Implant

A few minutes later, feeling almost lightheaded with relief, she was back in the recovery room.

Senator Marsden hadn't moved. But his eyes were open. He lay on his side, blinking at her.

'"Good afternoon, Senator, " she said.

He gave her half a smile and closed his eyes again.

She stared at him, suddenly anxious about having left him alone for those few minutes.

I'm getting as paranoid as Duncan, she thought, but couldn't resist lifting the senator's sheet and checking his leg.

.

Her knees almost buckled when she saw a tiny red spot on his thigh.

Blood? Shakily, she dropped to one knee and leaned close.

Yes . . . blood. A small, semicircular puncture wound, just the mark a trocar would leave. Just like the mark on Senator Vincent's thigh in this very room last month.

- "Oh, God, " she whispered as fury and terror tore at her. "Oh dear God." Gently she poked the area around it. The senator's leg stiffened. She glanced up and found him looking at her. "Hello, again, " she said, rising, trying to keep her voice calm, her face professionally neutral. "Was Dr. Lathram just in here? " "Who's Dr. Lathram? " He smacked his dry lips. "Could I have some water? " Still too groggy to be of any help.

"Yes. Sure." There was a pitcher at the bedside, but she pretended not to see it. "I'll get you some." She forced her wobbly legs to walk her out to the hall where she leaned against the wall and let herself shake.

What sort of a nightmare had she fallen into? Where was the looking glass she'd stepped through to land in this crazy place?

Duncan. Where was he now? Obviously he hadn't left. Only pretended.

Probably sneaked into one of the rooms and waited for her to leave the senator alone.

And while I was relieving myself, he sneaked into the senator's room and jabeed him with the trocar.

The bastard!

Gin scampered to the front door and saw a black Mercedes like Duncan's pulling away from the curb. She couldn't see the plates and couldn't be sure through the heavily tinted glass if Duncan was behind the wheel.

She watched the car disappear into the traffic.

She hurried back down the hall and found Barbara staring at her.

"Are you all right? " she said.

'"I'm fine, " Gin said. She had to tell someone about this, but Barbara was not that someone. "Perfectly fine." She returned to Senator Marsden's room and found him propped up on an elbow.

"Silly me, " she said. "The water was right here all along." She filled a glass and watched him drink as she cast about for a way to go.

Should she tell him? Tell him that his surgeon had just placed a toxin-filled implant in his thigh?

She studied Senator Marsden's bleary expression. He wasn't in any condition to listen or comprehend. So where could she turn? Who could she go to? GERRY GERRY HAD JUST RETURNED FROM LUNCH. HE WAS ADMIRing Martha's latest Crayola masterpiece, freshly pinned to the wall of his cubicle, when Gin's call came in. He was glad she was calling him for a change.

She'd been strangely distant all wee K.

"Gerry, I need your help." Not a good start. She sounded frazzled.

"Sure. What's wrong'" "It's about Duncan." Gerry suppressed a groan.

Not that again. He wished he'd never mentioned that conspiracy theory to her.

"What about him? " "He put a toxic implant in Senator Marsden. ' Gerry didn't reply immediately. Couldn't . . . too shocked to speak.

"He did, Gerry. I know he did."

"Gin, " he said, finally finding his voice. "We've been through all that. We tested the solution, that secret sauce' or whatever you call it, and it turned out to be, '' '"I'm not talking about the secret sauce. This is something else. This is a drug no one's ever heard of."

"How'd you find out about it? " Now she paused. "I found it in one of his desk drawers."

"He leaves it where anybody can find it? " Another pause. "No. He keeps it locked up." '"So then how did you, ? " And then it hit him.

"Oh, no. You didn't."

"I'm sorry, Gerry, but I had to."

"Gin, you used the Bureau's pick to break into someone's office?

"Gerry, you've got a right to be angry, but please don't be. This is too important. I didn't break into his office, only the lock on his desk drawer."

" Same thing. You could have been caught, arrested, maybe worse."

"Look, I knew you'd react like this if I told you.

I'hat's why I didn't. But I had to get into that drawer."

"I don't believe this. You, " '"Gerry, two people may be dead because of him.

Two others are crazy.

This drug causes psychotic reactions. You saw the tape of Senator Vincent on the first day of the hearing, didn't you? " "Of course.

Who didn't? " "Was he acting sane just before he convulsed? " "No, ' he admitted grudgingly. "I guess not." He reached for a pencil.

"What's the name of this drug? " '"Triptolinic diethylamide." She spelled it for him. "TPD for short."

"And it makes you crazy? " "According to the FDA it does. Research was discontinued because of psychotic reactions in primates. ' "So if Lathram is dosing people with this stuff, why hasn't some medical examiner picked up on it? " "Because nobody's looking for it. Nobody even knows it exists. Gerry, thousands upon thousands of compounds are tested every year. Maybe one out of ten thousand ever reaches the public. It was an investigational drug that was dropped because of side effects. That's it. Goodbye.

Sayonara. On to the next compound, and nobody gives the losers another thought." '"So how'd Lathram get hold of this . . . " He glanced at the sheet.

"TPD? " '"His brother. Oliver used to work for the company that was investigating it." Gerry straightened and leaned forward in his chair.

All the old suspicions he'd been trying to put to rest were dancing through his head again.

'"And you think he dosed Marsden with this stuff? " "I know it! " '"Did you see him do it? " "No, but I saw the puncture wound in his thigh." She went on to tell him about seeing the bottle of TPD on Lathram's desk this morning along with an implant and something called a trocar.

"But couldn't Lathram have simply given him a shot of something? " '"Not there. And Duncan never gives injections. He has one of the nurses do it. I tell you, Gerry, Senator Marsden is Lying down the hall with an implant full of TPD in his right thigh. I've got to get it out! " "Okay. Slow down for a second here and let me think." He leaned back again, trying to remain calm, to contain the excitement racing through him. This was heavy. A prominent, well-connected area surgeon and a very visible U. S. senator. Headline-grabbing stuff. It had the makings of a major case. Or a major embarrassment.

If only Gin had actually seewz Duncan insert the implant.

"Do you think Marsden's in any immediate danger? " Gin hesitated, then, "No. Duncan's gone for the day. I think he wants to choose a specific time and place. Remember how both Allard and Vincent had their mishaps while the cameras were rolling. I think that's what Duncan might be waiting for."

"But why, Gin? We're missing a motive here. Why should he want to do this? " "He hates the Guidelines committee and what it's trying to do."

"So do lots of other doctors.

But they're not, " "No. Listen. It's personal with Duncan." She went on to tell him about the stories in the Post and the Banner, and told him that Schulz had been on the original Guidelines committee.

Bingo!

That was the link he'd been searching for to connect the four legislators. She also told him of her call to the Virginia Board of Medical Examiners.

By the time she finished he was convinced, but that wasn't enough.

He'd have to convince Ketter.

"Okay, look. Since the senator's in no immediate danger, we can take a little time to build a case here." werry, '"Hear me out. We'll have someone keep an eye on the senator's home, make sure nobody's nosing around it. Meanwhile, don't you do anything to alert Lathram. " '"Don't worry." '"Don't give him a chance to cover his tracks. I want him to think he's in complete control, that everything's status quo.

And you keep your distance. No more Nancy Drew stuff. Leave the rest to me." He wanted Gin out of harm's way. No telling what Lathram would do if he felt cornered.

"Okay. But are you sure the senator's going to be all right? " "Gin, " he said, 'right now I'm not sure of anything. But I want to get moving on this and I don't make these decisions. I've got to build a case and bung it to the SSA, and he may have to take it higher. And the sooner I get moving on it, the better." She gave him the year and the months when the newspaper articles appeared, then said, "Keep me informed, okay? " "Don't worry. But one thing that can't be mentioned, now or ever, is how you got into Lathram's locked drawer.

Understand? " "I got it. And I'm sorry. Really."

"Accepted. Talk to you later." He sat for a long while after he hung up, making notes, organizing his facts, consulting his computer for the personal database he'd built on Dr. Lathram.

Gerry was wired. He knew this could mean big things for him. He wasn't going to let this one get away from him, either. This was his baby. It meant a lot of extra work in the short run, but in the long run . . .

breaking a case of this magnitude could make a career.

And it looked pretty solid. The good doctor had access and opportunity.

Gerry had to document his motive.

He put in a call to research for any information anywhere on Duncan Lathram, MD, with special attention to links between Lathram and any of the fallen legislators. Gerry wanted those clippings in hand when he brought the case to Ketter.

