turned away and began picking through her underwear.

Once she was dressed, her high spirits were brought down by the thought
of Harriet Thompson. She called the Lynnbrook ICU and learned she
was stable. Okay.

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 . , ,
nere.

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'llþ" 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 thisþ" Marie groaned again.

"Walt now, " Duncan said. "All I'm going to sayþand 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 l 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 upþ" "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
olitician too? " '"I'm notþ "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 grandchildrenþ 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 oneþa 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 respiraþ" "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 awakeþafter all it was an hour earlier in
Louisianaþand 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 argueþ" "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 rumpledþshe felt
rumpled in her flannel shirt, jeans, and raincoatþbut 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. Iþ" "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 againþon 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.

Everywhere she lookedþon the walls, on the cork bulletin board, on the
refrigeratorþthe room was festooned with a child's drawings. A riot of
colors. Martha, it seemed, believed in using every crayon in her box,
and it had to be quite a box. Nor was she exactly traditional in her
color designations. In one drawing green people might stand on yellow
lawns next to pink trees under orange skies, in the next drawing the
color scheme would be completely different.

A munchkin van Gogh. With a father who obviously adored every squiggle
she put to paper.

She looked in the fridge. Lots of prepackaged meals in the freezer.

Just what she'd expect with a single father on the go.

Then she remembered what Gerry had said about leaving something for her
on the kitchen table. She turned and saw nothing on the table . . .

except a sheet of paper. She recognized it before she picked it up. A
death certificate.

Lisa Lathram was typed on the name line. Gin noted that the certifier
was Stanley Metelski, MD, Fairfax County coroner at the time of the
accident. Which meant Lisa's death had been a coroner's case. Of
course it would be. Any eighteen-year-old dying suddenly is an
automatic coroner's case.

She scanned down to the cause-of-death section.

Immediate cause of death, Intracerebral hemorrhage.

Due to or as a consequence of, Left parietal skull fracture.

due to or as a consequence of, Intentional drug overdose.

Gin nearly dropped the sheet. A suicide?

Suddenly shaky, she lowered herself into a chair and leaned on the
table.

Oh, God. Poor Duncan. No wonder no one wanted to talk about it. He
must have pulled some heavy strings and called in a lot of favors to
keep that last line from getting out to the public.

Was that why he ended his marriage, closed up his practice, stopped
being a Virginia vascular specialist and became a Maryland cosmetic
surgeon?

Or was there more?

The drug overdose . . . why? The fall . . . obviously the coroner
thought it was a result of the overdose. Was it?

Gin had thought the death certificate would answer some questions, but
it only raised more.

Rising, she dropped it back onto the kitchen table and wandered toward
the front of the duplex. She pushed Lisa Lathram to the back of her
mind and brought Martha Canney front and center. Gin had a sudden urge
to look in on her.

She crept upstairs. Two bedrooms and a bath there. She peeked in the
first. In The dim light seeping up from the first floor she could see
Martha's little head framed by her pillow and the covers. Lots of
Disney characters on the walls and shelves. Gin stepped closer and
snugged the covers a little more tightly around her shoulders. As she
turned away she spotted a framed photo standing on Martha's dresser.

She picked it up and angled it toward the light.

A pretty young blond. Although they'd moved in entirely different
circles during their high school years, Gin recognized Karen
Shannick.

The late Mrs. Gerald Canney. Martha's mother.

God, she'd been beautiful. Classic, clean, all-American girl looks.

She married an all-American guy. And they'd had a child. A Happy Days
life until . . .

She thought of Harriet Thompson, also gone, but who'd had seventy-eight
years. Poor Karen had had maybe a third of that. And what a shame she
couldn't see the doll she'd brought into the world.

Life telly sucked sometimes.

Gin stared down at Martha for a moment and was struck by the
realization that this was Gerry's child. His alone. This little
person was totally dependent on him, and he was completely responsible
for her.

She wondered how that would feel.

Scary, she thought. Very scary.

She replaced the photo on the dresser but the leg that angled out of
the back of the frame collapsed and it fell flat on the dresser top.

Gin winced. Not a loud noise, but it sounded like a gunshot in the
little bedroom.

"Daddy? " Oh, no.

Quickly Gin turned and knelt beside the bed. Martha was sitting up,
rubbing her eyes, not quite awake yet. She looked at Gin.

"Where's my daddy? " "He had to go out, " Gin whispered. "He asked me
to stay with you.

Remember me? Gin? From Taco Bell? " "You're the doctor."

"Right.

What a great memory you have."  . "Where's Mrs. Snedecker? "
"She's away. That's why I'm here." Am I doing this right? she
wondered. If Martha were sick Gin would know exactly what to do, but
she'd never had any younger sibs, so she wasn't too sure of herself
here. Getting her back to sleep seemed like the best thing. She
straightened the covers.

"Here. Why don't you just lie back down and close your eyes. I'll be
right downstairs. If you need anything, you just call and I'll be
right here. Okay? " Martha didn't say anything as she lay back and
pulled the covers up.

Gin adjusted them around her and then, on impulse, leaned over and
kissed her cheek.

"Good night, Martha." As she rose and turned toward the door, she
heard a sob from the bed. She knelt back down again.

"What's wrong, Martha? " "I get scuh-scared when my daddy's not here
at nuh-nuhnight." She started to cry.

"He'll be home soon, Martha, " she said, searching for a way to comfort
her. "What if I stay here with you? " Martha 	sniffled and sat up.

"Can you? " "Sure. It'll be fun."

"Will you get under the covers?

" She wriggled over to make room. Her fears seemed to have
evaporated.

"This'll be like a sleep-over." Gin hesitated, then shrugged. Not
much room in that little bed, but what the heck. She kicked off her
sneakers and slid under the covers. Martha immediately nestled into
the crook of her arm and snuggled against her. In minutes she was
asleep.

Gin lay there and listened to the gentle sound of Martha's breathing.

She stroked her soft hair and felt strangely content, at peace.

Peace . . . what a strange sensation. It seeped through her like warm
water through a dry sponge. Throughout her brain and her body she
sensed all the various engines that were driving her begin to
downshift, finally going into neutral, idling.

And through the peace crept an ancient need, long unnoticed amid the
adrenalized buzz of her day-to-day life.

She squeezed Martha closer. Is this what I'm missing? Isn't this what
it's all about? Her throat tightened. A child of my own? God, I'll
be thirty next year . . .
Damn! Where are my priorities? What is better than this?

Gerry pulled into his parking space in front of the house. Night was
leaching from the eastern sky. Dawn wasn't far off. Somewhere in the
trees a bird called.

He headed for his front door, bounding over the curb and up the
steps.

He was pumped. And relieved. A successful operation tonight. At the
last minute the Bureau had called out every available agentþthe
kidnapper had made a mistakeþand they got the little Walker boy back
safe and sound.

Gerry could have stayed and celebrated with the rest of the guys, but
this case had made him anxious to get back to his own child.

And it reinforced his determination to move up to a position with
regular hours. And soon.

em"K Gerry stood inside his front door and surveyed the empty living
room. Gin's raincoat was there, but where was she?

"Gin? ' A little louder.

Upstairs with Martha? Had to be. But an unreasoning fear made him pad
up the stairs, taking them three at a time as silently as he could,
hurrying to Martha's bedroom. He stopped at the door, struck dumb by
the sight of his child curled up under Gin's protective arm. Both were
asleep, both faces so smooth, so relaxed, so innocent in the growing
light.

He'd taken a chance asking Gin tonight. He hadn't known how she'd
react, how it would work out, but he'd sensed a rapport between Gin and
Martha during their first meeting and, well, he'd longed to see her.

And who better than a trained physician?

But this?

He stood staring, captured by the nghtness of the scene. It was as if
their little duplex, his and Martha's little world, had changed, their
fragmented family briefly made whole again.

He realized that tears were sliding down his cheeks.

You belong with us, Gin, he thought.

He wiped the tears away and had to fight the urge to crawl in with
them. Besides, there was no room left in that tiny bed.

So Gerry pulled up the rocker Karen had bought for nursing Martha and
sat there watching the two women in his life until the sun came up.

THE WEEK OF OCTOBER THE HEARING RELAX, GINA, SENATOR MARSDEN SAID AS HE
GATHered the papers on his desk. "You look as if you're about to jump
out of your skin." His desk was piled high with folders, reprints,
charts, graphs, and detailed analyses of medical statistics. Joe Blair
had been in earlier, reviewing his last-minute strategies on networking
with other chiefs of staff. He was cool and professional toward Gin
but decidedly distant.

And Alicia was a whirling dervish, darting in and out of the office
like an overweight hummingbird. She'd conscripted a couple of the
officer's legislative correspondents to field the endlessly ringing
phones. This was her big day and she seemed to thrive on the
pressure.

The past four days had been a whirlwind of activity. Gin felt as if
she'd moved into these offices. She'd met Charlie and Zach, the other
two legislative aides assigned to the Guidelines committee, and had
been impressed with the amount of research they'd collected. They had
copies of guidelines and codes of ethics from every state medical board
in the country.

The amount of material to be reviewed and absorbed was daunting. But
she'd waded in with the rest of them.

"I'll be fine, " Gin told the senator.

And she would be. It was just that not only was this her first day of
actually attending a congressional hearing as a participant, but the
chairman of the committee would be depending on her medical knowledge
to interpret the testimony being given, all of which would occur before
cameras broadcasring the proceedings to the nation.

Nothing to it.

Right. That was why her hands were cold and her palms were sweaty and
her stomach had shrunk to a walnut-sized knot.

But she was all set to go, She had a pad, a supply of pens, and she had
her brand new photo-iD badge slung on a chain around her neck.

"I know you will. Remember, Your job is to listen and take notes.

Alert me immediatelyþpass me a note, tap me on the shoulder and
whisperþwhenever you think someone's blowing medical smoke my way. And
I do mean immediately. I don't want to find out days later that
someone was running double-talk by me. Your responsibility is to keep
the medical testimony honest." She held up her steno pad and pens.

She didn't know shorthand but the steno pad was a convenient size.

" I'm ready." She hoped she sounded confident. She was beginning to
feel the weight of the responsibility she'd taken on. And she'd be
shouldering it in public.

She'd watched congressional hearings on TV before and seen aides
passing notes or whispering in committee members' ears, hard to believe
people would be watching her doing. the same today. Her father was
staying home from the store this morning to watch C-SPAN.

Senator Marsden winked at her. "And maybe when this is over you can
write a more evenhanded op-ed piece for the Tiones-Piaaygne." Gin
stiffened. "You know about that? " "Sure. Joe showed it to me
shortly after the interview. It's his job to background anyone joining
my staff."

"I was afraid it might put you off." He rose and tucked a bulging file
folder under his arm.

"I spent forty years in business. I learned the worst thing you can do
is surround yourself with yes-men. That's why I like to keep a devil's
advocate around." Gin felt a burst of warmth for this man. Alicia had
called him "one of the good guys" and now Gin believed her.

"I'll be it."

"Then let's go." The hearing room was gorgeous, paneled floor to
ceiling in gleaming mahogany. The carved ceiling would have been at
home in Versaillesþnearly twenty feet high, white with delicate,
hand-painted blue designs. Rich red carpet stretched wall to wall.

Three tall windows ran almost to the ceiling and were trimmed with
black crepe in honor of the committee's departed member, Congressman
Lane. Set between the windows and all around the room were giant brass
sconces, designed like ornate torches that would not have been out of
place in the Roman Senate. Each flared a wedge of light against the
paneling above it. All the furnitureþthe curved dais where the
committee members sat like knights of the semicircular table, the
witness table, the visitor chairsþ was fashioned of mahogany perfectly
matched to the paneling. The red leather on the seats and backs of the
chairs arranged in neat rows for visitors and witnesses and lined
against the wall behind the dais for the committee members' aides
matched the carpet, as did the leather inlays in the tops of the press
tables flanking both sides of the room.

Chaos reigned. Photographers were jockeying for position in the space
allotted them, reporters were weaving through the mix of legislators,
witnesses, and visitors, looking for comments, sniffng for rumors,
while the C-SPAN technicians made final adjustments on their cameras,
one near the front and the other midline at the rear.

Gin followed Senator Marsden to the daisþwhy did it feel so special to
stroll past the "Staff Only" sign? þand staked out a chair behind his
spot at the apex of the semicircle. Zach would be with her. Charlie
had stayed behind at the office. While Marsden began arranging his
papers, she looked out over the milling crowd and was shocked.

Duncan.

"Senator, do I have time to talk to someone? " "Of course, ' he said,
glancing up at the disorder before him. "We won't come to order for at
least another ten or fifteen minutes." As she stepped off the dais,
someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Another familiar faceþone she was very glad to see.

"Gerry! What are you doing here? " "Just stopped by to say hello. "
"But how'd you get in? " He flashed his FBI ID. "Never underestimate
the power of the Department of Justice. I knew this was your big day
and I just wanted to wish you luck. I'dtve brought flowers butþ" "Oh,
I'm glad you didn't. I wouldn't have known what to do with them." He
leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. "Knock em dead, Gin. "
She gave him a hug. "Thanks. That means a lot." And it did. No one
else had wished her luck, or thought she should even be here. She
watched him go, then spotted Duncan on the far side of the room. He
was talking to one of the committee members, Senator Vincent. Both
looked to be about the same age, wore suits of similar cut, but
Duncan's trim figure and aristocratic bearing somehow left the senator
looking like a poor relation. And what had the senator done to his
hair? A permanent?

She tapped Duncan on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir, " she said in an offcious voice. "Do you have a
pass?

" Duncan greeted her with a warm smile and threw an arm around her
shoulders.

"I was wondering when you'd show up. Senator Vincent, I'd like you to
meet Senator Marsden's newest assistant, Dr. Gin Panzella. Also my
surgical assistant. In fact, she assisted me on your procedure. "
Senator Vincent glanced around uncomfortably as he shook Gin's hand.

"I wish you wouldn'tþ" "Don't worry, Senator, " Duncan said. "Gin is
the soul of discretion, just like everyone else on my staff. You know
that."

"You look great, Senator, " Gin said, and she meant it.

Except for the hair. But as far as the surgery, the improvement was
remarkable. Amazing how all that redundant flesh under his chin had
aged him. He looked at least fifteen years younger.

But that hair. Ugh.

"So I look okay? No sign that I hadþthat anything was done? " "Not a
bit, ' Duncan said. "I predict you'll be the next bright star in the
C-SPAN firmament." Senator Vincent laughed nervously.

"I'm serious, " Duncan said. "After your performance today, you're
going to be on all the networks. Mark my words." Just then a beeper
sounded. Duncan had his hand in his coat pocket.

Gin watched him pull out his oversized pager, the same one he'd had on
the west portico of the Capitol . . .

. . . the day Congressman Allard fell down the Capitol steps.

He grunted and said, "Now, who could this be? " He looked at the
display window and pressed a button. At that moment the hearing room's
PA system began a feedback howl, and Gin noticed Senator Vincent wince
and begin massaging the outside of his right thigh.

"Something wrong? " she asked him.

"I don't know, " he said. "For a second there it was almost like a bee
sting. But it's better now." He glanced at the dock high on the rear
wall. "We'll be starting soon. Excuse me." Gin turned to Duncan as
Senator Vincent wandered off. "Anything important? " Duncan had
already pocketed the pager. "One of my golf foursome.

Probably checking on our tee TIME And may I ask, who was that man
with whom you were engaging in a public display of affection? " "Gerry
Canney. An old friend from high school. He's now an FBI agent. "
"And I suppose you embrace all your old high school friends whenever
you see them? " Gin felt herself blush. "He's a little more than a
friend."

"I see, " Duncan said, raising his eyebrows. "Well, I'm happy for
you." Gin regarded him. Something different about Duncan this
morning. He seemed wound up. Like a Thoroughbred owner before a big
race.

'"Three guesses who's the last person I expected to see here this
morning." -His eyebrows lifted even higher. "Me? I wouldn't miss
this show for the world."

"It's the hottest ticket in town. How'd you get in? " '"Consider for
a moment the names in my patient files, Gin, and tell me who in this
Circus Maximus is better connected than yours truly." He cocked his
head toward Senator Vincent. "Actually, it was the good senator
himself who saw to it."

"You'd probably be better off watching it on C-SPAN."

"Nothing like. actually being there." He sniffed. "Catch that,
Gin?

The effluvium of naked power waiting to be unleashed. Heady stuff."

Gin laughed. "Tell me about it." She glanced at the dais and saw the
committee members seating themselves. "Got to run. Enjoy yourself,
Duncan." His smile was tight. "I hope to." Her palms were moist by
the time she regained the dais. She hoped she didn't look a tenth as
nervous as she felt.

Let's stop fooling around and get this thing started, foZks.

She knew she'd be fine once the hearing was rolling, it was the waiting
that was killing her.

She checked out the dais. All the attending committee members except
Senator Vincent were in place. Where was he?

She searched the floor of the hearing room and spotted him, standing
next to Duncan again. She saw Duncan say something to him and turn
away.

She couldn't see Duncan's face, but Senator Vincent's wore a baffled
look.

Gin had a sudden sense of deja vu . . . Duncan . . . his beeper .

.

.

a parting comment . . .

Gin chewed her lip as the senator gained the dais and approached his
seat. She knew it was all coincidence but she wanted to know what
Duncan had said to him.

Now wasn't the time, however. But right after the hearing she'd find a
way to ask.
Duncan sat quite literally on the edge of his seat, his hands clutched
tightly between his knees. He struggled for outer calm, to hide the
surging adrenaline within.

No glitchff today. This one had to go according to plan. The setting
was absolutely perfect.

He'd waited to see where Senator Vincent was sitting before choosing
his own place. When he spotted Vincent settling himself three seats to
Marsden's right, Duncan found a chair halfway back with a clear view of
the senator.

He glanced at his watch.

Won't be long now.

He watched Gin sitting tense and stiff against the back wall as Marsden
brought the room to order. The senator made a few brief opening
remarks about the missing committee members, offering condolences to
the Lane family and hope for Congressman Allard's speedy recovery. Out
of respect, he said, their nameplates would remain before their places
until their replacements were chosen.

Duncan knew he was tempting fate to do this with Gin here, but he had
little choice. Another of those perverse twists that dogged his heels
lately. Still, there was no way Gin could connect him to what was
about to happen to Senator Vincent.

Ah, Gin, he thought. Look at you, my naive cygnet, thinking you can
have some effect on these proceedings. But it's all preordained. The
real decisions as to whether or not American medicine will be practiced
via government-issue cookbooks, and whether your fellow physicians will
be suffocated under mountains of regulations where they'll spend more
time dodging fines and penaltiff than attending to the health of their
patients, will not be made here but in back rooms and hallways, where a
vote for the Guidelinff act will be traded for a bridge or a highway
spur.

The first witnffs was called, Samuel Fox, MD.

i Typical, Duncan thought. Congress's favorite pet doctor, the
physician-hating physician.

Fox styled himself as a consumer advocate but was little more than a
grandstanding autolatrous worm. This hearing was proceeding exactly as
expected.

As the notoriously prolix Fox began reading a prepared statement,
Duncan kept his eyes fixed on Vincent, watching for the first signs.
His thoughts wandered back to the day Congressman Hugo Lane had shown
up at his officer. That had been earlier this year, shortly after the
president had instigated the anabiosis of the committee. Lane the
notorious lush had come to him for removal of the spidery blemishes
sprouting all over his face and upper trunk. Supposedly from too much
sun. Duncan recognized them immediately as arterial angiomas, known in
the trade as boozer blossoms. They meant a fatty, cirrhotic liver.

Too much sun? Too much Johnny Walker.

 It had required enormous control not to slam the man back on the
examining table. The flagitious toper! Lane had been a member of the
original McCready committee, a participant in the savaging of Duncan's
career, his life, and he didn't even remember him.

Like the old song, Am That Easy to Forget?

He'd been part of the process that had killed Lisa and he had never
even heard her name.

Duncan remembered staring dumbfounded, thinking, We have this history
together, the most traumatic time of my entire life, and you have no
inkling.

If Duncan had not been in a towering rage over the revival of the
committee, if Lane had not been reappointed to it, Duncan might have
simply explained who he was, what he and his cronies had done to his
life, and thrown the bastard the hell out.

But circumstances being what they were, Duncan had said, Yff,
Congressman. No problem. We can take care of all those unsightly
areas of sun damage. Cautery of the central vessel of each with an
ultrafine laser. Easy as pie. Barbara will arrange a day and time for
the procedure.

While I arrange a little something extra for you.

So Congressman Lane had been the first.

Duncan's plan had been to have him make an ass out of himself at the
French embassy. Duncan had been there, had watched and waited, but
Hugo Lane had behaved as usual, drank too much, ate too much, and
talked too loud. Maybe all the alcohol in his system was to blame,
maybe his fatty liver wasn't working up to snuff. Whatever the reason,
Lane was apparently his usual self until he was driving home. Wimesses
said he wove all over the road before crashing through a barrier and
rolling down an embankment in Rock Creek Park.

Duncan had been shocked and dismayed. He hadn't intended for Lane to
dieþjust go crazy in front of a roomful of his peers. And maybe stay
crazy for a few years.

No worry about being found out. Lane's blood-alcohol level was
explanation enough for the accident. But even if the ME had looked for
other causes he would have come up empty. Toxicology screens can find
only what they're looking for, and no one would be screening for what
Duncan had put into Lane. Only a handful of people had ever known it
existed.

Schulz had been next. This procurante, too, had no memory of the
doctor his committee had flagellated years past, no knowledge of the
teenage girl who'd died because of it. Duncan realized then why they
didn't remember him, He'd never been important to them. Duncan Lathram
was a name on a piece of paper handed to them by one of their aides
five years ago. They'd reviled him when the microphones were on, but
never gave him a thought between hearings, and forgot about him after a
couple of weeks.

Schulz . . . a vain, strutting, womanizing roue whose diligent efforts
over the years to keep a year-round tan had left his face a mass of
wrinkles. On the recommendation of his good friend Congressman Lane
he'd come to Duncan for a solution. He'd already tried Retin-A but to
no avail. His myriad wrinkles seemed baked in. Could Duncan help?

Of course, Senator. Duncan had smoothed his rugose hide, and given him
something extra.

Duncan hadn't yet decided on the time and place for Schulz when the
shocking news reached him that the senator was dead. Duncan had been
baffled until he'd learned that a physical therapy session had been the
penultimate event in the good senator's life before he took a dive from
the balcony of his high-rise town house. That probably explained it.

Or maybe Schulz simply had a guilty conscience.

Not likely.

Again, no loss to the world. But once again he'd been deprived of the
catharsis he craved.

Allard had come the closfft to what Duncan had planned for him, but
that, too, had fallen short.

Today was going to be different. Duncan could feel it in his bones.

And when he noticed the corner of Senator Vincent's mouth begin to
twitch, he was sure of it.

Gin leaned forward in her seat and placed another note in front of
Senator Marsden. She'd been culling one question after another from
Dr. Fox's parade of dubious statistics but was passing only the more
flagrant errors forward. There wasn't time for the senator to consider
all of them.

As she slid back she noticed a small fleshy bump atop the auricle of
the senator's left ear. Smooth with a pearly surface.

On a sun-exposed area, that was a basal cell carcinoma until proven
otherwise. She wasn't his doctor, and it was sometimes touchy to point
out a potential health problem to someone who hadn't asked, but she
decided to mention it to him later.

She heard a pencil drop. She looked up. No, it was a pen. It had
fallen near Senator Vincent. He must have dropped it, but he didn't
seem to notice. She was forcing her attention back to Dr. Fox when
she noticed Senator Vincent jerk in his seat. She watched and he did
it again. A spasmodic movement, as if someone had jabbed him with a
pin, or a violent chill had passed through him. The room was cool but
he seemed to be sweating. He ran a trembling hand through his frizzy
hair.

Is he all right? she wondered.

She watched him a moment longer and he seemed to be calm, no more jerks
or twitches. But he was still sweating, and gripping the edge of the
table as if it might float away from himþor he from it.

Concentrate on the testimony, Gin, she told herself. That's your job
here. Not Senator Vincent's hangover or whatever's bothering him.

She focused on Fox's words and was in the middle of another notation
when . . .

"Just a minute, please. P-Please, excuse me." Gin jumped at the
sudden interruption. Senator Vincent, kissing his mike and popping his
P's, had broken in at peak volume.

"Yes, Senator? " Senator Marsden said softly. "Shall we allow The
doctor to finish his statement before questioning him? " "No! "
Vincent shouted, slamming his fist on the table. His eyes were wild as
he glared along the table at Senator Marsden. "We shall do no such
damn thing. Not when this son of a bitch starts slandering my wife!"
Gin was rocked by that. Fox had been talking about overutilization
of services. She saw heads snap up all around the hearing room. Both
C-SPAN cameras had swiveled toward Vincent, and the still photographers
were screwing their lenses back and forth as they focused on him, the
previously somnolent reporters had come alive and were now scribbling
on their pads or jabbing away at their laptops.

And on the dais she watched the other members exchange puzzled
glances.

Marsden looked the most concerned of all.

He cleared his throat. "Senator Vincent, I don't believe Dr. Fox
mentioned anyone's wife. He was discussingþ" "Don't you tell me what
he said or didn't say, you greenhorn! " Vincent shouted. "I was
taking testimony when you were pissing your pants. And don't you side
with him against me, either! ' "Senator, ' Dr. Fox said from the
floor.

His expression was wounded and confused. "I assure you I never said or
even implied anythingþ" Vincent leapt to his fee. He was. off mike
now, but his harsh voice cut through the hearing room as he pointed a
trembling finger at Fox.

"Don't lie to me, you little shit! Of course you did! " He swayed as
he swept the room with his hand. "They all heard you. Every word of
it." He stared at the wide-eyed, gawking visitors. "Didn't you?

Didn't you? "  Silence . . . except for the clicks of camera lenses
and the whir of advancing film.

Vincent began to nod his head. "Oh, so that's it. You're all in on
it. Well that's just fine. I'll justþ" Suddenly he whirled on Senator
Marsden. "What did you say? " Gin saw Senator Marsden cringe back.

She didn't blame him. The naked fury in Vincent's eyes was
frightening.

"IþI didn't say anything, Harold. Maybe we should call a recess
untilþ" "No! No recess! " Saliva flecked his lips and began to spray
as he shouted. "We're going to settle this right here. Here and
now!

We'reþ" Suddenly he stiffened. His arms went rigid, his head snapped
back as his spine bowed. Gin saw his eyes roll up and knew he was
going to convulse. She was out of her chair and halfway to him when he
dropped to the floor and began a tonic-clonic seizure.

Gin crouched beside him, cradling his jerking head. His eyes were open
but he was seeing nothing. She listened to the air hissing in and out
between his clenched teeth. Good. As long as that kept up, she knew
he hadn't swallowed his tongue.

"Somebody call the emergency squad! " she cried.

She loosened his tie, folded it, and worked it between his grinding
teeth. The senator was going to need a dose of diazepam soon.
She looked up and saw Samuel Fox in the encircling huddle of anxious
faces and camera lensesþthose damn clicking, whirring cameras.

"Dr. Fox. Flow about a little help? " Fox didn't budge. He shook
his head. "I can't! I . . . I've never practiced. ' "Great, " Gin
muttered.

Suddenly Senator Marsden was at her side.

"The E.M.Ts are on their way. What do you want me to do? " Gin gave
him a quick, grateful smile. "Just grab his arms and steady them.

Don't try to pin them down, just blunt the wild movements, keep him
from flailing around too much and breaking a bone." '"Will do." It
took another minute or soþit seemed much longerþ before the seizure
abated and Senator Vincent's limbs relaxed. His body slumped, his eyes
closed. He began to snore.

"Does he have a history of seizures? " Gin asked Senator Marsden as
they released their hold.

"Not that I know of. But then again, that's not something you
broadcast in public life. ' Right. Voters were probably funny about
voting for an epileptic. But what about the bizarre paranoid behavior
just before the seizure?

The E.M.Ts arrived then. As they started an IV drip and loaded Senator
Vincent on the stretcher, Gin told them he'd suffered a grand mal
seizure and suggested they call ahead and have a neurologist waiting.

"Have ten milligrams of diazepam ready to go IV push if he starts
again, " she told them as they were leaving.

She turned to Senator Marsden. "Thanks for your help." He nodded
absently, then surveyed the milling, murmuring crowd around the dais.

"Nothing like starting off with a bang, " he said with a sigh.

"Are you going to call a recess? " He nodded. "An indefinite one. '
"What do you mean? " . - His expression was bleak." I opened the
hearings this morning two members short. Now I'm three short. I've
got half a committee now. Even if Senator Vincent recovers soon, I
don't see him appearing before the cameras again for quite some TIME

Do you? " "No. Can't say as I do."

"So I'm going to have to wait until at least one of those empty seats
is filled."

"How long will that take? " Gin said, her heart sinking. She'd just
started this job last week, now it was evaporating before her eyes.

"Could be a while." Gin's expression must have revealed her dismay.

He smiled and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't worry. I want you around doing background during the hiatus. I
like the way you handle yourself. And who knows? We may not have a
long wait if I can get the president involved. He wants this bill
before the end of the year. Maybe he can twist a few arms. ' He
returned to his seat on the dais, banged his gavel twice, and announced
that hearings were suspended until further notice.

Gin suddenly thought of Duncan. She searched the crowd for him but he
was gone.

Twice now, Duncan had been present when some catastrophe had befallen
one of his legislator patients.

What had he said to Senator Vincent down on the. floor . . . minutes
before the senator went crazy?

Gin had a strange feeling that he'd told him to remember someone named
Lisa.

Later, Gin returned to the Hart Building via the underground shuttle
and was surprised to find Gerry waiting for her in the atrium.

"Am I glad to see you." She needed someone to talk to, needed to
ventilate the morning's events. She gave him a hug and felt the
tension in his muscles. Gerry didn't seem to be in a listening mood.

"We need to talk, ' he said. His expression was serious, almost
grim.

"Is something wrong? " "Something might be. Can I tell you about it
over lunch? " "Nothing about Martha, is it? " He stared at her, then
put his arm around her shoulder. "No. Nothing at all to do with
Martha." They walked down to Mass. Gerry tried to make small talk but
didn't do a very good job.

Summer wasn't letting go just yet. The sun was high and 0 the air
warm. Gerry pointed to an array of red-and-white Tecate umbrellas on a
patio in front of a converted brownstone about a block and a half down
from Union Station.

"How about T-Coast? " Gerry said.

Gin looked at the sign, Tortilla Coast. Mexican food. "It's not a
Taco Bell, but I guess we can make do." She was too wound up to eat,
but just sitting in the sun would be good.

They took a corner table near the sidewalk.

"So what's the problem? " she said as the hostess left them with their
menus.

"I heard about Senator Vincent."

"It was terrible."

"You realize, don't you, that he's the third member of your committee
to bite the dust. ' "Yes. Senator Marsden and I were just discussing
it. But whatþ? " "I did some quick background on him. Checked if
he'd had any surgery recently." He paused, staring at her. "You know
what's coming next, don't you." It wasn't a question. What was he
getting at? Why was the FBI interested?

"Duncan."

"Right. That makes four." "Four what? " "Four dead or disabled
legislatorsþtwo senators, two congressmenþall Lathram patients. Three
of them on the Guidelines committee. Could your Dr. Lathram have it
in for that committee or something? " Gin suddenly felt a little
queasy.

He was echoing her own crazy thoughts.

The waitress arrived then. Gin agreed to share Gerry's nacho platter
and ordered a Pepsi. Considering what the morning had been like, she
could have done with a brewþ she'd acquired a taste for Dixie while at
Tulaneþbut she didn't want to show up at the senator's staff meeting
this afternoon with beer on her breath.

"He was there this morning, you know, " she said when they were alone
again.

"Who? " "Duncan. And he was on the Capitol steps when Allard took his
fall."

"You were there? You never told me. How close was he? " "You mean,
did Duncan push him? Come on. But he . . . " She hesitated,
wondering if she should mention it, then plunged ahead.

"Duncan's last words to Allard were something about Lisa."

"His daughter? The one whoþ? " '"Committed suicide. I think so. He
said something about an eighteen-year-old named Lisa. Had to be her.

" Gerry was silent a moment, then, "On the subject of Lisa, I dug a
little deeper after reading her death certificate. Got a copy of the
coroner's report." Gin's heart kicked its rhythm up a notch. "You
have it with you? " "No. It's back at my office. But I read it
through a couple of times.

It summarized her whole medical history. Let me tell you, Lisa Lathram
was one troubled kid."

"You mean she tried it before? " He nodded.

"Twice. Once with pills. Once with a razor to the wrists." Gin
slumped in her chair. "How awful."

"Apparently neither attempt was that serious."

"But she got it right the third TIME"

"That was the real tragedy. According to the report, Lisa had been
doing extremely well on Prozac, which I understand was pretty new at
the TIME Then suddenlyþboomþ something happened and she went over the
edge.

Gulped all the old antidepressants she'd squirreled away over the
years.

But the worst part was she didn't take enough to kill her.

Just enough to make her dopey and clumsy. She toppled over a balcony
and landed on a hard the floor. Doctor Lathram came home and found
her.

"Oh, God. Poor Duncan." That explained it thenþthe sudden radical
change in Duncan's life.

Everything must have fallen apart for him.

But it didn't explain his mentioning Lisa to Allard two weeks ago.

"Any hint in the report of a connection between Lisa and Congressman
Allard? " Gerry shook his head. "Not that I saw. Of course, I wasn't
looking for one. I'll make you a copy. But in the meantime . .."

He leaned forward." I understand Lathram's putting some sort of
implants into his patients."

"How . . . how'd you know about that?

" He shrugged. "It's no secret. The FDA has him down as approved to
do a clinical study. What's in those implants anyway? " "Just some
enzymes and such to reduce scarring."

"Well, could there be something wrong withþ? ' She gave in to a sudden
urge to defend Duncan. "Gerry, he does a dozen or more cases a week.

Very visible people. If there were something wrong with the implants,
there'd be nobody left to go to all those embassy parties."

"What if he puts something different in certain implants . . . so he
can get to certain people . . . ? " "Do you hear yourself, Gerry?

Dr. Duncan Lathram is lacing his implants with some mystery substance
that causes people to get drunk and wreck their car, commit suicide,
fall down steps, or have seizures.

That's one hell of a versatile drug."

"Who says it has to be one drug? " '"All right. I'll give you the
benefit of the doubt on that.

But let's take Senator Vincent today. You're saying that Duncan has
such control over whatever drug he supposedly used that he can make it
go into effect on command, right in the middle of a committee
hearing.

Is that what you really think? " Gerry leaned back in his chair. Gin
could feel the frustration pouring out of him.

He sighed. "Does sound pretty far Out, doesn't it? " He was silent
for a while, then he leaned forward again. "But something doesn't
smell right, Gin. I can't tell you how I know, or why, but my gut
tells me something's going on here."

"I know what you mean, but it's just a string of coincidences. Duncan
has his eccentricities, but he's not . . . he isn't . . . " "Look,
just to shut me up, could you bring me a sample of whatever it is he
puts in those implants? " "No, Gerry.

I can't. That's Oliver Lathram's concoction and it's not patentable.

What do you want to do, have it analyzed? " "Just to see if there's
anything toxic in it."

"I can assure you there's nothing toxic in that solution."

"Ever hear of a binary poison? " Gerry said.

"No. I don't know much about poisons."

"They come in two parts.
Neither half is toxic by itself, but when they meet in the bloodstream
and bindþwham."

"Very interesting. But I'm still not getting you a sample. I
couldn't.

It would be a breach of trust." He nodded slowly. "Okay. I can
respect that. But keep your eyes open up there. And be careful. I
don't want anything happening to you." Something happen to her?

Absurd.

Gin tried to lighten the mood by smiling and saluting him. "Aye,
Captain Queeg. And how would you like your strawberries, sir? "
Finally a smile broke through. "You think I'm crazy, don't you? " "No
crazier than I. " '"See? We were made for each other. Have dinner
with me tonight? " "Sure. How about my place? I'll cook." His eyes
lit. "Really? " '"Bring Martha." A little of that light faded in his
eyes. "Oh. I thought maybe youþ" "Surely you've figured out by now
that I only put up with you so I can see Martha." '"I can live with
that, " he said. "Whatever it takes." Gin was touched. She reached
across and laid her hand on his. He gripped her fingers.

And then the nachos arrived.

But as Gina watched Gerry pile his plate, she heard, Could your Dr.
Lathram have it in for that committee or something?

Why had those words come back? Duncan did have it in for the
Guidelines committee. He ranted against it at every opportuniry.

But at one time or another, Duncan ranted against just about everything
and everyone in the government. That didn't mean he was waging war on
it.

Did it?

She shuddered briefly. An absurd thought.

Not Duncan. Even if it were possible. And it wasn't. So why even
consider it?

But come to think of it, Duncan had disappeared right after Senator
Vincent's seizure. With no offer of help. Just like when Allard had
fallen. No imagining there. Those were facts.

And they bothered her.

GINA FRIDAY GINA WAS BACK IN THE Lathram OFFICE. SHE D spent most of
the morning assisting Duncan with a particularly difficult composite
rhytidectomy, in which all the underlying facial tissues are lifted as
one piece. Normally it would take five or six weeks for the facial
swelling to resolve from such an extensive procedure. With the help of
Oliver's implants, this particular sixty-two-year-old Washington
doyenne would be back in the social whirl well before then.

Duncan had been in a particularly chipper mood through the surgery,
humming, joking. "No jeremiads about the lamentable state of the
nation today, ladies, " he'd said, sounding apologetic. No one had
complained.

Later Gin wandered into Oliver's lab with a cup of coffee, looking to
kill a little time before starting on her presurgical exams for next
week's cases. She noticed he had a tray of large implants sitting on
the counter. The empty syringe and the bottle of normal saline
solution sitting next to the tray explained why the implants looked
full.

Zt. , S She bent over the tray for a closer look. Were these the new
model Oliver had mentioned? Looked just like the old model.

'"Hi there, Gin." She looked up. Oliver was coming through the
doorway, pushing a wheeled cart ahead of him.

"What've you got there? " "An ultrasound unit." She gave it a closer
look. Not the diagnostic or imaging kind used in pregnancy. This type
was for deep-heating subcutaneous tissues. A big difference in power,
The former measured output in megahertz, the latter in watts.

"Going into physical therapy as a sideline? " He chuckled. "No. Just
testing out the latest batch of the new, improved implants. ' He'd
lost her. "With ultrasound? " "Sure. Just give me a second to set up
and I'll show you." He set the unit on the counter, plugged it in,
adjusted a few dials, then picked up the handle.

' Watch." Oliver took the implant from the end of the row and moved it
away from the rest, placing it on the counter a couple of feet from the
tray. He positioned the ultrasound head over it and pressed the button
on the handle. Immediately the implant began to quiver, an instant
later it dissolved, leaving a spreading puddle on the counter.

He placed another implant in the puddle and held the ultrasound head
farther back. The implant dissolved, the saline puddle enlarged.

He did this repeatedly, each time backing farther away with the handle,
each time enlarging the puddle until finally it ran over the edge and
dripped onto the floor.

Gin watched in wonder.
"That's incredible, " she said.

She stepped to the counter for a closer look. Only minute shreds of
the implant membranes remained floating in the puddle.

"How does it work? " '"I altered the crystal-protein matrix, " Oliver
said as he unplugged the ultrasound unit. "I made it more stable, more
resistant to the body's tissue enzymes, but I rigged it so that at a
certain ultrasonic frequency, the crystals vibrate and dissolve the
matrix. As a result, the implant membrane collapses and releases its
contents."

"Brilliant."

"Duncan's idea, actually." Somewhere in the rear of Gin's mind, a bell
chimed a sour note.

"Duncan's? " "Yes. He wants more control over when the implants
dissolve. As he says, why leave the iming up to the vagaries of the
circulatory system and the tissue enzymes? Let's develop implants that
empty when we tell them to." She remembered what she'd said to Gerry
after the Guidelines hearing earlier in the week. And not only can
this miracle toxin do all these different things, but Duncan has such
control over it that he can make it go into eMfert on command.

It had sounded so absurd then, but the means were staring her in the
face.

"Is . . . is Duncan using these yet? " "Oh, no. The FDA approved us
to do clinical trials with the original implants only." He flashed a
smile. "The Original Recipe, you might say.

We'll have to go through the whole approval process again for the new
membrane."

"Oh. So these are brand new." That's a relief, Duncan couldn't have
used the new implants if they hadn't existed at the times of the
surgeries.

