F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (28 page)

           
"Fate, " he said sofddy.
"That has a nice ring to it."

           
Gerry left about
1:00
A. M. Without the Electropick.

 
          
Desperate,
Gin had removed it before handing 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

           
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 off saying 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 mid-afternoon 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 club, so 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 wouldn'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
extracted 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 bore, little 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 trocar'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
DlETHYLAMIDE "Well," she muttered, "that clears 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 incision-by-incision,
suture-by-suture recap of the tip graft they'd done on an eighteen-year-old
girl's nose Monday. She spot checked 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 smile, 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 torsion bar, and twisted. She heard the box snap into the
lock position.