Gerry was surprised when an interoffice envelope from research appeared on his desk less than half an hour later. So soon?

Quickly he shuffled through the sheets, mostly photocopies of old newspaper articles with Lathram's name highlighted along with those of Lane, Allard, Vincent . . . and Schulz.

Here they were, villain and victims, all neatly crossreferenced in the pages of the Post. A long way from an open and-shut case, but these plus Gin's statement about the neurotoxin ought to be enough to get things rolling.

He headed for Marvin Ketter's office.

Ketter stood at his window, staring down at the rush hour traffic on EYE Street. His brow was furrowed in concentration, drawing his bushy eyebrows into a continuous line. Gerry knew he was trying to make up his mind.

A cautious man, Ketter. Too cautious. Afraid of making a mistake.

But no way was Gerry going to let him take a pass on this one.

"Look, " Gerry said, wandering the room, looking for a way to tilt the SSA his way. "Lathram has motive, means, and opportunity. What else do we need? " "It's all circumstantial. ' '"Four members of the old committee are down or out. Dr. Panzella all but saw Lathram stick one of these implants of his into Senator Marsden.

How long do we wait? ' ""All but saw' isn't quite the same as seeing.

You know that, Gerry.

And Marsden wasn't a member of the original committee. So there goes your motive."

"But he's chairing the new committee. Gin's right. I know she is."

Ketter's eyebrows reached for his hairline. "Gin? " "Dr. Panzella.

We went to high school together." He didn't want Ketter to know it was more than that. "That's why she came to me.

Look, don't tell me you don't know in your gut there's something wrong here." Ketter patted the sprawl of papers Gerry had put before him.

"Trust me, Gerry. There's nothing I'd like better than to uncover something like this. It would be good for both of us.

Gerry took his turn at the window, watching the cars.

Ketter wouldn't get off the damn fence, even though a coup like this would move him up and put Gerry in this very office. Gin would be proud of him, Senator Marsden would be grateful, and he'd have more time to devote to Martha. And to Gin.

Christ, he wanted this.

"So what do we do? Wait until Senator Marsden keels over? " "If he does, at least we'll know what to look for, and where to look for it.

" Gerry shot him a skeptical look.

"I know, I know, " Ketter said. "That won't do Marsden much good. But I won't go offhalf-cocked and embarrass the Bureau." All right, Gerry thought. If reason doesn't work, how about a threat?

"I know one thing, Marvin. Anything happens to Marsden, Dr. Panzella's going to be screaming bloody murder. She's on Marsden's staff. Don't think she won't tell the press and Congress and anyone else who'll listen that she warned the FBI but we ignored her. You're worried about embarrassment, think about that." Ketter's eyebrows met again in the middle as he rubbed his jaw.

He's almost there, Gerry thought. Just one more nudge . . .

"Look, " Ketter said. "If there was some way we could confirm the existence of this implant without letting either Marsden or Lathram know what we're doing, I'd go for it. But the damn thing's supposedly in his leg. What do we do? Knock him out and drag him into a hospital and x-ray him? " Gerry turned and stared at Ketter. Yes!

Ketter said, "What? " "I think I know how we can do it." TRICKS GERRY RAISED HIS FIELD GLASSES AS A SILVER-GRAY LINcoln Town Car pulled out of the driveway and turned right. Senator Marsden sat behind the wheel. He felt the butterflies begin to flutter against the walls of his stomach. They'd been fluttering all night. A lot hung on this little operation. By Bureau standards it was no big deal in resources, a couple of vehicles, a couple of field agents, a couple of civilians.

But it was a very big deal for him.

Butterflies? More like a couple of angry roosters going at each other.

Not many places to hide in this section of McLean. Mostly open horse country, zoned for high acreage, with big, sprawling homes set far back from the road. But Gerry had managed to find a stand of oaks that allowed him to pull off the road and keep an eye on Senator Marsden's driveway. Gin had called the senator's office and learned that he was expected in sometime between eight and nine.

Even if Gerry hadn't known his face, the white bandage on the left ear would have confirmed the ID. And he was wearing his seat belt.

Great.

A sensible man. He glanced at his watch, 8:05 Prompt too.

And as usual, he was driving himself. That had been a concern. As minor as the surgery was, there was always the possibility that the senator might order a limo to take him to his office. Fortunately he hadn't. An extra passenger or a different vehicle would complicate things.

Gerry punched two buttons on his cellular phone and it called a preprogrammed number.

"Okay. He's on his way. Using the Town Car. I'll keep you posted. " He eased his Bureau Ford into gear and followed Marsden as he wound past horse farms and meadows and turned north onto Dolley Madison Boulevard. They passed the CIA entrance and eventually fed into the traffic on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. He understood why Marsden took this route. It was beautiful. Wooded hills and vales undulated to the right, beginning their shift into fall colors, while the tranquil Potomac flowed far below on the left. Across the river the towers of Georgetown University pierced the morning sky. Gerry's tension mounted as they passed under Key Bridge. Marsden could choose from two bridges into the District from here, the Teddy Roosevelt or the Arlington Memorial. If he'd had more time, Gerry could have learned the senator's usual route, but it had been less than twenty-four hours since the surgery. Gerry had prepared for both routes, but he was hoping for the Memorial.

He had to hand it to Ketter. Once his SSA got moving, he moved.

They'd spent a lot of overtime last night getting approvals, securing personnel and equipment, but by seven this morning, everything was in place, waiting.

When he saw Marsden go past the off-ramp for the Teddy, Gerry relaxed a little. But only a little.

He called in again.

"Okay, folks. He's right on course. Hitting the Memorial bridge now.

Everybody be ready to roll as soon as he hits Constitution." Gerry didn't hang up this time, but kept the channel open as he passed the Seabees Memorial and cruised between the granite bald eagles that flanked the entry to the bridge. The massive white marble box of the Lincoln Memorial squatted directly ahead on the far side, and the Washington Monument loomed to his right. He followed Marsden around the Lincoln and onto the Henry Bacon diagonal to Constitution.

As a dark wedge of the Vietnam Wall in its depression slipped past on his right, he said, "Coming to Constitution. Go! " And now those stomach roosters were really kicking up. Timing was crucial here. It had to go down within the next few blocks, but the Bureau's stunt driver had to wait for an opportunity. Not only did he have to make contact, but he had to get away.

A Nova . . . he'll be driving an old blue Chevy Nova.

Cruising with the commuters as they paced the Potomac along Constitution Avenue, Gerry's gaze roamed side to side, flicked from mirror to mirror. Then he spotted the car, weaving through the traffic behind him. He pulled over to let it pass. A brief glimpse of the driver showed a knitted cap pulled low over the forehead, an old flannel shirt with the collar up. Gerry couldn't help a nervous smile.

Trevor Hendricks looked to be anything but a special agent.

"Don't miss, Hendricks, " he whispered. "Please don't . . . miss .

Gerry chewed his lip as he watched Hendricks edge nearer the senator's car, looking for his chance. He found it at Igth, across from the Department of the Interior. Marsden was just pulling up to a red light when the Nova lunged ahead and swerved into the senator's Town Car.

Only a glancing blow but enough to cave in the left front fender. The Lincoln lurched to a halt while the Chevy burned rubber and peeled off down Constitution.

Gerry pulled to a halt directly in front of the senator and - trotted back to his window.

"You okay? " "Yes, " said Marsden, looking a little pale and shaken, but apparently uninjured. "Did you see that crazy son of a bitch? " Gerry stared down Constitution and saw the Nova make a right onto 17th.

Hendricks would dump the car there, mingle with the tourists gathering around the Washington Monument, then walk the few blocks back to the Bureau. The car was a gift from the DEA, the unregistered, confiscated property of a drug mule.

"Saw the whole thing." He pulled a card from his pocket.

. "If you need a witness, say . . . aren't you Senator Marsden? " '"Yes. Yes, I am. ' Gerry thrust his card through the open window.

"Canney. Special agent FBI. I'll call this in." Without giving Marsden a chance to reply, Gerry whipped out his cellular phone, flipped it open, and turned his back to the senator as he pretended to make a call.

"The police should have someone here in a second, " he said, turning back to the car. "You're sure you're all right? " "Positive. Look, we're blocking traffic here. Why don't I just pull ahead and see if I can get off the road. ' Gerry looked back and saw that they'd created a minor traffic jam by reducing inbound traffic from three lanes to two. But he didn't want Marsden going anywhere.

