F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (7 page)

DUNCAN

 
          
DUNCAN
Lathram, MD, STOOD AMONG THE EARLY morning regulars at the self-serve coffee
counter at the rear of the 7-Eleven on
F Street
off Fifth. Not exactly his purlieu. He felt
a little out of place in his pale blue oxford shirt, blue blazer, and tan
slacks, but no one seemed to pay him much mind.

 
          
He
considered the array of partially filled glass urns before him.

 
          
They
leave the pots on the heaters, he thought. Barbaric.

 
          
Grimacing,
he reached for a medium-sized cup, foam, no less, emblazoned with the
red-and-green corporate logo, and poured himself a cup of the loi-disant
coffee.

 
          
He
could tell from the color, he was sure he could read the morning paper through
it, that they were stretching the grounds by adding too much water. The aroma,
make that smell--this acrid effluvium did not deserve three syllables ,
testified that it had been sitting on the burner far too long.

 
          
He'd
always drunk his coffee black and, even though he knew he was going to regret
this, he wasn't about to change now. He blew steam off the dark surface, sipped
. . .

 
          
And
shuddered. It tasted like . . . like . . .

 
          
Words
failed him.

 
          
He
watched the man in the blue flannel shirt next to him lighten his coffee with
half-and-half, then spoon in three sugars.

 
          
"Does
that kill the taste?"

           
The man glanced up at him, apparently
startled at being spoken to. "Uh, sorta. I don't really like coffee, but I
need it to get going in the morning."

 
          
"Yes.
You might say I'm abstemious in all matters except coffee. What we won't do to
render ourselves properly caffeinated, ay?" He got in line at the cash
register. The flannel shirt followed him.

 
          
Ahead
of him,
Duncan
watched a steatopygous woman with rollers
wound into her orange hair dump three cans of Arizona Iced Tea and twenty
creamsicles onto the counter, then ask for two packs of Parliament, boxes,
please.

 
          
Half
turning to the flannel shirt,
Duncan
said, "I've always believed that one
can augur the course of a civilization through observation of its indigenous
cuisine, don't you agree?"

           
The flannel shirt said, "What?"

           
"Exactly." Then it was
Duncan
's turn to pay.

 
          
"Anything
else?" said the Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter.

 
          
"Sorry,
no, "
Duncan
said. "My doctor won't allow me more
than one medium-size kerosene a day."

 
          
"Yes,
sir," the man said and took his money. "Have a nice . . . day."

 
          
Outside
he walked south, crossed Constitution and strolled up the Mall, gingerly
sipping the coffee-like substance as he approached the Capitol.

 
          
Here
it was Wednesday, a no surgery day. He should have been relaxed, but a fine
tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in the cup. He knew it
wasn't the caffeine.

 
          
Admit
it, he told himself. If you were wound any tighter you'd implode.

 
          
But
why shouldn't you be? This is an important day. Even more important for a
certain congressman.

 
          
He
distracted himself by admiring the scenery.

 
          
He
rarely got downtown anymore. Too bad. It had rained last night, and now a fine
mist hazed the air and the grass coruscated in the early morning sunlight. Starlings
managed to make themselves heard over the growing thunder of the stampeding
herd of arriving federal workers.

 
          
He'd
forgotten how beautiful the Mall could be before the tourists arrived.

 
          
The
last time he'd ventured this way had been a big mistake. He'd come down in May
during the annual invasion by busloads of eighth graders from everywhere east
of the
Rockies
. The National Gallery had been crawling
with roving, cachinnating packs of barely bridled hormones wrapped in scabrous,
whelk-laden skin to whom the epitome of true art and intimate self-expression
was spray painting the name of their favorite heavy metal group on a wall.

 
          
But
then, one of the central pieces on exhibit at the National Gallery at the time
had been a huge mural, ten feet high, twenty long, all stark white except for a
beige vertical stripe two feet from the left edge.

 
          
Maybe
the kids were onto something after all, Megadeth Rules indeed.

 
          
Duncan
hadn't been back since.

 
          
Further
on, a dirty, unshaven man approached him, wearing a black trash bag, he had the
drawstring around his waist, his head and arms poking through appropriately
placed slits.

 
          
"Got
some spare change for an old soldier?" the tatterdemalion said.

 
          
Duncan
stopped and reached into his pocket.
"Which war was that?"

           
"Which one were you in?"
the man said.