But the relief was short-lived.

"Not really, " Oliver said. "I've been working on them for most of the
year. And they're still not perfected yet." ie Gin swallowed.

"Looks like they work pretty well to me."

"Not good enough yet for Duncan. He wants a more stable membrane, one
that will last almost indefinitely until hit with the right ultrasound
frequency."
"Do you see any clinical purpose in that? " Oliver shook his head.

"No. But Duncan's the doctor, not me. He knows what he wants." Gin
helped Oliver mop up the saline with paper towels, but all the while
her thoughts were looping in wild circles. She slowed them down,
straightened them out. She had to approach this logically, like a
diagnostic puzzle. Lay out the facts first, then draw conclusions.

All right, Duncan did have the means to implant a toxin of some sort
inside his patients and release it at will.

No, not at will. He had to zap it with ultra-high-frequency sound.

If Duncan had been responsible for what had happened to Senator
Vincent, he'd have had to wheel an ulttasound machine into the hearing
room and point it at the senator.

Ridiculous.

Still, the ultrasound demonstration left a residue on her thoughts, a
sour mental aftertaste.

She went looking for Duncan. She'd forgotten to check with him about
putting in a few extra hours here until the hearings got underway
again.

And she needed to talk to him, to reassure herself.

"Oh, he's gone, " Barbara told her as Gin went to knock on Duncan's
office door.

"Out with the mysterious Dr. V. , I suppose? " "No. Dr. V.'s not
due back for a while. Dr. D. said he was heading for the golf
course.

" "Damn. I wanted to catch him before he left."

"He's not gone all that long. I'll try his car phone." Barbara
punched in some numbers, waited, then hung up. "No luck there.

I can page him for you."

"No. I don't want him coming off the golf course just to talk to me.

It's not that imporrant. What's the number of his club? Maybe he's
still in the clubhouse."

"Want me to call for you? " "No, thanks.

I'll call him myself." Barbara looked it up and wrote it down.

Gin used The records-room phone. First she tried The club dining room,
but he wasn't there. Then she tried the pro shop. Maybe she could
catch him before he started his round.

"Doc Lathram? " said the chief caddy. "Haven't got a tee time for
him."

"Maybe he's playing with someone else."

"Maybe, but I ain't seen the Doc round here for months." '"Are you
sure? " '"Missy, I'm here just hour every day. Doc Larhram's been a
member here forever, but it must be six months since I put his bags on
the back of a cart.

But if he shows up I'll give him a message if you want."

"No, " Gin said. "Never mind." What's that all about? she thought as
she hung up. When he hasn't been bitching about the kakistocracy, it's
been about his golf, his slice, his bogies, complaining about the
condition of the greens.

So what's he been up to?

Not golf, obviously. What else had he been Lying about?

Gin was uncomfortable. She didn't like the idea of Duncan Lying, to
her or anyone else.

On impulse she went back upstairs and returned to Duncan's office.

"I left some papers on his desk, " she told Barbara as she breezed by
her.

Great, she thought as she swung the door open. Now I'm Lying too.

Tense and uneasy, feeling like a sneak, she went to the big partners
desk and tugged on the top drawer. It wouldn't budge. Locked.

Damn.

- She dropped into his chair and slouched there, swinging back and
forth, wondering what to do.

What, if anything, was going on here? And what should sheþcould
sheþdo?

Most likely it was all just nothing, but she had to ask herself, Did
Duncan have anything to do with those four dead or damaged
legislators?

Probably not. Their deaths, accidents, and illnesses weren't really
linked . . . just one of those weird coincidences that sometimes
occur.

. . the kind of coincidence that gts conspiracy theories started.

Still, why was he Lying about where he went when he cut out of here
early every afternoon? Did that really matter?

But she had seen an injection vial of something in Duncan's top drawer,
also some sort of trocar. Why were they -- there? What was in that
bottle? Why did he keep the drawer locked?

Damn! She hated doubting Duncan like this. But why wasn't he where
he'd said he'd be? Where the hell was he?

Duncan removed the dressing from Kanesha's face and studied his work.

He gripped her chin and gently turned her head back and forth.

Reflexively her hand fluttered up to cover the area of the surgery.

Duncan gently pulled the hand away and pressed it against her hip.

"No need to do that anymore, Kanesha." The thick, stiff wad of scar
tissue thu had held the left side of her mouth prisoner was gone. In
its place were a pair of healing hairline incisions and a
normal-looking angle of the mouth. Duncan was pleased. But now the
most important test.

'"Smile for me, Kanesha." Again the hand came up and covered that
corner of her mouth. She looked at her mother. Her expression said,
Get me out of here.

"C'mon, Neesh, " said her mother. "Smile for Dr. Duncan." Duncan
pulled the child's hand down again and stood her on the chair.

He turned her toward the mirror on the wall.

'"Look at that girl in there, " he said. "What do you think of her? "
Kanesha stared at herself in silence for a moment, then leaned forward
for a closer look. Her left hand came up again, this time not to
cover, but to touch, to confirm that what she saw was real.

Duncan watched her, waiting for a smile. And the smile was
important.

Kanesha's had been a tougher piece of surgery than he'd anticipated.
The scarring had gone deeper than usual, not only had he had to free up
all the subcutaneous layers, but he'd had to do a partial
reconstruction of the perioral musculature. A smile was the only way
he'd know how successful he'd been.

"Well? " he said. "Don't keep me in suspense, little girl. Has
Kaneshe Green got something to smile about or not? " He poked a
wiggling finger into her flank, tickling her. She giggled, and with
that giggle came a smile. An enormous smileþbright, even,
symmetrical.

She stopped giggling and stared. The smile faltered for a heartbeat as
she leaned forward, her eyes wide, then it returned full force.

She turned to Duncan, grinning, joy and wonder dancing in her dark
eyes. Her mother burst into tears and reached for her daughter, but
Kanesha did the unexpected. She leaned - forward, threw her arms
around Duncan's neck, and hugged him. An instant later her sobbing
mother had her arms . around Duncan as well.

< "Oh, thank you, Dr. Duncan! Thank you so much! " This was getting
a mite sticky.

- "Now, now, ladies, ' he said, extricating himself from the tangle of
limbs. "We've made a big jump, but we're not finished yet." - "Not
finished? " the mother said, wiping her eyes. "She's beautiful! "
"Of course she is. But she's not fully grown yet. And some scarring
might redevelop in the deeper tissues. In a few years I may want to do
one more procedureþto make her perfect."

"She looks perfect now! Oh, Dr. Duncan, if there's ever anything I
can do to repay you, anything at all, justþ" Duncan put his hand on
Cindy Green's shoulder. "Just keep her smiling."

"No, I'm serious."

"So am I. Keep her safe, keep her healthy, keep her smiling.

Daughters are . . . " His voice caught. He cleared his throat.

"Daughters are precious. I don't want to find out I did that surgery
for nothing."

"I will, " she said, putting her hand over his. "I promise."

"Good! " He straightened and lowered Kanesha to the floor.

"Stop at the desk on your way out. The nurse will have some ointment
and instructions for its use. I want to see Kanesha next week. "
Cindy Green was puddling up again. "Dr. Duncan . . . " "Come on,
come on, " he said, ushering them toward the door. "You're wasting TIME Get her home and let her show off that smile." That'll teach
you to doubt me, he thought as he watched them go.

"Okay, Marge, " he called out. "Who's next. Let's keep moving." He
didn't have all day.

It began as a whim, which soon evolved into a compulsion, and by
midafternoon Gin found herself in the periodicals section of the
Alexandria Public Library.

Lisa Lathram . . . there had to be more on Lisa Lathram. And where
better to find it than in the town where she lived and died?

Disappointingly, the Alexandria Banner's obit was identical to the one
in the Host. But a short news blurb about her death made an offhanded
mention of her father being under investigation by the Virginia State
Board of Medical Examiners.

Gin went rigid in her seat. Duncan? Investigated? For what?

She began buzzing backward through the microfilmed issues of the
Banner. Fortunately it was a small paper with a low daily page
count.

Whenever she found mention of Duncan she photocopied the page and put
it aside. When the Lathram references petered out, she assembled the
copies and read through them in chronological order.

The first story appeared about three months before Lisa's death. Half
the Banner's front page was devoted to Duncan, citing him for billing Medicate over a million dollars in vascular surgery fees the preceding
year. An editorial in the same issue categorized him as a prime
example of "unchecked greed in a profession run amok." Gin shook her
head in wonder. A million . . . a lot of money, even for a vascular
surgeon. But billing Medicate for a million didn't mean you received a
million. It only paid a fraction of what was billed. And even if it
paid dollar for . . .

.

dollar, so what? She'd seen how Duncan worked when he was a vascular
surgeon. If he billed a million, it was because he'd earned a
million.

, 79 The follow-up article described how a patient's rights ,"t group
was circulating petitions calling for an investigation of - Dr. Lathram
to determine how muchþnot if but how much unnecessary surgery he was
performing. The petitions were forwarded to the Virginia State Board
of Medical Examiners. Soon the Banner was announcing on its front page
that Duncan Lathram, MD, was under investigation for suspicion of
malfeasance and fraud by the state board. Then came an article
revealing that Medicare's fraud unit was conducting an audit of
Duncan's office and hospital records.

God, how awful, she thought. How humiliating to have all those
investigators pawing through your records, probably while patients sat
in the waiting room.

Then Lisa's death.

And after that . . . nothing.

Where was the resolution? What was the outcome? She couldn't find a
single mention anywhere. Had Duncan lost his Virginia license? Was
that why he was in Chevy Chase 7 now?

One way to find out. She glanced at her watch. Still time to call the
Virginia state board.

It took four calls, but Gin finally tracked down the executive
secretary, a Mrs. Helen Arnovitz. She asked if Duncan Lathram was
still licensed in the state, and if so, had any disciplinary action
ever been taken against him?

Helen put her on hold and returned a minute later.

"Yes, he's still licensed and no action was ever taken.

However, I remember the case well. The board did conduct an
investigation fir the possibility of fraudulent billing and performing
unnecessary surgery."

"And? " "The charges were found to be groundless. The board was
obligated to investigate due to some adverse publicity Dr. Lathram had
been receiving, but found no malfeasance.

When the results of the Medicate audit came back clear, we completely
exonerated him."

"So it was all much ado about nothing. ' "For us, but not for poor Dr.
Lathram. ' Gin stiffened. "Really? Why not?

' '"His practice dwindled to the point where he had to close his
office.

I understand he's doing quite well now in Maryland, but it was a shame
that Virginia had to lose such a fine vascular surgeon."

"I'm sure it was. Thank you." Gin hung up, leaned back, and closed
her eyes.

Her heart went out to Duncan.

Public humiliation, the death of his daughter, the closing of his
practice, the breakup of his marriage . . . all in the same year. Why
had it happened? What had started it all? It was enough to drive
anyone . . .

. . . crazy.

No. That wasn't fair. Duncan was anything but crazy. And none of
this had any connection to Schulz, Lane, Allard, and Vincent. At least
none that she could see.

So why didn't she feel relieved?

There was more to this. Had to be. But where to look?

No time for that now. She was due at Lynnbrook tonight. She'd hoped
this mini-research-trip would ease her mind but it hadn't.

Only one thing to do. And she hated herself for doing it.

Gerry slouched in the cubicle that served as his Office staring at
Martha's drawing of an orange horseþtruly a horse of a different
color.

He should have been devising a way to snare Senator Schulz's uncle as
an accomplice in laundering hono rana. Instead he was thinking about
the loss of three , F members from the same committee. What were the
odds of that happening by chance? Especially when they'd all had
surgery from the same doctor.

His phone rang. The receptionist down in the visitor area. "There's a
Dr. Panzella here to see you." He damn near dropped the phone.

'"What? Dr. Panþshe's there? Now? " "Yes. Standing right in front
of me."

"I'll be right down." Gerry grabbed his suit jacket and headed for the
elevators. He pressed the down button but none opened immediately so
he took the stairs. Only three floors. Nothing to it.

He burst through the doors and found Gin standing in the center of the
lobby. Her features were tight.

"Gin? Is something wrong? " She handed him a packageþsomething wadded
up in a brown paper lunch bag.
"Here. This is what you wanted."

"I wanted? " Baffled, he wormed his hand inside the bag and produced a
test tube filled with clear fluid, a sheet of computer printout came
with it.

"I don't get it." '"It's what Oliver Lathram puts in his brother's
implants."

"Oh, hey, I didn'tþ" '"Analyze it, Gerry. Satisfy your curiosity,
resolve your suspicions, and then let me know what you find.

That's a list of what's supposed to be in the solution. See if the
analysis matches it." She was so stiff, her expression so grim.

'"Gin, what's wrong? ' "I don't like what I'm doing, Gerry. I'm not
proud of myself for sneaking this out of Oliver's lab."

"But you didn't have to. I was onlyþ" "You started me thinking, you
got me worried. So now I want to know too."

"I'm sorry." She started to say something, then seemed to change her
mind. It looked as if she'd been about to say, You shogld be, but she
said, "It's okay.

You're just doing your job." He offered the tube to her. "You can
have this back." She shook her head. "Too late now." The tension was
so thick between them Gerry doubted even a Ginsu knife would cut it.

"Dinner was great the other night, " he said. "You're a super chef. "
"I'm glad you liked it." No thaw yet. He'd have to pull out the big
guns.

"Martha loved it. And she loves you." Gin's features softened.

Finally.

"And I love her, " she said. Then she pointed to the test tube. "But
let me know about that stuffs soon as you hear, Gerry. It's important
to me."

"Don't worry. As soon as I hear, you'll hear. But in the meantime,
what are you doing for dinner tonight? " She shook her head.

"Moonlighting at Lynnbrook." She turned and started walking away.

"You will let me know, . . . .

won't your Gerry raised three fingers, Boy Scout style. "Promise. "
Damn right I promise, he thought. Because I can see you're going to be
a basket case until I do.

As he headed upstairs to get a lab requisition form, he didn't know
whether he should be elated or depressed. He had a sample of Duncan
Lathram's solution, but he'd also made Gin terribly upset. Was the
prize worth the cost? If analysis turned up a toxin, how would he tell
her?

But he would. And pull her out of Lathram's place so fast her head
would spin.

Gin ran into Dr. Conway as she checked into the doctors lounge at
Lynnbrook. He was on his way out. She nodded absently. Duncan and
Oliver's secret sauce was on her mind and Conway was almost gone before
she realized she hadn't seen him since Harriet Thompson's death.

"I heard about Harriet Thompson, " Gin said. "Sorry."

"Yeah, " he sighed. He looked depressed. "Me too. But there's some
lawyer in town who's real happy about it."

"Oh, no. You're getting sued? " He nodded. "For gross negligence.

The daughter in San Diego who couldn't get free to come look after her
mother for a few days managed to find a lawyer as soon as she got to
town. Probably called I-8:00-SUE-DOCS or whatever number the ambulance
chasers are using today.

Never miss an opportunity to cash in, right? " Gin could understand
his bitterness. "Why doesn't she sue the PRO? " "Don't you know?

Physician Review Organizations are immune from malpractice suits. That
leaves me." Gin felt awkward and angry. Not knowing what else to do,
she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry. You'll win."

"Sure, " he said. His smile was humorless. "Bet you just can't wait
to get into practice. He walked out.

ON THE HILL you're GOING TO HAVE TO LEARN TO PLAY THE GAME, Hugh."

Gin slowed as she passed the closed door to Senator Marsden's office.

Her mind had been far away, wondering what the analysis of Oliver's
secret sauce was showing. She'd die if there was anything
incriminating in it.

, - The waiting was consuming her. She could barely concentrate on
anything else. But the condescension in the voice slipping through the
senator's transom pulled her up short.

She knew Senator Kramer had arrived for a meeting. Their voices
weren't raised but even out here she could sense the tension.

Senator Marsden's voice sounded tight. "When I start thinking of the
Senate as a game, I'll know it's past time to quit." Kramer
chuckled.

"I was pretty self-righteous too when I was a freshman. But I
learned.

And if you want to get things done in this town, you'll learn too.

You don't, you get left out in the cold." '"I'm not in favor of
loosening up on offshore drilling at the moment.

I don't think we need it now."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Hugh.

Because it's important to my people."

"Do I take it that my position on easing offshore drilling restrictions
will affect your vote on the Guidelines bill? " '>Oh, I wouldn't put
it that way. Let's just say I'm reserving my judgment until your bill
gets out of committee." I see."

"It's horse trading, son, " Kramer said, getting folksy all of a
sudden.

"It's what makes the wheels turn. I'm obliged to keep the home folks
happy and prosperous. Remember, One person's pork-barrel project is
another. person's wise investment in the local infrastructure."

"How about simply casting a vote for something because it's the right
thing to do? " Gin heard a chair scrape against the floor.

"Because what's right for you isn't necessarily right for me. We'll
talk again sometime, Hugh." Not wanting to get caught with her ear to
the door, Gin hurried off.

She related the conversation to Alicia on their way to the Senate
cafeteria in the basement of the Dirksen Building. The Hart and
Dirksen buildings were attached, but the walls down here were brick,
the doors a dark oak, in sharp contrast to the antiseptic decor of the
newer Hart.

They passed the Senate Post Office, then turned into the of.
"I'm not surprised, " Alicia said. She picked out a tuna salad and a
diet Pepsi. "A lot of the people on the Hill don't think he's for
real.

And the ones that do are leery of him." Gin took a turkey on rye and a
Mountain Dew.

"Care to explain that?"

Alicia scanned the tables. "Let's see if
we can get off by ourselves and I'll give you the true facts."

"True facts? You mean as opposed to the other kind? " "Exactly."

They found an isolated corner table. Alicia sat with her back to the
wall and watched the room as she spoke.

"First off, you should know that Senator Marsden ruffled a lot of
feathers right off by coming to town with a selfimposed term limit. He
said depending on how much he accomplished, he might serve only one
term, and absolutely positively no more than two. That was a no-no. "
"What's wrong with that? " "Because term limits is a very touchy
subject around here. The members like to think of themselves as
elected for life."

" How can they? Congressmen have to run every two years."

"Well, as I heard one member say to another back in the eighties, You
have to be a real bozo to lose this job. Incumbents average a
ninety-five-percent reelection rate."

"Wow." - "I tell you, Gin, nobody wants to leave this place once they
get here. And can you blame them? You're part of the most powerful
government in the world. And the most expensive. Salary, perks, and privileges come to more than two million bucks per member per year. No
other government even comes close. And the few bozos who somehow fail
to get reelected don't go homeþthey hire out as lobbyists. It's called
Potomac fever.

I understand it's incurable."

"Do you think Senator Marsden will catch it? " "Maybe, " she said.

"You never know. I think he's sincere when he says he doesn't intend
to stay here more than two terms. But I'm in the minority, Just about
everyone else on the Hill thinks it's a pose. A holier-than-thou act
that he'll use to squeeze the PACs for big bucks later. They're all
watching, waiting to see if it works."

"That's sick, " Gin said. "Why do you put up with it?

Why've you been at it for so long? " Alicia shrugged. Her smile was
shy. "Potomac fever. We staffers aren't immune either. Who knows?

Maybe you'll catch it too. Maybe you already have." Not me, Gin
thought. I'm immune to that sort of thing. She felt a twinge of
uneasiness. At least I hope I am.

Gin was straightening up her work area, preparing to call it a day as a
legislative aide and change into her doctor hat. Another frustrating
round of writing reports on referral and utilization patterns and
wondering if anyone would read them. She was also sneaking in time on
a freelance report, using the Harriet Thompson case as a paradigm of
how treatment guideiines can backfire. She hoped the story's poignancy
might raise a little consciousness as to the human COSt of well-meaning
guidelines when they were mechanically implemented.

Maybe in the process she could help Dr. Conway.

Alicia bustled by then.

"Got a maybe from Senator Hirsch, " she said as she passed.

" Gust a maybe? " That surprised Gin. Hirsch always seemed to have
something to say about health-care policy. "I thought he'd jump at the
chance." Alicia slowed but kept moving. "It's a joint committee, not
a permanenr thing. Too ad hoc. It might screw up his ranking position
on his other committees, ones that guarantee serious, long-term PAC
attention." Gin couldn't hide her annoyance. "Is everything about
money, dammit? " "Senator Mark Hanna said something you should keep in
mind when you're working on The Hill, There are two things that are
important in politics. The first is money . . . and I l can't
remember what the other one is. That's from the horse's mouth.

But what this place is really about is influence. And influence brings
in campaign donations. And campaign donations help you come back for
another term."

"So you can increase your influence, " Gin said without enthusiasm .

Alicia laughed and gave her a thumbs-up. "Now you're getting it! "
"I'm afraid I am, " Gin muttered as Alicia disappeared down the hall.

Then her phone with the seal of the Senate rang. It was Gerry.

"The report's back." Gin lowered herself into her chair. "I thought
you said not until tomorrow."

"Your list helped. Much easier to identify compounds when you know
what you're looking for. And besides, I told them it was for someone
very important. So they rushed it." Gin couldn't help smiling as a
warm rush washed through her. She liked this man more each day.

"And? " "And the analysis matches the list perfectly. Nothing in
there that isn't supposed to be there." Gin sagged in her chair.

She felt weak all over. She was so damn glad she could have cried
right then.

"Gin? You still there? " "Yes, " she said softly. "Thank you,
Gerry.

You don't know how good that is to hear."

"How about dinner tonight?

That sound good? " "Tonight's a Lynnwood night, I'm afraid." A
thought struck her. "But I've got a great idea. Come with me to my
folks' house on Thursday night. It's Columbus Day and my father always
makes a big deal of it.

It's crazy. You'll love it. And bring Martha. There'll be plenty of
pasta with no meat."

"You're on.

A few minutes later Gin was on her way out of Senator Marsden's office,
feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her
shoulders. Duncan and Oliver were in the clear.

One less thing to worry about.

COLUMBUS DAY GERRY AND MARTHA WERE WARMLY RECEIVED INTO THE folds of
the Panzella dan's Columbus Day celebration. Gin knew the welcome
might have been a bit more guarded had her folks realized that Gerry
was more than just an old high school friend she'd run into again.

Gin had already explained to her folks about Gerry's being a widower.

It probably wasn't necessary, but you never knew. Papa had a tendency
to verbalize whatever was on his mind, especially after he'd been
celebrating for a while. She could just hear him asking Gerry where
Martha's mother was. Papa was looking forward to meeting him. He
vaguely remembered his name from the Washington-Lee football team, and
was intrigued by the fact that he was an FBI agent. Mama wanted to
know all the details of his widowerhood, ducking and tsking and
Madroneing as Gina told her.

What she hadn't explained was how she felt about him, the growing need,
the building heat between them.

It went swimmingly. Papa and Gerry hit it off immediately, and Uncle
Fiore used to be a cop so he wanted to talk shop with the Fibby. And
Martha . . . well, Martha charmed the women immediately and before Gin
knew it, the little five-year-old was in the kitchen, draped in an
apron almost as big as she was, standing on a chair at the counter
helping Mama and Aunt Maria roll meatballs and stuff shells.

Gin passed her Aunt Terry and her Aunt Anna in whispered
conversation.

'. . . killed in a car accident. A terrible tragedy."

"And I understand he's raising that little girl all by himself." '"And
doing a good job, I'd say. Isn't she darling? " Gin moved on,
smiling.

She had hoped that as the evening wore on it would become apparent to
anyone who saw them together that she and Gerry were more than just
friends. She knew she had succeeded when she overheard Mama in serious
conversation with Gerry.

"And now your name. I'm not sure how you spell it. Is that with an i'
at the end? " '"No. With an e-y. C-a-n-n-e-y. It's Irish."

"Is it now? At's a-nice." Gin almost laughed aloud at Mama's sudden
reversion to an Italian accent. She was born in Baltimore.

But Gerry earned a place in Mama's heart by eating everything she put
in front of himþfrom stuffed calamari to stuffed shellsþand coming back
for more. How could she stay cool toward anyone with a big appetite
who loved her cooking? And Martha . . . Martha actually ate a
meatball, a little one she'd made herself.

Gin was careful what she ate. Pasta had awakened inside her and was
urging her to fill her plate, but Gin turned a deaf ear. She stayed on
the move, sampling and nibbling, and made sure to leave something on
each plate she used.

After dessert Gin spotted Gerry in a corner doing shots with Papa,
Uncle Fiore, and Uncle dorn. Gerry caught her eye, lifted his glass of
pale liquid, and winked at her. God, he looked great. And she loved
the way he seemed to fit right in, going with the flow of the party,
not standing on the side watching, but jumping right into the heart of
the festivities. She realized right then how much she wanted him.

She wondered if she should warn him about what he was drinking. If
that was what she thought it was, he was going to be sorry. But why be
a wet blanket? Let him have his fun.

i The dishes were washed and racked and the festivities were waning
when Gin, Gerry, and Martha made their way toward his car. Mama, Papa,
and a couple of the aunts and uncles were standing on the front stoop
waving goodbye.

"I think you two were a hit, " Gin said. "Did you have fun? " "I
think I had too much fun, " Gerry said. He held out the keys. "Do you
mind? " He seemed fine, steady on his feet, his voice clear, but Gin
took them, glad he could admit when he'd had too much.

"Not at all." '"Mama said I could come back and help her cook anytime,
" Martha said.

Gin had to smile. Her mother must have really taken to Martha if she
told her to call her Mama.

"And I know she meant it, " Gin told her. "It's been a long time since
she had a little girl around to help her cook." She remembered with a
pang all the holidays she'd stood on a chair at the very same counter
and helped her mother prepare the feasts. She wondered if Mama felt
abandoned by the daughter who went off to become a doctor.

Without sons there'd be no daughter-in-law to take under her wing.

I wonder if she knows how much I love her? Gin thought. But when was the last time I told her?

She couldn't remember. That shook her. She took it for granted Mama
knew, but everyone needed to hear it once in a while. Gin vowed to
start doing just that on a regular basis.

Why not start now?

She ran back to the front steps and threw her arms around her mother.

"I love you, Mama. You're the best." She kissed the stunned woman and
then hurried to the car. A glance over her shoulder showed Papa
beaming and Mama smiling and wiping her eyes.

After strapping Martha into the backseat, Gerry slumped into the
passenger seat.

'"What was that your father was pouring at the end? " "Grappa, " Gin
said.

'"I was fine up till then. I mean, I'm Irish. We can drink just about
anything that won't kill us. But that stuff. . . ' -- "Grappa won't
kill you, " Gin said with a smile. "But if you're not used to it, it
can make you wish it had." Martha's bedtime was long past but she was
wired, talking at light speed about filling cannolis and grating cheese
and how ugly the calamari were before Mama cleaned them. Gin was glad
it hadn't been Easter. How would Martha have reacted to aapozella? If
she and Gerry were still seeing each other next springþand she hoped
they would beþGina would have to prepare Martha for the sight of a
sheep's head in the kitchen.

Martha talked nonstop right into the parking lot by their apartment,
but was sound asleep in her father's arms by the time they reached the
front door. Gin went upstairs and helped put her to bed, Downstairs,
Gerry put his arms around her. She snuggled against him.

"Thanks, Gin, " he whispered. "This has to be the best  Columbus Day
of my life." '"It's not over yet, " she said, and kissed him.

He leaned back and looked at her for a second, then they kissed again,
long and passionately. Gin didn't want this night to end yet.

They tumbled to the couch and before long were fumbling with each
other's buttons, shucking off their clothes like old skins until there
was nothing between the new skins. And they didn't need much foreplay
because he was ready and God knew she'd been ready all night.

She didn't want to ask, but she forced herself to say it. "I don't
have to worry about you, do I? ' "What? Oh, you mean . . . no.

Well, two women, both very straight.

We thought something might be there but nothing came of either.

Howþhow about you? " "One guy for most of my residency." '"What
happened? " "I came here, he stayed there. It's over." . . _ , .

.

v rooa.

And then he was above her and in her and he rode her furiously,
bringing her to the peak . . . and then leaving her there.

'"I'm sorry, " he said when he'd caught his breath a moment later.

"It's been so long, and I've wanted you so bad. I just . . . ' She
put her arms around his neck and held him close. "It's all right, "
she said. "I understand. There'll be other times." Physically, she
was frustratedþhere she was with Gerry Canney, her high school dream
man, her very much now manþand her pelvis felt as if it were ready to
explode. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be
the perfect lover and she should have been drifting on ecstatic clouds
of delight. But another part of her was charmed. She'd sensed he was
a straight arrow, and this confirmed it in a way. If he'd performed
like a stud tonight she might have wondered about him.
She did wonder about herself. Did she really feel this deeply about
Gerry, or was it a rebound thing, someone to fill the void left by
Peter?

No, she decided. This is real. This has been a long time coming.

As they cuddled, he ran a hand over her abdomen and traced the long,
puckered scar that ran from the lower tip of her sternum straight to
the left of her navel.

"What's this? " "The reason you'll never see me in a bikini." '"No,
really." She told him about being hit by the truck, her torn-up
insides, and how Duncan had put her back together.

"Ah. Now I see why you're so devoted to him. I guess I owe him. '
'"What for? " "For saving you for me. Let me show you a couple of my
scars. Here's my appendectomy . . . " "Mine is bigger than you-ors, "
Gin singsonged.

And somewhere along the way as they compared scars, she noticed that he
was ready again.

"It regglly has been a long time, hasn't it? " she said.

"Forever." But this time she took charge, straddling him, riding him,
controlling the tempo, and when she climaxed it was as if the
almost-orgasm of before had been waiting in the wings and had jumped in
at the last minute to explode with the new one. She moaned and he
reached up to cover her mouth and she bit down on his hand and thought
she was going to pass out.

Later, as they sprawled exhausted on the couch, she saw that his hand
was bleeding.

"Oh God, I'm sorry. Look what I did. I didn't mean to." "I know. I
just didn't want anything to wake Martha." God, she'd forgotten all
about Martha.

, - "But you said she's a sound sleeper." '"She is. And she's
probably sleeping like the dead after that party tonight, but still .

. . " "Even in the throes of passion, you don't stop being the
protective father."

"It's not a hat I can just take off when I want to. I hope that
doesn't offend you. ' '"Not in the least, " she said and kissed him to
make sure he understood. "It tells me something about youþ something
good. ' She loved this man. She felt so at home with him. They
shared a past, and she sensed they shared a set of values. Here was
something that could really last.

With that thought bright and warm in her mind, Gin dozed off.

Gin was almost dressed when Gerry woke up. Dawn was moments away. He
winced at the light. She could tell he had a headache.

"What're you doing? " "Got to get home and get showered. Surgery this
morning with Duncan."

"At least stay for coffee. I can put onþ'' "I think it's better if
Martha doesn't find me here when she wakes up."

"Maybe you're right, " he said, "but I won't be getting her up for a
while yet."

"Still, I've got to go." They embraced. She didn't want to let go,
didn't want to leave. She wanted to spend the morning with Gerry
having coffee and bagels and then making love again and showering
together and then, maybe only then, think about assisting on cosmetic
surgery.

"My place next TIME We can scream and shout all we want. Nobody in
Adams Morgan notices that sort of thing." On her way home, the sun was
just peeking over the horizon and silhouetting the spire of the
Washington Monument as she crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

Again she worried that she was rushing things with Gerry. But no .

.

.

this felt right.

Does it get any better than this? she wondered. She was assisting
Duncan Lathram, she was legislative aide to Senator Marsden on
health-care matters, she was making love to Gerry Canney. Finally, all
the pieces of her life seemed to be falling into place.

No. It did notþcould notþget any better than this.

CONSULTATIONS MRS. JABLONSKY WANTED A BREAST REDUCTION. SHE SAT
topless on the examination table, lifting her large, pendulous breasts
and letting them drop . . . lifting and dropping . . .

"I'm sixty-eight years old, " she told Duncan. "I've had these since I
was fourteen. I used to be proud of them, but now they're quite
literally a pain. They're weighing me down, making me
stoop-shouldered, giving me backaches. I want them gone."
"Surely not gone, " Duncan said.

"No, of course not. Just less of them. If they droop any farther I'll
be able to tuck the damn things into my waistband." Duncan laughed.

"That doesn't sound too comfortable. We'll trim them to a more
manageable size for you. But what . . . ? " He'd noticed a large
number of white and pink lesions all over her trunk. He touched one,
then another. They lookect and felt like the aftereffects of
cryosurgery.

"Oh, those. That's Dr. Suer's work. You knowþthe dermatologist?

He's been removing my lesions."

"Your lesions? " "That's what he calls these things." She pointed to
a halfinch area of seborrheic keratosis on her upper arm. "He says
they're not cancerous but they could change anytime."

"These things? He said they might turn cancerous? " "Yes. And I had
loads of them." Duncan felt his jaw muscles tighten. "How many of
these lffions' has he removed? " '"Oh, fifty at least. He had me
coming back every week to take off a few more. We're just about
done.

It's been quite a trial, but it's such a relief to know I won't have to
worry about skin cancer anymore."

"Must have cost you a fortune."

"Oh, no. He just billed Medicate.

He accepts insurance. Not like you."

"You're right there, Mrs. Jablonsky. I'm nothing like Dr. Suer."

He lowered his voice and muttered, "Probably graduated from the
Ingraham."

'"I beg your pardon? " "Nothing." Duncan ground his teeth. The
medical mountebank. Freezing offperfectly benign keratoses and billing
for removal of precancerous lesions.

What a world. All a doctor had to do was practice straight, ethical
medicine, and he was guaranteed a decent living. But that wasn't
enough for the avaricious slugs who left a trail of slime across the
profession. It drove him up the wall.

Congress had no exclusive on greed. There were doctors who deserved an
implant as well.

Duncan's thoughts began to wander a new path, wondering if there might
be a way . . .

He shook it off. No sense in letting matters get complewly out of
hand.

He scheduled Mrs. Jablonsky for surgery, then went on to the next
patient. The chart sat in a pocket on the outside of the exam-room
door.

He glanced at the intake sheet as he reached for the doorknobþand
stopped. Hugh K. Marsden. Could it . . . ?

His gaze jumped a couple of lines down to the occupation box, U. S.

senator.

Duncan leaned against the doorjamb. This was too much. The chairman
himself?

Could it be . . . was someone on to him? Was he being set up?

But they'd never use a U. S. senator to try and trap him. Still . .

.

hard to believe Marsden's presence was mere chance.

Well, he'd pretend not to recognize Marsden and see how the
consultation played out.

"Mr. Marsden, " he said, entering and extending his hand. "Dr.
Lathram." Marsden's handshake was firm. And he didn't correct
Duncan's failure to address him as Senator.

"Glad to meet you, Doctor. You come highly recommended."

"That's always good to hear." He pretended to glance through the
medical history on the intake form he'd already perused outside the
door.

"Looks like you've been in pretty good health. What can we do for you
here? " Marsden turned his head and touched the top of the auricle of
his left ear. "I have it on good authority that this needs attending
to." Duncan stepped closer and saw the pink nodule in question He
touched it, smooth, firm. He pulled an illuminated magnifying glass
from a drawer and bent for a closer look. Fine capillaries
crisscrossed the opalescent surface. A positive Tyndall effect with
the light. He palpated it again, pressing around the edges. It was
bigger than he'd initially thought.

"Your authority is a good one. You've got a basal cell carcinoma
there.

No risk of distant spread, but if left to its own devices it will
continue to grow and eventually ulcerate and bleed. My advice is to
have it out now, while it's small."

"That's why I'm here." Duncan placed the magnifier on the counter.

"Sorry. I don't do therapeutic surgery, only cosmetic work. But I can
recommendþ" "You were recommended."

"I won't argue with that, but I don't do what you need . , , crone.

"But I do need a cosmetic repair. I don't want a notch out of my
ear.

" "I appreciate that, butþ" 'I Dr. Panzella told me you're the
best.

" "Gin? She sent you to me? " Why? he wondered, irritably. She
should know better.

"Not really. It. seems we have something in common, She works for
each of us. She spotted this thing on my earþ called it a lesion'þand
told me to have it looked at. Since many of my colleagues on the Hill
speak highly of you, and since Gin seems devoted to you, I figure
you're the man." Duncan's mind raced. He felt awkward. But this
explained Marsden's presence, the Gin connection.

All right. Maybe it was time to stop playing completely dumb and move
to slightly dumb.

"Marsden . . . " he said slowly. "Good Lord, you must be Senator
Marsden. Forgive me for not making the connection. Of course. You're
chairing the"þhe snapped his fingersþ "the . . .

"The Guidelines committee. ' "Right! The Joint Committee on Medical
Ethics and Practice Guidelines." Marsden smiled. "You know the full
title. So few people do." '"I read a lot. You're group has had some
trouble recently, , & , , s. seems.

"Yes. Poor Harold. He's quite ill, I'm afraid. ' "Any idea as to if
or when he'll be back? " "No. No definite word yet." Marsden was
playing it close to the vest. Not revealing anything. As he should
do. Duncan was trying to sort out his feelings for this man. He had
nothing personal against him. If he weren't chairing a committee that
had no right to exist, he might even like him.

"A bit of bad luck, wouldn't you say? " "Quite a lot more than a
bit.

It's almost as if some sort of curse was hanging over this committee.

" "You don't know if any of your members went poking into a pharaoh's
tomb, do you? " Marsden's smile was wan. "You'd almost think so,
wouldn't you? " "Does that mean you're now out of the Guidelines
business? " "Only for a little while. I'm doing my damnedest to fill
those empty seats. We should be rolling again in no TIME"

"Will you now? " Duncan said, feeling his jaw muscles bunch. "How
interesting.

" '"But back to the matter at hand, " Marsden said. "I'd like you to
do the surgery. And the reason is, quite frankly, cosmetic. I
understand you have a method that heals many times faster than regular
surgery. I need that. ' "Do you? " '"Yes. Depending on the
president, the hearings could be up and running again in a matter of
weeks. I don't want to be there on national TV with a cauliflower ear,
or an ear that looks like someone took a bite out of it. You know the
press. There'll be speculation about it, and once they find out,
there'll be story after story on my skin cancer, then TV specials on
the prevalence of skin cancer and how to avoid it."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"No. But I don't want the press to center on me and my minor skin
disorder. They should focus on the Guidelines committee and what we're
trying to do." Just what are you trying to do? Duncan wanted to
ask.

Marsden continued, "With your reputed skill and accelerated healing
methods, I believe you're just the man for the job." Oh, I am,
Senator, Duncan thought. I am that.

'"Very well, Senator. Because of your connection with Dr. Panzellaþwho
speaks very highly of you, by the wayþI'll make an exception. But I
will not make an exception about not dealing with any insurance
company. You pay my outrageous fee up front. In return you will get
the finest cosmetic surgery in the world, with absolute discretion.

Ours is a doctor-patient relationship. It does not involve Medicate,
Medicaid, Blue Cross, HMOs, PPOs, IPAs, or any of the rest of the
alphabet soup.

I do not fill out forms, talk to utilization committees or quality
assurance coordinators or nurse-bureaucrats insisting on a second or
third opinion. I speak to you, you speak to me. No other parties
involved." Marsden's expression reflected fascination rather than
consternation.

'"I take it then that you're not a participant in any of the
managed-care systems."

"You're looking at an endangered species, Senator." '"If you want, I
can have you put on the Department of the Interior's protected list. '
'"Too late for that, I think."

"Well, the sale of my company left me with a bit of money. I can
afford to spend some of it on my ear."

"Good. I'll turn you over to my secretary, who'll arrange all the
releases. How does next week sound?

"  "Thursday would be the best for me."

"I'll sc-e what we can arrange. But if you want me to use the
accelerated healing procedures, you'll have to watch a videotape and
sign a stack of release forms.

The implants I employ are still considered investigational at this
point."

"Whatever you say."

"Excellent." As Duncan led him out into the hall, he spotted Gin
passing by.

She glanced his way, then did a double take.

"Senator Marsdent" Something flickered across her face. Somewhere in
the moment between her surprise of recognition and smile of greeting
her features twisted with an odd expression. Was it fear, concern, or
consternation?

Whatever, it was plain that Gin was anything but happy to see the
senator here.

Why?

She'd seen nothing but good resultsþexcellent resultsþ during her time
here. Why on earth should she have the slightest concern about her
senator's having surgery here?

Unless . . .

No. How could she suspect? How could she even guc-ss?
It had to be something else. Maybe he'd misinterpreted her
expression.

But he didn't think so. Something there, something very much like
fear.

