F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (47 page)

 
          
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 aged 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 just, 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
lock, 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 edge, Made 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 iced-down 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 credibility, and 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-handed, or, 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 relaxed, slightly. 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.