"Don't know if that's such a good idea. Let me take a look at the damage here." He stepped toward the front fender and bent over it.

Hendricks had done a perfect job, the metal was folded in against the tire.

"I don't think you're going anywhere, sir." As he straightened he saw Marsden starting to get out. Gerry stepped up and gently eased him back into his seat.

"Maybe you shouldn't move just yet, Senator."

"I'm perfectly all right. It was just a fender bender." Gerry stood firm, blocking the door with his body. "Still, sir, I think it would be smarter and safer if you moved as little as possible until help arrives."

"Don't be ridiculous! I'm perfectly fine and fully capable of, " A blue and white unit roared up then, sirens wailing, lights flashing, followed closely by an ambulance and a mobile ICU, all with the Bureau.

The senator was adamant against being taken to the hospital. He protested vigorously, but since his car wasn't going anywhere, and since the cop and the E.M.Ts weren't taking no for an answer, and G.W.U hospital was only six blocks up the street, he finally relented.

As the ambulance wailed off, Gerry leaned back against the Lincoln's damaged fender and took a deep, relieved breath. The diciest part was over, and Marsden had come through without a scratch.

Did it!

Christ, what a feeling. Almost like sex. If he smoked he'd be reaching for a cigarerte.

But now came the most important part, finding that implant.

Gerry hoped to God it was findable. Because if they missed it, there was going to be hell to pay.

Gin huddled in the dictation area of the records room and pressed the receiver against her ear to keep any trace of Gerry's voice from escaping.

She hadn't wanted to come in today, but Gerry had thought it best not to deviate from her routine.

"All right, " Gerry said. "We've got the senator here in the emergency room. Let me just go over this again to make sure there's no mistake.

We're all set up to do a magnetic resonance image of his right leg.

That's what we want, right? " "Right. An Mr I with special attention to the lateral midthigh. Tell them to look for the healing puncture wound in the skin. The implant should be somewhere within a three- or four-inch radius from there." "Okay. Just triple-checking."

"And Gerry." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Don't let anyone use an ultrasound to find it, okay? Sometimes they use ultrasound to locate foreign bodies in soft tissue, but don't let them. Don't let anyone even near him with an ultrasound." Diagnostic ultrasound used a tiny fraction of the power of the therapeutic modality, but why chance it?

"Okay. No ultrasound. Look, I've got to run. We should have the answer soon." '"Call me."

"Soon as I can. Once we identify it, we've got to tell Marsden and convince him it should come out immediately. That may not be so easy."

"Just save him, okay? " "I'm doing my damnedest."

"I know you are. Love you. ' He was silent a moment, probably as surprised as Gin herself that she'd come out and said that. Where had it come from?

From the heart, I guess, she told herself.

"I feel the same way, " he said, and she had to smile. He probably had a dozen other agents around him. "Let's get together after the dust settles here. We need to talk."

"Think you'll be able to come over for dinner tonight? " '"I think that can be arranged. Want me to bring something? " "Just Martha."

"Martha? " "Yeah. I haven't seen her in a while."

"Great."

"We'll stay in. I'll cook again. How's broccoli and linguine sound?

" "Martha will love it. ' '"Great. Bye.

" Gin sat there a moment, staring into space. She hadn't wanted to be alone tonight. With Gerry and Martha as company, maybe she wouldn't feel so terrible about all this.

Gerry had sounded both excited and tense. Gin felt only nausea. When they found the implant, Gerry's job would be done. They'd hand Senator Marsden over to the doctors for its removal and the case to the federal prosecutors.

But Gin's involvement would not end. Somewhere along the line she'd have to face Duncan.

She shuddered. She felt like a rat. He'd saved her life, given her a job in high school, and now another. He'd been unfailingly generous for as long as she'd known him, and this was how she repaid him.

But how could she let him go on doing what he'd been doing?

She'd done the right thing, damn it. Ethically, morally, legally, the right thing.

So why did she feel so rotten?

The morning's procedures completed, Duncan sat in his office, his back to his desk, a cup of Kenya AA cooling between his hands. He stared through the glass at the rock garden, idly noting that the red leaves of the dwarf five-finger maple were beginning to brown. Fall was taking hold. Winter was approaching. A winter of the heart.

- Gin, Gin, Gtna . . . how much lo you lenow?

- She did know something, and suspected more. Any doubts had been laid to rest by the way she'd stuck like a second skin to that senator of hers.

Duncan wondered at his growing animosity toward Senator Marsden. A decent man by all accounts, even if he was engaged in extending the domain of the kakistocracy. Was it personal? Could it be he was feeling piqued by Gin's devotion to someone else, a veritable stranger?

More crucial than what Gin knew was the question of what she meant to do about it. He couldn't get a reading from her this morning . . .

she'd been unusually quiet, distant, rarely looking him in the eyes.

Something was up . . .

The intercom buzzed. He swiveled and picked up.

"A Dr. Melendez on oh-two about Senator Marsden." An electric tingle coursed through l)uncan's limbs. Melendez? Who the hell was Dr. Melendez?

He punched 02.

Melendez, it turned out, was one of the E.R docs at G.W.U hospital. In a minimally accented voice he told Duncan that Marsden had been involved in an M.V.A this morning and had mentioned having surgery the preceding day. Melendez just wanted to check out if he was on any analgesics or other meds.

"Nothing stronger than ibuprofen or Tylenol, " Duncan said. "Is he hurt? " '"Not a scratch. The dressing on his ear wasn't disturbed in the least."

" Good."

"If you want, I can take a look under the bandage when he gets back from radiology."

"I thought you said there wasn't a scratch."

"There isn'r. But he's getting an Mr I anyway.

The feds are making a big deal out of this, I guess, his being a senator and all."

"Feds? " A larval suspicion began worming through his gut.

"Yeah. Couple of FBI types lurking about. I don't get it. I mean, he's not hurt so an Mr I isn't medically indicated in the least, but hey, I'm just a doctor."

"A lowly health-care provider, " Duncan said, trying to keep his tone light.

"You got it."

"Well, Dr. Melendez, I thank you for the courtesy of the call."

"Any time" Duncan drummed his fingers on the desk. An MRI? Of what?

The head? Or a leg? He'd been rattled by the mention of the FBI and had forgotten to ask.

And that young man Gin had been seeing lately, wasn't he with the FBI?

His fingers stopped drumming and curled into a fist.

A little too much to be coincidence.

He snatched up the phone. Bob Rubinstein had been with G.W.U radiology for years. Duncan gave Barbara the job of tracking him down, and five minutes later he was on the line.

After the obligatory long-time-no-see small talk, Duncan broached the subject. "The reason I'm bothering you, Bob, is that I understand one of my patients, a Senator Marsden, had an accident this morning and is getting an MRI. I was wondering how he's doing."

"Don't know anything about it. MR's another section. But I can find out, if you want. Can you hold? " Duncan could and he did, listening to tinny Muzak while trying to quell The tension rising slowly within him.

Rubinstein was back in a couple of minutes.

"Just spoke to Sal Vecchiarelli, the chief of MR. Know him? " "No.

.

" "A good man. And is he pissed! Your senator's all right, but they're doing this MR on him anyway. It seems, this is all sub rosa, so don't repeat it, okay? " "Trust me. Not a word."

"Okay. Seems the FBI commandeered this time for an Mr I of the senator last night. Some twelve hours before his accident. Looks like they knew he was going to have it. Pretty strange, wouldn't you say? " Duncan felt himself going cold. "I certainly would." '"Wonder what they're up to." '"I couldn't imagine. I operated on his ear yesterday. Are they, ? " "No.

It's his leg they're interested in. His right leg, I believe. " Duncan closed his eyes and swallowed. His mouth was parched. He did not want to ask the next question. "Any idea what they're looking for?

" '"Some sort of foreign body." He slammed his fist against his thigh.

No! No, dammit! He forced his voice to remain calm, steady.

"Are the results in yet? " "Not yet. The senator's in the tunnel as we speak. Sal's fuming. He just wants to get the study done, give them a reading, and send them on their way so he can get to patients who really need the test."

"Can't say as I blame him." '"Since the senator's your patient, I can call you back with the reading if you want."

"No, thanks, Bob, " Duncan said slowly as a weight grew in his chest.

"Not necessary." I already know the reading.

His hand trembled as he hung up the receiver. He stared at his fingers. What were they vibrating with? Rage? Or heartache?

Gin knows.

He'd guessed she knew something, but until this moment he'd had no idea how much. Now there was no more guessing. Somehow she'd pieced together the who and the how, and maybe even the why.