Duncan tried to shrug off the feeling but it wouldn't let go. Why on
earth should the sight of him with Senator Marsden strike terror into
Gin?

Unsettling thoughts whirled through Gin's mind as she watched Senator
Marsden sign the consent forms, thoughts about three members of
Marsden's committee, all Lathram patients, all either dead, damaged, or
demented . . .

She did her best to keep calm.

"What a surprise to see you here, " she said after Duncan was gone.

He tapped the tip of his ear with his finger. "Well, it seems it's
unanimous that this has got to go. And didn't you say he was the
best?

" "Yes, but I never meant you should come here. . . I mean, he doesn't
take cases like yours."

"He said he'd make an exception in my case." Gin felt a cold lump form
in her stomach. Duncan never made exceptions.

"Really. I'm surprised."

"Maybe you should be flattered. He said it was because of you." He
clapped her on the upper arm. "See. I knew I'd be glad I hired
you."

I hope so, Senator, she thought. She made what she hoped was a
graceful exit and hurried away. She had someplace to go.

She sat in the periodicals section of the D. C. Public Library's main
branch on G Street. She'd remembered something Oliver had said about
the Guidelines committee . . . shortly after Duncan had exploded at
the news that she was looking for a post on the committee.

. . . years ago he had a bit of trouble . . .

Trouble with the Guidelines committee? How many years? Oliver wasn't
talking. Maybe the microfilm would.

She ran a search of the Washington Post the year of Lisa's death,
looking for Duncan.

The earliest was dated May 7th, about a week before the first
anti-Duncan article in the Alexandria Banner. Front page, lower right
corner.

Gin's stomach lurched as she read the heading, "Committee Decries Gross
Overcharging' by Surgeon." She scanned the article until she spotted
his name, then backtracked.

From his seat beside the committee chairman, ranking member Senator Harold Vincent said his staff had uncovered a case of "flagrant abuse
of the current system, right here in our own backyard." He went on to
excoriate Dr. Duncan Lathram, a vascular surgeon in Alexandria, for
collecting over a million dollars from Medicate last year. "This sort
of gouging is a prime example of a profession running wild, lining
their pockets with millions of taxpayers' hard-earned money. If ever
there was a doubt that the medical profession needs guidelines imposed
on it, that doubt should be banished by the likes of Dr. Lathram. "
Gin sat rigid in her seat before the microfilm screen, shocked not only
by the words, but by their speaker. Senator Vincent . . . Duncan had
operated on him just a few weeks ago, they'd been bantering in the
committee hearing room moments before his seizures. And though he'd
attacked Duncan in public five years before, neither had ever mentioned
it. Had they both forgotten?

No. Not Duncan. Vincent, maybe. In a quarter century on the Hill,
this was simply another in an endless series of remarks prepared by one
of his aides and tossed away after they were read into the record.

But Duncan . . . those words no doubt were branded on his brain. He'd
never forget something like this. Nor would he forgive.

She went back and read the article from the beginning. Vincent had
attacked Duncan from his seat on the Committee for Medical Practice
Guidelinesþthe original Guidelines committee under Senator McCready.

The article listed the other members of that first committee. Besides
Vincent and McCready, it named Lane, Allard, and Schulz.

Schalz! Schulz had been on the original committee. Gin hadn't known
that.

'"Oh . . . my . . . Ciod, " she whispered. That was the connection
between the four dead or injured legislatorsþall had been members of
the McCready committee.

She found another mention of Duncan, deeper in the paper, a week
later.

This time it was Congressman Allard pillorying this price-gouging
surgeon and calling him "the tip of the iceberg." Something must be
done on the federal level. He demanded a Medicate audit of Duncan's
officer and hospital records.

Gin leaned back. So this was where Duncan's hell had begun, ignited by
a spark from the original Guidelines committee. He must hate these men
. . . yet he'd done cosmetic surgery on four of them.

And now those four were either dead or hospitalized.

It was all circumstantial, all four cases were different, and she
couldn't see how any grand jury could indict on the available evidence
. . . yet only a fool could deny the obvious and terrifying pattern.

But where was the connection to Lisa?

And did it matter?

At the moment, no. What did matter was that Senator Marsden was going
under Duncan's knife next week.

She remembered him signing the surgical consent forms a few hours
ago.

Wasn't there an expression about signing your life away?

GINA GINA DIDN'T T WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING. SHE DIDN"T have to. She
never got to sleep.

A night of endless tossing and turning. She'd tried everything short
of a sleeping pill. She didn't have one around and it probably
wouldn't have worked anyway. Her racing mind was stuck in overdrive
and refused to downshift.

Something's going to happen Jo Senator Marsden.

The thought had ricocheted off the walls of her brain like a
racquetball. She'd countered it with every explanation she could
dredge up. It all came down to the fact that despite a seemingly
obvious pattern, all the evidence was circumstantial. Yes, the
committee had initiated a series of events that had ruined Duncan's
practice, but it would take more than that to set him on a murderous
vendetta.

Yet every time she thought she'd laid the fear to rest, some dark,
formless dread from her hindbrain, that ancestral home of primal
instincts, would rear up and slam it into wild, random motion again.

So now she sat in her bay window and looked down on the
Saturday-morning quiet of Kalorama Road. God, what was she going to
do?

She'd have to do something.

Stop the surgery? How? What reason could she give? No, she'd have to
find a way to ease her mind so she wouldn't go crazy waiting for
something to happen.

But anything bad that happens to Marsden after the surgery, even if he
gets hit by a meteor while raking leaves in his front yard, I'm going
to blame on Duncan.

Gin could handle just about every question except the one about
Duncan's desk drawer.

She had seen the vial and the oversized trocar. And she couldn't
explain them.

What was in that vial? What was a trocar doing in there?

Only one way to find out. Did she dare?

She headed for the bedroom to throw on some clothes.

Gin let herself into the surgicenter through the private rear entrance
and coded off the alarm. She felt more than a little guilty about
this.

After all, Duncan had entrusted her with a set of keys and here she was
sneaking in to snoop through his desk.

It's not as if I'm going to steal anything, she thought. I'm just
going to borrow a little reassurance.

She locked the door behind her, then set up her excuse for being
here.

Not much chance that anyone else would be in on a Saturday, and her car
was in the rear lot, hidden from the street, but you never knew. So,
first thing, she trotted down to the records room and left her Senate
ID badge on the floor under the dictation desk. Should anybody ask,
that was why she was here, looking for her lost badge.

Back upstairs, she let herself into Duncan's officer. She noticed her
hands were sweaty. What if Duncan popped in and caught her here? Not
likely. He couldn't wait to get out of here weekday afternoons, so why
would he show up on a Saturday? Oliver was a different story. But
he'd mentioned a trip to Virginia Beach for the weekend, so it was
unlikely he'd show up.
Through the picture window she saw that the rock garden was half in
shadow. The shrubbery shielded her from anyone outside, but also
blocked her view of the rear parking lot, so she left the office door
open to hear anyone unlocking the private entrance.

She moved to Duncan's desk, praying she'd find the top right drawer
sitting open.

No such luck.

Okay, another prayer that he'd forgotten to lock it. She pulled on the
handle. The drawer wiggled but wouldn't slide.

Damn! She slapped her palm against the drawer. She wanted this over
with. She couldn't stand it.

She slumped into Duncan's chair and stared at the drawer. The
putting-to-bedþor God forbid, confirmationþof all her distress lay on
the far side of half an inch of wood. She stared at the brass face of
the lock. She'd seen Duncan's key ring hanging from that lock, which
meant the drawer key went wherever he went. But maybe there was a
spare around.

She went through each of the remaining drawers carefully and did find
two keys, but neither fit the lock. She tried prying it open with a
letter opener but was getting nowhere, and she was afraid to exert too
much leverage for fear of scratching the wood.

If only she knew how to pick a lock . . . or knew someone who did .

.

They made love first.

Gerry arrived a few minutes early and, as much as Gin wanted to learn
how to pick a lock, the sight of him standing inside her door swept
away thoughts of locked drawers. After about three words they were in
each other's arms and leaving a trail of clothing between the front
door and the bedroom. Nicer making love on a bed instead of a couch,
and this time Gerry took charge, running his lips around her nipples,
then between her breasts, down along her scar to her navel, circling
that, and continuing downward. She whimpered with delight and thrust
herself against his probing tongue.

Afterward, they lay breathless and sweaty in each other's arms. Gin
fought the urge to fall into a contented doze. She got up, threw on a
robe, and opened a bottle of merlot. They snuggled together on the
couch, sipping their wine.

"That was wonderful."

"For both of us, " she said, nuzzling his neck.

"By the way, did I say hello? " Gin laughed. "That was a hectic
scene, wasn't it? " "Where's this lock you can't open? " he said
finally.

Gin was uncomfortable with the lie she'd told him about a lost key, so
she was glad she didn't have to remind him. She pointed to the far
corner of the room.

"That little oak filing cabinet over there. I don't even know why I
locked it. And now the key is gone." She hated Lying, but she
couldn't tell Gerry the real reason. He was too much of a straight
arrow to let her go through with her plan.

She'd chosen the little oak filing cabinet because its lock looked to
be about the same size as the one on Duncan's drawer.

"No spare key? " She looked sheepish. "I think it's inside." That,
at least, was true.

Gerry laughed as he picked v oblong box from the pocket.

"A lock-picking kit?" Even better." He opened up his jacket and pulled an _ the box and showed her . , something that looked like a
miniature cordless screwdriver. "A battery-operated lock pick. "
"Really? I didn't even know there was such a thing."

"They've been around for a while. This one's the E.P.GElectropick.

It'll open just about any pin-and-disk tumbler qlinder lock in under a
minute." -"What about picking locks the old-fashioned way? " "Let's
hope that won't be necessary, " Gerry said. "I never learned how.

Lock picking isn't a skill required by the Bureau.

"Then why this electro-thing? " "For when we're in a big hurry and we
can't get a locksmith right away." He tried a number of little black
metal instruments in the keyhole until he found one that fit, then he
fixed that into the end of the Electropick and began adjusting a
thumbscrew atop the device.

"Once we find the right-sized raking tool, we adjust the up-and-down
motionþa narrow range for a small lock like thisþput it into the lock,
and turn her on. ' Gin watched the metal tool begin moving rapidly up
and down inside the lock. Gerry moved the Electropick in and out a few
times, then removed it.

"Okay. All the pins are in position. Now I just insert this tension
bar"þhe slipped a fine, L-shaped metal rod into the keyholeþ"and
twist.

" She heard a click. He removed the tension bar and gestured toward
the drawer.

"Okay. Give her a tug." The cabinet drawer easily pulled open. She
kissed him.

"My hero! A man of many talents." He held up the Electropick. "Just
me and my handy E.P.G- I .

'"Wait a minute. ' She rummaged in the bottom of the cabinet drawer.

"Here's the spare."

"Great place for it>" Gerry said with a wry smile. "How about sticking
it xnder the cabinet for safekeeping? " "Good idea. But first . .

.

" She stuck the key in the slot and relocked the drawer. Then she held
out her hand for the Electropick.

's Let me try." Gerry was hesitant, but then showed her how to use
it.

Under his guidance she unlocked and relocked the cabinet three times.

Gin knew then that she had to have an Electropick.

"Where can I get one of these things? " '"Not at Wal-Mart, that's for
sure. They cost a couple of hundred bucks, but if you really want one
I can give you the address of a mail-order place."

"That's okay, " she said, disappointed. No time for mail order. "I
mean, how many times would I need something like that? " And then it
was time for dinner. They went out to a Thai place in the neighborhood
where she couldn't talk Gerry into trying fish stomachs in peanut
sauce. Then they caught the new Kevin Costner flick. She could tell
Gerry wasn't crazy about it, and she might not have liked it either if
Kevin Costner hadn't been the star. Just watching him move and
listening to his voice made up for a multitude of shortcomings in the
rest of the film.

And finally it was back to the apartment for more lovemaking. Slow and
deliberately languorous this TIME

"Strange, isn't it? " Gin said as they lay together at the end. She
was thinking how she might want to be with Gerry forever. "So much has
happened to each of us since we went to high school. We hardly knew
each other when we spent most of the day in the same building. And now
after all those years and miles we run into each other in a city of
millions and wind up like this. I don't believe in fate, but you've
got to admit . . . " "Fate, " he said sofddy. "That has a nice ring
to it." Gerry left about I , 00 A. M. Without the Electropick.

Desperate, Gin had removed it before llanding him his jacket. She felt
like a creep, but consoled herself with the thought that she was only
borrowing it.

Gin was warm and contented as she dozed off, vowing to spend most of
Sunday morning becoming an expert with the Electropick, then tackling
Duncan's drawer in the afternoon.

Only a nagging apprehension about what she'd find there disturbed her
repose.

THE WEEK OF OCTOBER GINA r IT WAS TUESDAY AFTERNOON BEPORE GINA GOT A
chance to use the Electropick on Duncan's drawer.

I should have been done with this days ago, she thought as she stood
inside the door to the basement stairs. She was waiting for Barbara to
leave her desk on one of her frequent trips to the copier or the
printer, both of which were downstairs, or to the patient education
room across the hall from her desk.

Sunday would have been perfect. Gin had practiced all morning with the
Electropick and had become fairly adept. She'd used it on every
cylinder lock in her apartment, even on her car.

Gerry had called Sunday afternoon, and they'd talked about how
wonderful the night before had been. Finally he asked about the
Electropick. He couldn't find it. Had he left it there? Gin told him
he had and joked about it, telling him he didn't need to pull that old
stunt of leaving something behind just so he could have an excuse to
come back. When he mentioned stopping by later to pick it up, she
begged offsaying she had a million errands to run before pulling a
shift at the hospital. Which was sort of true. Luckily, Gerry didn't
seem to be in a big rush to get it back. They had a number of the
things at the Bureau.

More practice, and by midafternoon Gin felt ready. But when she
arrived at the office she found a dark blue Buick Park Avenue parked in
the lot. Oliver's car. What was he doing back? And on a Sunday when
he should have been home watching football? Except Oliver wouldn't
know a Redskin from a Mighty Duck. All he cared about were his lab and
his implants.

So Gin drove off and returned in two hours. The Buick was still
there.

Two hours after that it was gone but night was falling and the cleaning
service had arrived. She had to call it quits. She was due at the
hospital.

Monday offered no chance. Duncan stayed uncharacteristically late and
Gin couldn't hang around because she had a meeting with the other
legislative aides in Senator Marsden's office.

But today Duncan had stayed true to form, finishing his surgery and
making a beeline for his clubþso he said.

That was another thing that bothered her. Where did he really go? And
who was the mysterious Dr. V. he'd been meeting with? Secrets and
more secrets. How could she help but be suspicious?

She heard footsteps approaching. High heels. Only one person here
wore heels. Casually, Gin stepped out into the hall.

"Hi, Barbara, " she said.

The blonde started, then smiled. "Jesus God, you scared me. I thought
you were gone." I will be in about two minutes. ' Gin hurried down
the hall and ducked into Duncan's office. Plenty of light from the
afternoon sky filtering through the rock garden. Perfect lock-picking
conditions.

"I've got to be crazy, " she muttered. Tension was a cold hand
tightening on the nape of her neck. She tried to shake it off.

Do it. Now.

She knew if she hesitated, if she gave herself time to think, - she
might allow a spasm of sanity to change her mind. She  if pulled the
Electropick from her lab-coat pocket and knelt before the drawer. On
the remote chance that it might be unlocked, she tugged on the pull.

No such luck.

Okay. Electropick, do your thing.

She probed the keyhole with one of the raking tools but it wwldn't
fit.

She needed a smaller one. No problem. She'd spent much of Sunday
switching rakes. A lot like switching drill bits, only easier. She
inserted the next smaller size, adjusted the thumbscrew, then tried
again.
This time it slipped in easily. Half a minute later she had the
tension bat in the keyhole and was slowly twisting it. She heard a
click as the little bok slipped back inside the lock.

"Yes! " she whispered.

She exttacted the tension bar and pulled open the drawer.

And there they were, the oversized trocar and the mystery bottle.

She hesitated, then picked up the trocar and sighted down its
boreþlittle more than a hollow stainless steel tube with a sharp,
beveled point at one end and a hilt at the other.

Something like a giant hypodermic needle. Just about big enough to
hold one of those giant economy-size implants she'd seen Oliver
dissolving with ultrasound. She slipped the obturator into the trocar,
filling the bore with more stainless steel.

She remembered the puncture wound on Senator Vincent's thigh in
recovery. It could have been made by something like this. She
imagined Duncan positioning the trocat's sharp beveled point against
the skin along the outer aspect of Vincent's thigh, then punching it
through on an angle. He'd advance the trocar about three inches into
the subcutaneous fat, then withdraw the solid obturator, leaving the
hollow outer tube in the thigh. He'd slip the implant into the bore of
the trocar. With the blunt end of the obturator he'd ease the implant
to the far end of the bore, retract the trocar along the shaft of the
obturator, then remove both instruments as one.

Leaving the implant behind, nestled in the subcutaneous fat of the
thigh.

She shuddered. The whole idea gave her the willies.

She separated the trocar and obturator and laid them aside, then picked
up the mystery bottle. An injection vial. She examined its top and
spotted multiple punctures in the center of the red rubber stopper.

It's been used, she thought. But what's in it?

A thin, dear, amber fluid sloshed on the other side of the glass. She
twisted the bottle until she could read the label. The GEM Pharma
colophon huddled in the upper left corner. Two words were typed across
the center, TRIPTOLINIC DlETHSfLAMIDE "Well, ' she muttered, "that
dears up everything." What the hell was triptolinic diethylamide?

She'd never heard of it.

She studied the name, committing its spelling to memory, then she
placed the bottle on the desktop and began rummaging through the
drawer.

Not much there. The most prominent object was the little handheld
recorder that Duncan used for his consults and operative reports.

Gin's heart revved a little when she spotted a tape in it. She pressed
the rewind, then hit PLAY. A tinny version of his voice buzzed forth,
droning an incisionby-incision, suture-by-suture recap of the tip graft
they'd done on an eighteen-year-old girl's nose Monday. She
spotchecked through the tape and found only more of the same.

In the back of the drawer she found a slightly faded photo of a teenage
girl. Blond hair, a forced smiie, and bright blue eyes. Duncan's
eyes.

Gin's fingers trembled. Lisa Lathram. Had to be. She stared at the
innocent, seemingly untroubled face that offered no hint of the
troubled soul harbored within. Who'd ever guess she'd attempt suicide
three times?

Gin sighed and put the photo aside.

What else in the drawer? No other tapes. A few business cards, a
two-year-old schedule for the Orioles, a brochure from a coffee
importer, some blank index cards, and a nail dipper.

That was it.

Gin leaned against the desk, relieved, but still unsettled. Lisa's
photo was here, but no legislator death list with names crossed off, no
morbid collection of newspaper clippings. But still there was the
trocar and the triptolinic diethylamide, whatever that was. Probably
harmless . . . but why was it in his locked drawer? Maybe for the
same reason an old Orioles schedule and a nail clipper were locked up
along with them, This simply was where certain items ended up.

No. That didn't wash. Duncan had been a little too quick to close
this drawer when he'd found her staring into it that TIME And he
seemed religious about keeping it locked. Obviously he wanted to keep
this stuff private.

She replaced the photo and the incidental items, then the trocar and
obturator, then, after one last look at its label, the bottle of
triptolinic diethylamide, arranging them all as closely as possible in
their original positions. Then she slid the drawer closed and was
reaching for the Electropick to lock up again when she heard a voice
outside.

Duncan!

She snatched up the pick, ducked under the desk, and crouched in the
kneehole.

Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod! Her heart pounded, her mind raced. Where'd
he come from?

Thankfully the desk had a so-called modesty panel that shielded the
front of the kneehole, but she knew her feet were visible in the gap
between the panel and the floor. She held her breath as Duncan
approached, apparently calling back to Barbara as he entered.

". . . only for a minute. I'm not staying." Gin huddled in a ball,
trembling, rationalizing with herself, What was the worst that could
happen? If he discovered her, she'd be terminally embarrassed, she'd
blurt something unintelligible, bolt from the room, and never show her
face around here again. And that would be it. Not as if she was in
any real danger. But then, considering the humiliation she'd feel, she
wondered if she just might prefer death to being caught here.

She watched the carpet along the edges of the kneehole and saw Duncan's
shoes appear under the modesty panel. She held her breath. Maybe
she'd get through this. Hadn't he said he was only going to be a
minute? As long as he didn't sit down . . .

An awful thought struck, My God, what if he checks his drawer and finds
out it's unlocked?

She huddled breathless and statue-still as he shuffled through the
papers on his desk. She heard him grunt, heard a piece of paper being
folded, then listened to him turn and walk out.

Gin slumped back and almost sobbed with relief as she gasped for
breath. She'd made it. She didn't move just yet. She stared at her
watch and forced herself to wait a full two minutes.

Stiffly, she rolled from under the desk and began guiding the business
end of the Electropick toward the keyhole in the drawer. Her hands
trembled from the adrenaline still burning through her bloodstream.

She fumbled The tool into the opening and thumbed the switch. The tool
did its thing. When she felt the pins slide into line, she removed the
Electropick, inserted the tiny tosion bar, and twisted. She heard the
bok snap into the lock position.

But when she tried to remove the bar, it wouldn't budge.

She moaned softly. "Oh, no! " What else could go wrong?

Her fingertips grew slick as she tried to wiggle it out. She thought
she heard someone outside the office door. With one - last desperate,
frantic tug she wrested the torsion bar from the lock and almost landed
on her back.

 Sweating, shaking, she jammed the Electropick and its - accessories
into her pocket and hurried to the door. She pressed her ear against
it and listened. Quiet. She opened it a crack and sneaked a look at
Barbara's desk. Empty. Gin took a breath, stepped through, and walked
out.

She passed Barbara in the hall, carrying a printout.

"You're still here? " Barbara said.

"Practically on my way out. Say, did I hear Dr. Lathram's voice
before? " "Yeah. But you missed him. He's already come and gone. I
think he forgot something. Probably back on the golf course already.

" Yeah. Right.

"Barbara, I just have to look something up, then I'm gone. See you
Thursday. ".

She hurried to the records room. Carol the file clerk had left for the
day, so Gin had the room to herself. Manila foldes lined every inch of
wall except for the dictation area in the corner. A computer terminal
on the desk there, and a short shelf of medical reference texts. Gin
grabbed the PDR and thumbed through the generic and chemical name
index.

No listing for triptolinic diethylamide.

Not surprising. It wasn't in a commercial container.

Next was the Mersk Index, a weighty, small-print tome that lisad the
name and formula of just about every available chemical compound. But
again she struck out.

Gin sat at the dictation desk and stared at the blank face of the
computer screen before her, wondering where to look next.

Okay. If the Index didn't list the stuff, it was either brand new or
had never been reported to it.

She snapped her fingers. An investigational compound. Something in
development. Had to be.

But how to track it down? The properties of new compounds were kept
close to the vest during the development stages. But their formulas
were registered immediately for patent protection.

Gin picked up the phone.

"Hi, Barbara. Don't we have a linkup to the FDA database? " "Sure.

And NIH, and the American College ofþ" '"How do I access the FDA? "
'"It's kinda complicated. I've got an instruction manual somewhere
around here that tellsþ'' "I'll be right up." Gin trotted upstairs
where Barbara made a relay team handoff of the manual as Gin passed her
desk. A minute later she was seated before the records-room computer,
logging heself into the FDA computet, and picking her way through the
various menus until she got to investigational compDunds in
development.

But again no listing for triptolinic diethylamide.

Double damn. This was like chasing a phantom. But she wasn't giving
up yet. There had to be some other way. The label on the bottle .

.

. the GEM Pharma colophon. What if she used the company as a starting
point and worked back from there?

It took a good forty minutes of running into dead ends and
backtracking, but she finally located triptolinic diethyl amide in the
vast cybernetic waste bin of discarded registered compounds on which
further research had been canceled.

She downloaded the file and tagged it with her initials, RFP for Regina
Francesca Panzella, then logged off the database. Back in the Lathram
system again, she entered "TYPE RFPMORE" and began reading from the
hard drive.

A small file. Triptolinic diethylamideþreferred to as TPD in the
fileþstarted off its existence at GEM Pharma as an investigational
compound with antidepressant properties. Early animal- trials in mice
and rats were encouraging, but when testing moved up to primates, TPD
was found to be toxic, inducing psychotic states. All further
investigation was canceled and GEM Pharma moved on to more promising
compounds.

- A sudden queasy feeling rippled through Gin's stomach.

Toxic . . . psychotic states . . . Senator Vincent's behavior before
his seizure was certainly disturbed, might even fit the criteria for
psychotic. And from what she'd heard, even though he hadn't had any
further seizures, mentally he remained far out in left field.

And Duncan . . . Duncan had been there, right there in the hearing
room when it had happened.

A few feet to her left, she heard the laser printer begin to - hum.

- And Congressman Allard . . . he'd had that nasty fall and cerebral
concussion that had left him disoriented, not quite sure of who or
where he was. But what if it wasn't the concussion that had scrambled
his thoughts? What if his thoughts had been scrambled before the fall
. . . as he was going down the steps? What if the scrambled thoughts
had cagsed the fall?

Gin's own thoughts began to feel scrambled. She blinked and rubbed her
eyes with an unsteady hand as the queasy feeling rippled toward
nausea.

Footsteps behind her. Quickly Gin blanked the screen, then looked up
to see Barbara retrieving her printout.

"You okay? " Barbara said, staring at her.

"Hmmm? Why do you ask? " "Because you don't look so hot. I mean, you
looked fine when you picked up that manual, now you look like you're
gonna be sick." Maybe I am.

Gin rubbed her upper abdomen. "My stomach's bothering me." That was
no lie.

"You're working too hard. You're gonna give yourself an ulcer. "
"Maybe I already have. ' "I've got some Mylantaþ" "That's okay. '
Barbara pointed to the FDA database manual. "You finished with that?

" "Yes. Thanks."

"I'm getting ready to leave, " Barbara said as she picked up the
manual.

"You want me to lock you in? " "No. I've done all I can do here. I'm
on my way." As Barbara went back upstairs, Gin shut off the terminal
and got to her feet. She felt weak, confused as she trudged
upstairsþninety years old at least.

She was barely aware of her surroundings. Somewhere along the way she
said good-bye to Barbara, but when she reached her car, she didn't
start the engine. She sat behind the wheel and stared at the back of
Duncan's officer building.

Vincent . . . Allard . . . but what about Schulz? He jumped off his
balcony. Was that psychotic? Maybe, maybe not. But it certainly
wasn't rational. And Congressman Lane. He died in a car accident with
a high blood-alcohol level. She couldn't link that to Duncan. But she
couldn't rule it out, either. What if the TPD reacted with alcohol?

Or what if it kicked in while he was driving? The same disorientation
that could make you fall could make you drive off the road.

I hate this, she thought. She pounded her fist against the steering
wheel. Hate it!

Duncan couldn't be involved in this. Couldn'tþ Listen to me. Involved
in wha? No evidence that there was anything for Duncan to be involved
in.

Then why the TPD? What legitimate reason could Duncan have for keeping
a psychosis-inducing compound locked in his desk drawer?

Okay . . . Oliver used to work for GEM Pharma, the company name on the
label. That would explain how the bottle found its way to Duncan. But
why have it at all? Why keep something of no therapeutic value,
something that was a proven toxin?

And what about the trocar, perfect for inserting one of Oliver's
large-size implantsþloaded with TPD, maybe? þ under someone's skin,
where it could nestle in the fat until Duncan zapped it with an
ultrasound beam?

Wait a minute. Ultrasound. That was where this whole insane scenario
broke down. Sure, Duncan had been at the Guidelines committee hearing
when Senator Vincent went off the deep end, but Gin hadn't noticed him
wheeling an ultrasound machine through the room.

And yet . . with microchips and printed circuits, it was certainly
possible to have an ultrasound transducer small enough to fit in one's
pocket and . . .

Gin rubbed her throbbing temples. She hated what she was thinking.

She began remembering Louisiana and wishing she'd stayed there.

If only she could know!

She shook herself and started the car. One thing she did know Come
Thursday morning she was going to be on duty and she was not going to
let Senator Marsden out of her sight for one second.

PRESURGICAL DUNCAN POURED A SECOND CUP OF COFFEE FROM. THE carafe and
settled behind his desk. He liked Wednesday mornings in the cool stony
quiet of the officer, especially when, like today, he could get in
early and have the place to himself. With no surgery scheduled, he
could dawdle with his coffee, savoring the silence and the aroma as he
watched his koi meander around their pool in the rock garden, and catch
up on his dictation, tidy up any loose ends from Monday's and Tuesday's
procedures, then have the rest of the day to himself. Maybe he'd call
Brad and convince him to take the afternoon off from classesþhe figured
Brad would need about ten sc-conds of convincing. Maybe they could get
in a round of golf. He hadn't played in ages.

He picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV across the room. He
switched from CNN to Today to Good Morning America to This Morning and
then back to CNN. Apparently nothing newsworthy had happened
yesterday, and the morning shows seemed interested only in movie
stars.

C-SPAN was rerunning footage of presbyopic senators droning over long
speeches to an empty chamber in support of or in opposition to some
inconsequential bill.

Time to catch up on dictating his surgical reports. He pulled out his
key and inserted it into the lock. It wouldn't turn. He tried it
again, wiggling it back and forth, sliding it in and out. He checked
to make sure it was the right key, then tried again and noticed that
the key wasn't going in all the way. Something was wrong with the
lock. Jammed somehow.

Now how the hell had that happened? It hadn't been sticking or showing
any warning signs that something was amiss. Goddamn. What a world.

Didn't anybody make anything that worked?

He wandered out to Barbara's desk and now wished she were here. He
needed to get a locksmith to get that damn thing open. He supposed he
could call himself but it was probably too early. He grabbed a pen and
left a note on Barbara's desk to call one as soon as she got in.

As he straightened and started to turn away, he noticed the manual for
the FDA database Lying on Barbara's desk. Probably Oliver had needed
it.

At least somebody was getting some use out of it.

He went in search of another minirecorder.

Gin levered up to a sitting position in bed.

"Oh my God! " She'd been Lying here, wishing she could rest easy and
luxuriate. No surgery today, no moonlighting last night, and no
meetings at the senator's until the afternoon. Should have been a
great morning.

But yesterday's revelations wheeled over the bed like hungry
vultures.

The trocar . . . the TPD . . . the information from the FDA . . .

she kept trying to put a fresh spin on them, one , wouldn't make Duncan
look bad. Racking her brain, Ig over everything, she remembered the
FDA download.

> "RFP" file she'd created on the hard drive.

eye hadn't erased it.

le jumped out of bed and began pulling on her clothes.

could brush her hair in the car, but no time for a shower.

had to get up to the office and erase that file. If Duncan found it,
or Oliver ran across it and asked Duncan about he'd know she'd been in
the drawer.

he grabbed her car keys and tan out.

" right, Doc, " the locksmith said. He was thin, looked ut forty,
reeked of tobacco, and had Bill stitched on his " shirt.

"You're all set."

"Excellent, " Duncan said but didn't mean it. The man spent an hour on
what should have been a fifteen-minute job. It hadn't been easy, but
after twenty minutes of grunts and muttered curses, Bill finally got
the drawer unlocked. Duncan hovered over him the whole time, and as
soon as the drawer slipped open, he removed the TPD and trocar and put
len in one of the cabinets on the other side of the room.

neither would mean a thing to the locksmith, but Duncan Lnted them safe
and out of sight. As for the rest of the drawer's contents, he dumped
them on the desktop.

Bill took the empty drawer out to his truck, saying he would work on it
better there. Duncan figured he could also have a cigarette.

So now, after an interminable period, Bill was back.

"Had to pUt in a new lock."

"What was the matter with the old one? " "I wanted to know the same
thing. Had to take it apart to find out. A little strange." Why did
he seem hesitant?

"How so? " He fished in his pocket and brought OUt a piece of Scotch
tape. He dropped it on the desktop in front of Duncan.

"This was in it." Duncan picked up the tape, a single piece folded on
itself. Caught between the two sticky surfaces was a small shard of
metal.

"How did this get in my lock? ' '"Somebody left it there."

"Now why on earthþ? " "Not on purpose. It looks like it broke off the
tip of a tension bar."

"A tension bar? " "You know, something you use to pick locks with. '
No, Duncan did not know. He stared at Bill as a spasm rippled through
his intestines. He dropped the tape, then snatched it off the desk.

Had this man actually said . . . ?

"What? " Duncan's expression must have been fierce, because Bill began
verbally back pedaling.

"I can't be sure, of course, but that's the first thing I thought of
when I saw it drop out of the cylinder."

"But that's ridiculous! ' He realized he'd raised his voice. He
hadn't meant to do that.

"Hey, okay, " Bill said, making conciliatory motions with his hands.

"Don't get excited. Makes no difference to me. If you ain't missin'
nothin', then I guess maybe I could be wrong. But it sure looks like
the tip of a tension bar." Duncan's mind raced back over the contents
of the drawer. The TPD, the trocar, Lisa's photo, the recorder, and
some miscellaneous junk. All there when they'd opened. the drawer.

He modulated his tone. "Well, I'm not missing anything.

And I don't keep anything in there worth stealing in the first place.

So I guess that means the lock wasn't picked." Bill shrugged, averting
his gaze. "You could say that. Could also say that the piece might've
chipped off and jammed in there before whoever it was got the drawer
open." Duncan winced as the spasm tightened its grip on his gut. He's
right.

But who in the world . . . ?

"Yes, well, since nothing is missing, I think I'll just forget about
it. But I'm certainly glad you brought it to my . . .

attention.
"Hey, no problem." When Bill left, leaving a set of keys for the new
ock, Duncan went to the appliance cabinet and checked the TPD bottle.

He hadn't memorized the previous fluid level but it appeared
unchanged.

The autoclave envelope was still sealed around the trocar. He replaced
both in the drawer and locked it. Then he leaned back in his desk
chair and felt his gut slowly uncoil as he willed himself toward
calm.

All right. Let's be rational. Very strange. And very unsettling.

But where was the logical reason for anyone to try to get into that
drawerþand by picking the lock, of all things?

And what was there, really, to worry about? Even if someone had found
the TPD, what could they do? They wouldn't know what it was. TPD was
an orphaned, abandoned compound. The only record of its existence was
in the dead files of GEM Pharma, and in the cavernous data banks of the
.

. .

FDA.

Good Lord!

Duncan bolted from the chair and hurried out to the reception area.

'"Barbara! Did you use the FDA database yesterday? " "No, Iþ" "I saw
the manual on your desk this morning." She leaned back from him, a
startled expression on hex face. He hadn't intended to speak so
harshly.

"IþI gave it to Dr. Panzella yesterday. She asked for it, so I dug it
out for her." He was stunned. Gin?

"That was all right, wasn't it? " Gin?

"What? Oh, yes. Fine." Time for a little damage control. "I was
just looking for it. I have to use it . . . need some data from the
FDA myself." Barbara handed it to him and he returned to his office,
shaking his head at the image of Gin attempting to pick a lock.

Absurd. Laughable.

And yet . . .

She certainly had access and opportunity. But why would she? No. No
way.

And yet . . .

The jammed lock, Gin asking for the FDA manual . . . the juxtaposition
was just a little too close.

Duncan returned to his desk and turned on his computer terminal. Maybe
there was some way to find out just what she was after from the FDA.

Gin stiffened behind the wheel when she saw Duncan's car in the lot.

Not that unusual for him to be here on a Wednesday morning, but she'd
been hoping and praying he'd have done whatever it was he did and be
gone by now.

Well, she couldn't let that stop her. She jumped out of her car and
hurried for the rear entrance.

She'd use the old, as yet untried Forgot-my-Senate-lDbadge excuse if
anyone asked why she was here. The whole -ocedure would take ten
seconds, log into the hard drive Del the file with the triptolinic
diethylamide data, log out, , en get the hell out of Dodge.

Simple.

God, it better be.

. uncan had logged in to the FDA database but that was no elp. No way
to tell what Gin had done. He'd even called the FDA, but three
different clerks hadn't the vaguest idea ow to help him.

Seething with frustration, he exited the program and back, staring
at the C-prompt. There had to be a way . . but what if there wasn't
anything to find? And even if eye had been searching for TPD, she may
never have found it. ars back, Duncan himself had had a devil of a
time ccessing it and he'd known where to look. But if she had and it
and simply read the information on the screen, There'd be no trail, no
way for him to know. Only if she'd downloaded the fileþ Duncan
straightened in his chair.

Download. She'd have to create a download file, have to a the incoming
data before it could be written to the hard drive. He punched in
DIR/OD and entered it. The entire contents of the hard drive, every
directory and free file scrolled up before him at an unreadable pace.

No matter. If , in had downloaded directly to the hard drive, he'd
find it >e, somewhere near the end of the list. If she'd routed the
into one of the directories, he'd have to search it OUt srectory by
directory. And if she'd erased it . . . well, then e'd just be
wasting his TIME

And how would he recognize it, anyway? Would she have Lbeled it TPD?

Hardly.

And suddenly there it was, at the bottom of the screen.

eye last file. "RFP" followed by yesterday's date.

Regina F. Panzella. He'd forgotten what the F. stood for, as if that
mattered. What was in that file?

He punched in TYPE RFP and watched the lines zip up the screen. When
the scrolling stopped at the end of the file, he read the final line.

CURRENT STATUS, Further investigation of triptolinic diethylamide
disrontinved.

No! He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see that.

He pushed away from the chair and wandered the room, turning this way
and that with sharp, agitated movements. He couldn't be still. He
felt as if some unseen force were at his back, propelling him around
his office. This hurt like a sucker punch. Gin had been in his locked
drawerþshe'd picked the damn lock! How could she? Why would she?

That was the most unnerving question. Why? She couldn't suspect
anything. He'd been too careful. He'd used a cuttingedge system only
a few people were aware of to deliver a drug hardly anyone knew
existed.

There had to be something else.

How much does she know?

Obviously she knows about the TPD. But what else?

And how to find out? He couldn't simply sit her down and ask her.

His peregrination took him near the door then and he heard Barbara call
good-bye to someone. Suddenly he had to know who. His privacy had
been violated, his little fortress had been broached. He wanted the
name, rank, and serial number of everyone who walked through those
doors.

He stuck his head through the door. "Who was that? " Barbara
turned.

"Dr. Panzella."

"Really." He kept a calm facade as alarms clanged anew in his head.

"I hadn't realized she was here."

"Oh, she just popped in to pick up something she left yesterday." Her
lock-picking kit? he wondered as he nodded and closed the door.

What was Gin up to now? What was she doing sneaking around here on her
day off? Prying into more of his private affairs?

He made a fist.

Betrayed. By Gin.

He wanted to punch something.

I saved your life, f, hild!

How could she? And what had she done just now?

A thought struck him. He stepped back to his terminal and reran a DIR
on the hard drive. The scroll of directories blurred past as before,
but ended in a different place.

No "RFP" file.

She must have realized she'd left the file on the disk and came bacLa
to cover her tracks. The perfidious little ingrate. What was she up
to?

And dammit, how much did she Xenovv?

He had to have answers, and soon. Before next Friday.

GINA GINA YAWNED AND SHOOK HERSELF AS SHE WOVE through the traffic on
Connecticut Avenue.

Tired.

Not just tired. Exhausted.

She'd done a shift as house doc last night. Tried to get out of it,
tried to trade, but no one was buying.

At least she'd been able to get Jim Grady to agree to take the last two
hours of her shift. But much as she'd love to, she wouldn't be using
the time for sleep. She wanted to get the jump on Duncan before
today's surgery. She was going to be there first, be there when Duncan
arrived, and keep an eye on him until Senator Marsden arrived. After
that she was going to stick to the senator like Krazy Glue, Assist with
his surgery and not let him out of her sight until he walked out to his
waiting car.

She turned into the office parking lot and skidded to a halt. Duncan's
black Mercedes was already in his space.

She pounded her fist against the steering wheel. Damn it!

All right. She'd have to adjust. If Duncan asked she'd simply say she
got off her shift early but not early enough to go home first.

She pulled into one of the staff spaces and hurried to the door. Once
inside she stopped. Muzak filtered through the air, a lush,
inappropriate string arrangement of a Beatles tune, accompanied by the
rich aroma of Duncan's fresh coffee. Gin wasn't tempted. She'd been
drinking coffee all night.

Her shoes were soft-soled and made no sound and she walked slowly down
the hall toward his office. She slipped past Barbara's desk and
listened a moment at the open door. No sound from within. Not even
the television. Duncan almost always had CNN or C-SPAN running. She
tapped lightly as she peeked inside.

