F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (44 page)

 
          
"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 get,"

           
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 tomorrow. 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?"

 
          
"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 certain 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 can,"

 
          
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.

           
"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."

           
"Gina, " 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.

 
          
Everybody
thinks you're crazy, maybe you shouldn'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.