But instead of coming to him, she'd gone to the FBI.

He wanted to break something, punch a hole in the wall, grab his chair and fling it through the picture window.

But no. He was not a maniac. He was in control. Although, looking at all this from Gin's perspective, she had to think he was psychotic. A paranoid schiz. He'd no doubt have thought the same thing if situations were reversed.

But he'd have gone to her first. He wouldn't have sneaked off and betrayed her to the kakistocracy.

Gin, my dear sygnet . . . how could you?

She'd cut him deeply today. He didn't know if he'd ever forgive her for this. But that was a question for another time Much more pressing was the question of what was he going to do now?

FALLOUT GINA WAITED, shuffling BETWEEN THE DICTATION DESK and the recovery rooms, checking on this morning's post-ops. A light load today, two rhinoplasties and a thigh liposuction. She wished there was more to do.

This waiting was killing her.

She glanced out the window of the main recovery room and noticed Duncan's cat was gone. She stopped by Barbara's desk on her way back.

"I don't know if he's coming back or not, " Barbara said. "I looked up and there he was, breezing past me. Didn't even say goodbye."

"It's not even noon yet." Barbara shrugged. "Maybe he's got a big weekend planned and wants an early starr. ' Gin wondered about that.

Usually he stayed later on Fridays, going over a list of things he wanted done or set up before surgery began again Monday morning. Why the change in routine today? Did he suspect something?

Got to stop thinking like that, she told herself, rubbing her upper arms as a chill of apprehension skittered across her shoulders. Nothing is different today. No reason to suspect a thing.

She would have loved to leave herself, but she was required to stay on duty until the last patient went home. So she stayed on, doing everything as usual, behaving as if nothing were wrong. It hadn't been such a tough decision. The thought of sitting alone in her apartment, waiting for the phone to ring, was hardly an enticing alternative.

Lunch hour came and went without her having a bite, couldn't think of eating a thing, and Gerry hadn't called. The afternoon dragged on.

Still no call. Gin was all caught up on her dictation and paperwork, and was running out of things to do. She heard Oliver puttering in his lab. She could have wandered over to help him out, but now, after what she knew, the thought of even being near those implants repulsed her.

Better to try to look busy until Gerry called.

By quarter after three Gin still hadn't heard, and she was beginning to worry. They should have had the reading by midmorning. Why hadn't he called?

Unless . . . her chest constricted at the thought . . . unless the Mr I showed that the implant had ruptured in the accident. They'd have had to rush Senator Marsden into emergency surgery before too much of the TPD leaked into his circulation.

What a nightmare scenario. But still, Gerry would have called to tell her.

She got up, wandered around upstairs, then came back. She couldn't sit still. What was happening downtown?

Finally she picked up the phone. Enough waiting. Time to make a call of her own. She dialed the FBI and asked for Gerry. After a moment on hold, the receptionist came back, "I'm sorry, but Special Agent Canney is not available now. Would you care to leave a message? " No, she wouldn't.

Gerry wasn't back yet? Could that be? She felt her anxiety level rising. The chart-lined walls around her seemed to lean over her, closing in.

Keep calm, she told herself. Everything's under control.

Quickly she dialed Senator Marsden's officer. When she asked how he was after the accident, Doris, the receptionist, said, "Oh, he's fine, Dr, Panzella. Want to speak to him? " Nonplussed, Gin mumbled something that vaguely resembled yes. "Gin, " the senator said without preamble, "I wish you could have been with me today. If ever there was an example of the need for the Guidelines act, it was the fiasco I witnessed this morning."

"Are you all right? " "Of course, I'm all right! There was never anything wrong with me. Yet they insisted on shoving me into this MRI machine and scanning my legs.

Everything happened so fast, I was squeezed into that tube before I was sure of what was going on and had a chance to protest."

"I'm sure they had good reason, " "They had no reason! Just trying to pad the bill! I'm curious.

"Maybe it was because you're a U. S. Senator, " she said, trying to mollify him. This was not what she wanted to talk about. "I'm sure they don't do that to everyone."

"Wait till I get the bill, " he said. "Just wait. Then they'll hear from me." Gin figured he'd have a long, long wait ''llh, did they find anything? ' she asked and then held her breath.

'"Find anything? Of course not! There wasn't anything to find!

Wasted half my morning because of a stupid hit-and run fender bender. ' Found nothing . . . hadn't they told him? Why not? What was going on?

Gin fumbled through the next minute of conversation, only half listening, replying with what she was sure were non sequiturs, and then somewhat less than gracefully ended the conversation.

Her mind spinning, she immediately called the FBI again, and again, Gerry was "nor available at this time ' She left her name and an urgenr message to call her as soon as possible.

And then she was up and moving. She had to get out, get some fresh air.

She hurried to her car and turned the heater on high. She was cold, but that wasn't why she was shivering. Dread settled around her like a tenebrous shroud.

Somewhere, somehow, something was terribly wrong.

The late afternoon had been endless. She'd taken a shower, fixed a sandwich that she didn't touch, tried to watch talk shows. She was going nuts.

When she hadn't heard from Gerry by half past six, Gin called his office again and was told he was gone for the day.

Why hadn't he called? Had he missed her message?

She called his home. He answered on the second ring.

"Gerry. Thank God! " "Gin. Hello." His voice sounded flat, lifeless.

"I've been trying to reach you all day. I've been going crazy here.

Didn't you get my message? " ""Going crazy, " he said. "That's a good one." A wave of cold formed at her center and spread outward. With the cordless phone tight against her ear, she stepped out of her bedroom and began pacing the front room.

"Gerry, what's wrong? " "What's wrong? Gin . . . " he sighed, then said nothing. The few silent seconds seemed to stretch into the night falling outside her bay window.

"Gin, there was nothing there. ' It wasn't a complete shock. Some part of her subconscious must have expected this but hadn't allowed her to face it directly. Now she had no choice.

Still, she couldn't accept it.

Her words came in a rush. "There had to be. Gerry, I saw it. Less than an hour before the surgery he had the trocar and an implant filled with TPD sitting on his desk ready to go. I left the recovery room for a few minutes, and when I returned there was a puncture wound on the senator's thigh. It was still bleeding."

"We had that puncture wound' checked in the hospital. It was little more than a scratch."

"Gerry, it, " "But it doesn't matter whether there was a scratch or a puncture in the skin, Gin, the fact remains that there wasn't anything under the skin.

The Mr I didn't pick up a single trace of a foreign body. Not in the right leg, and not in the left leg either, because we checked both of them. There's nothing under Marsden's skin but fat and muscle and bone.

No implant, no nothing! " "Gerry, that can't be. If it's not in the senator's leg then it's got to be somewhere else. I know, " "That's the trouble, Gin. You didn't know. And you don't know now. I thought you did. I never should have, " He cut himself off.

"Gerry, I'm so sorry. I was so sure. Why else would he have that implant out and ready to go just before the senator's surgery? " "I don't know, Gin." She sensed a growing edge to his voice. "You tell me. You're the only one who saw it . . . or that TPD stuff. ' "Do you think I imagined it? ' "I don't know what to think anymore. Look, I know I started you on this, but I must have been crazy, and I made you a little crazy too. I do know that Ketter and I are the big joke around the Bureau."

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry. Look, you sound tired.

When you and Martha come over we'll have some wine and you can relax while I, " "I don't think we'll be able to make it, Gin. Not tonight.

" Something in his voice made her sit down in the nearest chair. She bit her lip.

"Gerry, what's wrong? " "Wrong? Everything's wrong, Gin." She heard the hurt, the disappointment in his voice. "I'm really not very hungry. And to tell the truth, I don't think I'll be very good company tonight." Gin felt tears well in her eyes. "I feel terrible about this, Gerry.

" "That makes two of us. Maybe you've been working too hard, stretching yourself too thin. I shouldn't have got you wired on my little conspiracy theory. ' She felt as if she'd been punched. "You do think I imagined all this!

Did I imagine all those newspaper articles? " "I told you, Gin, I don't know what to think anymore. Maybe this isn't a good time for us to be discussing it. I know it's not a good time for me. I've got to get dinner for Martha. We'll talk some other time, okay? " '"Talking it out tonight might, " "The last thing I need is to talk about Duncan Lathram. Frankly, if I never hear his name again, it will be too soon.

What I need is to cool down and get this day over with. ' "You're sure? " "I'm truly sorry for begging off at the last minute like this, but trust me, it's for the best." She didn't want to hang up but sensed he didn't want to talk anymore.