' Duncan? " Empty. Except for the heavy aroma of coffee, the office
was pretty much as she'd left it on Tuesday. But where was he?

As she turned to leave, a glint of light from the desktop caught her
eye. She stepped closer. A bottle.

Her mouth went dry as she recognized the TPD. It sat on a metal
tray.

So did the trocar and obturator, now sealed inside an autoclave
pouch.

The assembly had been sterilized. Why? Being readied for use? Beside
it lay an uncapped syringe. And a large implant. A full implant.

She felt sick. The room swayed and nausea rippled through her
stomach.

Oh, Duncan! It's true!

Tears welled in her eyes, a sob bubbled in her throat. How could he?

Then Gin heard a door slam somewhere out in the hall. Panic bolted
through her. She couldn't let him catch her in here.

She spun and ran to the door. No one in sight but she could hear
footsteps approaching from around the corner. Her heart pounding
madly, she scampered two doors down and ducked into the employee
restroom. She stood-there gasping, sweating as the nausea surged
back.

Then she bent over the toilet and retched.

Nothing came up. As she turned and sagged against the sink, tasting
the acid in her throat, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror,
pale, sick, trembling.

Dunaan . . . Duncan . . . Duncan . . . this can't be happening.

This Can't be you!

But it was Duncan. The pieces all fit. Her wildest speculations had
been right on target. Duncan was poisoning these men, implanting a
neurotoxin in their tissues, sending them over the edge into psychosis
. . .

Where he himself already was.

Gin gripped the edge of the sink and steadied herself. She splashed
water on her face and tried to focus her thoughts.

Duncan had had a breakdown.

Not a breakdown, she told herself. Let's get clinical. Use your
training.

Not easy to do when it was someone so close, but she had to take a
couple of steps back and look at him.

Duncan . . . some form of paranoid schizophrenia . . . taking revenge
on the Guidelines committee for ruining his practice years ago . . .

and now, in his mind, threatening to destroy all medical practice.

Paranoid delusions were often anchored, however tenuously, in reality,
but the psychosis magnified the threat. Every one was a potential
enemy. He could rely on no one, so his only recourse was to take
drastic action on his own.

Left alone, Duncan most likely was a danger to no one but the
Guidelines committee. But if challenged, if threatened, if cornered,
he could be unpredictable, could become a danger to anyone within
reach.

So what do I do? she asked her reflection as she dried her face.
Her color was better now. Her sick expression had faded. She felt a
little more in control, but only a little. Her stomach had settled and
she wasn't looking to run.

One thing she knew not to do, Confront Duncan. He might go wild, do
something crazy. Except he's already done that. Four times. Possibly
more.

With Senator Marsden next.

A violent tremor rattled through her, starting in her spine and rolling
outward. An after shock.

Get a grip, Panzella. You can handle this.

She straightened, smoothed her blouse, shook her hair back, and tried
to think of a plan.

She wouldn't say or do anything this morning. Act naturally. Give
Duncan no hint that she suspected a thing. She'd do what was expected
and maybe a little more, assist on the surgery, sit with the senator
through recovery, see him off, then leave. But as soon as she got home
she'd call Gerry, tell him about the TPD, the ultrasound and trocar,
fax him the newspaper clippings, and let the FBI or the Secret Service
or whoever take over.

Act naturally. Right.

She stepped out into the hall and walked back toward Duncan's office,
trying to look casual. Barbara's desk was empty. Still too early for
her. As before, Gin stepped around and approached the door. This time
there was sound from within. The TV was on.

She tapped and called Duncan's name but no one replied. She stepped
inside. A quick glance aroundþstill emptyþ and then her eyes went to
the desk.

The desktop was clear except for the computer terminal and the usual
papers and journals.

The tray with the TPD, the syringe, the trocar, and the implant was
gone.

Another tremor, another wave of dizziness, but short-lived this TIME

She was in control again.

What did you expect? He's not going to leave that stuff on display all
morning.
Locked away in the drawer now, ready for use.

She set her jaw. Not today, Duncan. Not on my senator.

"Well! You're early today. ' Gin almost yelped with surprise as
Duncan breezed by her and crossed the office to his coffeemaker.

"I got out early, " she managed to say.

"Good. We've got a lot to do today." He filled a cup from the carafe
and held it up. "Coffee? " "No, thanks."

"Nonsense. It's genuine pure Kona, shipped directly from a plantation
south of Kailua. You must have some. I insist." Maybe she'd better,
just to be sociable '"Okay. Just a taste."

"You'll love this, ' he said, pouring and handing her a steaming cup.

He hovered as she sipped, and beamed when she nodded.

"Hmmm. This is great." She watched him fuss with his funnel and
filter. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue oxford button-down
shirt, and a maroon crew-neck sweater.

He looked so relaxed, so damn normal. But she knew that was often the
way with the paranoid schiz. Perfectly sane and normal in every aspect
of their lives except the one delusional facet. She remembered a case
study about a successful businessman, ran three companies, an exemplary
husband and father, loved by all, one day going berserk when one of his
vice presidents tapped a cigarette ash into the urn that housed the
little blue man who advised him.

Duncan stopped what he was doing to stare a moment at the TV. C-SPAN
was replaying an interview with the Speaker of the House. He
grimaced.

"They shouldn't allow this stuff on during the day."

"Why not? " "Children might see it, " he said with a mischievous
wink.

"C-SPAN should be limited to late-night broadcasts. Children in their
formative years should not be exposed to politicians. People whine
about violence on TV, but this is far more corrupting." Gin forced a
smile. She could not find him funny now.

He continued to stare at the screen. "Where do they find these
people?

" "They were elected, ' Gin said coldly. "It's the American way.

They ran for office and they got the most votes." '"Yes. Tweedledum
and Tweedledummer. No one you'd really like to see in public office
has the bad taste to run. And if he does, he's not going to win " "I
can think of at least one exception, " she said, thinking of Senator
Marsden.

"A rara avis, I assure you. Think about it, Gin. On one side you've
got a man of intelligence and integrity. Against his better judgment
he agrees to run, thinking he might be able to do something
meaningful.

But he won't suck up to ward bosses, won't kiss babies or judge hog
contests or put on an apron and a white cap for a bake shop photo op.

He insists on being judged by his positions on the issues. On the
other side, however, you've got a political hanger-on who'll promise
anything to anyone, make deals left and right, and pose any time
someone ligts a camera, do anything it takes, anything at all, to get a
vote." Duncan turned to her. Suddenly he was fiercely intent. "Tell
me, Gin. Who's going to win that election? " Gin couldn't answer.

He had a point, damn him.

"I repeat, " he said, not waiting for an answer. "People who deserve
to be elected rarely run. And when they do, they do not win. That's
the American way " "I don't know of a better system. Do you? " '"No,
" Duncan said with a sigh. "But that doesn't mean it can't be
improved. We limit the president to two terms. Why not limit the
legislature? " '"Senator Marsden has imposed his own term limits, "
she said, getting in a plug. "Two terms and he's out." - "We'll see
about that." Gin heard an ominous ring in that remark.

"Speaking of the good senator, " Duncan said, "he's last on the list
this morning. And you're assisting, I believe? " "That's right. "
'"By your own request, am I right? ' '"Right again."

"Why is that?

You've never before requested to assist on a specific patient." '"I
work for the man. ' - He turned and eyed her. "Do you think that's
wise? You're not afraid of being emotionally involved? I could call
Cassidyþ" "This isn't exactly life-and-death surgery And I'm only
assisting.

" Why all these questions? He'd never quizzed her like this before.

Then again, aren't paranoids suspicious of everyone?

"Very well. We'll scrub at nine forty-five. Marie will have him under
by ten o'clock. We should be done in plenty of time for lunch. "
"Under? You're using general? " "Of course."

"Won't local do? " He eyed her. "You've been working here for how
long? This is the first instance I can recall you questioning the
level of anesthesia. Are you sure you're not too involved with this
patient? " General meant Marsden would be groggy after surgery.

Duncan could pop that implant under his skin without the senator ever
knowing.

"Quite sure, " she said. "It's just that it seems like such a small
lesion, I was just wonderingþ" "I've got to make a wide enough incision
to excise all of that tumor and leave no chance of recurrence. Then
I've got to graft and rebuild the top of the auricle so it doesn't look
like someone took a shot at his head and barely missed. I don't want
him twitching or getting a crick in his neck and jerking his head while
I'm in the middle of it.

Don't you think that's justification enough for general anesthesia? "
"Of course, " she snapped, the tension getting to her. "I was just
asking." A slow smile played around his lips. "A bit edgy this
morning, aren't we? " She placed her half-empty cup on his desk and
started for the door.

"Too much coffee, I guess. ' Out in the hall she felt her tough facade
crumble. Duncan was calling all the shots. She prayed she'd be able
to carry this off The surgery went smoothly. Duncan did a beautiful
job of excising, grafting, and rebuilding the upper auricle of Senator
Marsden's ear. And Gin did what she hoped was an equally skillful job
of protecting the rest of the senator.

First, she personally helped Oliver fill a batch of his tiniest
implants, one of which would be used in the senator's ear. As soon as
the senator arrived, she saw to it that he was never alone with
Duncan.

She accomplished that by being constantly at either the senator's or
Duncan's side until the surgery.

Strangely enough, Duncan had shown no sign of frustration or
agitation.

Gin had been worried that he might fly into a rage or do something rash
when he found it impossible to get the senator alone. But considering
the fact that she was thwarting his scheme at every turn, he appeared
to be in the best of spirits.

That worried Gin even more.
So now she sat watch beside the snoring Senator Marsden as he slept off
the anesthetic in the V.I.P room. He stirred for the second time in
the past five minutes. He was coming out of it. The ordeal was almost
over.

Thank God. She was dead tired. Sitting here with the early afternoon
sun pouring in the window, she might have dozed off if it weren't for
her bladder. The pressure in her pelvis was becoming unbearable. She
couldn't remember ever having to go this bad, but she wasn't leaving
this room for a second.

"How's he doing? ' She started and twisted in her chair at the sound
of Duncan's voice. He stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with
one hand.

"I've never seen you so jumpy, Gin. Maybe you're tight about too much
coffee."

"I'm okay, " she said, trying to keep the tension out of her voice.

Was this it? Was this when he'd try something?

Duncan smiled. "Good. But how's the senator? He's the patient,
remember? " "Coming up. He should be awake in a few minutes." Not
true, but she didn't want Duncan to think he had time to make his
move.

"Excellent." He glanced at his watch. "Look. I've got to run. The
links are calling. And since you've decided to be his recovery-room
nurse as well as his surgical assistant and legislative aide, you can
handle him from here on. Just make sure Barbara gives him the usual
instructions on graft care and schedules a follow-up appointment for
next week." Gin stared at him. Baffled. Speechless.

"Gin?

"You're leaving? " she said.

"Is there a reason I should stay? " "Well, no. I just . . . have a
good "Thanks. I will." game." He waved and was gone, leaving Gin
sitting and staring at the empty doorway.

Am I going off the deep end? she wondered.

Hadn't she seen the tray with the TPD, trocar, and implant sitting on
Duncan's desk? Why, if he had no intention of using it today? Unless
.

. .
Unless she had this whole thing wrong.

What if she'd misinterpreted, misunderstood? What ifþ?

No. The pieces fit too neatly. Duncan was up to some thing.

But what? He hadn't had an opportunity to dose the senator with that
implantþGina was sure of that. She'd stymied his plan. So what did he
do? He ducked out to play golf. Except he never went to his golf club
when he said he did.

Gin's head whirled. She was beginning to have a surreal feeling.

What was going on here?

But at least with Duncan gone, she could run to the bathroom. Her
bladder was going to burst if she didn't. She stepped out into the
hall and went to the back door. Duncan's parking spot was empty. She
ducked into the restroom.

A few minutes later, feeling almost lightheaded with relief, she was
back in the recovery room.

Senator Marsden hadn't moved. But his eyes were open. He lay on his
side, blinking at her.

'"Good afternoon, Senator, " she said.

He gave her half a smile and closed his eyes again.

She stared at him, suddenly anxious about having left him alone for
those few minutes.

I'm getting as paranoid as Duncan, she thought, but couldn't resist
lifting the senator's sheet and checking his leg.

.

Her knees almost buckled when she saw a tiny red spot on his thigh.

Blood? Shakily, she dropped to one knee and leaned close.

Yes . . . blood. A small, semicircular puncture wound, just the mark
a trocar would leave. Just like the mark on Senator Vincent's thigh in
this very room last month.

- "Oh, God, " she whispered as fury and terror tore at her. "Oh dear
God." Gently she poked the area around it. The senator's leg
stiffened. She glanced up and found him looking at her.
"Hello, again, " she said, rising, trying to keep her voice calm, her
face professionally neutral. "Was Dr. Lathram just in here? " "Who's
Dr. Lathram? " He smacked his dry lips. "Could I have some water? "
Still too groggy to be of any help.

"Yes. Sure." There was a pitcher at the bedside, but she pretended
not to see it. "I'll get you some." She forced her wobbly legs to
walk her out to the hall where she leaned against the wall and let
herself shake.

What sort of a nightmare had she fallen into? Where was the looking
glass she'd stepped through to land in this crazy place?

Duncan. Where was he now? Obviously he hadn't left. Only
pretended.

Probably sneaked into one of the rooms and waited for her to leave the
senator alone.

And while I was relieving myself, he sneaked into the senator's room
and jabeed him with the trocar.

The bastard!

Gin scampered to the front door and saw a black Mercedes like Duncan's
pulling away from the curb. She couldn't see the plates and couldn't
be sure through the heavily tinted glass if Duncan was behind the
wheel.

She watched the car disappear into the traffic.

She hurried back down the hall and found Barbara staring at her.

"Are you all right? " she said.

'"I'm fine, " Gin said. She had to tell someone about this, but
Barbara was not that someone. "Perfectly fine." She returned to
Senator Marsden's room and found him propped up on an elbow.

"Silly me, " she said. "The water was right here all along." She
filled a glass and watched him drink as she cast about for a way to
go.

Should she tell him? Tell him that his surgeon had just placed a
toxin-filled implant in his thigh?

She studied Senator Marsden's bleary expression. He wasn't in any
condition to listen or comprehend. So where could she turn? Who could
she go to?
GERRY GERRY HAD JUST RETURNED FROM LUNCH. HE WAS ADMIRing Martha's
latest Crayola masterpiece, freshly pinned to the wall of his cubicle,
when Gin's call came in. He was glad she was calling him for a
change.

She'd been strangely distant all wee K.

"Gerry, I need your help." Not a good start. She sounded frazzled.

"Sure. What's wrong'" "It's about Duncan." Gerry suppressed a
groan.

Not that again. He wished he'd never mentioned that conspiracy theory
to her.

"What about him? " "He put a toxic implant in Senator Marsden. '
Gerry didn't reply immediately. Couldn't . . . too shocked to
speak.

"He did, Gerry. I know he did."

"Gin, " he said, finally finding his voice. "We've been through all
that. We tested the solution, that secret sauce' or whatever you call
it, and it turned out to beþ'' '"I'm not talking about the secret
sauce. This is something else. This is a drug no one's ever heard
of."

"How'd you find out about it? " Now she paused. "I found it in one of
his desk drawers."

"He leaves it where anybody can find it? " Another pause. "No. He
keeps it locked up." '"So then how did youþ? " And then it hit him.

"Oh, no. You didn't."

"I'm sorry, Gerry, but I had to."

"Gin, you used the Bureau's pick to break into someone's office?

"Gerry, you've got a right to be angry, but please don't be. This is
too important. I didn't break into his office, only the lock on his
desk drawer."

" Same thing. You could have been caught, arrested, maybe worse."

"Look, I knew you'd react like this if I told you.

I'hat's why I didn't. But I had to get into that drawer."

"I don't believe this. Youþ" '"Gerry, two people may be dead because
of him.

Two others are crazy.

This drug causes psychotic reactions. You saw the tape of Senator
Vincent on the first day of the hearing, didn't you? " "Of course.

Who didn't? " "Was he acting sane just before he convulsed? " "No, '
he admitted grudgingly. "I guess not." He reached for a pencil.

"What's the name of this drug? " '"Triptolinic diethylamide." She
spelled it for him. "TPD for short."

"And it makes you crazy? " "According to the FDA it does. Research
was discontinued because of psychotic reactions in primates. ' "So if
Lathram is dosing people with this stuff, why hasn't some medical
examiner picked up on it? " "Because nobody's looking for it. Nobody
even knows it exists. Gerry, thousands upon thousands of compounds are
tested every year. Maybe one out of ten thousand ever reaches the
public. It was an investigational drug that was dropped because of
side effects. That's it. Goodbye.

Sayonara. On to the next compound, and nobody gives the losers another
thought." '"So how'd Lathram get hold of this . . . " He glanced at
the sheet.

"TPD? " '"His brother. Oliver used to work for the company that was
investigating it." Gerry straightened and leaned forward in his
chair.

All the old suspicions he'd been trying to put to rest were dancing
through his head again.

'"And you think he dosed Marsden with this stuff? " "I know it! "
'"Did you see him do it? " "No, but I saw the puncture wound in his
thigh." She went on to tell him about seeing the bottle of TPD on
Lathram's desk this morning along with an implant and something called
a trocar.

"But couldn't Lathram have simply given him a shot of something? "
'"Not there. And Duncan never gives injections. He has one of the
nurses do it. I tell you, Gerry, Senator Marsden is Lying down the
hall with an implant full of TPD in his right thigh. I've got to get
it out! " "Okay. Slow down for a second here and let me think." He
leaned back again, trying to remain calm, to contain the excitement
racing through him. This was heavy. A prominent, well-connected area
surgeon and a very visible U. S. senator. Headline-grabbing stuff. It
had the makings of a major case. Or a major embarrassment.

If only Gin had actually seewz Duncan insert the implant.

"Do you think Marsden's in any immediate danger? " Gin hesitated,
then, "No. Duncan's gone for the day. I think he wants to choose a
specific time and place. Remember how both Allard and Vincent had
their mishaps while the cameras were rolling. I think that's what
Duncan might be waiting for."

"But why, Gin? We're missing a motive here. Why should he want to do
this? " "He hates the Guidelines committee and what it's trying to
do."

"So do lots of other doctors.

But they're notþ" "No. Listen. It's personal with Duncan." She went
on to tell him about the stories in the Post and the Banner, and told
him that Schulz had been on the original Guidelines committee.

Bingo!

That was the link he'd been searching for to connect the four
legislators. She also told him of her call to the Virginia Board of
Medical Examiners.

By the time she finished he was convinced, but that wasn't enough.

He'd have to convince Ketter.

"Okay, look. Since the senator's in no immediate danger, we can take a
little time to build a case here." werryþ '"Hear me out. We'll have
someone keep an eye on the senator's home, make sure nobody's nosing
around it. Meanwhile, don't you do anything to alert Lathram. "
'"Don't worry." '"Don't give him a chance to cover his tracks. I want
him to think he's in complete control, that everything's status quo.

And you keep your distance. No more Nancy Drew stuff. Leave the rest
to me." He wanted Gin out of harm's way. No telling what Lathram
would do if he felt cornered.

"Okay. But are you sure the senator's going to be all right? " "Gin,
" he said, 'right now I'm not sure of anything. But I want to get
moving on this and I don't make these decisions. I've got to build a
case and bung it to the SSA, and he may have to take it higher. And
the sooner I get moving on it, the better." She gave him the year and
the months when the newspaper articles appeared, then said, "Keep me
informed, okay? " "Don't worry. But one thing that can't be mentioned, now or ever, is how you got into Lathram's locked drawer.

Understand? " "I got it. And I'm sorry. Really."

"Accepted. Talk to you later." He sat for a long while after he hung
up, making notes, organizing his facts, consulting his computer for the
personal database he'd built on Dr. Lathram.

Gerry was wired. He knew this could mean big things for him. He
wasn't going to let this one get away from him, either. This was his
baby. It meant a lot of extra work in the short run, but in the long
run . . .

breaking a case of this magnitude could make a career.

And it looked pretty solid. The good doctor had access and
opportunity.

Gerry had to document his motive.

He put in a call to research for any information anywhere on Duncan
Lathram, MD, with special attention to links between Lathram and any of
the fallen legislators. Gerry wanted those clippings in hand when he
brought the case to Ketter.

Gerry was surprised when an interoffice envelope from research appeared
on his desk less than half an hour later. So soon?

Quickly he shuffled through the sheets, mostly photocopies of old
newspaper articles with Lathram's name highlighted along with those of
Lane, Allard, Vincent . . . and Schulz.

Here they were, villain and victims, all neatly crossreferenced in the
pages of the Post. A long way from an open and-shut case, but these
plus Gin's statement about the neurotoxin ought to be enough to get
things rolling.

He headed for Marvin Ketter's office.

Ketter stood at his window, staring down at the rush hour traffic on EYE
Street. His brow was furrowed in concentration, drawing his bushy
eyebrows into a continuous line. Gerry knew he was trying to make up
his mind.

A cautious man, Ketter. Too cautious. Afraid of making a mistake.

But no way was Gerry going to let him take a pass on this one.

"Look, " Gerry said, wandering the room, looking for a way to tilt the
SSA his way. "Lathram has motive, means, and opportunity. What else
do we need? " "It's all circumstantial. ' '"Four members of the old
committee are down or out. Dr. Panzella all but saw Lathram stick one
of these implants of his into Senator Marsden.

How long do we wait? ' ""All but saw' isn't quite the same as
seeing.

You know that, Gerry.

And Marsden wasn't a member of the original committee. So there goes
your motive."

"But he's chairing the new committee. Gin's right. I know she is."

Ketter's eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Gin? " "Dr. Panzella.

We went to high school together." He didn't want Ketter to know it was
more than that. "That's why she came to me.

Look, don't tell me you don't know in your gut there's something wrong
here." Ketter patted the sprawl of papers Gerry had put before him.

"Trust me, Gerry. There's nothing I'd like better than to uncover
something like this. It would be good for both of us.

Gerry took his turn at the window, watching the cars.

Ketter wouldn't get off the damn fence, even though a coup like this
would move him up and put Gerry in this very office. Gin would be
proud of him, Senator Marsden would be grateful, and he'd have more
time to devote to Martha. And to Gin.

Christ, he wanted this.

"So what do we do? Wait until Senator Marsden keels over? " "If he
does, at least we'll know what to look for, and where to look for it.

" Gerry shot him a skeptical look.

"I know, I know, " Ketter said. "That won't do Marsden much good. But
I won't go offhalf-cocked and embarrass the Bureau." All right, Gerry
thought. If reason doesn't work, how about a threat?

"I know one thing, Marvin. Anything happens to Marsden, Dr. Panzella's
going to be screaming bloody murder. She's on Marsden's staff. Don't
think she won't tell the press and Congress and anyone else who'll
listen that she warned the FBI but we ignored her. You're worried
about embarrassment, think about that." Ketter's eyebrows met again in
the middle as he rubbed his jaw.

He's almost there, Gerry thought. Just one more nudge . . .

"Look, " Ketter said. "If there was some way we could confirm the
existence of this implant without letting either Marsden or Lathram
know what we're doing, I'd go for it. But the damn thing's supposedly
in his leg. What do we do? Knock him out and drag him into a hospital
and x-ray him? " Gerry turned and stared at Ketter. Yes!

Ketter said, "What? " "I think I know how we can do it." TRICKS GERRY
RAISED HIS FIELD GLASSES AS A SILVER-GRAY LINcoln Town Car pulled out
of the driveway and turned right. Senator Marsden sat behind the
wheel. He felt the butterflies begin to flutter against the walls of
his stomach. They'd been fluttering all night. A lot hung on this
little operation. By Bureau standards it was no big deal in resources,
a couple of vehicles, a couple of field agents, a couple of
civilians.

But it was a very big deal for him.

Butterflies? More like a couple of angry roosters going at each
other.

Not many places to hide in this section of McLean. Mostly open horse
country, zoned for high acreage, with big, sprawling homes set far back
from the road. But Gerry had managed to find a stand of oaks that
allowed him to pull off the road and keep an eye on Senator Marsden's
driveway. Gin had called the senator's office and learned that he was
expected in sometime between eight and nine.

Even if Gerry hadn't known his face, the white bandage on the left ear
would have confirmed the ID. And he was wearing his seat belt.

Great.

A sensible man. He glanced at his watch, 8:05 Prompt too.

And as usual, he was driving himself. That had been a concern. As
minor as the surgery was, there was always the possibility that the
senator might order a limo to take him to his office. Fortunately he
hadn't. An extra passenger or a different vehicle would complicate
things.

Gerry punched two buttons on his cellular phone and it called a
preprogrammed number.

"Okay. He's on his way. Using the Town Car. I'll keep you posted. "
He eased his Bureau Ford into gear and followed Marsden as he wound
past horse farms and meadows and turned north onto Dolley Madison
Boulevard. They passed the CIA entrance and eventually fed into the
traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. He understood why
Marsden took this route. It was beautiful. Wooded hills and vales
undulated to the right, beginning their shift into fall colors, while
the tranquil Potomac flowed far below on the left. Across the river
the towers of Georgetown University pierced the morning sky.
Gerry's tension mounted as they passed under Key Bridge. Marsden could
choose from two bridges into the District from here, the Teddy
Roosevelt or the Arlington Memorial. If he'd had more time, Gerry
could have learned the senator's usual route, but it had been less than
twenty-four hours since the surgery. Gerry had prepared for both
routes, but he was hoping for the Memorial.

He had to hand it to Ketter. Once his SSA got moving, he moved.

They'd spent a lot of overtime last night getting approvals, securing
personnel and equipment, but by seven this morning, everything was in
place, waiting.

When he saw Marsden go past the off-ramp for the Teddy, Gerry relaxed a
little. But only a little.

He called in again.

"Okay, folks. He's right on course. Hitting the Memorial bridge
now.

Everybody be ready to roll as soon as he hits Constitution." Gerry
didn't hang up this time, but kept the channel open as he passed the
Seabees Memorial and cruised between the granite bald eagles that
flanked the entry to the bridge. The massive white marble box of the
Lincoln Memorial squatted directly ahead on the far side, and the
Washington Monument loomed to his right. He followed Marsden around
the Lincoln and onto the Henry Bacon diagonal to Constitution.

As a dark wedge of the Vietnam Wall in its depression slipped past on
his right, he said, "Coming to Constitution. Go! " And now those
stomach roosters were really kicking up. Timing was crucial here. It
had to go down within the next few blocks, but the Bureau's stunt
driver had to wait for an opportunity. Not only did he have to make
contact, but he had to get away.

A Nova . . . he'll be driving an old blue Chevy Nova.

Cruising with the commuters as they paced the Potomac along
Constitution Avenue, Gerry's gaze roamed side to side, flicked from
mirror to mirror. Then he spotted the car, weaving through the traffic
behind him. He pulled over to let it pass. A brief glimpse of the
driver showed a knitted cap pulled low over the forehead, an old
flannel shirt with the collar up. Gerry couldn't help a nervous
smile.

Trevor Hendricks looked to be anything but a special agent.

"Don't miss, Hendricks, " he whispered. "Please don't . . .
miss .

Gerry chewed his lip as he watched Hendricks edge nearer the senator's
car, looking for his chance. He found it at Igth, across from the
Department of the Interior. Marsden was just pulling up to a red light
when the Nova lunged ahead and swerved into the senator's Town Car.

Only a glancing blow but enough to cave in the left front fender. The
Lincoln lurched to a halt while the Chevy burned rubber and peeled 
off down Constitution.

Gerry pulled to a halt directly in front of the senator and - trotted
back to his window.

"You okay? "  "Yes, " said Marsden, looking a little pale and shaken,
but apparently uninjured. "Did you see that crazy son of a bitch? "
Gerry stared down Constitution and saw the Nova make a right onto
17th.

Hendricks would dump the car there, mingle with the tourists gathering
around the Washington Monument, then walk the few blocks back to the
Bureau. The car was a gift from the DEA, the unregistered, confiscated
property of a drug mule.

"Saw the whole thing." He pulled a card from his pocket.

. "If you need a witnessþsay . . . aren't you Senator Marsden? "
'"Yes. Yes, I am. ' Gerry thrust his card through the open window.

"Canney. Special agent FBI. I'll call this in." Without giving
Marsden a chance to reply, Gerry whipped out his cellular phone,
flipped it open, and turned his back to the senator as he pretended to
make a call.

"The police should have someone here in a second, " he said, turning
back to the car. "You're sure you're all right? " "Positive. Look,
we're blocking traffic here. Why don't I just pull ahead and see if I
can get off the road. ' Gerry looked back and saw that they'd created
a minor traffic jam by reducing inbound traffic from three lanes to
two. But he didn't want Marsden going anywhere.

"Don't know if that's such a good idea. Let me take a look at the
damage here." He stepped toward the front fender and bent over it.

Hendricks had done a perfect job, the metal was folded in against the
tire.

"I don't think you're going anywhere, sir." As he straightened he saw
Marsden starting to get out. Gerry stepped up and gently eased him
back into his seat.

"Maybe you shouldn't move just yet, Senator."

"I'm perfectly all right. It was just a fender bender." Gerry stood
firm, blocking the door with his body. "Still, sir, I think it would
be smarter and safer if you moved as little as possible until help
arrives."

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm perfectly fine and fully capable ofþ" A blue
and white unit roared up then, sirens wailing, lights flashing,
followed closely by an ambulance and a mobile ICU, all with the
Bureau.

The senator was adamant against being taken to the hospital. He
protested vigorously, but since his car wasn't going anywhere, and
since the cop and the E.M.Ts weren't taking no for an answer, and G.W.U
hospital was only six blocks up the street, he finally relented.

As the ambulance wailed off, Gerry leaned back against the Lincoln's
damaged fender and took a deep, relieved breath. The diciest part was
over, and Marsden had come through without a scratch.

Did it!

Christ, what a feeling. Almost like sex. If he smoked he'd be
reaching for a cigarerte.

But now came the most important part, finding that implant.

Gerry hoped to God it was findable. Because if they missed it, there
was going to be hell to pay.

Gin huddled in the dictation area of the records room and pressed the
receiver against her ear to keep any trace of Gerry's voice from
escaping.

She hadn't wanted to come in today, but Gerry had thought it best not
to deviate from her routine.

"All right, " Gerry said. "We've got the senator here in the emergency
room. Let me just go over this again to make sure there's no
mistake.

We're all set up to do a magnetic resonance image of his right leg.

That's what we want, right? " "Right. An Mr I with special attention
to the lateral midthigh. Tell them to look for the healing puncture
wound in the skin. The implant should be somewhere within a three- or
four-inch radius from there."
"Okay. Just triple-checking."

"And Gerry." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Don't let anyone
use an ultrasound to find it, okay? Sometimes they use ultrasound to
locate foreign bodies in soft tissue, but don't let them. Don't let
anyone even near him with an ultrasound." Diagnostic ultrasound used a
tiny fraction of the power of the therapeutic modalityþbut why chance
it?

"Okay. No ultrasound. Look, I've got to run. We should have the
answer soon." '"Call me."

"Soon as I can. Once we identify it, we've got to tell Marsden and
convince him it should come out immediately. That may not be so
easy."

"Just save him, okay? " "I'm doing my damnedest."

"I know you are. Love you. ' He was silent a moment, probably as
surprised as Gin herself that she'd come out and said that. Where had
it come from?

From the heart, I guess, she told herself.

"I feel the same way, " he said, and she had to smile. He probably had
a dozen other agents around him. "Let's get together after the dust
settles here. We need to talk."

"Think you'll be able to come over for dinner tonight? " '"I think
that can be arranged. Want me to bring something? " "Just Martha."

"Martha? " "Yeah. I haven't seen her in a while."

"Great."

"We'll stay in. I'll cook again. How's broccoli and linguine sound?

" "Martha will love it. ' '"Great. Bye.

" Gin sat there a moment, staring into space. She hadn't wanted to be
alone tonight. With Gerry and Martha as company, maybe she wouldn't
feel so terrible about all this.

Gerry had sounded both excited and tense. Gin felt only nausea. When
they found the implant, Gerry's job would be done. They'd hand Senator
Marsden over to the doctors for its removal and the case to the federal
prosecutors.

But Gin's involvement would not end. Somewhere along the line she'd
have to face Duncan.

She shuddered. She felt like a rat. He'd saved her life, given her a
job in high school, and now another. He'd been unfailingly generous
for as long as she'd known him, and this was how she repaid him.

But how could she let him go on doing what he'd been doing?

She'd done the right thing, damn it. Ethically, morally, legally, the
right thing.

So why did she feel so rotten?

The morning's procedures completed, Duncan sat in his office, his back
to his desk, a cup of Kenya AA cooling between his hands. He stared
through the glass at the rock garden, idly noting that the red leaves
of the dwarf five-finger  maple were beginning to brown. Fall was
taking hold. Winter was approaching. A winter of the heart.

- Gin, Gin, Gtna . . . how much lo you lenow?

- She did know something, and suspected more. Any doubts had been laid
to rest by the way she'd stuck like a second skin to that senator of
hers.

Duncan wondered at his growing animosity toward Senator Marsden. A
decent man by all accounts, even if he was engaged in extending the
domain of the kakistocracy. Was it personal? Could it be he was
feeling piqued by Gin's devotion to someone else, a veritable
stranger?

More crucial than what Gin knew was the question of what she meant to
do about it. He couldn't get a reading from her this morning . . .

she'd been unusually quiet, distant, rarely looking him in the eyes.

Something was up . . .

The intercom buzzed. He swiveled and picked up.

"A Dr. Melendez on oh-two about Senator Marsden." An electric tingle
coursed through l)uncan's limbs. Melendez? Who the hell was Dr.
Melendez?

He punched 02.

Melendez, it turned out, was one of the E.R docs at G.W.U hospital. In
a minimally accented voice he told Duncan that Marsden had been
involved in an M.V.A this morning and had mentioned having surgery the
preceding day. Melendez just wanted to check out if he was on any
analgesics or other meds.

"Nothing stronger than ibuprofen or Tylenol, " Duncan said. "Is he
hurt? " '"Not a scratch. The dressing on his ear wasn't disturbed in
the least."

" Good."

"If you want, I can take a look under the bandage when he gets back
from radiology."

"I thought you said there wasn't a scratch."

"There isn'r. But he's getting an Mr I anyway.

The feds are making a big deal out of this, I guess, his being a
senator and all."

"Feds? " A larval suspicion began worming through his gut.

"Yeah. Couple of FBI types lurking about. I don't get it. I mean,
he's not hurt so an Mr I isn't medically indicated in the least, but
hey, I'm just a doctor."

"A lowly health-care provider, " Duncan said, trying to keep his tone
light.

"You got it."

"Well, Dr. Melendez, I thank you for the courtesy of the call."

"Any TIME" Duncan drummed his fingers on the desk. An MRI? Of
what?

The head? Or a leg? He'd been rattled by the mention of the FBI and
had forgotten to ask.

And that young man Gin had been seeing lately, wasn't he with the
FBI?

His fingers stopped drumming and curled into a fist.

A little too much to be coincidence.

He snatched up the phone. Bob Rubinstein had been with G.W.U radiology
for years. Duncan gave Barbara the job of tracking him down, and five
minutes later he was on the line.

After the obligatory long-time-no-see small talk, Duncan broached the
subject.
"The reason I'm bothering you, Bob, is that I understand one of my
patients, a Senator Marsden, had an accident this morning and is
getting an MRI. I was wondering how he's doing."

"Don't know anything about it. MR's another section. But I can find
out, if you want. Can you hold? " Duncan could and he did, listening
to tinny Muzak while trying to quell The tension rising slowly within
him.

Rubinstein was back in a couple of minutes.

"Just spoke to Sal Vecchiarelli, the chief of MR. Know him? " "No.

.

" "A good man. And is he pissed! Your senator's all right, but
they're doing this MR on him anyway. It seemsþthis is all sub rosa, so
don't repeat it, okay? " "Trust me. Not a word."

"Okay. Seems the FBI commandeered this time for an Mr I of the senator
last night. Some twelve hours before his accident. Looks like they
knew he was going to have it. Pretty strange, wouldn't you say? "
Duncan felt himself going cold. "I certainly would." '"Wonder what
they're up to." '"I couldn't imagine. I operated on his ear
yesterday. Are theyþ? " "No.

It's his leg they're interested in. His right leg, I believe. "
Duncan closed his eyes and swallowed. His mouth was parched. He did
not want to ask the next question. "Any idea what they're looking
for?

" '"Some sort of foreign body." He slammed his fist against his
thigh.

No! No, dammit! He forced his voice to remain calm, steady.

"Are the results in yet? " "Not yet. The senator's in the tunnel as
we speak. Sal's fuming. He just wants to get the study done, give
them a reading, and send them on their way so he can get to patients
who really need the test."

"Can't say as I blame him." '"Since the senator's your patient, I can
call you back with the reading if you want."

"No, thanks, Bob, " Duncan said slowly as a weight grew in his chest.

"Not necessary." I already know the reading.

His hand trembled as he hung up the receiver. He stared at his
fingers. What were they vibrating with? Rage? Or heartache?

Gin knows.

He'd guessed she knew something, but until this moment he'd had no idea
how much. Now there was no more guessing. Somehow she'd pieced
together the who and the how, and maybe even the why.

But instead of coming to him, she'd gone to the FBI.

He wanted to break somethingþpunch a hole in the wall, grab his chair
and fling it through the picture window.

But no. He was not a maniac. He was in control. Although, looking at
all this from Gin's perspective, she had to think he was psychotic. A
paranoid schiz. He'd no doubt have thought the same thing if
situations were reversed.

But he'd have gone to her first. He wouldn't have sneaked off and
betrayed her to the kakistocracy.

Gin, my dear sygnet . . . how could you?

She'd cut him deeply today. He didn't know if he'd ever forgive her
for this. But that was a question for another TIME Much more
pressing was the question of what was he going to do now?

FALLOUT GINA WAITED, shuffling BETWEEN THE DICTATION DESK and the
recovery rooms, checking on this morning's post-ops. A light load
today, two rhinoplasties and a thigh liposuction. She wished there was
more to do.

This waiting was killing her.

She glanced out the window of the main recovery room and noticed
Duncan's cat was gone. She stopped by Barbara's desk on her way
back.

"I don't know if he's coming back or not, " Barbara said. "I looked up
and there he was, breezing past me. Didn't even say goodbye."

"It's not even noon yet." Barbara shrugged. "Maybe he's got a big
weekend planned and wants an early starr. ' Gin wondered about that.

Usually he stayed later on Fridays, going over a list of things he
wanted done or set up before surgery began again Monday morning. Why
the change in routine today? Did he suspect something?

Got to stop thinking like that, she told herself, rubbing her upper
arms as a chill of apprehension skittered across her shoulders.
Nothing is different today. No reason to suspect a thing.

She would have loved to leave herself, but she was required to stay on
duty until the last patient went home. So she stayed on, doing
everything as usual, behaving as if nothing were wrong. It hadn't been
such a tough decision. The thought of sitting alone in her apartment,
waiting for the phone to ring, was hardly an enticing alternative.

Lunch hour came and went without her having a biteþ couldn't think of
eating a thingþand Gerry hadn't called. The afternoon dragged on.

Still no call. Gin was all caught up on her dictation and paperwork,
and was running out of things to do. She heard Oliver puttering in his
lab. She could have wandered over to help him out, but now, after what
she knew, the thought of even being near those implants repulsed her.

Better to try to look busy until Gerry called.

By quarter after three Gin still hadn't heard, and she was beginning to
worry. They should have had the reading by midmorning. Why hadn't he
called?

Unless . . . her chest constricted at the thought . . . unless the Mr
I showed that the implant had ruptured in the accident. They'd have
had to rush Senator Marsden into emergency surgery before too much of
the TPD leaked into his circulation.

What a nightmare scenario. But still, Gerry would have called to tell
her.

She got up, wandered around upstairs, then came back. She couldn't sit
still. What was happening downtown?

Finally she picked up the phone. Enough waiting. Time to make a call
of her own. She dialed the FBI and asked for Gerry. After a moment on
hold, the receptionist came back, "I'm sorry, but Special Agent Canney
is not available now. Would you care to leave a message? " No, she
wouldn't.

Gerry wasn't back yet? Could that be? She felt her anxiety level
rising. The chart-lined walls around her seemed to lean over her,
closing in.

Keep calm, she told herself. Everything's under control.

