F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (15 page)

THE WEEK OF SEPTEMBER 14 -
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 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 fallen
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 PRO, 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 $120,000 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 current 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. He was incapable 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,
fellows? What'd I tell you? The tide's turning.

DUNCAN

           
"I’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 couldn't have done the Hogg reconstruction. 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 of,
whoever 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 chose 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 day, 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. Trust me, Oliver. I'm at peace.

 
          
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.