 
          
'"The
Korean Conflict, as it is now known." Not true. He'd been in college then,
premed. But he wanted to see what this "old soldier" would say.

 
          
"Me
too."
Duncan
had to smile. "What if I'd said
Vietnam
?"

           
"Was in that one too. I'm the
Unknown Soldier."
Duncan
figured he probably meant Universal Soldier but then again, it was very
likely that he couldn't remember his name.

 
          
"Clever
rain gear you've got there, soldier. The latest from the House of Hefty, if I'm
not mistaken."

           
"Does the job."

           
Duncan
handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man
glanced at it, then did a double take.

 
          
"God,
man! Thanks! Thanks a million!"

           
"Why not? I expect this to be
a good day for me. Might as well be a good one for you too." The fellow
began backing away, most likely trying to put some distance between them before
Duncan
changed his mind. "I'll spend this
wisely, I assure you, sir."

           
Duncan
laughed. "I'm sure you will."

 
          
"And
you have a good day."

 
          
"I
assure you I will. A very good day." It all goes according to plan this
time.

 
          
Anxiety
nibbled at his stomach lining like hungry fish. Timing was everything here, but
with so many variables beyond his control, luck was a considerable factor as
well. And
Duncan
hated to depend on luck.

 
          
He
walked on until he spotted the camera crew setting up on the House side at the
base of the steps leading up to the west portico of the Capitol.

 
          
"Something
big happening?"
Duncan
asked.

 
          
"Just
an interview," the bearded cameraman said. "Congressman ."

           
"Which one?"

           
"Allard."

           
"Not Kenneth Allard! The
Kenneth Allard? Here? Right here? "
Duncan
clapped his hands. "He's one of my favorites!"
The cameraman grinned at the soundman. "First time I ever heard anyone say
that."

           
"Oh, he's a great statesman. A
wonderful intellect. An isle of probity in a sea of venality."

 
          
"If
you say so." Obviously the cameraman had lost what little interest he'd
had in talking to
Duncan
. Not that
Duncan
could blame him.

 
          
Make
sure that camera's working,
Duncan
thought. You're going to see the end of someone's career.

 
          
He
headed up the four flights of granite steps that led to the Capitol.

 
          
He
had to get to Congressman Allard before Allard got to the camera.

 
          
Last
night he'd heard a TV newsreader mention that they'd be interviewing
Congressman Allard today on the revival of the Joint Committee on Medical
Ethics and Practice Guidelines.
Duncan
had decided then to be here bright and
early. This was too rare an opportunity to miss.

 
          
He
climbed to the top of the Capitol steps and gazed back along the green expanse
of the Mall. A mile and a half away, past the Capitol Reflecting Pool, past the
towers of the Smithsonian and the museums and galleries that lined the Mall,
the obelisk of the Washington Monument gleamed like a spearhead in the morning
sunlight and cast a narrow shaft of shadow toward the white rectangle of the
Lincoln Memorial behind it. Above them, the Delta shuttle glided toward a
landing at Washington National.

 
          
Flanking
the Mall to the right and left, Pennsylvania, Constitution, and Independence
avenues were thick with traffic, all heading this way.

 
          
And
all around him a steady stream of men and women, mostly men, dressed in suits
and carrying briefcases or attache cases, scurrying up the steps. They
obviously were not tourists, no Bermuda shorts, cameras, and "I
Washington" caps, and he knew they weren't senators or representatives or
staffers. The people who worked here, who belonged here, moved back and forth
between the Senate and House office buildings on underground shuttles. These
were lobbyists, armed with checkbooks loaded with the grease that keeps the
wheels of Congress turning.

 
          
The
kakistocracy was in session.

 
          
Duncan
sighed as he watched their hurried,
purposeful climb toward the House and Senate chambers. God, there were an awful
lot of them.

 
          
The
Congress of the
United States
, he thought with a grim smile. The best
government money can buy.

 
          
Far
below, at the bottom of the steps, the soundman nodded as the reporter checked
his mike. Good. They were ready. All set up and waiting for
U. S.
representative Kenneth Allard.
Duncan
was waiting for him too.

 
          
And
then he saw him. Allard stepped out on the House side flanked by three of his
aides. Pushing sixty, medium height, and on the glabrous protuberance that
passed for his head, a thatch of dark brown hair that had once belonged to
someone else. He had a paunch but a small one.