Quickly she dialed Senator Marsden's officer. When she asked how he
was after the accident, Doris, the receptionist, said, "Oh, he's fine,
Dr, Panzella. Want to speak to him? " Nonplussed, Gin mumbled
something that vaguely resembled yes.
"Gin, " the senator said without preamble, "I wish you could have been
with me today. If ever there was an example of the need for the
Guidelines act, it was the fiasco I witnessed this morning."

"Are you all right? " "Of course, I'm all right! There was never
anything wrong with me. Yet they insisted on shoving me into this MRI
machine and scanning my legs.

Everything happened so fast, I was squeezed into that tube before I was
sure of what was going on and had a chance to protest."

"I'm sure they had good reasonþ" "They had no reason! Just trying to
pad the bill! I'm curious.

"Maybe it was because you're a U. S. Senator, " she said, trying to
mollify him. This was not what she wanted to talk about. "I'm sure
they don't do that to everyone."

"Wait till I get the bill, " he said. "Just wait. Then they'll hear
from me." Gin figured he'd have a long, long wait ''llh, did they find
anything? ' she asked and then held her breath.

'"Find anything? Of course not! There wasn't anything to find!

Wasted half my morning because of a stupid hit-and run fender bender. '
Found nothing . . . hadn't they told him? Why not? What was going
on?

Gin fumbled through the next minute of conversation, only half
listening, replying with what she was sure were non sequiturs, and then
somewhat less than gracefully ended the conversation.

Her mind spinning, she immediately called the FBI again, and again,
Gerry was "nor available at this TIME ' She left her name and an
urgenr message to call her as soon as possible.

And then she was up and moving. She had to get out, get some fresh
air.

She hurried to her car and turned the heater on high. She was cold,
but that wasn't why she was shivering. Dread settled around her like a
tenebrous shroud.

Somewhere, somehow, something was terribly wrong.

The late afternoon had been endless. She'd taken a shower, fixed a
sandwich that she didn't touch, tried to watch talk shows. She was
going nuts.

When she hadn't heard from Gerry by half past six, Gin called his
office again and was told he was gone for the day.

Why hadn't he called? Had he missed her message?

She called his home. He answered on the second ring.

"Gerry. Thank God! " "Gin. Hello." His voice sounded flat,
lifeless.

"I've been trying to reach you all day. I've been going crazy here.

Didn't you get my message? " ""Going crazy, " he said. "That's a good
one." A wave of cold formed at her center and spread outward. With
the cordless phone tight against her ear, she stepped out of her
bedroom and began pacing the front room.

"Gerry, what's wrong? " "What's wrong? Gin . . . " he sighed, then
said nothing. The few silent seconds seemed to stretch into the night
falling outside her bay window.

"Gin, there was nothing there. ' It wasn't a complete shock. Some
part of her subconscious must have expected this but hadn't allowed her
to face it directly. Now she had no choice.

Still, she couldn't accept it.

Her words came in a rush. "There had to be. Gerry, I saw it. Less
than an hour before the surgery he had the trocar and an implant filled
with TPD sitting on his desk ready to go. I left the recovery room for
a few minutes, and when I returned there was a puncture wound on the
senator's thigh. It was still bleeding."

"We had that puncture wound' checked in the hospital. It was little
more than a scratch."

"Gerry, itþ" "But it doesn't matter whether there was a scratch or a
puncture in the skin, Gin, the fact remains that there wasn't anything
under the skin.

The Mr I didn't pick up a single trace of a foreign body. Not in the
right leg, and not in the left leg either, because we checked both of
them. There's nothing under Marsden's skin but fat and muscle and
bone.

No implant, no nothing! " "Gerry, that can't be. If it's not in the
senator's leg then it's got to be somewhere else. I knowþ" "That's the
trouble, Gin. You didn't know. And you don't know now. I thought you
did. I never should haveþ" He cut himself off.

"Gerry, I'm so sorry. I was so sure. Why else would he have that
implant out and ready to go just before the senator's surgery? " "I
don't know, Gin." She sensed a growing edge to his voice. "You tell
me. You're the only one who saw it . . . or that TPD stuff. ' "Do
you think I imagined it? ' "I don't know what to think anymore. Look,
I know I started you on this, but I must have been crazy, and I made
you a little crazy too. I do know that Ketter and I are the big joke
around the Bureau."

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry. Look, you sound tired.

When you and Martha come over we'll have some wine and you can relax
while Iþ" "I don't think we'll be able to make it, Gin. Not tonight.

" Something in his voice made her sit down in the nearest chair. She
bit her lip.

"Gerry, what's wrong? " "Wrong? Everything's wrong, Gin." She heard
the hurt, the disappointment in his voice. "I'm really not very
hungry. And to tell the truth, I don't think I'll be very good company
tonight." Gin felt tears well in her eyes. "I feel terrible about
this, Gerry.

" "That makes two of us. Maybe you've been working too hard,
stretching yourself too thin. I shouldn't have got you wired on my
little conspiracy theory. ' She felt as if she'd been punched. "You
do think I imagined all this!

Did I imagine all those newspaper articles? " "I told you, Gin, I
don't know what to think anymore. Maybe this isn't a good time for us
to be discussing it. I know it's not a good time for me. I've got to
get dinner for Martha. We'll talk some other time, okay? " '"Talking
it out tonight mightþ" "The last thing I need is to talk about Duncan
Lathram. Frankly, if I never hear his name again, it will be too
soon.

What I need is to cool down and get this day over with. ' "You're
sure? " "I'm truly sorry for begging off at the last minute like this,
but trust me, it's for the best." She didn't want to hang up but
sensed he didn't want to talk anymore.

'"Call me tomorrow? ' "Will do."

"All right. Good night."

"Good night, Gin." And then she hung up.

Bewildered, Gin sat and stared down at Kalorama Road.

"He thinks I'm crazy, " she whispered to the empty apartment.
But she'd been so certain, so damn sure that Duncan had stuck an
implant into Senator Marsden. She'd seen it lying on his desk just
before the surgery. Why else would it have been there?

Unless . . .

Unless Duncan had been setting her up.

But how? He had no inkling of what she knew. She'd relocked his desk
drawer, erased the FDA download from the computer. She'd left no
trail.

No reason in the world for Duncan to suspect she had the vaguest due.

So why would he set her up?

Maybe he had'ntr. Maybe he'd tried to jab an implant into the
senator's thigh but didn't have time to complete the job, leaving a
skin wound but no implant.

And maybe he wasn't up to what she thought he was. Maybe she'd
misinterpreted everything.

Was that possible? Could she have been that far off the mark?

And poor Gerry. He'd stuck his neck out on account of what she'd told
him. Sounded as if he'd been damn near decapitated as a result. He
had a right to be hurt and angry.

But so do I, dammit.

She wandered over to the kitchenette and saw the heads of broccoli
sitting on the counter, waiting to be sliced up into flowerets. Enough
for three or four. And she wasn't the least bit hungry.

I've really screwed things up, haven't I, she thought as she rerurned
to the bay window and curled up on the seat.

The streetlights were on. She stared down at the passing singles and
couples. She felt utterly alone, but she wasn't going to cry.

Gerry sat in his easy chair with Martha on his lap. He had his arms
around her, holding her close and warm against him in her OshKosh
corduroys while she read him a story. It was the Martha Canney
variation of Madeline. She couldn't read just yet, but she'd heard the
story so many times that she knew it almost word for word.

So did Gerry. So his mind drifted. It would have drifted no matter
what Martha was reading.
What a godawful, rotten day. If only . . .

Yeah. If only. He must have had a million if-onlys since this morning
when the Mr I report had come back negative.

Damn! If only he hadn't rushed it, taken a little more time to check
things out. But dammit, they couldn't take too much TIME Marsden was
supposedly in danger.

Supposedly . . .

He'd bought into Gin's scenario completely. If only he'd been a little
more skeptical.

He winced as he remembered the excruciating moment when he'd had to
call Ketter and tell him that they'd come up empty-handed. The little
operation that was to make them a couple of fair-haired. boys had left
them the big jokes of the Bureau. And then Cavanaugh, one of the
assistant directors, had called them into his office and dressed them
down but good. Gerry couldn't remember ever feeling so embarrassed and
humiliated. He'd wanted to crawl under a rock.

But the worst of it was that lost amid all the reprimands was the fact
that the operation Gerry had designed and managed had gone off like
clockwork. Everything as planned, on time and under budget. Marsden's
car had been hit without damage to him, he'd been whisked off to the
hospital, examined, and delivered back to. his office without the
slightest hint that it had all been arranged.

At least the Bureau itself had been spared any public embarrassment.

Thank God for that.

But no one would remember his well-oiled operation. Only that there'd
been no poison pill in the senator's leg, and that Gerry Canney had to
be the most gullible agent in the Bureau.

But what hurt most was knowing that any hopes he'd had of moving up to
SSA soon had been dashed but good.

He held Martha closer.

Looks like it's business as usual, kid, he thought glumly.

Catch-as-catch-can fatherhood for the foreseeable future.

"Daddy, you're squeezing too tight! ' "Sorry, honey. What happens to
Madeline next? " "She has her operation."

"Tell me all about it." His mind drifted again. What about Gin?

What was going on inside her?

Where had she come up with that wild fantasy? From me, dammit. At
least initially. But she'd pushed it a few steps further . . .

Marsden . . .

that triethylwhatever-it-was . . . and he'd bought into it on the
strength of her conviction, on the basis of his faith in her . . .

Looking back, knowing now that it had been the proverbial wild-goose
chase, he couldn't believe he'd got sucked in like that. But thinking
about it, he guessed he had been primed to believe anything shady about
the uppity Dr. Lathram.

He wished today had never happened.

Gerry suppressed a growl as he closed his eyes. He knew he was feeling
sorry for himself. He hated self-pity. Tomorrow was a new day. He'd
suck this mess in, chew it up, spit it out, and get back on the job.

But tonight . . . tonight he was feeling pretty goddamn low.

His thoughts ran to Gin again. He'd been pretty rough on her. Hadn't
meant to be, but the bitterness was like a pressure, he'd had to blow
off at least some of it. Couldn'r on Ketter, who'd backed him a
hundred percent, and certainly not on Martha.

That left Gin.

Maybe she needed some help. She certainly hadn't been fully connected
to reality imagining that implant in Marsden.

Gin . . . he felt a need for her but didn't want to be in the same
room with her. At least not tonight. Maybe he'd get past this and
maybe not. Where did they go from here? The fallout from today could
poison their relationship.

He shifted in the chair. Enough wallowing. He had someone very real
and very important sitting on his lap. Time to focus on Martha, and on
the problem of Madeline's tummy ache.

But a vision of Gin sitting alone in her apartment came to him. He
wondered if she had anyone to turn to tonight. He wondered if she knew
someone was thinking about her.

Duncan sat before MaeNeil/Lehrer, sipping a scotch and soda, barely
listening. He was envisioning Gin. His earlier anger was gone and now
he was wondering what slue was thinking.

Poor girl. Probably couldn't figure up from down at the moment.

Probably questioning her sanity.

He sighed. He wished he could feel good about hoodwinking the poor
thing, but frankly, it hadn't taken much. He'd been all primed for her
yesterday morning. He'd had the TPD, the trocar, and a saline-filled
implant sitting on his desk where she could see them. He'd dosed her
coffee with twenty milligrams of Lasix. The diuretic had achieved the
desired effect, she'd had to leave Marsden's side for a trip to the john. And while she was gone he'd ducked in and given Marsden a quick
jab with the tip of the trocar. After that it was simply a matter of
waiting.

All to see what she knew. Obviously she suspected something, but how
much?

Now he knew.

Gin knew everything. Or at least enough to go to her fellow in the FBI
and convince him to save her dear senator from the wicked Dr.
Lathram.

The call from the hospital that the FBI was involved had come as a
mind-numbing shock.

He sipped his scotch. But he was better now. Everything was under
control again.

But poor Gin. She must have been so sure.

And right now she probably wasn't sure of anything at all, except that
the FBI considered her an unreliable source.

He'd neutralized her without harming a hair on her head.

Pretty slick.

So now she had to put this behind her. Write it off as a bad dream and
let things return to normal. If he were smart he'd find an excuse to
fire her. Play it safe and get her off the premises.

But he couldn't do that. He still remembered that skinny, raven-haired
little girl with the huge brown eyes, wide with fright, asking him if
she was going to die, and later his hands inside her abdomen, her blood
pooling around his wrists as he fought to find the bleeders and mend
her damaged arteries. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed those
days.
He missed the adrenaline rush of the emergencies, opening up a patient
and searching for the leak, racing against the falling blood pressure,
the falling hematocrit, the impending cardiovascular collapse and
shock.

Or rushing to tie off a bulging abdominal aneurysm before it blew and
splashed red against the ceiling. He missed saving lives.

But McCready, Ailard, Lane, Schulz, Vincent, and the rest of them had
made that impossible.

He rubbed his eyes as bitter memories rushed in. . . memories of poor
Lisa . . .

Lisa Lathram . . . a euphonious name, such an up sound to it. And yet
Lisa herself . . .

He remembered her as such a happy child, could still hear her dulcet
laugh, see her bright eyes, her effulgent smileþ Lord, that smile .

.

.

Lisa was always smilingþaccepting everyone and everything, hugs and
kisses all around.

When Brad came along, Duncan loved him equally, but as a son. There
was a difference there.

Lisa remained the light of his life. At times he was sure Diana was
jealous of their relationship. When he arrived home from the hospital
or the office, Lisa was the first one he looked for, and she always
came running when she heard his voice. How he cosseted her. Whatever
she wanted, whatever she neededþa piano to play, a horse to ride, a
balance beam for gymnastics practiceþwas hers for the asking.

But the halcyon days of her childhood evanesced as puberty took hold,
and Duncan came to understand firsthand the origin of the changeling
myth. As her body changed, so did Lisa's personality. At first he and
Diana chalked up the moodiness to the new hormones pulsing through
her.

After all, what was there to be grumpy about? With her flowing blond
hair and lissom figure, she was only getting prettier.

He and Diana kept hoping their adolescent age would snap out of it,
but after a while it became clear that more than hormones were at work
here. She lost interest in her friends, her piano playing, her
horse.

The downs kept getting deeper and longer, and there never seemed to be
any real ups, only not-so-downs.

And then she swallowed half a bottle of her mother's Dalmane and had to
have her stomach pumped. She was diagnosed with severe endogenous
depression and the endless rounds of antidepressants and outpatient
therapy began.

Nothing worked for very long. And then came that terrible night she
locked herself in her room and screamed with pain. Duncan kicked the
door down and found her sitting in the middle of her bed bleeding from
a slit wrist.

They hospitalized her for a month after that, and tried something new
called Prozac. Lisa responded beautifully. In her case it was truly a
miracle drug.

Duncan still remembered the day he came home from the hospital to find
Diana standing in the foyer sobbing. Immediately his heart plummeted,
expecting the worst And then he heard it, floating in from the living
room, the sound of Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 2I. Lisa was playing
again.

He and Diana fell into each other's arms and wept.

Even now his eyes clouded at the memory.

After that, as Lisa brightened, so did their lives. Duncan hadn't
realized how his daughter's problems had tainted their entire family
life. But now that she was getting back to normal, the days seemed
brighter, his own step lighter. Laughter again around the dinner table
as Lisa began riding her horse and hanging out with some of her old
friends. Her grades turned around and she began dating Kenny
O"Boyle.

They dated for months, and Kenny became the sole topic of Lisa's
conversation. She and Diana would have long mother-daughter talks
about him, and Diana told Duncan she was worried that Lisa might be
getting too involved. She'd just turned eighteen, true, but she'd
missed a lot of growing up in those black years.

Duncan wasn't crazy about Kenny. He seemed a shifty, inarticulate
dolt, but then Duncan was naturally leery about any male sniffing
around his daughter. Lisa adored him. And Lisa was happy. Happy for
the first time in years. So Duncan decided to keep his eyes open and
his mouth shut.

And then the McCready committee reared its ugly head.
He remembered the morning five years ago when it all began, in the
doctors lounge at Fairfax Hospital, somebody showing him the article on
the front page of the Post. He'd just come off two scheduled
procedures, an abdominal aneurysm graft and a carotid endarterectomy,
all after rushing in at 3:00 A. M. to close a torn femoral artery on a
motorcyclistþ "donorcyclist, " as the E.R staff called them. He was
tired. But not too tired to be furious at Senator Vincent's public
condemnation of his million-dollar charge to Medicare the year
before.

Every time he turned around some baseball player or basketball dribbler
was signing a contract for five or six million dollars a year. How
many lives did they save in a year? Barbra Streisand can get twenty
million for two nights of warbling, but you, Duncan Lathram, you
moneygrubbing bloodsucker, you charge too goddamn much.

He'd wished he had some legal recourse, but how the hell did you sue a
congressional committee? And what would he accomplish but call even
more unwanted attention to himself?

What did it matter? he remembered thinking. The whole brouhaha would
blow over in a couple of days.

But he was wrong.

His auto-da-fe' at the hands of the Guidelines committee continued with
unflagging zeal. Apparently the members thought they'd found a
particularly tasty bone in Duncan Lathram and wanted to keep gnawing
away at him. Then the Alexandria Banner picked up the story, followed
by a patient's rights group demanding an investigation, so the State
Board of Medical Examiners got involved, and soon Medicare had a team
of pettifogging auditors formicating through his office records, pawing
through his files, and swarming in the hospital records room, sifting
his charts for pecuniary indiscretions. To hell with patient
confidentiality. Those weasel-faced bureaucrats would know all the
secrets of everyone he'd operated on in the past few years. But what
did that matter? Spurred by the Guidelines committee, the government
had declared jihad on Duncan Lathram.

Duncan was angry and embarrassed, but not too worried. His medical
records were impeccable, and he'd match his morbidity and mortality
stats against anyone in the country. Let them investigate. He'd come
up smelling like a rose.

He just wished they'd hurry and get the whole mess over and done
with.

But it dragged on, and in the ensuing months Duncan began to notice a
hint of coolness from some of his colleagues at the hospital. He was
getting fewer requests for surgical consults. He understood their
predicament, worrying about guilt by association. They were waiting
till things cooled down.

Still, he was in for a nasty shock one day as he began one of the
surgical consultation requests he did receive. When he entered the
patient's hospital room and introduced himself, the patient bolted
upright in bed. Duncan still remembered his words.

"Oh, no. Forget it. No way I'm gonna be operated on by some
knife-happy, money-grubbing quack! " Duncan was mortified, angry enough
to punch a hole in the wall. And dammit, hurt. He consoled himself
that most likely he had just experienced the nadir of the whole
affair.

It couldn't get any worse.

The only way he could go from there was up.

Again, he was wrong.

Because all the bad press was having a devastating effect at home.

Duncan Lathram, MD, was the talk of the town . . . including the high
school.

And so in retrospect it seemed inevitable that he would come home one
night to find Lisa sobbing in her mother's arms. She and Kenny had had
a fight and broken up. The cause of the fight? What the kids were
saying about Lisa's father, saying to Kenny behind Lisa's back.

Kenny's parting shot? "Forget the prom! Forget everything! I ain't
going' anywhere with the daughter of no crook! " Devastating for any
teenager, but to Lisa it seemed like the end of the world.

Barely able to speak through her sobs, she wanted to know why her
father hadn't said anything, why he hadn't come out and defended
himself.

Duncan remembered the scene as if it had occurred only a moment ago.

He knelt before his daughter and gripped her hands. "Honey, these are
lies from spotlight-hunting buffoons. The way these things work, the
louder I proclaim my innocence, the guiltier I look."

"But you haven't said anything! " "I'm letting my records do the
talking. I've got nothing to hide, Lisa.

When the bureaucrats finish their investigation, I'll be vindicated.

And they'll be the fools."

"But meanwhile they're making you look like a crook! And making
everybody hate me! And you don't care! " "Of course I care." He
realized then that he'd misread the whole situation. He'd treated it
as a brief but unpleasant interlude, another in a long series of
fleeting Capitol Hill cacophomes that would die down as soon as
Congress, in tune with its well-earned reputation for a short attention
span, moved on to the next hot topic.

So he'd done nothing to counter the accusations leveled. That had been
a mistake.

Another mistake was thinking it would involve only his practice. He
should have seen that his professional obloquy would have a ripple
effect on his private life as well. He'd always separated the practice
and the family, but there was no way of insulating the latter from the
ravages upon the former, not with an assault of this magnitude.

He hurt for Lisa.

"But what could I have done, Lisa? What can I do to make this
better?

' "I don't knowþsomething. You could plea bargain or whatever they
call it. Something, anything to make them shut up and get off our
backs."

"Plea bargain? " He was stunned. "You don't plea bargain when you're
innocent." Lisa tore her hands from his and ran upstairs, screaming,
"Thanks!

Thanks for nothing! My life is over! And all because of you! I might
as well have AIDS! " Diana followed her, glaring back at him. "She's
right, you know. You could have done something! " This was vintage
Lisa, always taking everything too hard, seeing everything in the worst
light. With her history, though, that kind of outburst could not be
laid off to hyperbole and histrionics.

They increased her therapy sessions and kept an eye on her day and
night. But a week later, when it became clearþat least to Lisaþthat she and Kenny were through for good, she dug out a hoard of old pills
she had squirreled away over the yeatsþa potentially lethal combination
of antidepressants like Elavil, Parnate, Desyrel, Sinequan, Norpramin,
Tofranil, Nardil, and lithiumþand took them all.

And then she fell. Over the railing. Down to the hard, cold foyer
floor. Where Duncan found her.

And then she died.
And Diana blamed him.

And Duncan blamed himself.

He had never realized what grief could mean, never imagined he could
mourn the loss of another human being the way he mourned Lisa. And he
knew it was all his fault . . . all his fault . . .

Until the audits and investigations were completed. Then he knew who
was really to blame.

The rasorial crew of Medicare auditors finished their quest for any
improprieties that might grease his path to the gibbet, always in full
view of his steadily diminishing patient flow, and the worst they could
come up with were a few errors in the coding of certain procedures.

The quality assurance examiners found no casesþnot one! þof
unnecessary surgery. Every single procedure met or exceeded
recommended . . . .

Indications.

No apology, though, from the Guidelines committee and their fugleman,
McCready. They'd moved on to other hatchet jobs.

Except for a few loyal patients who wrote letters on Duncan's behalf,
no one had come to his defense throughout the entire ordeal. His
colleagues had kept their heads down. Even some A.M.A paper-pusher was
quoted as saying the amount Duncan billed was "excessive." Duncan
learned the meaning of alone.

The long-delayed reports finally got forwarded to the State Board of
Medical Examiners. The "coding irregularities" did not result in any
net gain on Duncan's partþactually he lost moneyþbut still he was
issued a warning to be more careful in the future. Since there was no
evidence of fraud or negligence, or of performing even a single
unnecessary procedure, -the board exonerated him.

But where was that publicized?

In a small paragraph buried deep in the Banner. But the Washington
Post, which had broken the original story that started this nightmare,
never mentioned it.

The public flogging was over, but it had dragged on too long. Referral
patterns had changed. Generalists who used to feed his practice had
found new surgeons.

His practice was ruined. He'd been held up to national scorn and then
cleared. But his reputation remained tainted.

He could have shrugged it off, all of it, if Lisa still were alive and
Diana still behind him.

But Lisa was gone. Dear, dear Lisa, who left without a goodbye,
blaming him for all her pain.

Diana, too, blamed him. And soon their marriage went the way of his
practice.

But he wasn't to blame. He'd done nothing wrong. Couldn't she see
that? It was the committee . . . that damned Guidelines committee.

McCready and his claque of pharisaical louts had plundered his life and
then casually '. moved on.

Duncan had actually entertained thoughts of buying an assault rifle and
blowing them all away. But then McCready had died, and the Guidelines
committee disbanded, leaving Duncan with no target for the monstrous,
smoldering mass of rage, coiled and writhing within him.

But he got over itþgot past it, to use the current phrase. After all,
he still had his sonþBrad had stuck by him from beginning to end.

And Oliver, of course. Steadfast, sedulous Oliver. Without them .

.

.

Well, he just might have shoved a gun barrel in his mouth. So he
started anewþnew state, new specialty, new persona.

And everything seemed fine until the president revived the Guidelines
committee. It was then that Duncan realized that the rage had never
gone away. Like a cancer, it had metastasized throughout his system
until it now lived in every tissue.

- And still he might have controlled it if so many committee members
hadn't begun looking around for someone to enhance their appearance for
the heavy TV exposure they expected . . . and come to him, because he
had the implants . . .

The irony should have been delicious.

Make me loo/2 good for the tameras . . .

He stopped himself from hurling his glass across the room. No sense in
wasting good scotch.
So now five of the original seven were gone. McCready from natural
causes, four Duncan's doing, and two left . . . the two youngest who
were unlikely to seek out cosmetic surgery.

Almost time to call it quits. The new committee was in complete
disarray, The Guidelines act moribund. One more strikeþthe biggest of
allþand it would be dead.

Just like Lisa.

And he wouldn't have to worry about Gin interfering with the last
target. She'd be too off balance after today. Wouldn't even know
about that patient. She'd be home, enjoying a day off.

And then he'd quit. Flush the TPD and wait for his moment to dissolve
the last implant.

Which reminded him, he had to move the TPD. He'd left it in his top
drawer in case Gin went for another look. Now that the games were
over, he'd have to find a new hiding place.

He lifted his glass.

Par, Regina.

Mind your own business and we'll all live happily ever after.

If not . . .

Gin lay in her bed in the dark, listening to the tick of the old mantle
clock from the other room. An awful night alone, grappling with her
doubt, her confusion. But she'd passed through that fire, emerging
with a new perspective.

She hadn't imagined this. For a while there she'd been dazed and
unsure, rocked back on her heels by the way everything had gone so
wrong today. But she was on her feet again.

It's not over, Duncan, she told the darkness. You're smart . . . no,
you're brilliant. Somehow you got way ahead of me on this. You
probably think you've won. But I know what I saw, and I know what I
know.

This is not over.

THE WEEK OF OCTOBER SUNDAY GINA WAS GOING TO FIND OUT EVERYTHING ABOUT
Duncan.

She started her engine as Duncan's black Mercedes pulled to a stop at
the end of his street. She couldn't park outside his house, or even on
his block. Duncan lived in an ultraexclusive Chevy Chase neighborhood
of large, stately, Federal-style homes on half-acre lots in which her
little red Sunbird would stick out like a garbage scow at the Potomac
Yacht Club. But one of the hallmarks of the neighborhood's exclusivity
was limited access. The brick-pillared entrance opened onto a
secondary road near a small, upscale strip mall. Gin had camped in the
mall's parking lot most of yesterday and all of this morning and no one
had bothered her.

Yesterday had yielded nothing of interest. Duncan had gone out only
once, stopping at a liquor store, a gourmet coffee shop, a gas station,
and an electronics specialty shop. "Caliguire Electronics, " read the
sign over the front door. "Audio, Video, SurroundSound, Satellite
Dishes, Custom Electronics." Gin remembered Duncan talking about his
satellite dish on occasion. This was probably where he'd got it. .

"Boy toys, " she'd muttered.

And then it struck her, custom electronics. Duncan needed some sort of
miniature ultrasound transducer to dissolve his implants. Something
small enough to hide on his person and aim at his victim when he got
within range. Something pocket-sizedþ Ohmigod! His pager. His
old-fashioned oversized beeper. She remembered how he'd had it in his
hand when she saw him with Allard, and how it had gone off as they were
standing with Senator Vincent on the hearing room floor before Senator
Marsden gaveled everyone to their places. A few minutes later Senator
Vincent was convulsing behind the dais.

What if it was oversized for a reason other than Duncan's stubborn
unwillingness to part with a less than state-of-the-art piece of
equipment? What if his pager was a mini-transducer?

Could Duncan have used this place or someplace like it to fashion one
for him?

The question nagged Gin the entire time he was inside, which stretched
out almost to an hour. Finally, he came out and returned home.

Gin had seriously considered the idea of returning to the electronics
shop to question the owner about transducers disguised as beepers, but
then Gerry's words came back to her.

No more Nancy Drew stzz.

Gerry . . . she missed him. She wished he'd call.

But it was good advice. Not only was she too old to be Nancy Drew, she
didn't want to be a detective, being an internist was quite enough.

And besides, questioning the folks at Caliguire might prompt a call to
Duncan.

,Better just stick to following him around.

Nice way to spend a weekend.

So now it was Sunday evening, the light fading, and this was the first
Gin had seen of Duncan all day. She'd worried that he might have
another way out of his neighborhood, but a drive by his house an hour
ago had revealed the Mercedes parked at the top of the semicircular
drive before the front door of his brick colonial.

Then the radio gave her the most likely reason why he'd - chosen now to
be on the move. The Redskins game was over.

They'd lost. Again.

She put her car in gear and waited to see which direction he turned.

Whichever way, she'd be close behind. She wasn't crazyþnot psychotic,
not even neuroticþand she wasn't going to let anyone make her think
so.

Duncan had secrets. He lied about where he went on his afternoons.

She was going to find out where he really went. He wasn't going to be
able to sneeze without her saying Gezhunteit.

She was not going to drop this.

Gin watched him turn south, she let a car get between them before she
pulled out and followed. When he turned onto East-West Highway, she
had a pretty good idea where he might be headed.

Sure enough, he pulled into the surgicenter.

Now what? She couldn't exactly pull in behind him and follow him into
his office.

His office . . . he had that rock garden with the pool and all those
thick bushes outside his office window. Maybe she could get a peek.

She found a parking spot half a block down and trotted back. Homing in
on the glow from Duncan's windows, she crept along a grassy buffer
between the surgicenter and the neighboring office building and lowered
into a crouch as she neared the rear wall of the rock garden. Duncan's
office windows were just past that If she could get a look . . .

Look at me, she thought. Creeping across lawns, spying on people .
.

.

This wasn't her. And hadn't she sworn she wasn't going to do the Nancy
Drew thing? Was this the behavior of a stable personality?

Maybe I do need help.

The thought chilled her, but she shook off the doubts. She had to see
this through.

She parted the branches of a small evergreenþfrom its ginlike odor she
guessed it was some sort of juniperþand peered through the plate glass
into Duncan's office.

He was seated at his desk. Gin settled onto her knees and watched,
hoping
he'd do more than just straighten papers. It was getting cold
out here in the wind.

She caught her breath as he leaned to his right and unlocked the top
desk drawer. She leaned forward, all but thrusting her face through
the prickly juniper as she watched him remove the TPD from the drawer,
heft it in his hand, then rise and wander about. He opened cabinets
and poked inside, lifted bottles, pulled out books and journals, peered
into the space they left, then shoved them back.

What's he doing?

He seemed to be looking for something.

Or somewhere.

Finally he pulled a volume the size of the Merrk Manxal off a top
shelf, placed the bottle of TPD in the rear of the gap, then slid the
book back in.

He was hiding the TPD.

Gin was dumbfounded.

Why would he hide the bottle when he had a locked drawer for it?

Maybe he had no further use for it. Or maybe he'd never used it. But
then why was he hiding it now?

Damn! Why didn't any of this make sense?

Suddenly the office went dark. Duncan had turned out the lights. Gin
spun and scampered back to her car. It was good to get the heater
going again. She watched Duncan's car turn back the way it had come on
East-West. She gave him a good lead, then swung around and followed.

When she saw him turn into his neighborhood, she turned east and headed
for Connecticut Avenue. For Adams Morgan. For home.

She'd had enough Nancy Drew for one night. In two days of trailing him
she'd learned two things, one, he liked to hang out at Caliguire
Electronics, two, he'd changed the hiding place of his bottle of TPD.

No answers. Just tW0 facts which did nothing but engender a whole slew
of new questions. She didn't need more questions. She had questions
coming out her ears. She needed answers, dammit!

Maybe tomorrow. When Duncan left early to go to his golf club, Gin
would be right behind him. She'd find out where he really went. Maybe
a mistress. Or maybe something to do with that little bottle of TPD.

Hopefully she'd be able to cross one question off her lengthening
list.

MONDAY OKAY, DOC. SHE S ALL SET.

Duncan walked over to the corner of his office where Harry stood on a
small aluminum utility ladder. Dressed in a Guns n' Roses T-shirt, he
was heavyset, maybe forty, with a receding hairline and a ponytail. He
was positioning some of the bric-a-brac on the top shelf around the
sensor. When he finished, he stepped down and pointed to it.

"Would you ever know it was there? " Duncan scrutinized the shelf.

The sensor was a small brown rectangle the size of a cigarette box. It
blended neatly with the woodwork, appeared almost a part of the
cabinet. The camcorder lens looked like some sort of glass bauble.

Duncan nodded approvingly. "Only if I knew exactly where to look. "
"Cool. Now just stand still a moment while I get us some power " He
plugged a transformer into the outlet to the left of the sink. "All
right. Now move your arms. ' Duncan waved his arms and saw a red dot
begin to glow on the sensor.

"Smile, " Harry said. "You're on Candid Camera."

"What about that little red light? " Duncan said.

"That just means it sensed motion. You tripped the . . . .

clrcutt.

"Yes, but the light is a giveaway. The whole idea is - sgrreptitio"J
surveillance, Harry. Kill that light."

"No problem." Duncan sipped his morning coffee as Harry climbed back
up his step ladder and began whistling while he removed the back plate
of the motion detector.

Harry seemed to love his work. Why not? Duncan was paying him
handsomely for playing at his hobby. Duncan remembered how excited
Harry had been when he had challenged him to miniaturize an ultrasound
transducer. That had taken weeks, but the big bill had been more than
worth it.

This little chore, on the other hand, was a piece of cake. . Duncan
had told him he thought one of his employees might be pilfering. He'd
said he had a pretty good idea who but wanted to catch the culprit in
the act. Which was true. He wanted to see if Gin would try again.

Harry had said that was cool. Yeah, what with the labor laws these
days, you just about had to catch someone rethanded before you could
give them the cot.

Harry's solution, a video camera activated by a motion detector.

"All right, " Harry said, coming off the ladder again. "The light's
disabled. Now, remember, the only time you want this thing on is when
you're out of the room. Otherwise you're gonna find yourself
fast-forwarding through umpteen hours of yourself sitting at your desk
or making coffee or whatever." '"Mostly whatever, I should think, "
Duncan said. "I often engage in whatever while I'm here."

"Cool, " Harry said. He laid a finger on the upper edge of the
transformer.

"Okay. Two little buttons here. This one turns the power off, this
one on. Just before you leave, click it on. That'll arm the sensor.

Any movement then will trip the sensor which'll turn on the camera and
you'll be taping for the entire time someone's here until a full minute
after they leave. It's also got a date and time readout that'll appear
in the corner of the picture. I fixed the cam with a wide-angle lens
so's you've got the whole office covered." Duncan said, "Cool."

"You know, if you decide to make this a permanent setup, I can rig the
camera directly to a VCR andþ'' "Just temporary, Harry, I assure you.

And here is your check." Harry glanced at the amount, said, "Cool, "
one last time, packed up his tools, and was gone.

Okay, my little cygnet, Duncan thought, staring into the blind eye of
the video camera. The next step is up to you.

He glanced at the clock. Perfect timing. Harry had arrived early and
done his work quickly, leaving Duncan a few minutes to spare before
scrubbing for the day's first surgery.

An abbreviated schedule today, mostly minor procedures. Dr. VanDuyne
was due here about noon and Duncan wanted a clear field when he toured
him and the others around.

He pushed The ON button, moved an empty carafe in front of the
transformer, and headed for the locker room. The back of his neck
tingled with the knowledge that his movement had triggered the sensor
and his exit was being recorded.

Gin rushed through her dictation and other paperwork so she'd be ready
to tail Duncan when he took off. She'd had to hustle. The way he'd
whipped through those procedures this . .

morning made her think he was in a big rush to leave. But once surgery
was over, he seemed in no great hurry to go anywhere.

Gin was up and down the stairs, keeping an eye on Duncan's office,
ready to grab her coat as soon as he looked like he was going to
leave.

But he seemed to be killing TIME On one of her surveillance runs she
glanced out into the parking lot and saw the mysterious Dr. V. and two
other men get out of a gray sedan.

So that's why he's hanging around.

Twenty minutes later, Duncan was leading the trio downstairs on a
tour.

"And here are the nether regions. My brother's lab and our , .

recores room.

The good-looking Dr. V. looked relaxed, but his two suited friends
were as stiff and uptight as they were clean-cut. Nosy too. Peeking
into every closet, every cubbyhole, asking questions in low voices Gin
could not pick up.

"Just showing these gentlemen around, " Duncan told Gin as they
passed.

"Don't let us disturb you." He didn't bother with introductions.

She followed the group upstairs and watched the two suits point to
doors and windows as they conferenced with each other. Neither of them
smiled once. What were they? Lawyers? Accountants? Security
consultants?

Then the entire entourage, including Oliver, retired to Duncan's office
and closed the door.

What was going on? She was pretty sure now it wasn't a matter of
taking on a new associate. Was Duncan selling the building? He'd
never mentioned moving. And why did this Dr. V. look familiar?

Curiosity was eating Gin alive. She'd have given almost anything to be
a fly on a wall in that officer right now.

* * * Forty-five minutes later all five came out in a group. They
stood in the hall, shaking hands. The suits looked as grim as ever,
Duncan and Dr. V.

were pleasant, and Oliver was quite literally beaming. Then the
visitors headed for the parking lot, Duncan returned to his office, and
Oliver bustled down the hall toward Gin.

"This is wonderful, " he said as he approached. The overhead
fluorescents gleamed from his glasses and exposed scalp. He was
grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery. "This is so
wonderful!

" "What is, Oliver? What's going on? " '"I can't tell you, ' he said
as he hurried past her. "I wish I could, but I can't. Not now. Maybe
sometime." Gin watched him disappear into the stairwell down to his
lab. She'd never seen him like this. Had he worked out some huge deal
for his implants? She started to follow. She was sure she could pry
it out of him.

But then she saw Duncan shrugging into his sport coat asX he stood
before Barbara's desk. He was talking, she was taking notes and
nodding her head. Then he was on his way.

Gin ducked into the locker room, grabbed her coat and purse, and
hurried after him. She'd have to put off grilling Oliver until
later.

"Hey, great news, " Barbara said as Gin passed her desk. "We've got a
three-day weekend coming up." Gin slowed. "When? " "This weekend.

We're going to be closed on Friday. Dr. Lathram just told me to give
everybody the day off with pay. Isn't that great? " "Yeah, " Gin
said, picking up speed again. "Great." Friday off. Normally she'd
assume Duncan had someplace to go this weekend and wanted an extra
day.
But the decision seemed to have been made right after his conference
with Dr. V. and the suits. How come?

* * * No surprise when Duncan's Mercedes led her away from his golf
club, but she was completely unprepared for the course he took through
the District. East, then down Connecticut, past Adams Morgan to Dupont
Circle. From there he took Massachusetts downtown.

He's heading for the Hill, Gin thought, but he breezed past Union
Station and kept going, deep into Southeast. Mass was lined with two
and three-story row housu down here, painted in bright reds, yellows,
bluo, greens, even orange. The neighborhoods deteriorated, on a couple
of corners she saw men in rough clothes drinking from bottles in paper
bags. Gin was almost afraid to stop at the red lights. And she was in
a three-year-old American compact. Duncan's Mercedes stood out like a
luxury yacht in a fleet of tugboats. Yet nobody was bothering either
of them.

What was he doing here? He had such a haughty attitude, she could not
imagine him down here among the po' folk.

And then they came to the end of Mass Avenue and she caught on. D.

C.

General Hospital lay spread out on the downhill slope before them. She
followed Duncan along the winding driveway through the well-kept
complex of a dozen or so brick and stucco buildings, past the D. C.

Correctional Treatment facility to a restricted parking lotþ"Decals
Only" warned the sign. As Duncan turned in, Gin scooted into the
nearby patient lot. She saw uniformed guards everywhere. Security
seemed a major concern here.

She spotted Duncan strolling toward the doctors' entranceþa rectangular
hole in the brick face of one of the buildings. How was she going to
get in? She wasn't on staff.

But she could look like she was.

She grabbed an extra stethoscope from her glove compartment, hung her
Senate ID badge around her neck, and hurried after him.

She wished she knew D. C. General. The brick building ahead was a big
one and had a jury-rigged look. Eight storiff high at the front end,
six at the rear, it looked as if it had started out considerably
smaller and grown by accretionþa wing here, a few extra floors there.