'"Call me tomorrow? ' "Will do."

"All right. Good night."

"Good night, Gin." And then she hung up.

Bewildered, Gin sat and stared down at Kalorama Road.

"He thinks I'm crazy, " she whispered to the empty apartment. But she'd been so certain, so damn sure that Duncan had stuck an implant into Senator Marsden. She'd seen it lying on his desk just before the surgery. Why else would it have been there?

Unless . . .

Unless Duncan had been setting her up.

But how? He had no inkling of what she knew. She'd relocked his desk drawer, erased the FDA download from the computer. She'd left no trail.

No reason in the world for Duncan to suspect she had the vaguest due.

So why would he set her up?

Maybe he had'ntr. Maybe he'd tried to jab an implant into the senator's thigh but didn't have time to complete the job, leaving a skin wound but no implant.

And maybe he wasn't up to what she thought he was. Maybe she'd misinterpreted everything.

Was that possible? Could she have been that far off the mark?

And poor Gerry. He'd stuck his neck out on account of what she'd told him. Sounded as if he'd been damn near decapitated as a result. He had a right to be hurt and angry.

But so do I, dammit.

She wandered over to the kitchenette and saw the heads of broccoli sitting on the counter, waiting to be sliced up into flowerets. Enough for three or four. And she wasn't the least bit hungry.

I've really screwed things up, haven't I, she thought as she rerurned to the bay window and curled up on the seat.

The streetlights were on. She stared down at the passing singles and couples. She felt utterly alone, but she wasn't going to cry.

Gerry sat in his easy chair with Martha on his lap. He had his arms around her, holding her close and warm against him in her OshKosh corduroys while she read him a story. It was the Martha Canney variation of Madeline. She couldn't read just yet, but she'd heard the story so many times that she knew it almost word for word.

So did Gerry. So his mind drifted. It would have drifted no matter what Martha was reading. What a godawful, rotten day. If only . . .

Yeah. If only. He must have had a million if-onlys since this morning when the Mr I report had come back negative.

Damn! If only he hadn't rushed it, taken a little more time to check things out. But dammit, they couldn't take too much time Marsden was supposedly in danger.

Supposedly . . .

He'd bought into Gin's scenario completely. If only he'd been a little more skeptical.

He winced as he remembered the excruciating moment when he'd had to call Ketter and tell him that they'd come up empty-handed. The little operation that was to make them a couple of fair-haired. boys had left them the big jokes of the Bureau. And then Cavanaugh, one of the assistant directors, had called them into his office and dressed them down but good. Gerry couldn't remember ever feeling so embarrassed and humiliated. He'd wanted to crawl under a rock.

But the worst of it was that lost amid all the reprimands was the fact that the operation Gerry had designed and managed had gone off like clockwork. Everything as planned, on time and under budget. Marsden's car had been hit without damage to him, he'd been whisked off to the hospital, examined, and delivered back to. his office without the slightest hint that it had all been arranged.

At least the Bureau itself had been spared any public embarrassment.

Thank God for that.

But no one would remember his well-oiled operation. Only that there'd been no poison pill in the senator's leg, and that Gerry Canney had to be the most gullible agent in the Bureau.

But what hurt most was knowing that any hopes he'd had of moving up to SSA soon had been dashed but good.

He held Martha closer.

Looks like it's business as usual, kid, he thought glumly.

Catch-as-catch-can fatherhood for the foreseeable future.

"Daddy, you're squeezing too tight! ' "Sorry, honey. What happens to Madeline next? " "She has her operation."

"Tell me all about it." His mind drifted again. What about Gin?

What was going on inside her?

Where had she come up with that wild fantasy? From me, dammit. At least initially. But she'd pushed it a few steps further . . .

Marsden . . .

that triethylwhatever-it-was . . . and he'd bought into it on the strength of her conviction, on the basis of his faith in her . . .

Looking back, knowing now that it had been the proverbial wild-goose chase, he couldn't believe he'd got sucked in like that. But thinking about it, he guessed he had been primed to believe anything shady about the uppity Dr. Lathram.

He wished today had never happened.

Gerry suppressed a growl as he closed his eyes. He knew he was feeling sorry for himself. He hated self-pity. Tomorrow was a new day. He'd suck this mess in, chew it up, spit it out, and get back on the job.

But tonight . . . tonight he was feeling pretty goddamn low.

His thoughts ran to Gin again. He'd been pretty rough on her. Hadn't meant to be, but the bitterness was like a pressure, he'd had to blow off at least some of it. Couldn'r on Ketter, who'd backed him a hundred percent, and certainly not on Martha.

That left Gin.

Maybe she needed some help. She certainly hadn't been fully connected to reality imagining that implant in Marsden.

Gin . . . he felt a need for her but didn't want to be in the same room with her. At least not tonight. Maybe he'd get past this and maybe not. Where did they go from here? The fallout from today could poison their relationship.

He shifted in the chair. Enough wallowing. He had someone very real and very important sitting on his lap. Time to focus on Martha, and on the problem of Madeline's tummy ache.

But a vision of Gin sitting alone in her apartment came to him. He wondered if she had anyone to turn to tonight. He wondered if she knew someone was thinking about her.

Duncan sat before MaeNeil/Lehrer, sipping a scotch and soda, barely listening. He was envisioning Gin. His earlier anger was gone and now he was wondering what slue was thinking.

Poor girl. Probably couldn't figure up from down at the moment.

Probably questioning her sanity.

He sighed. He wished he could feel good about hoodwinking the poor thing, but frankly, it hadn't taken much. He'd been all primed for her yesterday morning. He'd had the TPD, the trocar, and a saline-filled implant sitting on his desk where she could see them. He'd dosed her coffee with twenty milligrams of Lasix. The diuretic had achieved the desired effect, she'd had to leave Marsden's side for a trip to the john. And while she was gone he'd ducked in and given Marsden a quick jab with the tip of the trocar. After that it was simply a matter of waiting.

All to see what she knew. Obviously she suspected something, but how much?

Now he knew.

Gin knew everything. Or at least enough to go to her fellow in the FBI and convince him to save her dear senator from the wicked Dr. Lathram.

The call from the hospital that the FBI was involved had come as a mind-numbing shock.

He sipped his scotch. But he was better now. Everything was under control again.

But poor Gin. She must have been so sure.

And right now she probably wasn't sure of anything at all, except that the FBI considered her an unreliable source.

He'd neutralized her without harming a hair on her head.

Pretty slick.

So now she had to put this behind her. Write it off as a bad dream and let things return to normal. If he were smart he'd find an excuse to fire her. Play it safe and get her off the premises.

But he couldn't do that. He still remembered that skinny, raven-haired little girl with the huge brown eyes, wide with fright, asking him if she was going to die, and later his hands inside her abdomen, her blood pooling around his wrists as he fought to find the bleeders and mend her damaged arteries. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed those days. He missed the adrenaline rush of the emergencies, opening up a patient and searching for the leak, racing against the falling blood pressure, the falling hematocrit, the impending cardiovascular collapse and shock.

Or rushing to tie off a bulging abdominal aneurysm before it blew and splashed red against the ceiling. He missed saving lives.

But McCready, Ailard, Lane, Schulz, Vincent, and the rest of them had made that impossible.

He rubbed his eyes as bitter memories rushed in. . . memories of poor Lisa . . .

Lisa Lathram . . . a euphonious name, such an up sound to it. And yet Lisa herself . . .

He remembered her as such a happy child, could still hear her dulcet laugh, see her bright eyes, her effulgent smile, Lord, that smile .

.

.

Lisa was always smiling, accepting everyone and everything, hugs and kisses all around.

When Brad came along, Duncan loved him equally, but as a son. There was a difference there.

Lisa remained the light of his life. At times he was sure Diana was jealous of their relationship. When he arrived home from the hospital or the office, Lisa was the first one he looked for, and she always came running when she heard his voice. How he cosseted her. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, a piano to play, a horse to ride, a balance beam for gymnastics practice, was hers for the asking.

But the halcyon days of her childhood evanesced as puberty took hold, and Duncan came to understand firsthand the origin of the changeling myth. As her body changed, so did Lisa's personality. At first he and Diana chalked up the moodiness to the new hormones pulsing through her.

After all, what was there to be grumpy about? With her flowing blond hair and lissom figure, she was only getting prettier.

