F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (40 page)

 
          
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. 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, but,"

           
"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
like,"

           
"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 Tulane. 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 I? 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
Duncan
proof?

 
          
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 Oliver, beaming 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 office 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 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.