This could be tricky.
She kept up the quick pace as she passed the guard perched on a stool
inside the entrance, smiling and waving with the hand holding the
stethoscope, hoping he wouldn't notice that her photo ID wasn't for
D.

C.

General.

The guard smiled back and nodded, then went back to reading his
newspaper.

About fifty feet ahead of her she saw Duncan heading down the hall.

She broke into a delicate trot to close the distance between them. She
knew if she lost sight of him, she'd never find him again in this
maze.

He led her on a tortuous course that ended before a bank of
elevators.

Gin hung back, uncertain. If she didn't get on that elevator with him,
she'd lose him. She wouldn't even know which floor to search.

Only one thing to do. She tucked her Senate ID badge away and stepped
forward.

"Duncan! " she said, tapping him on the shoulder. "What are you doing
here? " He turned and started when he saw her. Something flashed in
his eyes.

Shock? Anger? Suspicion? She wasn't sure which. Maybe all three.

Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant.

He smiled. "Gin! I never expected to see you here." Which doesn't
answer my question, she thought. She felt her heart pick up tempo.

What's he going to do now?

"I was just visiting a hematology resident I know. An old friend from
U. of P. But how about you? " He sighed unhappily and rubbed his
jaw.

"Well, I didn't want anyone to know about this. If word ever got out
.

. . " Oh, God, she thought. He's sick.

Terminal diagnoses like cancer and AIDS raced through her brain.

. .

He sighed again. "Easier to show you than explain it all." A battered
elevator door wobbled open to their left. He pressed his hand gently
against her back and guided her toward the emptying car. "Let's go."

He took her up to the maxillofacial clinic where the nurses beamed at
him and the patients seated in the waiting room stared with wide eyes
and whispered to their companions as they pointed to him.

She sat with Duncan in an examining room and watched in dazed wonder as
he evaluated prospective patients and inspected his handiwork in
postsurgical follow-ups .

It was the postsurgical patients who got to Gin. Some were effusive in
their praise, some were almost inarticulate in their gratitude, but one
and all they worshiped him, all but falling down on their knees before
him for what he had done for them.

And finally the last patient was gone and she was alone with him in
that tiny room, watching him scribble a progress note.

So this was where he'd been sneaking off to when he'd said he was
playing golf. She was baffled.

"Why, Duncan? " '"Hmmm? " He looked up from the last chart and
flipped it closed.

"Why are you here? " He shrugged. "I had a few empty hours to fill.

Face-lifts get boring after a while and I like to do something
different now and then."

"But this is a free clinic and you're Duncan
Cash-upfront-l-don't-give-a-damn-what-insurance-you-have Lathram. "
His smile was sad as he shook his head slowly. "It was never about
money. It's never been about money."

"Then what is it about? " "Someday I'll tell you. I'm not ready just
yet." Gin bit back her frustration. "Okay, then. Why do you keep
this a secret? " Another shrug. "When I opened up my cosmetic surgery
practice I proclaimed to anyone who would listen about limiting myself
exclusively to elective surgery and not accepting insurance of any
type. Which was all fine at first, but quickly became stultifying."

He looked away.

"Despite heroic efforts to avoid it, I could not resist the urge to
direct my skills toward a somewhat more meaningful application. "
"Somewhat? " she said. "This is wonderful. I'm so proud of you.

He looked at her now, and again something flashed in his eyes,
different this TIME Almost like pain.

"Don't get carried away now, Gin. This isn't a one-way street here.

I get something out of it too." At that moment Gin felt very close to
him. Her throat constricted and tears swelled against the backs of her
lids. Shame made her cringe inside. How could she ever have suspected
him of hurting anybody?

She wanted to hug him.

"I've got to go, " she said when she could trust her voice.

"I'll walk you out. ' He guided her back to the elevators. On the way
down, she couldn't resist another nagging question.

'"So, who were those men you were touring around today? " "Back at the
office? Just some people who wanted to look around."

"Are you selling the place? " '"I should say not."

"Remodeling? " "They simply wanted to look around."

"Oh. Well. That clears that up." He put his arm around her shoulder
and laughed. "Gin, Gin, Gin.

You always think you have to know everything. Life is full of little
mysteries.

- "And this is one of them, right? " He laughed again. "Right." He
escorted her to her car, held the door for her, and waved as she pulled
away.

Gin's emotions were in turmoil. She felt like a swimmer in a sea of
wild and capricious currents. Where was land?

After thinking the worst of him just days ago, she now found Duncan
regaining his hero status. He was almost like . . . she searched for
a comparison . . . almost like Zorro. To most of the world he
presented a dilettantish demeanor, like the foppish Don Diego in the
story, but to the poor, scarred people at the maxillofacial clinic in
D. C. 's innermost city, he was the dashing Dr. DuncanþDr. Zorroþwith
the flashing blade that made things right.

Duncan probably reveled in the paradox, Insouciant, money-hungry
plastic surgeon to the rich and powerful who sneaks off to treat the
poor and homeless at a free clinic. But what impressed Gin most was
the sneaking. Most people trumpeted their chariry. Duncan kept his
hidden, as if it embarrassed him. Charming.

Duncan was almost back on his demigod pedestal. Almost. He'd be at
the pinnacle of her personal pantheon if it weren't for that bottle of
TPD hidden in his officer.

That damn bottle.

All in all, Duncan thought as he made his way to his own car, that
turned out pretty well.

But nonetheless disturbing.

The inescapable fact was that Gin had followed him here and he hadn't a
clue she'd been on his tail. The question now was, how long had she
been tailing him?

Not that it mattered really. What could anyone learn from tailing
him?

He led a drearily mundane existence, never ranging far from home. He
almost pitied anyone who had to spend days traipsing after him.

. But Gin was still suspicious enough to devote an afternoon to
following him to D. C. General, and that was disturbing. And she had
been following him. Not for a second did he buy that story about an
old college friend, the hematology resident. D. C. . General was not
in a neighborhood that invited casual visitors.

He smiled as he pulled out and headed back to Chevy Chase. But
sometimes things work out for the best. What was that old saw? When
somebody hands you a lemon, make lemonade.

He'd fought the impulse to launch a verbal assault when Gin had tapped
him on the shoulder by the elevator, accuse her of shadowing him,
invading his privacy. A wiser part of him knew that would be
counterproductive. Instead, why not let her in on his little secret?

It was too late to keep her out, so he might as well welcome her
along.

And it had worked. She'd been completely disarmed. He could see it in
her eyes as she saw the "before'' photos and the living, breathing
"after" results.

And why shouldn't she be disarmed? he thought. I do damn good work.

Good work . . . good works. Weren't good works supposed to be their
own reward? Up to now they'd been just that. He'd found satisfaction
in removing scars and correcting nature's mistakes in people who'd
otherwise have no chance at proper repair.

But today they'd brought an unexpected lagniappe. His altruistic
participation in the clinic had blunted, if not completely deflected,
the suspicions of one very bright and very nosy young woman.

Perhaps the good men do was not necessarily interred with their
bones.

But he couldn't let down his guard. Not yet. Not until after
Friday.

And that reminded him of the video camera in his office.

. .

Duncan stood alone in his office. The building was empty except for
him, which was just the way he wanted it. He pushed the videocassette
into the VCR and hit the REWIND button. The machine hummed and stopped
almost immediately. Good sign.

He hit PLAY, then FFWD. A high-angle shot of his office flickered into
focus and he recognized his retreating back. Then Barbara fast-walked
to and from his desk to drop off his dictation, then again with his
mail, then once more with what appeared to be more dictation. And then
he saw himself, strolling into the room, sifting through the mail and
papers on his desk. Strange to watch himself in fast motion. He
looked like a Keystone Kop. Then he approached the counter below the
camera's field of vision, reached forward, and . . .

The screen blanked. That was when he had turned off the power.

Very good, he thought as he rewound the tape. No sign of Gin. No
snooping around, no trying to get into the locked desk drawer again.

He prayed for similar results every time he reviewed this tape.

The last thing on earth he wanted was to hurt Gin.

TUESDAY ALL RIGHT, OLIVER, GINA SAID. ENOUGH WITH THE secrecy. You've
got to tell me why those men were wandering around the building
yesterday." It was early. Gloved and masked, they were down in
Oliver's lab, filling implants under sterile conditions for the day's
procedures. Gin had spent half the night cudgeling her brain for a way
to learn the identity of Dr. V. and the mysterious suits.

"I can't, Gin, " Oliver said. "Duncan would kill me." Poor choice of
words, Gin thought, annoyed at the chill they gave her.
Duncan wouldn't kill anyone. She believed that now. She had to.

"Don't be silly, " Gin said. "You're his brother." She winked.

"And besides, he needs these implants." Oliver rolled his eyes behind
his horn-rims. "Thanks. That does wonders for my self-esteem. "
"Seriously, though. This is driving me crazy. I've caught this Dr.
V.

ducking in and out of here at least three times now, and I know I've
seen him before. Just tell me who he is.

C, Not what he's doing here, just his name. Just that one little
thing, and I won't ask another question, I promise."

"I'm sorry, Gin, butþ" "I'll sneeze all over your implants."

"No. You wouldn't do that." She sniffed. "Uh-oh. I feel one coming
on now. It's building up.

It's gonna blow right through this mask." '"Gin, please don't kid
around likeþ" "Here it comes. Ah . . . ah . . . " "All right, all
right." Gin shook her head as if to clear it. "Well, what do you
know. All better. For the moment. Now, who is Dr. V. ? " "I really
shouldn't. I promised Duncan I wouldn't breathe a word." She sniffed
again. "Oliver . . . " "All right. But just his name. If it doesn't
ring a bell, too bad.

Agreed? " "Agreed." Oliver leaned forward and Gin could tell by the
look in his eyes that he'd been dying to confide in someone. Now she'd
given him an excuse.

'"His name is VanDuyne. Dr. VanDuyne." VanDuyne . . . Gin knew
that name. It was scampering about the back corners of her mind, just
out of reach. VanDuyne . . . VanDuyne .

. .

And then she had him. One of the guest lecturers at the public policy
seminars back in lGulane. A physician, he'd come from Washington and
he'd seemed uncomfortable lecturing, and in his role with the
government. VanDuyne, one of the higher-ups in HHS . . . but he
was something else too. She'd read an article or heard some other
mention of him. Dr. VanDuyne . . .

"Ohmigod''- she cried. "Duncan's going to operate on the president! "
Oliver tore off his mask and slumped back in his seat. He ran his
fingers nervously through his thinning hair. "Oh, no! Now I've done
it! " '"I'm right, aren't 1?
He nodded resignedly, a look of astonishment on his face. "I don't
believe you put it all together so fast. Just from a name. How did
you do it? " When she remembered that VanDuyne was the president's
personal physician, suddenly it was obvious that the men with him
yesterday had been Secret Service. And the way they'd been looking
around, studying entrances and exits, peering through wipdows . . .

why else unless they were reconnoitering before a presidential visit?

But she felt no triumph at her lightning deduction, instead, a cold
sodden weight was growing in her stomach.

The president of the United States going under Duncan's knife. After
yesterday, she should have felt proud that Duncan had been chosen for
whatever it was the president wanted done. But she was terrified.

'"He's coming Friday? " Again Oliver nodded. His eyes looked
wounded.

So that explained the day off with pay.

'"What procedure? " '"His eyes, " Oliver said. He slipped the tips of
his index fingers under his glasses and touched his lower lids. "Wants
to be rid of the bags. A lift on the upper lids, too, while Duncan's
at it."

"But those baggy eyes have become his trademark. What will all the
cartoonists do without them? " Oliver shrugged. "Apparently his media
consultants and spin doctors have converged and decided that his baggy
lids have become much baggier and people think the president looks
tired and older."

"Being president of the United States tends to do that to people. '
"But they want the youth vote. That's what put him in the ' first TIME They don't want some younger-looking upstart to steal that
constituency. They blame the eyelids for his tired, older look, so
they have to go. ' "Ridiculous. The election's more than a year
away." '"But not the primaries. He's expecting a strong challenge, so
he wants to be looking his best in New Hampshire.

" "So why Duncan? " "Why not? He's the best." He pointed to the tray
of implants.

"Especially with these." Gin had to admit he had a point there.

"But why all the secrecy? " "Isn't it obvious? The president doesn't
want anyone, especially the press, to find out. He's going to arrive
at the crack of dawn on Friday.

As soon as he's out of recovery he'll be whisked off to Camp David for
a long weekend and some extra days of vacation. He'll wear dark
glasses all weekend, and by the time he returns, there'll be minimal
evidence of the surgery. Any slight discoloration that persists can be
covered by makeup. Foolproof, huh? " "Yeah, " Gin said slowly.

"Foolproof." But was it Duncanproof?

Stop! She shouldn't be thinking like that.

"But with all the staff off, how can Duncan operate? " "They're
importing an anesthesiologist from Bethesda Naval Hospital, and Dr.
VanDuyne is going to assist."

"And the Secret Service men will be guarding the hall, I suppose."

"Right. Isn't it exciting? " "Yes.

Exciting as hell." But Gin was feeling anxiety rather than
excitement.

She knew what Duncan thought of the president. How many tirades about
him had she endured?

Yet Duncan had agreed to do a cosmetic repair of his eyelids . . .

agreed to perform a procedure designed to give the president a little
edge toward reelection.

It didn't add up. Why would Duncan do anything to help this man?

Simply because he was the president and he had asked? Maybe. The
office did have a mesmerizing effect on people.

Look at Oliverþbeaming like a starstruck Boy Scout. He can't tell a
soul, yet he's totally gaga over the idea of his implants being used on
the president of the United States.

Was she borrowing trouble? Even if Duncan wanted to try something, how
could he with the Secret Service watching his every move?

But in the recovery room . . . would they be hovering over him
there?

Probably not.

Why was she thinking this way? She had to stop. Yesterday she'd seen
a side of Duncan she'd thought long gone. She'd promised herself to
revamp her thinking. And she'd be succeeding, too, if not for that
damn bottle of TPD.
Was it still where she'd seen Duncan hide it?

Only one way to find out.

Now or never.

Gin wished she could call Gerry and talk to him about this, but look
what happened last time she'd gone to him with a suspicion. Their
relationship was stretched to the breaking point. Or maybe he'd
already broken it off without her knowing it. He hadn't contacted her
since Friday.

Duncan was out to lunch, Barbara was away from her desk. Gin slipped
into Duncan's offLce and went directly to the bookshelves. She
remembered it had been the far left section, top shelf. But the top
shelf was too high to reach.

She looked around for a chair to stand on and spotted a small step
stool over by the sink. How convenient. She'd never noticed one here
before. Maybe because she'd never . .

L - been searching for something to stand on. She pulled it over and
stepped up to where she was eye level with the top shelf.

She thought back to Sunday night, standing outside in the cold and
spying on Duncan. The book had been short and fat, with a green
binding.

And here it was, right in front of her. She wriggled it out and peered
into the dark gap. Daylight from over her shoulder reflected off the
glass of an all-too-familiar injection vial.

There it was, just inches away. But now what?

Why not just take it? a voice whispered. Take the damn bottle and rip
off the stopper and pour the contents down a drain. Duncan might spend
days, weeks wondering what happened to it, but so what? It'll be gone
and you won't have to give it another thought.

Unless there were other vials of the stuff around.

But did that matter? This was the one she knew about. This was the
one that had to go.

Gin was just reaching into the space when a voice cried out behind
her.

"Jesus! " - She started and nearly lost her balance as she turned.

Barbara was standing in the center of the officer, her palm pressed
between her breasts.

"You almost gave me a heart attack! " Barbara said. "Dr. Panzella,
you've got to warn me when you're coming in here."

"Sorry, " Gin said. She hoped she didn't look as shaken and
embarrassed as she felt.

"You weren't at your desk and I needed to look up something."

"Just make sure he knows you've been in here." '"What do you mean? "
"He likes everything in its place. So if you're going to borrow
anything, better check with him first, otherwise I'll hear about it."

This isn't going to work, Gin thought. She held up the green text.

"Okay, Barbara. Watch." With a small flourish, she slipped the book
back into its space. "Voila. Right back where it belongs."

"Great.

He's such a stickler for detail, you know." Gin stepped down and slid
the step stool back to its original position.

"That's what makes him a great surgeon. He sweats the details. "
Barbara placed some papers on Duncan's desk and they left together.

Gin gave one worried backward glance at the green book on the top
shelf. She'd have another chance at it tomorrow.

Unless Duncan moved it again.

Oh, no.

Duncan could feel all the warmth drain out of him as he watched the
screen. He shuddered.

The videotape showed Gin entering the office at I2, 17 P. M. , dragging
the step stool to the bookshelves, and pulling out the book where the
TPD was hidden. There had been not the slightest hesitation.

She knew the shelf and the exact volume to remove.

But how did she know?

He felt an urge to step over to the shelf himselfþit was only a few
feet awayþand check to see if she had taken the vial, but he could not
move. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the screen.

He watched her peer into the space, saw her hand rise toward it, and
then Barbara came in.

Thank God for Barbara.

Their voices were muted but he could make out Gin's excuse and
Barbara's comments about his tidiness. And then the book was back in
its place and they were leaving. But he saw Gin's wistful parting
glance at the bookshelf.

She'd be back. Dammit, she'd be back.

He fast-forwarded through the rest of the tape, but Gin did not
return.

That was a relief. He hit rewind and checked behind the book.

Yes, the vial was still there. But howþhow had Gin known that he'd
moved it?

She watched me.

Of course. She'd followed him to D. C. General yesterday. She'd
probably been following him since the fiasco on Friday.

He turned around and stared through the plate-glass outer wall. If
she'd been tailing him Sunday night, she could have crouched out there
in the darkness among the shrubs and observed his every move.

With a start he realized that she could be out there right now, spying
on him.

But no. Since their encounter in D. C. General yesterday, he'd been on
guard, keeping careful watch in his rearview mirror, so much so that
he'd nearly caused several accidents. No one had followed him anywhere
today.

But why had she checked behind the book today and not yesterday? Had
something happened today to rekindle her suspicions?

He fast-forwarded to where Barbara and Gin were leaving and paused on
Gin's final backward glance. He read anxiety in her expression. No
question something was making her apprehensive.

A thought jolted him, Could she know about the president?

Good Lord, if she'd found out about that, she might do something rash,
something catastrophic.

He picked up the phone and jabbed in his brother's number.
'"Oliver, he said immediately, "did Gin mention anything to you about
our special case on Friday? " He took care not to identify the
president on the phone.

"Wh-what do you mean? " The hesitation in Oliver's voice gave Duncan a
terrible feeling.

"Does she have any idea who it is? " "Um, she knows. She guessed. "
"How in the worldþ? " "She recognized Dr. VanDuyne, then deduced that
the men with him were Secret Service. From there it was two plus two,
I guess." '"Did you confirm it? " '"Well, what else could I do? "
'"Damn it, Oliver! Dammit to hell! " "Duncan, I swore her to
secrecy.

You know you can trust Gin. Wasn't it better to confirm her suspicions
than to have her go on wondering and asking questions? " '"Well,
maybe." He reined in his anger at his brother. Oliver had no idea why
it had been so important to keep Gin out of this. "When did this
conversation take place? " "This morning. Maybe eleven or so.

Why? " "Nothing. I'll see you Thursday." He hung up and began to
pace the room, pausing only to hit the REWIND button on the VCR.

Damn! Gin confirmed it through Oliver at eleven and an hour later she
was here meddling with the TPD.

The chance of a lifetime. The president himself, the commander in
chief of the kakistocracy, would be sleeping off his anesthesia right
down the hall. The man who singlehandedly had resurrected the
Guidelines bill, who had insisted on including medical ethics in its
purview, and who would keep pushing relentlessly for the committee to
get its foul job done.

So what? Duncan thought. He had nothing to do with it. Lisa's
death.

Why not let him go and be satisfied with what I've done so far?

Because I can't. Not yet.

He was out of control and he knew it. He felt like a runaway train
careening downhill. McCready had started it, and Duncan would finish
it.

He could not let this opportunity pass. He'd never have another like
it.

He would impose a symmetry on this madness . . . he would close the
circle with the president.
But Gin Panzella was going to ruin it. He could see it in her face,
feel it in his bones. She was going to meddle again. And he could not
allow that. Not this TIME

The VCR whirred and ejected the tape. Duncan pulled it out and stared
at it.

Why, Gin? Why do you have to keeping sticking your nose in where it
doesn't belong?

His fury rose, a pressure in his head, his chest, threatening to
explode. She was leaving him only two choices, either back down or
somehow neutralize her.

He groaned. She had backed him into a corner, and the only option left
was to strike out at her. He might have to harm her.

And he loathe himself for it.

With a cry he hurled the videocassette to the floor and smashed it
under his heel.

"Damn you, Gin! ' WEDNESDAY  ' WE BEEN KEEPING SOMETHING IMPORTANT
FROM YOU, Gin, " Duncan said.

"But I decided this morning I'm going to confide in you. ' Gin sat
across his desk from him, sipping a late-morning cup of one of his
exotic coffeesþJamaican Blue Mountain, she thought he'd said, but she'd
been feeling too tense and wary to pay much attention. She'd been up
most of the night brooding about the president's surgery. Should she
be as worried as she was? Should she do anything? Should she call
Gerry about it?

Again, she'd decided not to call Gerry. She had even less to go on
this time than the last. He already thought she was distraught. Why
add fuel to that particular fire?

She'd still been debating her next step when Duncan had called her in,
told Barbara he did not want to be disturbed, and shut the door. He'd
handed her a cup and asked her to be seated.

So now she sat, tense and rigid in her chair, the coffee warming her
cold hands as she anxiously waited to see what was up.

"Since you are a physician in this facility, what I'm about to say
falls under physician-patient privilege. Is that understood? " "Of
course."

"Good." He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "You might be
wondering why I gave the staff off this Friday. The reason is
extraordinary, I'm operating on the president of the United States that
day." Gin felt her jaw drop open. Duncan was actually telling her.

He smiled. "I can see by your expression that this was the last thing
you expected to hear. Good. That means our security measures are
working." He went on to tell her most of what she had learned from
Oliver yesterday, the nature of the procedure, the rationale behind it,
the reasons for all the secrecy. Not wanting to get Oliver in hot
water, she pretended it was all new to her.

All the while her mind was racing, searching for a reason why, if he
was planning to harm the president, he would tell her this.

"You must be very proud, " she said when he paused.

"Well, much as I dislike the man's policies, I have to admit it's an
honor to be selected as his surgeon."

"Honor aside, " she said carefully, "I'm a little surprised you'd do
anything to help him get reelected. I mean, knowing how you feel about
him." Duncan waved his hand dismissively, as if physically brushing
aside her words. "It's all media-consultant nonsense." His smile was
laconic. "As if his eyelids could in any way make or break an
election."

"You know what they said about Nixon's five-o'clock shadow in that
television debate back in 1960."

"I saw that debate. Nixon's five-o'clock shadow was the least of his
problems."

"So you are going to help him look younger." '"No. Actually, I'm
going to remove his eyelids completely so he'll have this ghastly
bug-eyed look." Her heart jumped. He wasn't serious . . . was he?

"Dun , .

can, don't evenþ" "Only kidding. Look, the president himself wants me
to do it, so I'm doing it. As a rule I don't correct a single-feature
defect like this, but the rest of his face is fairly younglooking, so
I'm making an exception." He grinned. "And trust me, this is not a
freebie."

"Who's assisting? " Oliver had already told her it would be Dr.
VanDuyne, but she thought she should cover for him by asking .

Duncan leaned forward. "That's why I called you in here. I'd like you
to assist." Gin blinked. The words rocked her. What in heaven was
going on?
" Me? " "Yes, you. VanDuyne, the president's personal physician, has
offered to assist. He'd probably be okay, but the more I think about
it, the more I want someone who's worked with me. You've done dozens
of these lid lifts with me. So, if you haven't already made plans for
Friday . . . " "No . . . no plans."

"Good. I'd also like you to handle recovery. VanDuyne was going to,
but again you're more experienced. I'd feel better if you were on hand
to watch over things.

" "Sure, ' Gin said, still off balance. She struggled to get her
bearings, fought not to be awed. "I'll be glad to."

"Excellent. I intend to add a fat surgical assistant's fee to the bill
which will go directly to you." Gin was going to be assisting on the
president of the United States, and be well paid for it. Talk about
having your cake and . . .

But even more disorienting was that Duncan had asked her to assist
him.

How could he be planning any harm if he wanted her right there in OR
and in recovery?

Had all her suspicions been for nothing?

No, not all. That vial of TPD still loomed in the background, but Gin
began to feel the tension uncoil within her, felt her neck and shoulder
muscles relax as if the weight of the world had been lifted from
them.

She half listened as he went on about the anesthesiologist from
Bethesda, the security measures, and the need for absolute
discretion.

"You can't tell anyone, not your best friend, not your parents, not
even your boyfriend in the FBI."

"We're just friends, " she said.

Although even that might be pushing things at this point.

"Whatever. Only the Secret Service and the four doctors in OR-1 on
Friday morning will know about this. We're scheduled for
seven-thirty.

The president and VanDuyne will arrive at six-thirty. You, Oliver, and
the anesthesiologist will be here at six. I'll come at five to open up
for the Secret Service so they can secure the premisesþI believe that's
the expression they used. Any problem with that? " "None at all. "
"Wonderful. Oliver, by the way, is nearly delirious about this. Wants
to celebrate in advance. I think it's rather silly but if we don't do
something to mark the occasion he just might explode. Since we all
have to be up early on Friday, and since Oliver loves Italian food,
I've reserved us a table at Galileo tonight. Oliver and I would both
very much like for you to join us." Galileo. God, the four-star
restaurant where the president took his Hollywood friends when they
were in town. Gin was beginning to get excited herself.

"How could I say no to Galileo? " "I'll pick up Oliver and we'll be by
at half past seven to pick you up." He rose. "And now, unless you
have any questions, I suggest we both get back to work." Feeling
slightly dazed, Gin nodded, rose, and made her way to the hall.

Life was certainly full of surprises.

Duncan watched Gin go, then poured himself another cup of coffee.

That went rather well, he thought grimly. Too well.

Under different circumstances he might find this sort of cat-and-mouse
game stimulating. But not with this particular mouse. Plus,
everything was rigged in his favor, he knew what she knew, but she
hadn't the slightest notion that he was on to her.

Gin was beginning to trust him again. And he was going to use that to
cut her off at the knees.

He didn't much like himself today.

He spotted a sliver of black plastic and plucked it from the carpet. A
remnant of the videocassette he'd smashed last night. After that
little tantrum, he'd picked up the pieces, discarded them, and slipped
a new cassette into the camera. Then, with his emotions locked away
where they could not interfere, he'd sat down, assessed the cards he'd
been dealt, and worked out the best way to play his hand.

First, he'd lock up the TPD in his desk drawer again and see that Gin
did not get another chance to pick the lock.

Then he'd take the offensive. She'd learned about the
presidentþsomething he'd been desperate to keep secret. The worst
thing to do then would be to retreat. That would confirm that he had
something to hide. So do the opposite, the unexpected. Don't lock her
out. Welcome her in. Show his handþbut only those cards that have
already been exposed Which was exactly what he had done. He'd sounded
so 0, open this morning, he'd almost scared himself.

<,"t The result, Gin was not only thoroughly off balance, but literally
starstruck at the opportunity to assist on the . president's
surgery.

She was honored, for God's sake.

Maybe he'd overestimated Gin.

He shook off the irritation and reviewed the last element of -- his
plan, keeping Oliver out of this. Oliver usually took Wednesdays off
and today was no exception. But just to be  sure, he'd called him and
told him that he mllst not, under any circumstances, mention their
conversation of last night to Gin. Not until Duncan had a chance to
talk to her today.

This was crucial because if Gin ever learned that Duncan was aware that
she already knew about the president, his credibility would crumble,
and with it, his plan.

Now he had only to keep them apart until dinner tonight.

 After that, it wouldn't matter.

Duncan rubbed his tired, burning eyes. If only there were another way
out of this. He'd walked the floor most of the night trying to come up
with one. He couldn't.

A wave of nausea rippled across his stomach.

Lord, he wished this night were over.

The phone rang. It was Duncan.

'"Are you ready? " '"Of course I'm ready, " Gin said. "You said
seven-thirty, didn't you? Don't tell me you haven't left yet. ' "I'm
crossing the Ellington as we speak. I'll be there momentarily." The
wonder of the cellular phone, Gin thought as she hung up.

She assumed from the call that Duncan didn't want her to keep him
waiting. The Duke Ellington Bridge was less than minute away and no
doubt he expected her to be standing downstairs in the vestibule when
he arrived. Oliver would probably be glad to run up and escort her
down, but why make him go to the trouble?

She checked herself one last time in the mirror. The little black
dress Mama always told her to keep in her wardrobe certainly had come
in handy today. When she'd returned from Louisiana she'd invested in a
slinky little Donna Karan numberþnicely fitted, with a jewel
neckline.

She'd added a short string of pearls and pearl earrings. Simple but
elegant. The perfect look for all those receptions on Capitol Hill
she'd dreamed of attending. So far the dress hadn't left the closet.

Tonight would be its coming out. At Galileo. Not too shabby a spot
for its debut.

The forecast was wet so she threw her raincoat over her shoulders and
headed downstairs. Duncan's black Mercedes pulled up a moment later.

He got out and opened the front passenger door for her. As she slid in
she glanced in the back. Empty.

"Where's Oliver? " "A little under the weather. That stomach thing
that's going around.

He sends his regrets and says, Galileo or not, he can't even think of
food tonight." '"Oh, that's terrible. Let's call him right after
dinner and see how he feels."

"I think he was going to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his
head until morning."

"No one to take care of him? " She couldn't resist seizing the moment
to satisfy her curiosity about Oliver. Have I no shame? "No friends
to look in on him? ' "Oliver is one of the most self-sufficient people
I know. He has a maid come in once a week, otherwise he's alone and
.

.

. , quite happy to be so. No wife, no kids, no mistress, and no, he's
not a homosexual." '"I never thoughtþ" , . "If you did, you wouldn't
be the first."

"Poor Oliver. I feel bad for him. Didn't you say this dinner was his
idea7" "I was going to call it off but he insisted that we not stand
you up. So tonight I'll have to be myself and Oliver as well."

"Does that mean you're going to be eating for two? " "Yes.

With lots of garlic." Gin noticed that Duncan's smile seemed a little
forced. He looked tense, his posture stiff. He seemed generally
uneasy. Because of her?

Could it be he was uncomfortable taking a young female employee out to
dinner?

But Duncan rarely gave a damn what anyone else thought - of him.

The Mercedes cruised down Connecticut like a battleship on a lake.
She'd never been in Duncan's car before. She felt invulnerable as she
watched the shops and hotels along Connecticut roll past on the other
side of the tinted glass. They cruised around Dupont Circle, then
turned right onto M Street A left on Twenty-first Street and they were
there.

"Galileo, " he said as they pulled into the garage next door. A simple
maroon canopy jutted out from what looked like an officer building.

"Where the effete elite meet to eat." Gin decided to go him one
better. "Where the voracious and edacious mendacious can wax
loquacious while looking gracious, sedacious, and perspicacious. "
There. That was two or three better.

Duncan stared at her a moment, then said, "That, my dear, was a thing
of beauty." But he wasn't smiling. His expression was strange.

Almost . . .

pained.

What's eating him tonight? she wondered.

Her before-dinner manhattan was perfect, the mezze lune di granachio
was superb, the service impeccable, and the wine Duncan orderedþa I 984 amaroneþas smooth as silk. Galileo's spare decor was not what she'd
expected. No heavy Mediterranean drapes and furniture.

Everything was light and understated. But the mood at their table was
anything but light. At times the conversation actually draggedþ
something she would have thought impossible in Duncan's presence. He
didn't rant, didn't launch into a single tirade. Even when Larry King
and Senator Rockefeller arrived and were seated three tables away,
Duncan managed only a few disparaging remarks. At times she'd find him
staring at her, his eyes intent on her face, other times he'd be a
million miles away. He picked at his veal and barely sipped his wine,
but kept refilling her glass. She wondered if he might be coming down
with what Oliver had.

She wished she could get a grip on this jigsaw puzzle of a man. Every
time she thought she had him figured, a new piece would pop up
requiring her to rearrange everything and start over again.

She watched him stare into his half-full glass of wine for the longest TIME

"Are you okay? " He looked up. "Hmmm? Yes. Fine." '"You seem
down." He shrugged. "Just thinking about life, the twists and turns
it takes you through. The cruel tricks it plays on you."
"Some of the tricks are funny, " she said.

"Sometimes we back ourselves into corners, " he said, as if she hadn't
spoken, "and we despise the means necessary to extricate ourselves. '
What was wrong with him tonight?

"Do you want dessert? " he said as the waiter was clearing the dinner
plates.

"I don't think I could eat another thing. But I could go for some
coffee."

"Leave the coffee to me, " he said. "I don't care if this is one of
the best restaurants inside the beltway, their coffee can't hold a
candle to mine. We'll have real coffee back at the office." She
considered begging off, but realized she couldn't deny Duncan his
coffee ritual. Maybe it would pull him out of his funk. Besides, it
was only a few miles out of the way.

After Duncan paid the bill, Gin rose and felt a little wobbly. She
realized that she'd consumed most of the amarone.

As she stood staring at the languid koi in the rock garden pool beyond
Duncan's offwce window, Gin wondered if there was any place on earth
she'd feel less comfortable than Duncan's officer. This was where
she'd broken into his drawer, where just yesterday she'd been sneaking
through his bookshelf. And here he was toiling a dozen feet away
making her what he called the best coffee in the world.

She felt like such a rat.

But at least the prospect of some good coffee seemed to have cheered
him up. Maybe that had been his problem all along tonightþcaffeine
withdrawal.

"At last, " he said, turning from his drip equipment with a steaming
cup. "The perfect after-dinner coffee." Gin took it from him and
sniffed. "Licorice? " "I know, I know. You must promise never to
mention to anyone that I adulterated my own coffee. But I figured that
after an evening of Italian food, I'd break down and add some
sambuca.

' Gin sipped and repressed a grimace. Bitter. She could taste the
coffee, and the licorice tang of the sambuca, but there was something
else there, something she couldn't identify.

"Mmmm, " she said. "Unusual."

"A special black sambuca, " he told her, sipping his own. "Gives it a
unique flavor. Drink up." Gin took another sip. Definitely not to
her taste, but she couldn't very well dump it after he'd gone to the
trouble of brewing it for her.

Rather than prolong the agony, she drank it quickly.

"Another cup? ' Duncan asked.

"No, thanks, " she said. "Between the manhattan, the wine, and the
sambuca, I think I'm already over my limit." That was an
understatement. She was definitely woozy now.

"Maybe I'd better take you home, " Duncan said.

"Maybe you'd better, " she said. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. You're not driving, so what difference
does it make? " A fine drizzle had begun to fall. In the Mercedes,
the swirl of lights from the streets and passing cars refracting
through the myriad beads of water on the windows made her stomach begin
a slow turn. She- squinted and breathe deeply. She would die before
she'd throw up in Duncan's car.

He double-parked on Kalorama, took her keys, and walked her up to her
apartment. He let her in, then stepped back onto the landing.

"Are you going to be all right? " "I'll be fine. Thanks for dinner.

And I'm sorry about . . . " "Don't give it another thought. I
shouldn't have given you that doctored-up coffee." Something strange
in his voice as he said that, but his face was unreadable Or was that
because her vision was blurred?

"Good night, Duncan."

"Good night. Go right to bed." '"Don't worry about that."

As soon as he closed the door, Gin headed for the bathroom. But she
didn't vomit. The nausea was still there, but now that the world
around her was no longer in motion, it seemed to have eased.

She thought about taking a shower, then said to hell with it. What she
needed was sleep.

She took off her raincoat and threw it on a chair. She sat on the bed
and peeled off her panty hose, then began working on the buttons of her
dress. Before she reached the last she flopped back and closed her
eyes. Just for a second . . . no more than a minute . . . then she'd
finish undressing . . .

THURSDAY MORNING GINA AWOKE WITH GLUE IN HER MOUTH, SAND IN HER eyes,
and heavy metal pounding in her ears. She rolled out of bed and
stumbled across the floor with her hand stretched toward the snooze
button. She always left her clock radio on a hard-core metal
station.

Never failed to get her up. No way she could stay in bed with that
stuff playing.

Only now she wished she'd spun the dial to something elseþanything
elseþbefore passing out last night. Noise equaled pain this morning,
but speed metal went beyond pain into torture. The throbbing bass and
drums were piercing straight through to the center of her brain. One
of these groups should name itself Torquemada.

She banged her fist on SNOOZE, then turned around and headed for the
bed again. She looked down and noticed she was still in her dress.

Damn!

It looked like hell. So did she, most likely.

Like a failing tree, she collapsed facedown on the mattress.

Why did she feel so rotten? She hadn't had that much to drink last
night. The combination, maybe?

. \ Whatever it was, she didn't like it. Her stomach was queasy, and
her head . . . God, her head.

She was just dozing off when the howling guitar riffs filled the room
again. This time she got up and turned off the radio. She staggered
to the bathroom, removing the dress along the way. She looked at
herself in the mirror.

Yuck. Awful. Simply awful.

She turned on the shower and stripped. As soon as the water was warm,
she stepped in and let it run over her head and down her body.

God, that felt good.

She began lathering herself, starting with her face and working down.

The water and the scrubbing action began to revive her. She was
returning from the dead, reentering the world of theþ "Ow! " She
twisted and looked down at the lateral aspect of her right thigh.

She'd felt a stab of pain while scrubbing the area. Tender there.

She ran a hand over the spot and noticed a small bruise. She must have
collided with the corner of a table or her nightstand on her way to bed
last night.

But wait . . . this bruise was more toward the rear of her thigh than
the front. The only way she could do that was by walking backward.

She braced her foot on the edge of the tub and took a closer look.

More than a bruise. The skin had been broken. A little semicircular
cut in the center of the bruise. Almost like the one she'd seen on .

. .

Senator . . . Marsden . . .

Gin's knees buckled and she grabbed the towel rack to steady herself.

No, wait, stop, she told herself as the bathroom wobbled around her and
she fought to regain her balance. This is crazy. This is
impossible.

But when she looked again the tiny laceration was still there. She
probed it. She could feel the fine ridge of the edge. Had to be
fresh. She pushed harder. A tiny droplet of blood appeared at its
center. She probed deeper around the bruise, palpating the
subcutaneous fat, looking forþ Her fingers froze. Was it her
imagination or was something there?

Something soft like fat but too smooth to be fat. Something oblong,
cylindrical. Like an implant.

The bathroom wobbled again. And even with the hot water coursing over
her, Gin suddenly felt cold. And sick. She stepped out of the shower
and bent dripping over the toilet and retched. Nothing came up.

Her head throbbed even more painfully as she sank to her knees. When
the room steadied, she took another, closer look at her thigh. She
touched the spot again, but gingerly this TIME If there really was
something under it, and if that something was an implant, she didn't
want to disturb it or . . . rupture it.

But how could it possibly be an implant? Duncan had dropped her off,
and she'd locked the door . . .

Wait. Duncan had had the keys. He'd opened the door for her and let
her in. And then he'd left. Had he handed her the keys? No. Had she
seen him leave them? No. She hadn't seen much of anything. The door
latched automatically, and she hadn't bothered with the chain lock.

All she'd wanted was to hit the pillow.

Gin pulled herself to her feet, wrapped a towel around her, and shut
off the water. She shivered.

The coffee in Duncan's office last night. She'd believed the
bitterness was due to some strange black sambuca he'd said he was
trying. But it could have been something else. Could have been
chloral hydrate.

An old-fashioned Mickey Finn.

He'd had her keys. He could have kept them, driven around the block a
few times, come back, let himself in, and stuck an implant in her thigh
while she was out cold.

Still dripping, she stumbled out of the bathroom and went to the front
door. The chain wasn't on, but she didn't remember fastening it. And
her keys . . .

She looked around and spotted them on the coffee table.

But of course he'd leave them behind after he'd finished with her.

What use were they to him then?

But why? Why would he do this to her just hours after asking her to
assist on the president's surgery? It didn't make sense. Unless .

.

.

Unless he thought she knew too much. What if he'd found out about the
FBI and the staged accident and the Mltl done on Senator Marsden's
leg?

What if Oliver had told him that she''d guessed about the president?

He' d want to make sure she was out of the way. Before Friday. He'dþ
The phone rang. Her hand trembled as she lifted the receiver. When
she recognized Duncan's voice, she almost screamed.