He and Diana kept hoping their adolescent age would snap out of it, but after a while it became clear that more than hormones were at work here. She lost interest in her friends, her piano playing, her horse.

The downs kept getting deeper and longer, and there never seemed to be any real ups, only not-so-downs.

And then she swallowed half a bottle of her mother's Dalmane and had to have her stomach pumped. She was diagnosed with severe endogenous depression and the endless rounds of antidepressants and outpatient therapy began.

Nothing worked for very long. And then came that terrible night she locked herself in her room and screamed with pain. Duncan kicked the door down and found her sitting in the middle of her bed bleeding from a slit wrist.

They hospitalized her for a month after that, and tried something new called Prozac. Lisa responded beautifully. In her case it was truly a miracle drug.

Duncan still remembered the day he came home from the hospital to find Diana standing in the foyer sobbing. Immediately his heart plummeted, expecting the worst And then he heard it, floating in from the living room, the sound of Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 2I. Lisa was playing again.

He and Diana fell into each other's arms and wept.

Even now his eyes clouded at the memory.

After that, as Lisa brightened, so did their lives. Duncan hadn't realized how his daughter's problems had tainted their entire family life. But now that she was getting back to normal, the days seemed brighter, his own step lighter. Laughter again around the dinner table as Lisa began riding her horse and hanging out with some of her old friends. Her grades turned around and she began dating Kenny O"Boyle.

They dated for months, and Kenny became the sole topic of Lisa's conversation. She and Diana would have long mother-daughter talks about him, and Diana told Duncan she was worried that Lisa might be getting too involved. She'd just turned eighteen, true, but she'd missed a lot of growing up in those black years.

Duncan wasn't crazy about Kenny. He seemed a shifty, inarticulate dolt, but then Duncan was naturally leery about any male sniffing around his daughter. Lisa adored him. And Lisa was happy. Happy for the first time in years. So Duncan decided to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.

And then the McCready committee reared its ugly head. He remembered the morning five years ago when it all began, in the doctors lounge at Fairfax Hospital, somebody showing him the article on the front page of the Post. He'd just come off two scheduled procedures, an abdominal aneurysm graft and a carotid endarterectomy, all after rushing in at 3:00 A. M. to close a torn femoral artery on a motorcyclist, "donorcyclist, " as the E.R staff called them. He was tired. But not too tired to be furious at Senator Vincent's public condemnation of his million-dollar charge to Medicare the year before.

Every time he turned around some baseball player or basketball dribbler was signing a contract for five or six million dollars a year. How many lives did they save in a year? Barbra Streisand can get twenty million for two nights of warbling, but you, Duncan Lathram, you moneygrubbing bloodsucker, you charge too goddamn much.

He'd wished he had some legal recourse, but how the hell did you sue a congressional committee? And what would he accomplish but call even more unwanted attention to himself?

What did it matter? he remembered thinking. The whole brouhaha would blow over in a couple of days.

But he was wrong.

His auto-da-fe' at the hands of the Guidelines committee continued with unflagging zeal. Apparently the members thought they'd found a particularly tasty bone in Duncan Lathram and wanted to keep gnawing away at him. Then the Alexandria Banner picked up the story, followed by a patient's rights group demanding an investigation, so the State Board of Medical Examiners got involved, and soon Medicare had a team of pettifogging auditors formicating through his office records, pawing through his files, and swarming in the hospital records room, sifting his charts for pecuniary indiscretions. To hell with patient confidentiality. Those weasel-faced bureaucrats would know all the secrets of everyone he'd operated on in the past few years. But what did that matter? Spurred by the Guidelines committee, the government had declared jihad on Duncan Lathram.

Duncan was angry and embarrassed, but not too worried. His medical records were impeccable, and he'd match his morbidity and mortality stats against anyone in the country. Let them investigate. He'd come up smelling like a rose.

He just wished they'd hurry and get the whole mess over and done with.

But it dragged on, and in the ensuing months Duncan began to notice a hint of coolness from some of his colleagues at the hospital. He was getting fewer requests for surgical consults. He understood their predicament, worrying about guilt by association. They were waiting till things cooled down.

Still, he was in for a nasty shock one day as he began one of the surgical consultation requests he did receive. When he entered the patient's hospital room and introduced himself, the patient bolted upright in bed. Duncan still remembered his words.

"Oh, no. Forget it. No way I'm gonna be operated on by some knife-happy, money-grubbing quack! " Duncan was mortified, angry enough to punch a hole in the wall. And dammit, hurt. He consoled himself that most likely he had just experienced the nadir of the whole affair.

It couldn't get any worse.

The only way he could go from there was up.

Again, he was wrong.

Because all the bad press was having a devastating effect at home.

Duncan Lathram, MD, was the talk of the town . . . including the high school.

And so in retrospect it seemed inevitable that he would come home one night to find Lisa sobbing in her mother's arms. She and Kenny had had a fight and broken up. The cause of the fight? What the kids were saying about Lisa's father, saying to Kenny behind Lisa's back.

Kenny's parting shot? "Forget the prom! Forget everything! I ain't going' anywhere with the daughter of no crook! " Devastating for any teenager, but to Lisa it seemed like the end of the world.

Barely able to speak through her sobs, she wanted to know why her father hadn't said anything, why he hadn't come out and defended himself.

Duncan remembered the scene as if it had occurred only a moment ago.

He knelt before his daughter and gripped her hands. "Honey, these are lies from spotlight-hunting buffoons. The way these things work, the louder I proclaim my innocence, the guiltier I look."

"But you haven't said anything! " "I'm letting my records do the talking. I've got nothing to hide, Lisa.

When the bureaucrats finish their investigation, I'll be vindicated.

And they'll be the fools."

"But meanwhile they're making you look like a crook! And making everybody hate me! And you don't care! " "Of course I care." He realized then that he'd misread the whole situation. He'd treated it as a brief but unpleasant interlude, another in a long series of fleeting Capitol Hill cacophomes that would die down as soon as Congress, in tune with its well-earned reputation for a short attention span, moved on to the next hot topic.

So he'd done nothing to counter the accusations leveled. That had been a mistake.

Another mistake was thinking it would involve only his practice. He should have seen that his professional obloquy would have a ripple effect on his private life as well. He'd always separated the practice and the family, but there was no way of insulating the latter from the ravages upon the former, not with an assault of this magnitude.

He hurt for Lisa.

"But what could I have done, Lisa? What can I do to make this better?

' "I don't know, something. You could plea bargain or whatever they call it. Something, anything to make them shut up and get off our backs."

"Plea bargain? " He was stunned. "You don't plea bargain when you're innocent." Lisa tore her hands from his and ran upstairs, screaming, "Thanks!

Thanks for nothing! My life is over! And all because of you! I might as well have AIDS! " Diana followed her, glaring back at him. "She's right, you know. You could have done something! " This was vintage Lisa, always taking everything too hard, seeing everything in the worst light. With her history, though, that kind of outburst could not be laid off to hyperbole and histrionics.

They increased her therapy sessions and kept an eye on her day and night. But a week later, when it became clear, at least to Lisa, that she and Kenny were through for good, she dug out a hoard of old pills she had squirreled away over the yeats, a potentially lethal combination of antidepressants like Elavil, Parnate, Desyrel, Sinequan, Norpramin, Tofranil, Nardil, and lithium, and took them all.

And then she fell. Over the railing. Down to the hard, cold foyer floor. Where Duncan found her.

And then she died. And Diana blamed him.

And Duncan blamed himself.

He had never realized what grief could mean, never imagined he could mourn the loss of another human being the way he mourned Lisa. And he knew it was all his fault . . . all his fault . . .

Until the audits and investigations were completed. Then he knew who was really to blame.

The rasorial crew of Medicare auditors finished their quest for any improprieties that might grease his path to the gibbet, always in full view of his steadily diminishing patient flow, and the worst they could come up with were a few errors in the coding of certain procedures.

The quality assurance examiners found no cases, not one! , of unnecessary surgery. Every single procedure met or exceeded recommended . . . .

Indications.

No apology, though, from the Guidelines committee and their fugleman, McCready. They'd moved on to other hatchet jobs.

Except for a few loyal patients who wrote letters on Duncan's behalf, no one had come to his defense throughout the entire ordeal. His colleagues had kept their heads down. Even some A.M.A paper-pusher was quoted as saying the amount Duncan billed was "excessive." Duncan learned the meaning of alone.