"How are you feeling? " Controlling her terror, the hurt, Gin forced
herself to reply calmly.

"Fine. A little headache, maybe."

"Glad to hear it. You were sailing last night. For a while there Iþ"
"Duncan! " Unable to repress them any longer, the words burst from
her.

"Duncan, how could you do this to me! " "Do what? " "You know damn
well what! You stuck an implant in me last night! " "What? Hold on
just a minute." He put me on hold! she thought. I don't believe
this!

She was just about to slam the receiver down when she heard a click and
pressed it back to her ear.

"Now, Gin, " he said. "I don't understand this. What do you think
I've done? " "Don't play dumb with me, Duncan. I know all about it.

You slipped me a Mickey last night and put an implant filled with TPD
in my leg. ' "You think I broke into your apartment and did surgery on
you? And what's TDP? " "You know damn well what it is! It causes
psychotic symptoms.

"Gin, listen. Think. If I wanted to dose you with something, why
bother with an implant? Why not just inject you with it? " That took
her back. Why hadn't he just shot her up and been done with it? And
then suddenly she knew.

"Because you were out with me last night. We were seen together. You
want a comfortable buffer zone between when you were with me and when I
have a breakdown."

"I fear you're having one now, Gin."

"Just what you'd like people to think, isn't it? Well, listen,
Duncanþ" "Have you heard enough, Barbara? " And then Gin heard
Barbara's voice, husky with pity. "Gin, you've got to calm down.

We're you're friends here.

We only want to help you.

Please. You've got to believe that." Gin nearly dropped the phone.

"Oh my God! Barbara! He's conning you! " The bastard! He'd put
Barbara on the line while she was on hold. Now he had a witness that
she was making wild accusations before her complete breakdown.

'"Just stay where you are, Gin, " Duncan said. "I'm calling an
ambulance to come to your place. We'll get you to where you can
receive the help you need."

"NO! " She slammed the phone down and ran for her bedroom.

"Damn me! How could I be so stupid! " She pulled on her clothes. She
had to get out of here. She could see it all now . . .

He had set all this up, and so cleverly. First the fake-out on , r,
i.

.

Marsden. She must have made it too obvious that she suspected
something.

So he'd pulled a reverse on her by puncturing the senator's thigh with
an empty trocar. He'd led her into making a complete fool out of
herself. But that was the least of it. Now her rationality and
soundness of judgment were suspect.

But how in the world did he know how much she knew? Unless he had a
security camera in the office or something.

My God! Was that possible? Then he would have seen her picking the
lock on his desk drawer, seen her peeking behind that book two days
ago. She groaned. No wonder he wanted her out of the way.

She pulled on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, grabbed her purse, and
headed for the door. She stuttered to a halt at the threshold.

Where am I going?

Home? But that was the first place he'd look for her. And she did not
want to get her folks involved.

Gerry? He had awful doubts about her reliability. But this time she
had proof. Right here in her leg. An implant nestled there in the
fatty layer.

She leapt back to the phone and dialed Gerry's home. He'd still be
there now. At least she hoped so. As the phone began to ring, she
worked to keep her voice under control. She wanted to sound sane while
she explained something insane. How to say it all in as few words as
possible? And make it believable. She had to make Gerry believe.

"Gerry, it's Gin." Gerry felt a small glow of pleasure at the sound of
her voice, also a stab of guilt and, in a way, relief. He'd wanted to
talk to her but had been hesitant about making the call. He'd been
pretty rough on her last week. He was glad she'd taken the first
step.

On the other hand, he couldn't help being more than a little
apprehensive about what she might have to say, especially since her
voice sounded strained.

"Hello, Gin. I've been meaning to call."

"I don't have much time, so please listen to what I have to say. Last
night Duncan put one of those implants in my leg while I was asleep.

It's still in there. ' He groaned. Not again.

"Oh, Gin. You've really got to getþ" Her voice rushed on. "Listen to
me, Gerry. I beg you. This isn't fantasy. There are two hard facts
you can check out. One is, obviously, the implant in my leg. I know
it's there. I can feel it. We can get a scan to prove it, but what I
really want is someone to operate and remove it. The second is the
reason Duncan did this to me, He's doing cosmetic surgery on the
president tomorrow morning. ' Gerry closed his eyes. Poor Gin.

Duncan Lathram strikes again, first Senator Marsden, now the
president.

"I know what you're thinking, Gerry, " she said, 'and I don't blame
you.

But just check it out. You've got to know someone in the Secret
Service."

"Yeah. I know a couple of guys." Bob Decker immediately came to
mind.

He was on the White House detail.

If anyone would know the president's hour-to-hour whereabouts, it would
be Bob.

"Good. Call one of them. Call them all. Confirm what I said about
the surgery. Once we've established that, maybe you'll be more willing
to believe that I'm not completely . .

crazy.

"I don't think you're crazy, ' he said, hoping he sounded convincing.

"You're a terrible liar. But please don't leave me hanging. Check
this out. Then we can get on with removing this thing from my leg and
put a stop to Duncan before he does something catastrophic. Please.

I'm begging you." The note of plaintive desperation in her voice cut
through all his rational objections to getting sucked in again.

She's frightened, he thought. Deeply frightened.

"Okay. I'll call'the White House." It was the least he could do.
And what would it hurt? "But it may take me a while to get an
answer.

Those guys aren't just sitting around waiting for calls. If the
president's out somewhere, they'll be with him."

"It's still early.

Maybe you can catch somebody."

"I'll try."

"Thanks. That's almost more than I could hope for." She sounded not
only frightened, but lost. Not a friend in the world.

"Where will you be? Home? " "God, no. He's coming for me. I've got
to get moving. I'll call you back in a little while. When I get to a
safe place." Oh, Gin.

"Do you want to stay at my place? " he said. "Martha will be in
school.

You could stay here till I hear from the Secret Service guys." He
wanted her safe. What should he do with her? He had to get some
help.

Maybe get in touch with her parents, let them know she was having a
breakdown.

"Maybe later. After we get this thing out of my leg, I'll need a place
to rest up. Right now I'd better keep on the move." Gerry chewed his
lip. He didn't want to push her, not in her mental state.

"Okay. Do what you have to do. But stay in touch. Keep calling in.

' "You can count on that." She paused, then, "And you will call, won't
you? You're not just humoring me? " "I'll call. I promise. "
"Thanks, Gerry." Her voice softened. "Thanks for giving me the
benefit of the doubt here. After last Friday, that can't be too
easy.

" "It's okay." After he hung up, Gerry sat and stared at his phone.

He didn't want to sound like a jerk calling up Bob Decker and asking if
the president was having plastic surgery tgmorrow. He'd yet to live
down the Marsden debacle. Guys were still coming up and offering to
sell him the Brooklyn Bridge.

He looked up Decker's extension at the White House and made the call.
Years ago he and Decker had become casual friends after an FBI
racketeering case turned out to involve counterfeiting as well and the
Secret Service was called in. Every so often they got together for a
drink.

He was surprised how relieved he felt when he was told that Decker
wasn't in. Gerry left his office number for the return call.

Decker's call came in shortly after Gerry got to his desk. After the
standard how's-it-going' preliminaries, Gerry took a deep breath and
jumped in with both feet.

"Listen, Bob. The reason I called is that I heard a rumor that the
president's getting a face-lift or something tomorrow. Any truth to
that? " Decker cleared his throat. "A face-lift? Tomorrow? That's a
good one.

Where'd you hear something like that? " "The usual roundabout way.

Somebody heard from somebody whose second cousin's mother overheard it
at the Laundromat, and so on. I thought I'd check it out with you and
lay it to rest. Or if it is true, I figure you'd want to know that the
word is out and spreading."

"Thanks, Gerry. I appreciate that." ' Well? " '-Well what? " "Is it
true? ' -, .

. s , 0 "The president's heading for Camp David tomorrow morning for a
long weekend, and I'm going with him." He chuckled. "Christ, he's
going to be pissed when he hears about this. I know he doesn't want
anyone to think he's having a face-lift. How do these crazy stories
get started? " '"Crazy people, I guess, " Gerry said glumly.

"Well, thanks for thinking of me. You can put the kibosh on this one,
but let me know if you hear any others "Will do." Just great, Gerry
thought as he hung up. The president's not even going to be in town.

At least according to Bob Decker. But Decker could be covering for the
president. If he'd been instructed to tell no one, he'd do just that,
even if the FBI was asking.

Who to believe? A week ago there'd be no contest. But after the
Marsden mess . . .

Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup as Gerry pounded his fist on
the desk.

Damn it, what was he going to tell Gin?

And where was she now? Racing around the city in her car? Or hunched
over a cup of coffee at the rear table of some diner?

He had to get her help. And fast.

Gin sipped a cup of cappuccino and watched the street. She'd found a
Moroccan coffee shop on Columbia Road with a booth that offered a view
of the eastern corner of Kalorama, half a block uphill from her
apartment. If Duncan or an ambulance arrived, they'd turn that
corner.

So far, no ambulance, no black Mercedes. But Duncan was tricky. He'd
certainly proven that in the past week. Who said he had to come in his
Mercedes?

Rather than run all over the city with no definite destination, she'd
left her car parked in front of her building and walked up here to sit
watch. Was Duncan really calling an ambulance, or coming himself?

God, she wished she knew. The only thing she knew for ceXtain right
now was that she had to stay as far as possible from Duncan Lathram.

She glanced at her watch. Time to give Gerry a call. Another good
thing about this little coffee shop was the location of the phone,
right inside the front door. She could call and still keep watch on
the corner.

Gerry sounded tired when he said hello.

"Did you call the Secret Service? " '"Yes."

" And? " His sigh was full of angst. "They say he's not having
surgery tomorrow or any other day. As a matter of fact, he's leaving
in the morning for Camp David for a long weekend." '"To recover from
the surgery! " "According to the Secret Service, there's no surgery,
Gin."

"But how . . . ? " Oh, God, why hadn't she thought of that? "Gerry,
of course they're going to deny it. It's all hushhush. He doesn't
want anyone to know it's being done."

"I already thought of that. Look, Gin, you can't keep doing this.

You're a doctor. Don't you see a pattern here? There's no surgery on
the president, just like there was no implant in Senator Marsden's
leg.

" "Well, there's one in mine! I can show you! " '"Gin, you need
help." She heard real pain in his voice now. "Let me get you in touch
with someone we use at the Bureau. Maybe he canþ" Tears of frustration
welled in Gin's eyes. "I'm not paranoid, Gerry.

Duncan has done a beautiful job of manipulating events to make me look
that way, but I'm not. And I've got the implant in my leg to prove
it.

" "Gin, ' was all he said.

t .

, . T . S , , "All right. That does it. ' She was angry now. "You
don't believe me, so I'll show you. I'm coming down there right now
and I'll prove to you that there's an implant in my leg. And you leave
word at the desk that I'm coming."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Gin."

"Maybe not, but it seems to be my only option now. So get ready,
Gerry.

I'm on my way. ' "Ginaþ" She hung up on him and stood inside the door
trembling with anger and fright. What if she couldn't get anyone to
believe her? She realized how she must have sounded. She had to stay
calm and sound rational. She wasn't going to convince anyone if she
kept flying off the handle.

But I'm scared, dammit.

And worse than the fear was the question that had begun tapping with
increasing insistence on the back door of her consciousness.

g everybody thinks you're crazy, maybe you shogldn't completely dismiss
the possibility they might be right.

Feeling utterly miserable, she leaned against the door and pressed her
right temple against the cool glass. The caffeine and a couple of
Tylenol had helped, but her head still throbbed. And the doubts only
intensified the pain.

Am I sane?

Could all this be simply the fabrication of a mind sent off course
because her brain had begun synthesizing faulty neurochemicals or
producing the right ones in the wrong proportions? How many paranoids
had she seen in her psych rounds who were utterly convinced of the
veracity of their absurd claims? They'd heard with their own ears,
seen with their own eyes. If you can't trust your senses and your own
ability to interpret their input, who or what can you trust?

Gin rubbed her thigh, gently. Maybe that mark was nothing more than a
bruise. And maybe the hangover this morning was nothing more than too
much amarone and sambuca. And maybe Duncan hadn't asked her to assist
on the president's surgery tomorrow.

God, what was real?

She slammed her palm once against the pay phone.

No! She wasn't crazy!

That's what they all say . . .

Something black and gleaming caught her eye. Duncan's Mercedesþor one
exactly like itþwas passing on the street. It turned onto Kalorama.

Abruptly the doubts were gone, the fatigue and the eadache forgotten.

She ducked back to her booth, threw a couple of dollars on her table,
and returned to the door. The car was out of sight now. She stepped
outside. The cool, damp air refreshed her. A drop of water hit her
forehead. She glanced up. The low, gray, moisture-laden clouds seemed
to be sinking under their own weight.

She begged the rain to hold off a few more minutes.

She hurried across Columbia and trotted downhill to Kalorama. She
stopped under the front canopy of an apartment house on the corner and
craned her neck to peer down the street. She could see her building
from here.

Duncan, looking very dapper in his blue blazer and charcoal slacks, was
on his way up the front steps.

She watched him step inside the front door. Unless someone let him
inþunlikely because everybody workedþ he'd spend the next few minutes
waiting for her to answer his rings. As soon as he left, she'd jump in
her car and head straight downtown to the FBBuilding.

She waited. What was he doing in there? Why didn't he come out?

Then she glanced up at the third floor and gasped when she saw a man
standing in her bay window.

Duncan! He had a key. He must have had a copy made last nighc Sure.

He establishes with Barbara that Gin's . _ acting irrationally, so he
rushes down, supposedly to see what he can do. He finds her, zaps the
implant in her leg, and then reports that the poor girl was sitting
there drooling and babbling incoherently when he found her.

Well, guess what, Duncan, Gin thought as her jaw muscles bunched.

Gin's not there. And she's not letting you within striking distance.

It began to rain. Only a gentle drizzle now, but cold.

Great. What else could go wrong? She was wearing only jeans, an old
Tulane sweatshirt, and no hat. If her hair and her clothes got wet,
how convincing would she be if she looked like a drowned rat when she
got to Gerry?

, . Duncan gazed down at the street from the empty apartment, his
right hand gripping the ultrasound transducer in his pocket.

What am I doing here?

. , He hated this. He'd regretted implanting Gin with the TPD almost
as soon as he'd done it. But performing the act was like burning a
bridge behind you, Once done, there was no going back. He had to
follow through and dissolve it.

He seemed to be spiraling out of control. It was never supposed to
turn out like this. But he couldn't stop himself. He had to keep
going until he got to the president. After that he didn't care.

The situation was deteriorating, as well. Gin had been scheduled to
show up at the surgicenter this morning, they were to go through their
usual routines, then, somewhere around lunchtime, he'd intended to give
her leg a burst of ultrasound and leave for the day. He'd have been
miles away before she began to show the first effects. Maybe some
visual hallucinations, maybe auditory, maybe both. She'd become
disoriented, incoherent, might even start pulling at her hair and
screaming. Or she might simply withdraw into a catatonic state, curled
in a fetal position and drooling in a corner of the records room.

The images nauseated Duncan. He swallowed back the acid creeping up
from his stomach.

Why couldn't you have stayed out of this, Gin?

Bad enough he'd have to pull the trigger on her. But she'd somehow
discovered what he'd done to her last night. So now he had to hunt her
down. That implant was a two-edged sword. Knowing it was there, she
could use it against himþ if she could get someone to believe her. He
had to catch up with her before she had it removed.

Where was Gin now? Couldn't be too far. Her car was parked on the
street below. Maybe she was out there, watching him, waiting to see
his next move.

He nodded slowly. Yes . . . that would be just like her. Let him
find her gone, then return to her place and ponder her next move calmly
and in comfort while he ran around in circles.

All right. He'd do a circle. Circle the block and see if he could
catch sight oœ her.

Lord, he hated this. The whole idea sickened him. He wanted to have
it all over and done with.

And after that he'd have to find a way to live with himself.

Gin watched Duncan hurry down her front steps and get into his car.

Where to now, Duncan? A little worried, perhaps, now that your pigeon
has flown?

She watched him drive away. She waited until he turned off Kalorama
onto 18th, then she sprinted for her Sunbird. She jumped in and
started her up.

The drizzle graduared to full-fledged rain as she headed down Kalorama,
following Duncan's path. Only she wasn't following him. He was
probably on his way back to Chevy Chase, she was headed downtown.

She peered up and down 18th, very possibly the most colorful street in
the District. No sign of Duncan. She made a right and raced down to
Florida where she hung another right. That brought her to a red light
at Connecticut Avenue.

Gin searched Connecticut uphill and down, but no sign of Duncan. She
allowed herself to relax. She had to forget about Duncan for the
moment and figure out a way to convince Gerry that sheþ Gin jumped in
her seat as she glanced in her rearview mirror. Through the rain and
the slightly fogged rear window she saw a black Mercedes ease to a stop
two cars behind her. She stared at the Mercedes's windshield, but the
rain and the sweeping wipers prevented her from seeing the driver.

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She couldn't make out the plates,
but that could be Duncan back there. . . could easily be Duncan.

But why would he be following her? Had to be more than simply to see
where she was going. What did he have in mind? Running her off the
road?

Hardly. She was sure the last thing he wanted was to be placed in her
vicinity. So what was he up to? What did he hope toþ Ultrasound.

An icy hand clamped down hard on the back of her neck as she remembered
the specialty electronics store he'd visited. Did Duncan have a device
that could send an ultrasonic pulse into her car and dissolve the
implant) She didn't see how. What she knew of the physics of sound
said it wasn-t possible, but a lot of events connected with Duncan
didn't seem possible. Maybe he had a way . . .

Another glance in the rearview mirror.

How convenient to have her begin to hallucinate while driving.

The Honda directly behind her gave a polite toot. She looked up and
saw the light was green. She also saw the NO LEFT TURN sign. One way
to find out if that Mercedes was following her . . .

Gin floored the Sunbird and swung left onto Connecticut. She saw the
startled face of the driver of a yellow VW coming the other way as Gin
dodged in front of him. The VW stuttered to a halt with an angry horn
blast as Gin swerved past. She felt her back end slip a little on the
wet pavement but the front-wheel drive pulled her out of it and seconds
later® she was speeding downtown.

Another glance in the rearview showed no Mercedesþ didn't show much of
anything through the rain and foggedup 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 S'dW 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
windowsþunder 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 i. _ 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 runþ get up and sprint
for the doors and the street, but that would give her away. Duncan
wasn't sure where she was right nowþcouldn'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 hded 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 justþ
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 lockr 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 unbuttoned 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 edgeþMade 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 iceddown 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 credibilityþand 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?

But he might be counting on that sort of thinking, counting on her to
go running to Gerry, crying about bad old Duncan sticking a drug-filled
implant in her leg. And if and when she finally convinced Gerry to
check out her leg, they'd come up with another negative MRI.

And anything she said after that would be dismissed as the ravings of a
lunatic.

So she couldn't go to Gerry empty-handedþor, in this case, empty-legged
Either way, she had to know.

If only she had a syringe and some anesthetic.

Lidocaine! Lidocaine/ My kingdom for some lidocaine!

But there'd be no lidocaine. Only ice.

Gin grabbed a washcloth from the counter and wadded it into her
mouth.

Then she used her left hand to stretch the skin over the bruise while
she tightened her grip on the razor blade in her right.

Not too deep, now, she told herself. Don't want to slice the
implant.

She took a deep breath and held it. With one quick move, she drove the
corner of the blade's cutting edge into the skin half an inch distal to
the bruise, then yanked it toward her.

She doubled over and screamed into the washcloth. Shuddering with the
pain, she clung to the safety bar with her free hand and pressed her
face against her knees as her eyes filled with tears and a cold sweat
erupted from every pore.

And then, after a small eternity, the pain passed its crescendo. Her
bunched muscles relaxedþslightly. She straightened, spit out the
washcloth, and gasped for air. When she'd caught her breath, she
leaned over and took a look.

Blood poured from the two-inch gash in her thigh. Thick crimson drops,
startlingly red against the white ceramic finish, splashed along the
inside of the tub and oozed down to the water swirling toward the
drain.

She felt faint and swayed back. For an instant she thought she was
going to topple backward, but she hung on until the room stopped
wobbling around her.

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 S.

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 antibioticþa broad-spectrum cephalosporin
preferablyþto 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 , , , , , i, 0',
'- , . , z. = 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
nother 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 todayþand 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, butþ" "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 lawenforcement
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 FBBuilding. 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 allþself-preservation.

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

He found his keys. Time to go. But whtere? 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 beforeþwith 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 doesþat 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 . . . whereþ?

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.

My God, I slept away the whole afternoon!

She eased herself to her feet and wobbled only slightly on her way to
the bathroom. She had to see it, had to make sure it was still
there.

It was. The Coricidin bottle sat where she had left it on the marble
counter. She ran the sink water and drank three glasses without taking
her eyes off the implant resting within, turning brown now as its
blood-streaked surface dried.

She brought it with her when she returned to the bed. Still weak, but
feeling lots better, she carefully lowered herself to sit on the
edge.

Time to call Gerry. Time to meet with him and show him what Duncan had
placed inside her.

She got an outside line and punched in his office number. The FBI
operator said he wasn-t in at the moment. Would she like to leave a
message?

'"When will he be back? " "Agent Canney did not say. May I ask who's
calling, please? " "That's okay, " Gin said. "I'll call back. "
Maybe he got tired of waiting for her and went home. She called his
house but got only his answering machine.

Maybe he was in transit. She'd have to wait till he picked up Martha
and got home . . . if home was where he was headed. She wondered if
he was worried about her, or even thinking about her. It would be
comforting to know that someone besides Duncan was wondering where she
was.
She unwrapped the Ace bandage from her leg to expose the gauze
beneath.

She noticed that blood was beginning to seep through the dressing.

Gingerly, she peeled it away. The antibiotic ointment kept the gauze
from sticking. The incision looked good, the thread seemed to be
holding. But as she stared at the wound, and then at the little bottle
containing the bloody implant, she was filled with an overwhelming
despair.

Gerry's not going to relieve one.

The realization made her sick. What would he think when he saw that
bloody thing in the bottle? No one had seen her cut it out. No
witness to the procedure. Who was to say she hadn't cut herself and
smeared the implant with blood to convince others of her delusions?

Self-mutilation was common in certain forms of psychosis. Or maybe
she'd be diagnosed as some sort of variant of Munchausen syndrome.

She'd done something extreme, something radical, something that would
appear bizarre and, well, deranged to anyone who didn't fully
understand the threat the implant posed to her.

In short, showing Gerry that bloody implant and telling him she'd cut
it out of her own leg might only confirm his worst fears about her
sanity. Her paranoid delusions had now escalated to self-mutilation.

Gin pressed her hands to her face. Couched in a sob, her voice rang
through the tiny room.

"What am I going to do? " She had to find someone who'd believe her,
someone who wouldn't think she'd watched too many episodes of Twilight
Zone. . . .

Oliver.

Of course. Oliver would believe her. He was the only other person in
the world who knew about both TPD and the implants. He'd understand
why she'd had to cut herself open to remove the TPD.

But how would he react when she told him Duncan was behind it all?

Oliver was so devoted to his older brother. Damn near worshiped him.

Would he be able to accept the idea that Duncan was hurting people?

Another thought, a shattering one, What if Oliver was involved?
No. She couldn't buy that. Oliver was the straightest of straight.

arrows. He'd be crushed at the thought of his implants being used to
harm instead of heal. And if he were involved in any way, he' d never
have given her Dr. VanDuyne's name.

That was it. She'd present her case to Oliver, and once he was
convinced, the two of them would go to Gerry or the Secret Service, or
anyone who could stop Duncan.

She stood up quickly, then sat down again, suddenly weak. Maybe she
should eat something first. No breakfast, no lunch. . . just a few
Snickers bars. She was asking for trouble if she didn't pack in a few
calories pretty soon.

She pulled out the room service menu and ordered a hamburger, fries,
and a Cokeþprotein, complex carbs, and caffeine. That ought to keep
her going for a while.

She stood up again, a little more deliberately this time, and made her
way back to the bathroom. She redressed the incision with clean gauze
and secured it again with the Ace wrap. Then she pulled on her
sweatshirt and carefully slipped back into her jeans. She was looking
pretty normal by the time room service knocked.

She glanced out the window as the waiter positioned the rolling cart
and uncovered the food. The aroma set her mouth to watering. She
hadn't realized how hungry she was. Dusk outside. She'd gobble down
her food and wait until it was fully dark, then she'd hustle out to the
curb, jump into the first waiting cab, and make a beeline for Oliver's
house.

Oliver lived in the northwest extreme of the District. She'd been
there once for a dinner party. A nice little ranch in a nice
neighborhood, but not even close to the same class as Duncan's.

Probably didn't even have to wait until dark. Duncan was surely long
gone by now.

Tracking down Gin's credit trail took a little longer than Gerry had
expected. He'd had to call Mrs. Snedecker and ask her if she'd keep
Martha a few hours longer and feed her dinner. He'd spoken to Martha
to tell her that he'd be late and had been warmed by her cheery
'Okay.

' Good thing she liked Mrs. S.

The credit crace came through a few minutes later showing a charge to
her Visa from the Tremont Hotel on K Street.
K Street! Christ, he'd just been there! What was she doing in the
Tremont? Hiding?

More baffled than ever, he got the number from information and asked
the desk to connect him to Ms. Panzella. He let the phone ring a
dozen times, almost hung up, then listened to at least half a dozen
more rings.

Where the hell was she? If she'd already checked out, the desk
wouldn't have connected him. Was she afraid to answer the phone?

Gerry grabbed his coat and headed out.

* * * d , .

I

 . t As night shrouded the District in umbral gloom and the
streetlights flared to life, setting the misty air aglow, Duncan
decided to call it quits. Obviously she was nowhere about, most likely
gone for hours.

Futile to dally here any longer.

But what next? Where next? He couldn't quit now. Too much hung in
the balance. As he headed for his car, he made a last-ditch effort by
experimenting with a little mental exercise.

If I were Gin, and I were still in the vicinity, where could I possibly
be? Where could I have hidden this long?

He rolled the question through his mind as he walked along the north
end of the square. He was turning down K Street when the marquee of
the Tremont Hotel caught his eye.

He paused, shook his head, took a few more steps, then stopped at the
curb and stared . He''d noticed it before, but . . .

Could she have rented a hotel room? Not likely. He could see the
possibility of her running in there, renting a room, and using it as a
safe place to meet with her FBI man. But obviously she hadn't done
that, or else Agent Canney wouldn't have been wandering around Farragut
Square like a lost soul a little while ago. And Duncan couldn't see
Gin holing up there by herself all afternoon watching television.

But still . . . it was one place he hadn't checked out. It wouldn't
take him long. What were a few more minutes added to all the time he'd
already wasted?

He entered the lobby and strolled toward the registration desk. The
young man behind the counter looked at him expectantly. Duncan debated
how he should pose his questions about her, then realized that no
decent hotel gave out guest room numbers.

He smiled at the desk man whose badge said Roy. "House Roy pointed to
the far corner of the lobby. "Right over there, by the big fern, just
past the elevators." Duncan nodded his thanks. He found the row of
phones and dialed "O" on the nearest.

When the operator answered, he said, "Panzella room please, " and was
startled when she thanked him and connected him.

Stunned, he listened to the phone ring, wondering what he was going to
say. He realized he could say nothing. He couldn't let her know he'd
found her.

He hung up and leaned against the wall.

She's here.

She'd probably been here all day. But what had she been doing all this
time? And why had she registered under her own name? Such a dumb
thing to do, and Gin was anything but dumb.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered except the fact that he'd found
her. All he needed now was her room number. He glanced over at the
registration desk. Roy was alone there. Would a hundred-dollar
billþ?

And then the revolving doors began to move and Special Agent Canney
strode into the lobby. Startled, Duncan froze, his heart pounding.

No! Not when I'm so close!

He ducked behind the large fern and peered through the branches.

Canney was showing his ID to the desk man and talking fast. He looked
agitated.

Apparently Gin had finally got in touch with him. But if so, why was
he showing his ID?

What did it matter? Duncan realized that a solution had just presented
itself. The elevators were only a few feet away. Canney would go up
to Gin's room and bring her down, or perhaps call her to come down and
meet him. Either way, she'd have to pass close to Duncan's position.

He removed the transducer from his pocket. She'd be in range She'd
feel a twinge in her thigh, but that would be it.
She'd probably get all the way to the FBBuilding before the TPD kicked
in.

All he had to do was wait. He'd been waiting all day. He could wait a
little longer.

"I want her room number, and I want the key, and I want them now! "
Gerry said.

The desk man had called out the managerþJoel Heinrich, according to his
name tag. A fussy little man with a thin mustache "I'm sure you need a
warrant for that kind of search. I'm certainly not authorized to barge
into a guest's roomþ" "Dr. Panzella has not been well lately, " Gerry
said, improvising.

"She's not answering her phone. She may be unconscious." That got
him.

"Sick? " The fussy manager evaporated. "You mean with something
contagious? " Gerry lowered his voice and moved in for the kill. "We
don't know. We hope not. Something went wrong at the lab. We want to
find her and quarantine her with as little fuss as possible, if you
know what I mean." Heinrich knew exactly what Gerry meant. He nodded
curtly and reached for his phone. "Very well. Just let me check her
room once." He punched in four numbers, listened for a moment, then
hung up.

"She might simply have gone out to eat."

"Let's hope so, " Gerry said, but didn't mean it He wanted to find Gin
and settle this mess.

"If that's the case, I'll wait down here for her return." Heinrich
searched the key rack, selected one, then pointed across the lobby.

"I'll meet you by the elevators." A few minutes later they were on the
fifth floor and Heinrich was knocking on the door to 532. Gerry
hovered impatiently behind him, anxious to get in there, yet dreading
what he might find.

"Dr. Panzella) Dr. Panzella, this is the manager." No reply.

Please, God, nothing nasty, Gerry thought as Heinrich fitted the key
into the lock. Please.

As soon as he heard the latch click, Gerry pushed past him and barged
inside.

"Wait here." The lights were on. A half-eaten burger and fries swam
in spilled cola on a rolling cart by the rumpled, empty bed.

"Gin? " He stepped into the bathroom. An iron fist slammed into his
chest at the sight of the bloody razor blade by the sink. He stepped
closer and the red in the tub caught his eye. He groaned. The
porcelain was splattered up and down with blood.

Christ, what happened here?

He put a hand out and leaned against the wall for support as he dragged
his gaze from the tub back to the sink counter. The bloody razor, and
bottles of alcohol and peroxide as well, and a needle and thread . .

.

a bloody needle.

First some fantasy about the president having surgery, now . . .

this.

Whatever it was.

"Aw, Gin, " he whispered. "Gin, Gin, what have you done? " He stepped
back into the other room and found Heinrich standing there, looking
bewildered.

'"Is something wrong? Is she here? " Gerry brushed past him and
checked the closet. Empty. A glance at the bed told him there wasn't
room to hide under the box spring.

'"She's gone. ' He propelled Heinrich out into the hall.

I ' "Look. I want this room sealed. No oneþno oneþis to go in
there.

Not housekeeping, not room service, not you, not anybody. Is that cl ear? " '"But why? " '"For the moment I'm treating it as a crime
scene. So if that room is disturbed in the least, I'll have you up on
charges of obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact. Do we
understand each other? " '"Yes. Yes, certainly. ' Heinrich pulled
the DO NOT DISTURB sign from inside the door and hung it on the outside
knob. Then he closed the door and rattled it to make sure it was
locked.

'"I'll leave word that 552 is off-limits until further notice. "
"Good." Yeah, good. Fine. Heinrich knew what he had to do. But what
was Gerry's next move? He was worried sick. What had she done to
herself in that bathroom? And where was she now?

He had to find her. And soon. If it wasn't already too late.

Something's wrong.

Duncan was baffled and disappointed when Canney returned to the lobby
without Gin, but then he noticed his grave expression and agitated
manner and knew he hadn't found what he'd expected in Gin's room. Or
had he found more than he'd expected?

Duncan wished he had a key to that room. What had Canney seen up
there?

Just one look was all he asked.

"Any questions? " he heard Canney say to the manager. "You've got her
description and you've got my card. Any one sees her, you call me
right away. Clear? " The manager nodded and mumbled something that
Duncan missed. It wasn't important. What mattered was that Gin wasn't
here. She'd left without checking out. And Canney didn't expect her
back soon, otherwise he'd be hanging around.

He watched Canney's departure, but stayed behind the fern a while
longer, giving the agent plenty of time to reach his car. And giving
himself time to plan his next move.

Gin was proving damnably unpredictable. He felt his nerves fraying
with every passing hour that she remained out of reach. He wondered
how much more of this he could take. . When had she rented the room?

How long had she been there? And where the hell was she now? Back in
her apartment?

Duncan sighed. Where else could he look? He'd go back to Adams Morgan
and check it out. If she wasn't there, he could see nothing else to do
but go home and wait.

If he didn't find her soon, he'd have to change his plans for
tomorrow.

And he did not want to do that.

J THURSDAY NIGHT GINA STUCK HER HEAD OUT THE WINDOW OF THE CAB and
glanced nervously up and down Connecticut Avenue.

"Shouldn't it be here by now? " The cabby leaned against the fender by
the open hood of his vehicle and puffed on a little cigar.

"I call in. He be along any minute. Any minute. You wait." She
withdrew into the interior. She didn't want to stand out on the street
in plain view. That was why she'd asked the driver to call her another
cab. But maybe she should have risked hailing one. Dozens of cabs had
passed. She'd be well on her way to Oliver's by now if she'd grabbed
one.

But that call back at the hotel . . . her heart was still racing from
the fright it had given her. She'd knocked over her Coke and nearly
choked on a french fry when the phone had started ringing.

Maybe it had been an accidentþa misdial, someone calling 533 or 432þand
maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had been DuncanþGod, she didn't want to
think that. Or maybe it had been Gerry.

Maybe she'd never know.

Whatever its origin, the sudden jangle of the phone had completely
unnerved her. She'd stared at it in horror for a few pounding
heartbeats, thinking someone had found her, someone knew she was there,
and then she'd bolted. No precautions, no stealth. She hadn't even
waited for an elevatorX taking the stairs instead and limping through
the lobby for the street.

In retrospect, now, she realized how foolish that had been. But she'd
had to get out, right then, not a second later. The hotel that had
been her refuge all afternoon suddenly had become a trap.

Fortunately the lobby had been empty. That had been her good luck.

Her bad luck had been picking a taxi that would gasp and die a couple
of blocks from the hotel.

"He comes now, " said her driver.

Gin craned her neck and saw another Diamond cab pull up behind hers.

She jumped out, waved her thanks to her driver, and hopped into the
newcomer. She gave the driver Oliver's address and was jounced back
into her seat as the cab lurched ahead. She winced with the stab of
pain from her left leg.

Okay. She was on her way again. No more mishaps. Really, what were
the odds of having two cabs in a row break down? Astronomical. She
allowed herself to relax and began rehearsing how she'd break the news
to Oliver.

As the cab pulled to a stop at Dupont Circle, Gin glanced out the
window to her right. A cold tingle spread across her shoulders as a
black hood with a familiar three-armed ornament slid into view. She
caught her breath and froze keeping The cab's rear post between herself
and the other car.

Just a black Mercedes, she told herself. Thousands of them in the
District.

The Mercedes inched ahead, anxious for the green. The windshield came
into view, then the steering wheel and the hands gripping it. A man's
hands. And then the driver himself.

Gin gasped and pressed herself back into the seat.

Duncan.

Keep calm, keep calm, he can't see you.

But he was here, not half a dozen feet away. Had he been downtown all
this while? My God, she could have run into him outside the hotel.

That must have been him on the phone. But he hadn't been in the
lobby.

Maybe he'd been calling all the hotels downtown asking for Gin
Panzella's room. But then why was he heading away from the Tremont
instead of toward it? This made no sense, no sense at allþ She huddled
there begging the light to turn green. When it finally did, the cab
and the Mercedes entered the circle together. But halfway around,
Duncan's car turned off onto Connecticut while her cab stayed on until
P Street.

Gin slumped in the seat. Safe. But where was he going? Connecticut
wouldn't take him home. That was the way to . . .

. . . my plate.

As the cab turned off P and took Wisconsin uphill toward Bethesda, Gin
considered her options. Her original plan had been to call Oliver from
her room before heading uptown. But she'd fled before making that
call.

Maybe that would work to her advantage. Maybe it was better to drop in
on him cold. What if he spoke to Duncan between her call and her
arrival? She shuddered. Betterþsaferþto knock on Oliver's door and wing
it from there.

She spotted the Naval Observatory on her right and knew she was getting
close.

The cab turned left off Wisconsin and soon she was leaning forward,
scanning the street for any sign of a black Mercedes. She couldn't
imagine how Duncan could have beaten them here after turning off on
Connecticut, but she'd learned the hard way never to take anything for
granted where that man was concerned.
No Mercedes in sight. She paid the cabby and hurried up the walk. She
rang the bell, dreading to see who'd answer. Her life seemed to have
turned into a Hitchcock movie. She'd be only mildly surprised if it
turned out to be Duncan.

"Gin? " Oliver said as he opened the door. "What on earth are you
doing here? " He pushed open the screen door for her. "Come in, come
in. i "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, " Gin said, her eyes
quickly searching the cluttered living room and what she could see of
the dining room beyond. "You don't have company, do you? " He smiled
and shut the door behind her. He wore a Vnecked sweater over his usual
white shirt, and ankle-high slippers on his feet.

"No. Although I probably should have. I'm too excited about tomorrow
to sleep. I'm glad you came. ' "You may not be when I'm finished. "
His smile faded. "Is something wrong? " "Yes, " she said, pulling the
vial from her pocket and pressing it into his hand. "This." He stared
at it. "An implant? " "Yes. I dug it out of my leg this morning. '
Oliver stared at her uncomprehendingly. "What? How . . .

? " Gin decided to hit him with everything at once. She watched his
expression carefully. If for even an instant he looked as if he
weren't shocked, or was faking surprise, she'd be running for the
door.

"Duncan jammed it into my leg last night while I was out cold. He's
been after me all day trying to dissolve it with ultrasound." A
tentative smile flickered across his lips. "This is a joke, right?

You and Duncanþ" "It's no joke, Oliver. That thing's filled with
TPD.

" "TPD? " he said, still smiling. "What'sþ? " And then the smile
faded.

"TPD? How could you know about TPD? " "Triptolinic diethylamide.

Duncan keeps a vial of it in his office."

"Impossible. That's a defunct compound."

"I know. Tested and discarded by GEM Pharma, your old company."

"Right. I have the last sample." -"Really? Where?

" "In my basement. I'll show you." He led her through the dining room
to the kitchen, and from there down a flight of steps.

"This is my private little lab, " he said as he turned on the overhead
fluorescents. "For years I spent every night of the week and every
spare moment on weekends here." Gin looked around the largely
unfinished basement at the benches, retorts, ovens, centrifuges, and
rows of other equipment she didn't recognize, all dusty with disuse.

"Is this where . . . ? " "Uh-huh. I developed the implant membrane
here. And over there . . .

" He flicked on another set of lights. "I call it my rogues'
gallery.

All the useless or discontinued compounds I worked on during my years
with GEM. I kept a sample of each one." Gin was startled by the array
of bottles lining an entire wall. There had to be hundreds there,
perhaps even a thousand.

"So many. How would you ever find a particular one? " "Easy. They're
in alphabetical order." He gave her a sheepish look. "I can't help
it. That's the way I am." He stooped and ran a finger along one of
the rows. "R . . . . . . T . . . " He squinted at a few bottles,
grunted a few nes, then straightened and turned to Gin. "The, um, TPD
. . . it's missing."

"I know, she said. She pointed to the pill bottle he still clutched in
his left hand. "Some of it's in there.

Duncan has the rest." He stared down at the bottle, then at her.

"You've got to be mistaken.

Duncan wouldn't do something like that. What reason would he have? "
"Because I know about the others."

"Others? " "Let's go upstairs and I'll explain everything." They sat
in the kitchen, Gin sipping a can of Pepsi, the the containing the
implant sitting between them in the center of the table, and Oliver
leaning forward, listening intently, a look of growing horror on his
face as Gin explained what she suspected about the deaths and mishaps
nvolving Senators Vincent and Schulz and Congressmen llard and Lane.

She shivered with a sudden chill. Was it the Pepsi or was she starting
a fever? Her strength seemed to be fading.