The long-delayed reports finally got forwarded to the State Board of Medical Examiners. The "coding irregularities" did not result in any net gain on Duncan's part, actually he lost money, but still he was issued a warning to be more careful in the future. Since there was no evidence of fraud or negligence, or of performing even a single unnecessary procedure, -the board exonerated him.

But where was that publicized?

In a small paragraph buried deep in the Banner. But the Washington Post, which had broken the original story that started this nightmare, never mentioned it.

The public flogging was over, but it had dragged on too long. Referral patterns had changed. Generalists who used to feed his practice had found new surgeons.

His practice was ruined. He'd been held up to national scorn and then cleared. But his reputation remained tainted.

He could have shrugged it off, all of it, if Lisa still were alive and Diana still behind him.

But Lisa was gone. Dear, dear Lisa, who left without a goodbye, blaming him for all her pain.

Diana, too, blamed him. And soon their marriage went the way of his practice.

But he wasn't to blame. He'd done nothing wrong. Couldn't she see that? It was the committee . . . that damned Guidelines committee.

McCready and his claque of pharisaical louts had plundered his life and then casually '. moved on.

Duncan had actually entertained thoughts of buying an assault rifle and blowing them all away. But then McCready had died, and the Guidelines committee disbanded, leaving Duncan with no target for the monstrous, smoldering mass of rage, coiled and writhing within him.

But he got over it, got past it, to use the current phrase. After all, he still had his son, Brad had stuck by him from beginning to end.

And Oliver, of course. Steadfast, sedulous Oliver. Without them .

.

.

Well, he just might have shoved a gun barrel in his mouth. So he started anew, new state, new specialty, new persona.

And everything seemed fine until the president revived the Guidelines committee. It was then that Duncan realized that the rage had never gone away. Like a cancer, it had metastasized throughout his system until it now lived in every tissue.

- And still he might have controlled it if so many committee members hadn't begun looking around for someone to enhance their appearance for the heavy TV exposure they expected . . . and come to him, because he had the implants . . .

The irony should have been delicious.

Make me loo/2 good for the tameras . . .

He stopped himself from hurling his glass across the room. No sense in wasting good scotch. So now five of the original seven were gone. McCready from natural causes, four Duncan's doing, and two left . . . the two youngest who were unlikely to seek out cosmetic surgery.

Almost time to call it quits. The new committee was in complete disarray, The Guidelines act moribund. One more strike, the biggest of all, and it would be dead.

Just like Lisa.

And he wouldn't have to worry about Gin interfering with the last target. She'd be too off balance after today. Wouldn't even know about that patient. She'd be home, enjoying a day off.

And then he'd quit. Flush the TPD and wait for his moment to dissolve the last implant.

Which reminded him, he had to move the TPD. He'd left it in his top drawer in case Gin went for another look. Now that the games were over, he'd have to find a new hiding place.

He lifted his glass.

Par, Regina.

Mind your own business and we'll all live happily ever after.

If not . . .

Gin lay in her bed in the dark, listening to the tick of the old mantle clock from the other room. An awful night alone, grappling with her doubt, her confusion. But she'd passed through that fire, emerging with a new perspective.

She hadn't imagined this. For a while there she'd been dazed and unsure, rocked back on her heels by the way everything had gone so wrong today. But she was on her feet again.

It's not over, Duncan, she told the darkness. You're smart . . . no, you're brilliant. Somehow you got way ahead of me on this. You probably think you've won. But I know what I saw, and I know what I know.

This is not over.

THE WEEK OF OCTOBER SUNDAY GINA WAS GOING TO FIND OUT EVERYTHING ABOUT Duncan.

She started her engine as Duncan's black Mercedes pulled to a stop at the end of his street. She couldn't park outside his house, or even on his block. Duncan lived in an ultraexclusive Chevy Chase neighborhood of large, stately, Federal-style homes on half-acre lots in which her little red Sunbird would stick out like a garbage scow at the Potomac Yacht Club. But one of the hallmarks of the neighborhood's exclusivity was limited access. The brick-pillared entrance opened onto a secondary road near a small, upscale strip mall. Gin had camped in the mall's parking lot most of yesterday and all of this morning and no one had bothered her.

Yesterday had yielded nothing of interest. Duncan had gone out only once, stopping at a liquor store, a gourmet coffee shop, a gas station, and an electronics specialty shop. "Caliguire Electronics, " read the sign over the front door. "Audio, Video, SurroundSound, Satellite Dishes, Custom Electronics." Gin remembered Duncan talking about his satellite dish on occasion. This was probably where he'd got it. .

"Boy toys, " she'd muttered.

And then it struck her, custom electronics. Duncan needed some sort of miniature ultrasound transducer to dissolve his implants. Something small enough to hide on his person and aim at his victim when he got within range. Something pocket-sized, Ohmigod! His pager. His old-fashioned oversized beeper. She remembered how he'd had it in his hand when she saw him with Allard, and how it had gone off as they were standing with Senator Vincent on the hearing room floor before Senator Marsden gaveled everyone to their places. A few minutes later Senator Vincent was convulsing behind the dais.

What if it was oversized for a reason other than Duncan's stubborn unwillingness to part with a less than state-of-the-art piece of equipment? What if his pager was a mini-transducer?

Could Duncan have used this place or someplace like it to fashion one for him?

The question nagged Gin the entire time he was inside, which stretched out almost to an hour. Finally, he came out and returned home.

Gin had seriously considered the idea of returning to the electronics shop to question the owner about transducers disguised as beepers, but then Gerry's words came back to her.

No more Nancy Drew stzz.

Gerry . . . she missed him. She wished he'd call.

But it was good advice. Not only was she too old to be Nancy Drew, she didn't want to be a detective, being an internist was quite enough.

And besides, questioning the folks at Caliguire might prompt a call to Duncan.

,Better just stick to following him around.

Nice way to spend a weekend.

So now it was Sunday evening, the light fading, and this was the first Gin had seen of Duncan all day. She'd worried that he might have another way out of his neighborhood, but a drive by his house an hour ago had revealed the Mercedes parked at the top of the semicircular drive before the front door of his brick colonial.

Then the radio gave her the most likely reason why he'd - chosen now to be on the move. The Redskins game was over.

They'd lost. Again.

She put her car in gear and waited to see which direction he turned.

Whichever way, she'd be close behind. She wasn't crazy, not psychotic, not even neurotic, and she wasn't going to let anyone make her think so.

Duncan had secrets. He lied about where he went on his afternoons.

She was going to find out where he really went. He wasn't going to be able to sneeze without her saying Gezhunteit.

She was not going to drop this.

Gin watched him turn south, she let a car get between them before she pulled out and followed. When he turned onto East-West Highway, she had a pretty good idea where he might be headed.

Sure enough, he pulled into the surgicenter.

Now what? She couldn't exactly pull in behind him and follow him into his office.

His office . . . he had that rock garden with the pool and all those thick bushes outside his office window. Maybe she could get a peek.

She found a parking spot half a block down and trotted back. Homing in on the glow from Duncan's windows, she crept along a grassy buffer between the surgicenter and the neighboring office building and lowered into a crouch as she neared the rear wall of the rock garden. Duncan's office windows were just past that If she could get a look . . .

Look at me, she thought. Creeping across lawns, spying on people . .

.

This wasn't her. And hadn't she sworn she wasn't going to do the Nancy Drew thing? Was this the behavior of a stable personality?

Maybe I do need help.

The thought chilled her, but she shook off the doubts. She had to see this through.

She parted the branches of a small evergreen, from its ginlike odor she guessed it was some sort of juniper, and peered through the plate glass into Duncan's office.

He was seated at his desk. Gin settled onto her knees and watched, hoping he'd do more than just straighten papers. It was getting cold out here in the wind.

She caught her breath as he leaned to his right and unlocked the top desk drawer. She leaned forward, all but thrusting her face through the prickly juniper as she watched him remove the TPD from the drawer, heft it in his hand, then rise and wander about. He opened cabinets and poked inside, lifted bottles, pulled out books and journals, peered into the space they left, then shoved them back.

What's he doing?

He seemed to be looking for something.

Or somewhere.

Finally he pulled a volume the size of the Merrk Manxal off a top shelf, placed the bottle of TPD in the rear of the gap, then slid the book back in.

He was hiding the TPD.

Gin was dumbfounded.

Why would he hide the bottle when he had a locked drawer for it?

Maybe he had no further use for it. Or maybe he'd never used it. But then why was he hiding it now?

Damn! Why didn't any of this make sense?