"Are you okay? " Oliver said.

"My incision might be getting infected."

"What incision? " Since showing was better than telling, she stood,
unzipped her jeans, and turned sideways as she slid them down to her ,
nees.
"Gin! " Oliver said, averting his face at first, then staring as the
Ace bandage was revealed.

Gin unwrapped the Ace, then peeled the gauze halfway back to reveal the
incision. An angry red had invaded the edges.

Oliver sucked in a breath. "Oh, dear Lord. You did that? To
yourself? " Gin let him get a good look, then she smoothed the gauze
back into place and began rewrapping the Ace.

H Ise was I going to get it out, Oh He said nothing, simply sat and
stared at her, wonder in his eyes. "Do you have any antibiotics in the
house?

pulled her jeans up.

"I've got some amoxicillin. Not his first choice but it would do for
now few?

Of course." He hurried away and returned a minute later with an amber
plastic bottle. Gin washed down four of the capsules with water and
pocketed it for later.

Oliver was staring at the vial with the implant, shaking his head and
speaking to himself as much as to Gina n't believe Duncan would do such
a thing.

Well maybe to the committee members . . . I could see that . . . I
mean, after Lisa died he went a little crazy, made all sorts of threats
. . . but you . . . he thinks the world of you . . . he'd never .

.

. " - Poor Oliver, she thought. His heroic image of his older brother
is coming undone.

"He knows I'm on to him, " Gin said softly. "And he knows I'll be in
the way tomorrow Qliver's head snapped up. "Tomorrow? Oh, no! You
don't thinkþhe wouldn t!

"Yes, he would. That's why he did this to me. To give him a clear
shot at the president." He got to his feet. "I've got to go see him
stop him. I can talk to him. He'll listen to me.

"Will he? I wouldn't count on it."

"He'll have to. Now two people know. And soon more will. He grabbed
a jacket that had been hanging over the back of a chair. "He's
beaten.
But still I've got to see him." Anger flashed in his eyes. "Using my
implants for something like this! I've a good mind to . . . " He
didn't finish the thought.

Instead, he pointed to the bottle on the table.

"Can I take that with me? " Gin grabbed it and held it tight in her
fist.

"No. Sorry. This is the only proof I've got that I didn't make all
this up. I'm not letting it out of my sight. And you realize, don't
you, that as soon as you confront him he'll know how you found out and
he'll know where I am. And since I have the only hard proof against
him, I think maybe I'll disappear for a while."

"Good idea. Don't even tell me where you're going, just in caseþ'' He
shook his head to clear it. "Who'd ever believe I'd be thinking this
way about my brother? " "I know how you feel. Can you call me a
cab?

" Another shiver rattled her teeth as Oliver was phoning the cab
company.

She was definitely getting a fever. She hoped whatever was infecting
her wasn't penicillin resistant.

'"They'll have one here in about ten minutes, " Oliver said. "I'm
going to call Duncan. ' '"No! " "Just to see if he's home. No sense
in going over there if he's not in." He dialed, waited, then said,
"Duncan. It's me. We need to talk. No, in person. I'll explain when
I get there. See you in a few minutes. ' He hung up and bustled
toward the door. "Wish me luck, " he said. "And lock the door as you
leave. ' Gin shivered again as the front door closed behind Oliver.

It was almost over. Duncan was at his place, Oliver was on his way
there, a cab was on its way here. But where was she going?

Not another hotel. She couldn't stand the thought of another strange
little box with a bed and a TV that passed for a room.

Her folks' place? The old homestead. The thought comforted her.

She'd make a quick stop at her apartment for a change of clothes, then
head over to Arlington. She'd be safe there. Another chill wracked
her. And warm.

Where was that cab? She took a look our the window but the driveway
was empty.

She went down the hall and found Oliver's bathroom. On the top shelf
of the medicine cabinet she found a thermometer. She rinsed it off,
shook it down, and stuck it in her mouth. After a couple of minutes
she checked it, 102.4 degrees.

No wonder I'm shivering, she thought. I'm sick.

Well, she had two grams of amoxicillin perking through her
bloodstream.

It had to kick in soon. She'd left her Tylenol at the hotel, so she
took a few of Oliver's.

A car horn honked outside. She hurried back to the living room and
peeked out a corner of the front window. Her heart was pounding, from
fever as much as fear.

If I've fallen into a B movie, she thought, there'll be a black
Mercedes idling out there.

But no. It was a Diamond cab. She hurried outside, thinking that if
she were in a real schlock movie, Duncan would be behind the wheel,
disguised as the driver. But a black face peered out the driver window
as she approached and pushed open the rear door from inside.

'"Where we going? " She gave him her address and they were off. She
huddled in the back seat, shivering.

"Would you mind turning up the heat? " she said.

She was so cold her teeth were chattering.

Duncan sat mute, shaken. Oliver's arrival had taken him completely by
surprise. He'd never seen his brother like this. He'd burst in and
immediately launched into a blistering verbal attack. Duncan didn't
know which shocked him moreþOliver's nakedX self-righteous anger, or
the fact that Gin had reached Oliver and told him everything.

The words poured out of Oliver in a steady, rapid-fire fusillade. Not
just his anger, but the story of Gin slicing open her own leg in that
hotel room and removing an implant with drugstore equipment.

Despite his ongoing shock, Duncan had to admire the unwavering
determination and pure guts Gin had shown. He doubted he'd have been
able to do the same had situations been reversed. But he was glad he
hadn't underestimated Gin. He'd half anticipated this. That young
woman did not know the meaning of the word quit. And she was as intent
as ever on stopping him.

And she just might. His whole world seemed about to crumble around
him.

Visions of headlines and courtrooms and, Lord, prison swirled around
him. Everything was falling apartþ He shook off the visions. He had
to settle down and deal with Oliver.

The situation was still salvageableþbarely. He'd have to move fast.

But before he could do anything, he'd have to neutralize Oliver.

"What did she tell youþwhat exactly did she say she removed from her
leg? " Duncan said.

"An implantþone of my implantsþfilled with TPD, of all things. "
Duncan shot from his seat and adopted a fiercely indignant pose. "And
you believe this fantastic story? " But Oliver wasn't backing down.

He leaned into Duncan's face.

"She's got the bloody implant in a bottle. She showed me. She's got a
fresh incision on her leg. She showed me that too.

She knows about TPD, Duncan. How could she know about TPD if she
didn't find it in your office as she says? And on the way over here, I
remembered our discussion about my rogues' gallery earlier this year
and telling you about TPD. You were very interested, wanted to know
all about it. And tonight I couldn't find my sample bottle in the
gallery.

Where's my TPD, Duncan? " Damn it. He was caught. No way to deny
this. But worse was the look in Oliver's eyes. The almost worshipful
regard was gone, replaced by anger and . . . fear.

My brother fevrs me.

That hurt. But no less than he deserved.

Don't fear me, Oliver. Even if I can't explain the TPD.

TPD. That was the rock-steady anchor of Gin's story. He could ascribe
everything else she'd said or done to mental illness of one form or
another. But that damn TPD . . . that was real. Oliver knew it
better than anyone. And he'd already guessed that on one of his visits
to his home, Duncan had crept down to the basement and removed the
world's last remaining sample.

"Answer me, Duncan, Oliver said. "Where is it and what have you been
doing with it? " No sense in denying he'd taken it. He slumped his
shoulders and sighed.

"It's downstairs." He turned and began walking away. "I'll show
you.

" Duncan's admission worked a dramatic change in Oliver's demeanor.

Suddenly he was solicitous.

"You've been working too hard, Duncan, " he said as he followed him to
the cellar. "I've warned you about that. You need a long rest and .

. .

and maybe some . . . maybe you could talk to someone." '"You mean
psychotherapy? " "Well, yes." Oliver was obviously uncomfortable
telling his brother the doctor that he needed to see another doctor.

"I think that might be a good idea. I've been under terrible stress
lately. And I never did get over Lisa's death . . .

finding her like that."

"I know, Duncan. You've been through a lot.

" Duncan turned on the lights. The basement was finished but dusty and
musty. The previous owners had set it up as a game room but Duncan
rarely set foot down here. He led Oliver to the center of the room,
then stopped and looked around) feigning puzzlement.

"Now where did I put that? " He turned in a slow circle, then snapped
his fingers. "I know. Walt here." He hurried for the stairs and
bounded back up to the main floor where he shut the basement door and
locked it. He heard Oliver rush up the steps, try the knob, then start
pounding on the other side.

"Duncan! Duncan, don't do this! This is insane! " "Just one more
thing left to do, Oliver, " Duncan said as he wedged one of the heavy
kitchen chairs under the doorknob as a precaution. He braced the
kitchen table behind that for extra insurance. "Make yourself
comfortable down there. I'll let you OUt later when I'm through." No
windows down there, no phone. Oliver would be neutralized until Duncan
had finished what he had to do.

"She's not at my house, if that's what you're thinking. I told her to
disappear to someplace safe and I don't even know where. So if you're
thinking of finding her and destroying the evidence, forget it. You'll
never find her." '"We'll see about that, " Duncan said.

A good chance Gin wouldn't go into hiding without stopping at her own
place first. Especially if she felt safe.

He checked his coat pocket to make sure he still had his minitransducer
with him, then he hurried to the garage.

Yes, as Oliver had guessed, he was certainly interested in retrieving
The implant Gin had excised from her leg. That was hard evidence
against him. But that wasn't the only implant involved here.

Good thing he'd had the foresight last night to place two in her
thigh.

Gin felt as if her apartment were filled with water. Every move was an
effort. The very air around her weighed her down. It was an ongoing
test of her will to resist crawling into her bed, still unmade from
this morning, and pulling the covers over her head.

At least she'd managed to change her sweaty clothes and underwear. A
shower would have been wonderful but she couldn't risk the TIME She'd
take one in Arlington, and give her folks some excuse about having the
flu or something to explain her sickly looks.

She was feeling weaker than ever as she finished packing a small gym
bag with another change of clothes. But at least the chills had
stopped.

As a matter of fact, she was beginning to feel warm. Hot even. Maybe
the amoxicillin was kicking in. Or maybe the Tylenol was breaking the
fever.

She was actually a little clammy now.

And then a cool draft wrapped around her feet and she thought she heard
a click from the front room.

The front door?

Oh, no. It couldn't be.

Trembling, feeling weaker with each thudding heartbeat, she stepped to
her bedroom door and peered into the front room. It looked empty. But
it was dark, full of long shadows cast by the light from her bedroom.

She'd left it dark so that anyone passing by wouldn't see the lights
and know she was home.

Her gaze darted to the mantle where she'd left the bottle with the
implant. Still there. She shuffled over and grabbed it. Yes. Same
bottle. And there was the implant, safe inside.

Suddenly the glass tingled against her skin. Gin watched in horror as
the implant shriveled and dissolved into a puddle of liquid. The
membrane was gone, leaving only the TPD and a few floating streaks of
dried blood.

She heard a rustle behind her and Duncan was there, stepping out of the
shadows, the pager in his hand. Tears streaked his cheeks, his
expression was tortured, his voice husky, hovering on the edge of a
sob.

She turned to run, to scream for help, but she could not. Her mouth
was dry, and she was so weak. Without taking her eyes off him, she
reached out a shaky hand and found the edge of the couch. Two steps
were all she could manage before she slumped onto the cushions.

"I'm sorry, Gin. You've left me no alternative. This is something I
must do. Not just for me. For all of us." Gin opened her mouth but
could not speak. Her body was bathe in sweat. She could feel it
running down her skin in rivulets. An angry buzz was growing in her
head.

Duncan stepped forward and took the bottle from her slick, nerveless
fingers.

"I know you'll never forgive me, Gin. But I hope someday you'll
understand why I had to do this." The buzzing grew louder as Gin tried
to lift herself from the couch, to reach for Duncan, claw at him, but
then the already darkened room went completely black, and the buzz
exploded into a deafening roar, and she felt herself falling back .

.

.

But she never landed.

FRTOAY DUNCAN HAD LOST ALL HEART FOR THIS SCHEME.

Feeling utterly miserable, he drove through Chevy Chase  in the
predawn grayness and thought about Gin. He'd thought of little else
since last night. He wondered how she was. He'd called 911 from the
first public phone he found after leaving her and gave the operator
Gin's address, saying there was an unconscious woman in the
apartment.

The E.M.Ts would come and take her away. He hadn't stayed around. The
police would be noting any onlookers, wondering which one had made the
call. Duncan couldn't afford to be seen.

Placing a second implant in the trocar after he'd pierced Gin's thigh
had been a last-second decision. A subhmlnal voice, more aware of her
tenacity and relentless determination than his conscious mind, must
have whispered to hlmX urging him to buy himself some insurance where
Gin was concerned. Whatever it was, it had been right on the money.

Gin had cut her own leg open and dug out one of the implants .

But only one. Duncan had dissolved bothþthe one in the bottle and the
one still in her thigh. The evidence was gone, and so was a brilliant
mind. It would be years before the effects of the TPD wore off. Gin
would find it almost impossible to get licensed when she recovered.

All her years of training, worthless. All her hopes for a career in
medicine, dashed.

Duncan had sobbed like a child all the way home. He'd had to sneak
into his own house so he wouldn't have to speak to Oliver. He knew his
brother was comfortable down in the basement. It was heated and had
its own bathroom, the extra fridge was down there, filled with juices
and soft drinks. Every convenience but a phone.

Oliver probably spent a more comfortable night than I did, Duncan
thought.

Duncan had lain awake the entire night on the couch, hearing Oliver
occasionally shout his name, and watching over and over against the
backs of his eyelids the replay of Gin's wounded, terrified expression
before she passed out.

For a while he considered dropping all his plans. He could call that
Secret Service agent who'd given him his card, Decker was his name, and
tell him the surgery was off. Or call Dr. VanDuyne and tell him to
tell his patient, the president, to go to hell and find another surgeon
to fix his goddamn eyelids.

But after all he'd gone through, he couldn't allow himself such a
luxury. Not after what he'd done to Gin. Unconscionable, but he'd
done it for a cause. To fail to follow through would mean he'd made
her suffer for nothing. And that would be monstrous.

That was why he was driving to the surgicenter at 4, 3O A. M. , half an
hour earlier than planned. Oliver was still locked in the basement at
home. As soon as the president left for Camp David, hopefully carrying
an implant in his thigh, Duncan would return and release Oliver. What
happened after that would be up to his younger brother.

Possibly he could convince Oliver to keep quiet. He'd return the
remaining TPD and swear he'd done nothing to the president. He'd say
he'd suffered through a period of aberrant behavior but he was better
now, and he was going into therapy. He'd profess to know nothing of
Gin's condition, and swear again that he'd gone looking for her last
night but had been unable to find her.
Oliver would suspect, but he couldn't know. After all, Gin had removed
the implantþOliver had seen it himself. And if Duncan could convince
him that he was on the straight and narrow from now on, that they
should put all this behind them, Oliver might go along.

Probably.

Hopefully.

After all, if the affair were made public, Duncan's opprobrium would
attach to Oliver, and to Oliver's implants. His invention would be
forever tainted by its misuse with harmful intent. The FDA might even
hold up its approval.

Oliver will keep his peace, Duncan told himself. What harms me harms
his implants. And he knows the good they can do will far outweigh the
harm I've done.

He unlocked the private entrance and walked inside. He went to the
keypad to disable the alarm and found it already off. Damn it.

Barbara had forgotten again to set it before she left. If she weren't
such a good secretary . . .

He'd deal with her next week. Right now he had other concerns. The
advance team from the Secret Service would be arriving in about half an
hour to secure the building.

Plenty of time to fill an implant with TPD.

He turned on the inside hall lights and outside spots, then went to his
office. He froze when he turned on his office lights and saw the
books, journals, and papers scattered across the floor. The office was
a shambles. Someone had broken in and torn it apart. Why? What could
they be looking for?

The TPD?

He leapt to his desk. He groaned when he saw the splintered drawer.

It looked as if someone had taken a hammer to it and smashed it open.

He rifled through the contents. The TPD vial was gone. So was the
trocar.

No!

His heart tore into overdrive. He hurried back into the hall and stood
looking up and down its length.
Somebody had found the TPD and stolen it.

But who? Oliver was locked up and Gin was in an emergency room
somewhere. Who else knew aboutþ?

Duncan whirled as he heard a faint noise, like a chair being moved. It
had come from down the hall. He saw that the door to the lower level
was open.

From downstairs? Who would be down in the records room orþ Oliver's
lab!

Moving as quietly as possible, Duncan hurried along the hall and
tiptoed down the stairs. At the bottom he saw light flooding out from
the open door to Oliver's lab. And noises from within. Oliver must
have escaped'from the basement. Gin had told him where the TPD was
hidden and now he was here disposing of it.

Discarding all caution, Duncan raced forward to the door.

"Ohþ! " The word clogged in his throat, shutting off his air. He
couldn't breathe.

A pale, disheveled woman in a swearer and sweatpants, with wild-looking
dark hair, stood at the counter, the vial of TPD in her hand. She
looked up. Her wide, shocked eyes spit dark fire at him.

He found his voice. "Gin! " As she raised her arm to hurl the vial at
him, Duncan lunged for her, catching her arm before she completed the
motion. She screamed, scratching his face with her nails and beating
at him with her free hand as he tried to pry the vial from her
fingers.

Lord, she was strong, like an angry tigress, but he fended her off and
finally managed to get the vial away from her. And then she attacked
him with both hands, screeching incoherently through her clenched
teeth. She was a banshee, a female berserker. Was this what the TPD
had done to her?

And then she broke away from him and darted toward the door. He caught
her arm and swung her around against the counter, then slammed the door
closed and leaned his back against it.

He faced her, staring at her as she stared at him, both panting.

"You bastard! " she screamed, as tears started in her eyes. "You
rotten filthy son of a bitch! How could you do that to . . .

me? With that, she folded her arms on the counter, lowered her head
onto them, and began to sob.

Duncan was dumbfounded. She seemed sane now. Upset, yes, but
completely rational. But the implant . . . the TPD. Could the
transducer have failed to dissolve it?

That had to be it. Low power, interference, whatever the reason, the
ultrasound had failed.

Good Lord. What did he do now?

One thing was certain, He needed time to think. He turned to the door,
found the lock, and twisted it. If nothing else that would slow her up
if she tried toþ He cried out as a cold, sharp stab of pain pierced The
back of his thigh. He clutched at the spot and turned.

Gin stood directly behind him, facing him, the trocar clutched in her
hand like a dagger.

Duncan's blood froze. He snatched the trocar from her.

"No! You didn't! Gin, you didn't " She nodded slowly, her eyes
wild, a slow smile spreading across her face.

Over her shoulder Duncan spotted a tray on the counter with three
implants and a syringe. He touched the back of his leg again and
checked his lingers.

Blood.

His sick fear was overcome by a flash of anger. But as he stepped
toward Gin she raised her other hand. Her fingers were wrapped around
the transducer handle of the tabletop ultrasound Oliver used in his
experiments on the membranes.

Duncan slammed himself back against the door.

"No, Gin! " He'd wanted to shout the words but they came out in a
hoarse whisper. "Please . . . don't! " "Why not? " she said, still
smiling crazily.

The wild look in her eyes terrified him to the very core of his
being.

She was teetering on the edge. One wrong word, one wrong move, and
she'd slip completely out of control.

"Why trot? " she repeated. "You wanted to do it to me." '"No, Gin.

That was the last thing I wanted. I had no choice. Iþ" "Spare me the
lies! " she said, jabbing the transducer at him. "I passed out last
night because I was sick and scared and weak. But you thought it was
the TPD hitting my system. You tried to fry my brain last night,
Duncan. And you came damn close. If my fingertip hadn't happened to
brush against that second implant while I was digging out the first,
I'd be in the lockup ward at D. C. General right now. As it was, I
came to and got out of my apartment just before the ambulance
arrived.

" "That should be proof that I didn't want to harm you. I called that
ambulance." '"Right. After you gave me an ultrasonic zap." She moved
closer and Duncan edged away to his right. He didn't dare make a grab
for the handle. Her thumb was on the power button. A little pressure
on that and the implant in his leg would dissolve, after which his mind
would quickly follow suit. He had to keep her talking.

"You don't understand, " he said, continuing to edge away. "Oliver
told me you'd removed both. I only cameþ" '"Oliver didn't know that!

He only saw the one in the bottleþthe second one. The first one fell
into the tub and - broke and washed down the drain." , , He kept
moving, inches at a TIME He would have loved to put the counter
between them, but she was following his every move, waving that
transducer at him.

"Gin . . . " "How could you do that to me, Duncan? How could you try
to ruin my life like that? You might as well have put a gun to my
head. I trusted you, Duncan! " His heart started hammering as he saw
the fury begin to mount in her eyes. He looked around for a weapon, a
way out, anything, but he was trapped. He'd have to stop backing away
and go after her, have to risk grappling with her.

- And then he spotted his salvation, not two feet away. He averted his
eyes. Couldn't let her see him looking at it. If he could reach it
before she blew . . .

"And I trusted you, Gin, " he said, hoping to buy some time if he could
put her on the defensive. "I gave you a job,  gave you the keys to my
building, and what did you do? You picked the lock on my desk drawer
and invaded my privacy." The anger in her eyes receded, but only a
short way.

'"How did you find that out? " He was close now, almost within easy
reach. If he could get his hand up . . .

"You left a piece of your lock pick behind." He raised his right hand
with the thumb and index finger an eighth of an inch apart. "Just a
tinyþ" He darted his hand to the right, grabbed the power cord to the
ultrasound unit, and yanked it from the wall, leaving Gin holding an
inert piece of metal.
Duncan slumped against the counter. Lord, that had been close He held
out his hand. "Give it to me, Gin. It's useless now."

"Don't count on it! " She reared back and threw it at his face.

Duncan twisted away and ducked, but not in time to avoid it
completely.

The transducer handle thudded painfully against his skull. By the time
he straightened, shook off the pain, and looked around, Gin had
unlocked the door and was pulling it open. She was out and gone before
he could grab her.

Ignoring the pain in his leg, Duncan gave chase, limping after her as
she headed for the stairs.

Gin gasped for breath as she pounded up the steps. She'd taken the
rest of the antibiotic she got from Oliver, but she was still sick,
still weak. She wasn't going to outdistance Duncan for long.

She reached the first floor and broke into a run down the hallþ Right
into the arms of three men in suits.

"What the hell's going on here? " said the tall, dark one in the
middle, as the one to his right, the one she'd bumped into, grabbed her
upper arm and held it. His fingers felt like steel. She might as well
have been manacled to him.

'"Agent Decker! " said Duncan's voice behind her. "Thank God you came
early! I found this young woman here when I arrived. Apparently she
broke in sometime during the night." He held up the trocar. "She just
stabbed me with this." She twisted around and saw Duncan standing in
the doorway to the basement, panting.

"I just did to him what he was going to do to the president today.

"Whoa, " said the-tall, dark one Duncan had called Agent Decker. "Hang
on there, ma'amþ" '"She's deranged, ' Duncan said, moving closer.

"She's had a complete break with reality."

"That's not true! " Gin cried. "I work here! I'm a doctor. And he's
planning to kill the president today." That was an overstatement, but
she needed to get their attention. And now she had it.

'"Yes, she used to work here, Agent Decker, " Duncan said quickly.

"We've noticed erratic behavior lately and we've been trying to arrange
psychiatric help. Unfortunately, she decompensated before we were able
to finalize those arrangements.

"What's your name, ma'am? " said Decker.

'"Dr. Gin Panzella. I'm a board-eligible internist, and I'm as sane
as you are. ' She launched into an account of the mishaps that had
befallen former members of the Guidelines committee who happened to be
Duncan's patients, but Duncan interrupted her after a few sentences.

- "Agent Decker, do we have to listen to these ravings?

Check with the FBI. Just last week she led them on a wildgoose chase
with some story of my implanting some poison in Senator Marsden. '
"Wait, " Gin said. "Don't listen to him. He pulled a reverse on that
one." Duncan shook his head sadly as he stared at her. God, the
bastard was a good actor. A regular Jack Nicholson. You'd almost
think he truly felt sorry for a former colleague's deteriorating mental
condition.

"After a full medical exam on the senator, " Duncan said, "including an
MR scan, they found nothing and ended up looking like fools. You can
check it out."

"Trust me, " Decker said. "We will check it out. We check everything
out."

"Good. The name of-the agent in charge of that particular boondoggle
was Canney. I'm sure he rues the day he was conned into believing Dr.
Panzella."

"Canney? " Decker said.

"Yeah. I'll give him a call."

"Come on! " Gin said. "You've got to listen to me! " ' We listen to
everybody, " Decker said. He turned to the man who was holding her.

"You and Briggs take her owntown and get her statement. I'm going to
get in touch rith Mallard and see if we can put this deal off for a
while. I on't like the smell of this.

Don't like it at all."

"Thank you, God! " Gin said as they started leading her toward the rear
of the building. "I don't care if you believe eye or not, just don't let
the president come here today." Decker looked at her with new interest
as he opened the loot to the parking lot. "That's not always our
decision, ma'am. So, you know Gerry Canney, do you? " He knew Gerry's
first name! "Yes! Since high school. Do you? " "We've met. Are you
the one who told him about the "-esident's surgery? " "That's me!
You're the one he called? " Decker didn't answer that.

He was staring at the car that had just pulled into the rear lot.

A long night. A bad night. Gerry hadn't had a wink of sleep SlnCC 6

A. M.

yesterday morning. He was tired, his stomaching was on fire, and he
was generally pissed.

After leaving the Tremont Hotel last night he'd been unable to had a
trace of Gin. The only action he'd had was the 91 I call to her
apartment that turned out to be a false -'arm. Nobody home when the
ambulance got there, but the _oor had been wide open.

Something strange and ominous about that call. Something going on that
he couldn't quite grasp. Something just uUt of reach. And it was that
tantalizing closeness that had kept him running all night.

He hadn'r been able to stop, hadn't been able to drop it. He'd called
Mrs. Snedecker and asked if Martha could stay overnight. Martha
didn't mind. She liked sleeping over anywhere. Sometimes that worried
him. He'd talked to her on the car phone, then kept driving,
periodically stopping back at the Bureau building. He'd even spoken to
Gin's parents. No, they hadn't heard from her. He hoped they were
telling him the truth and he hadn't been patrolling the whole damn
northwest all night for nothing.

He'd just made another stop at Gina's apartment. Still empty. And
now, for the third time tonightþor this morning7 rather, since the sun
was threatening to riseþhe was checking out Lathram's building.

He pulled into the rear lot and was startled to find three cars
thereþtwo of them Federal, according to their plates. As he parked and
got out of his car, he saw a very grim-looking Gin being escorted from
the building by three guys in suits.

Weak with relief, he leaned back against the car. Thank God!

At least she was alive, though not looking too well. And the three
with herþhad to be Secret Service. Bob Decker was one of them.

Secret Service . . . the president's surgery. Shit. If she'd been
right about that, what else had she been right about?

He slammed the car door behind him. God damn it!

Gin's face broke into a smile. "Gerry! " "Speak of the devil, "
Decker said, "we were justþ" "You son of a bitch! " Gerry shouted as
he strode toward them. "Son of a bitch! " The two other agents with
Decker pulled back and their hands started drifting toward their
jackets.

"It's okay, " Decker said. "I know him. A Fibby."

"Gin, " Gerry said, "are you okay? " She beamed at him. "I am now."

She looked so small and fragile between them. Gerry wanted to take her
in his arms and tell her she'd be all right, but now wasn't the time,
not in this place, not in this company.

He turned to Decker. "You told me you knew nothing about any surgery
on the president, yet here you are at Lathram's surgicenter at five in
the morning. You want to explain that, pal? " Decker shrugged. "The
Man says he doesn't want anyone told, no one gets told."

"This could have ended up a disaster, you know." '"You mean if we'd
let this young lady run loose in there? " "No, I mean if she hadn't
found her way here."

"Gerry! " Gin said, her eyes wide. "You mean you believe >, , me!

'"I don't know exactly what I believe, but I know there's enough fishy
stuff connected with Dr. Lathram that you shouldn't let him come
within a couple of miles of the president." Decker's bantering manner
was gone. "He told us this little lady led you and the Bureau on a
wild-goose chase last week."

"It was a wild-goose chase, all right, but I'm not so sure anymore who
was leading us." '"And the doc inside says she stabbed him."

"With the trocar, " Gin said. "The same one he used on me. The one he
was going to use on the president." Gerry winced at the way that
sounded. So far out. Who on earth would believe her?

Which worked perfectly to Lathrarn's advantage.

But what if he'd intended that all along?

'"My agents'll take her downtown and get a statementþ" "No, wait! "
Gin cried. "We can settle this all now. I know how. ' "Come on,
miss, " said the red-haired agent holding her, and began guiding her
toward the car.

Gerry put a hand on his chest. "Give her a minute. Let's hear her
out.

Maybe if I'd done that a while back, the five of us might be home in
bed instead of standing here at this ungodly hour." She'd been right
about the president's surgery. What else had she been right about?

The grateful look Gin gave him more than made up for all these
sleepless hours.

"All right, " Decker said. "Five minutes, then she's on her way.

Duncan couldn't imagine how things could get much worse, but assumed
they probably would.

As he watched the Secret Service agents escort Gin to the parking lot,
he discarded all plans of making further use of the TPD. Damage
control was the immediate and most pressing concern.

And the first, all-important task was to dispose of the TPD.

Duncan pulled the vial from his pocket and hurried back downstairs to
Oliver's lab. He placed it in the utility sink, covered it with a
paper towel, and smashed it into tiny fragments. He ran water into the
sink for a while, then dumped the remaining glass shards from the
strainer into the soggy paper towel. He rinsed the syringe Gin had
used, running acetone through the barrel and the needle to destroy any
trace of TPD.

Then he simply dropped it in the sharps receptacle with all the other
used syringes.

He left the water running while he went back upstairs to the men's room
and flushed the remnants of the vial, its label, and the paper towel
into the Chevy Chase sewer system .

And that was that. TPD? I don't know what she's talking about.

Search the place. Be my guest.

The last remaining sample of the compound was nestled in his thigh.

That was a truly horrifying thought. Imaginulg what would happen to
him if it ruptured before he could have it removed broke him out in a
sweat.

He'd have to be very careful for the next few hours. And by this
afternoon, when everything settled down, he'd have the implant
removed.

Any one of his many friends among the surgeons of the area would take
care of that on a moment's notice.

He rinsed his hands. As he dried them he stared at himself in the
mirror.

It's over, he thought. Maybe you accomplished something by disrupting
the Guidelines committee, maybe you didn't. At least Lisa is
avenged.

Any regrets?

Only having to act against Gin. And having to pass up a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to strike against that wampus in the
White House.

He sighed. But a man had to know when to quit. And that time was
now.

He dried his hands and stepped back into the hall.

"Dr. Lathram." It was Agent Decker's voice.

He turned and saw a small crowd approaching him. Gin, The three Secret
Service men, and a fourth man. Canney, the FBI man. What was he doing
here?

"Can we go downstairs? " Decker said. 4We're trying to dear up a few
things here and I wonder if you could help us." Duncan didn't like the
sound of that, and he didn't like the predatory look in Gin's eyes.

For an instant he considered calling a lawyer, but decided against
it.

That would look suspicious and only draw things out.

He could handle these people.

* * * Gin listened as Agent Decker began talking. He was a cool
character, seemed almost imperturbable. But his blue eyes never
stopped moving.

This guy didn't miss a trick.

"Now Dr. Lathram, you stated earlier that Dr. Panzella stabbed you.

Are you willing to file assault charges? " Gin saw a look of relief
flicker across Duncan's features.

"No. Absolutely not. She's nor herself. I don't want her jailed, I
simply want her to receive the proper therapy." Gin clamped her jaws
to keep from shouting. As planned, the red-haired agentþhis name was
Reilley, she'd learnedþ had positioned her on the far side of the lab
bench. Gerry stood on the near side, partially blocking her from
Duncan's Ylew.

Dear Gerry. She'd never been so glad to see anyone in her life as when
he'd cruised into the parking lot this morning. He hadn't given up on
her, hadn't written her off. He'd been up all night searching for
her.

She'd wanted to throw her arms around him.

"That's very generous of you, ' Decker was saying, "but we're concerned
about your safety. Dr. Panzella said she left some sort of poison
pellet under your skin when she stabbed you."

"Ridiculous, " Duncan said. "It's part of her delusional system. She
imagines I've been doing that to other people, including herself, so
now she thinks she's done it to me. She needs therapy, gentlemen. And
the sooner you get her to a facility that can care for her, the
better." So damn glib, Gin thought as she quietly reinserted the plug
of the ultrasound's power cord into the wall socket. The
"silver-tongued devil" made flesh.

She pressed the ultrasound's power switch to ON. The red light began
to glow.

'"Ready, " she whispered.

Gerry turned and winked at her as he picked up the transducer handle.

He turned back to Duncan and held it up where he could see it.

'"If that's true, Dr. Lathram, then I don't suppose you'd mind if I
ran this over your leg." Gin saw Duncan's eyes widen, saw his gaze
dart to the glowing power indicator on the machine. He spun and tried
to flee, but Briggs was at the door, and Duncan wasn't getting past
him.

"Keep that away from me! " he cried. "For God's sake, turn that thing
off! " Decker glanced Gin's way and gave her a little nod of
acknowledgment .

Triumph burned through the haze of her fatigue. Yes! Add one more to
the believer list.

Decker's features hardened as he turned back to Duncan, but he didn't
get a chance to speak. Gerry had taken over.

"Sit down, Dr. Lathram, " Gerry said, gesturing carelessly to a chair
near the counter with the transducer.

"Please, " Duncan said. "Be careful withþ" "Sit down! " Duncan sat.
Gin watched admiringly as Gerry commanded the room.

'"Is there an implant filled with something called TPD in your leg? "
"No." Gerry examined the transducer handle. "Then I guess there'd be
no harm in my turning this thing on andþ'' "All right! " Duncan
cried.

"Yes! Yes, there is! There's an implant in my leg! " He was visibly
trembling now. "Please put that thing away! " '"Just a couple more
questions. Did you stick a similar implant in Senator Vincent's leg
after you did plastic surgery on him? " "I don't have to answer that,
" Duncan said.

"Of course you don't, ' Gerry said. He half turned to Gin and pointed
to the ON button on the handle. "Is this the one that makes it work?

" "Yes! " Duncan shouted. "Yes, I did! " He said it! Thank God!

"And how about Lane and Allard and Schulz? " "Yes, yes, yes! " He was
on his feet, backing away, his voice rising toward a scream. "Are you
satisfied? Yes, goddammit! Now turn that thing off! " "I've heard
enough, " Decker said.

"So have I," said Gerry. He placed the handle in its cradle on the
ultrasound machine.

It's over, Gin thought, sagging against the counter. Over at last.

Decker turned to the agent next to Gin and pointed to Duncan.

"Reilley, why don't you keep Dr. Lathram company. Everybody else stay
right where they are for the moment. I'm going upstairs to make some
calls." Gerry stretched his hand across the counter to her. Weak with
relief, she clutched it.

"How's it going? he said.

"Much better, now that you're here." He stared into her eyes. "Tell
me . . . back at the Tremont . . .

the blood in the bathroom . . . did you . . . ? " She nodded and he
squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When he opened them he was
looking away.

"You are incredible. And I'm sorry I doubted you." Those words were
music. She took his hand in both of hers. "We were both being
manipulated by a master. The important thing is you cared enough not
to give up on me. That means the whole world to me." Gerry glanced
over his shoulder at Duncan. "He doesn't look like a guy who's going
down for two counts of second degree murder and a host of federal
crimes. ' Gin saw what he meant Duncan looked cool and calm in his
chair now that the ultrasound transducer had been put away. She began
to move around the counter to get closer to him.

'"Where're you going? " Gerry said.

"I want a few words with my former boss." My former idol. She had to
be careful here. She had something to say but she didn't want her
feelings to get in the way. Just looking at him now made her want to
burst into tears.

"Do you realize what you've become, Duncan? " He gazed up at her
blandly. "I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"Ever since I came to Washington you've been talking to me about ethics
and honesty and probity and how nobody in the government adheres to any
moral and ethical standards. And you weren't far off the mark,
unfortunately.

But I always assumed you were speaking from higher ground. You
weren't. During all that talk you were desecrating your oath as a
physician. I know those men hurt you, and they may well have been the
crooks, cheats, venal, low-rent, bloodsucking leeches on the public
trust you said they were, but that doesn't matter. They came to you as
a doctor and you accepted them as patients. They were counting on you
being better than they were. That's a sacred trustþprimum non
nocereþand you defiled it." She noticed Decker slipping back into the
room, but he didn't interrupt her. Good. She wasn't finished yet.

"I know what you used to be, Duncanþwho you used to beþand I admired
that person like no one else in the world. But you became exactly like
the people you detest so much, the end justifies the means, anything
goes. Look what you tried to do to me." She realized how angry she
was becoming. She had to shut up before she exploded. "You be the
enemy, Duncan. And you're going to pay for it." - '"Maybe, " he said
softly. "And maybe not."

"Don't kid yourself, ' she said, feeling her fury escalating. "You
just confessed in front of a roomful of people." He smiled at her.

"Whatever statements I made were coerced from me, elicited under
threats of damage." He looked around at the four government agents.

"Ask any of these gentlemen if they think one word of what I said here
will ever be admissible in court." Gin looked around. No one had to
say anything. Gerry's eyes spoke volumes.

Something snapped inside her. "You mean he's going free? " Gerry
started to say something but Gin didn't hear it. All the pain, all the
anguish, the terror, the self-doubt, the betrayal, and Duncan was going
to walk!

She turned, grabbed the ultrasound handle, thumbed the power button,
and slammed it against Duncan's leg.

'"Walk away from that! " Duncan screamed "NO! " and clutched at his
thigh. "Oh, God, NO! " The lab was suddenly bedlam, Reilley pushed
her away from Duncan, Gerry pulled the handle from her hand, while
Decker was saying, "Jesus H.

Christ! Gerry, get her the hell out of here! " Gerry grasped both her
upper arms from behind and gently but firmly propelled her toward the
door, guiding her past Duncan, who was now bent double as he clawed at
his thigh, whimpering and moaning, "Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no, please, God,
no-oh-no-oh-no! " And then they were in the narrow passageway outside
the lab. Gerry shut the door behind them and turned her around to face
him.

"My God, Gin! I can't believe you did that."

"I want him to be as frightened as I was. I want him to know what it
feels like to be utterly terrified."

"I can appreciate that. Look, know what he tried to do to you, but
after all you just said, I never thought . . . " He ran out of words
and stared at her. "Why are you smiling? " She truly loved this man's
sense of decency.

"I guess I forgot to mention that Duncan's implant was empty."

" Empty? " She nodded. "Right. He burst in on me before I had a
chance to fill it, so I stuck him with an empty one." She watched
Gerry's expression slacken, then saw his lips turn up at the corners.

A second later he was shaking his head and grinning.

"I love it. Give him a taste of his own medicineþor let him think
that's what he's getting." He slipped his arms around her and pulled
her close. "I was so worried about you. Why didn't you call? " "I
didn't think you'd believe me." Suddenly she felt weak and shaky.

"Can we sit down? " He guided her to one of the chairs in the lounge
area and pulled another up close beside her. He slipped a protective
arm over her shoulders.

"That will never happen again, Gin. I'll always believe you. I
swear."

"Good. Hopefully I'll never again be in a situation like this."

"That makes two of us. Three of us, counting Martha. She's missed
you." He leaned closer. "I think this morning will square me with the
Bureau.

Which means I'll probably be moving up. I'm thinking of moving Martha
away from the District. How about you? Still itching to work on the
Hill? " Gin shook her head. "I've had it with this place. I think
I'm going to look for a practice in a nice little town where only
things are for sale, not people."

"Great." His eyes held hers.

"Maybe you could pick one with an FBI office nearby. How's that
sound?

' "That sounds nice, " she said softly.

The lab door opened behind them. Briggs stepped out and walked past,
heading for the stairs. He gave Gin a wary look. As the door swung
closed again, Gin heard Duncan's voice.

"You've got to get me to a hospital! Now! Not later! This is an
emergency! " And then the door clicked shut.

"How long before we tell him? " Gerry said.

"Tell him? " Gin said. "I'm not going to tell him. He'll figure it
out sooner or later. Let the bastard stew till then." Gerry
laughed.

"Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you." She grabbed his tie
and pulled him closer. "Believe that, buster. Don't ever forget
it."

They kissed.

the end.