Suddenly the office went dark. Duncan had turned out the lights. Gin spun and scampered back to her car. It was good to get the heater going again. She watched Duncan's car turn back the way it had come on East-West. She gave him a good lead, then swung around and followed.

When she saw him turn into his neighborhood, she turned east and headed for Connecticut Avenue. For Adams Morgan. For home.

She'd had enough Nancy Drew for one night. In two days of trailing him she'd learned two things, one, he liked to hang out at Caliguire Electronics, two, he'd changed the hiding place of his bottle of TPD.

No answers. Just tW0 facts which did nothing but engender a whole slew of new questions. She didn't need more questions. She had questions coming out her ears. She needed answers, dammit!

Maybe tomorrow. When Duncan left early to go to his golf club, Gin would be right behind him. She'd find out where he really went. Maybe a mistress. Or maybe something to do with that little bottle of TPD.

Hopefully she'd be able to cross one question off her lengthening list.

MONDAY OKAY, DOC. SHE S ALL SET.

Duncan walked over to the corner of his office where Harry stood on a small aluminum utility ladder. Dressed in a Guns n' Roses T-shirt, he was heavyset, maybe forty, with a receding hairline and a ponytail. He was positioning some of the bric-a-brac on the top shelf around the sensor. When he finished, he stepped down and pointed to it.

"Would you ever know it was there? " Duncan scrutinized the shelf.

The sensor was a small brown rectangle the size of a cigarette box. It blended neatly with the woodwork, appeared almost a part of the cabinet. The camcorder lens looked like some sort of glass bauble.

Duncan nodded approvingly. "Only if I knew exactly where to look. " "Cool. Now just stand still a moment while I get us some power " He plugged a transformer into the outlet to the left of the sink. "All right. Now move your arms. ' Duncan waved his arms and saw a red dot begin to glow on the sensor.

"Smile, " Harry said. "You're on Candid Camera."

"What about that little red light? " Duncan said.

"That just means it sensed motion. You tripped the . . . .

clrcutt.

"Yes, but the light is a giveaway. The whole idea is - sgrreptitio"J surveillance, Harry. Kill that light."

"No problem." Duncan sipped his morning coffee as Harry climbed back up his step ladder and began whistling while he removed the back plate of the motion detector.

Harry seemed to love his work. Why not? Duncan was paying him handsomely for playing at his hobby. Duncan remembered how excited Harry had been when he had challenged him to miniaturize an ultrasound transducer. That had taken weeks, but the big bill had been more than worth it.

This little chore, on the other hand, was a piece of cake. . Duncan had told him he thought one of his employees might be pilfering. He'd said he had a pretty good idea who but wanted to catch the culprit in the act. Which was true. He wanted to see if Gin would try again.

Harry had said that was cool. Yeah, what with the labor laws these days, you just about had to catch someone rethanded before you could give them the cot.

Harry's solution, a video camera activated by a motion detector.

"All right, " Harry said, coming off the ladder again. "The light's disabled. Now, remember, the only time you want this thing on is when you're out of the room. Otherwise you're gonna find yourself fast-forwarding through umpteen hours of yourself sitting at your desk or making coffee or whatever." '"Mostly whatever, I should think, " Duncan said. "I often engage in whatever while I'm here."

"Cool, " Harry said. He laid a finger on the upper edge of the transformer.

"Okay. Two little buttons here. This one turns the power off, this one on. Just before you leave, click it on. That'll arm the sensor.

Any movement then will trip the sensor which'll turn on the camera and you'll be taping for the entire time someone's here until a full minute after they leave. It's also got a date and time readout that'll appear in the corner of the picture. I fixed the cam with a wide-angle lens so's you've got the whole office covered." Duncan said, "Cool."

"You know, if you decide to make this a permanent setup, I can rig the camera directly to a VCR and, '' "Just temporary, Harry, I assure you.

And here is your check." Harry glanced at the amount, said, "Cool, " one last time, packed up his tools, and was gone.

Okay, my little cygnet, Duncan thought, staring into the blind eye of the video camera. The next step is up to you.

He glanced at the clock. Perfect timing. Harry had arrived early and done his work quickly, leaving Duncan a few minutes to spare before scrubbing for the day's first surgery.

An abbreviated schedule today, mostly minor procedures. Dr. VanDuyne was due here about noon and Duncan wanted a clear field when he toured him and the others around.

He pushed The ON button, moved an empty carafe in front of the transformer, and headed for the locker room. The back of his neck tingled with the knowledge that his movement had triggered the sensor and his exit was being recorded.

Gin rushed through her dictation and other paperwork so she'd be ready to tail Duncan when he took off. She'd had to hustle. The way he'd whipped through those procedures this . .

morning made her think he was in a big rush to leave. But once surgery was over, he seemed in no great hurry to go anywhere.

Gin was up and down the stairs, keeping an eye on Duncan's office, ready to grab her coat as soon as he looked like he was going to leave.

But he seemed to be killing time On one of her surveillance runs she glanced out into the parking lot and saw the mysterious Dr. V. and two other men get out of a gray sedan.

So that's why he's hanging around.

Twenty minutes later, Duncan was leading the trio downstairs on a tour.

"And here are the nether regions. My brother's lab and our , .

recores room.

The good-looking Dr. V. looked relaxed, but his two suited friends were as stiff and uptight as they were clean-cut. Nosy too. Peeking into every closet, every cubbyhole, asking questions in low voices Gin could not pick up.

"Just showing these gentlemen around, " Duncan told Gin as they passed.

"Don't let us disturb you." He didn't bother with introductions.

She followed the group upstairs and watched the two suits point to doors and windows as they conferenced with each other. Neither of them smiled once. What were they? Lawyers? Accountants? Security consultants?

Then the entire entourage, including Oliver, retired to Duncan's office and closed the door.

What was going on? She was pretty sure now it wasn't a matter of taking on a new associate. Was Duncan selling the building? He'd never mentioned moving. And why did this Dr. V. look familiar?

Curiosity was eating Gin alive. She'd have given almost anything to be a fly on a wall in that officer right now.

* * * Forty-five minutes later all five came out in a group. They stood in the hall, shaking hands. The suits looked as grim as ever, Duncan and Dr. V.

were pleasant, and Oliver was quite literally beaming. Then the visitors headed for the parking lot, Duncan returned to his office, and Oliver bustled down the hall toward Gin.

"This is wonderful, " he said as he approached. The overhead fluorescents gleamed from his glasses and exposed scalp. He was grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery. "This is so wonderful!

" "What is, Oliver? What's going on? " '"I can't tell you, ' he said as he hurried past her. "I wish I could, but I can't. Not now. Maybe sometime." Gin watched him disappear into the stairwell down to his lab. She'd never seen him like this. Had he worked out some huge deal for his implants? She started to follow. She was sure she could pry it out of him.

But then she saw Duncan shrugging into his sport coat asX he stood before Barbara's desk. He was talking, she was taking notes and nodding her head. Then he was on his way.

Gin ducked into the locker room, grabbed her coat and purse, and hurried after him. She'd have to put off grilling Oliver until later.

"Hey, great news, " Barbara said as Gin passed her desk. "We've got a three-day weekend coming up." Gin slowed. "When? " "This weekend.

We're going to be closed on Friday. Dr. Lathram just told me to give everybody the day off with pay. Isn't that great? " "Yeah, " Gin said, picking up speed again. "Great." Friday off. Normally she'd assume Duncan had someplace to go this weekend and wanted an extra day. But the decision seemed to have been made right after his conference with Dr. V. and the suits. How come?

* * * No surprise when Duncan's Mercedes led her away from his golf club, but she was completely unprepared for the course he took through the District. East, then down Connecticut, past Adams Morgan to Dupont Circle. From there he took Massachusetts downtown.

He's heading for the Hill, Gin thought, but he breezed past Union Station and kept going, deep into Southeast. Mass was lined with two and three-story row housu down here, painted in bright reds, yellows, bluo, greens, even orange. The neighborhoods deteriorated, on a couple of corners she saw men in rough clothes drinking from bottles in paper bags. Gin was almost afraid to stop at the red lights. And she was in a three-year-old American compact. Duncan's Mercedes stood out like a luxury yacht in a fleet of tugboats. Yet nobody was bothering either of them.

What was he doing here? He had such a haughty attitude, she could not imagine him down here among the po' folk.

And then they came to the end of Mass Avenue and she caught on. D.

C.

General Hospital lay spread out on the downhill slope before them. She followed Duncan along the winding driveway through the well-kept complex of a dozen or so brick and stucco buildings, past the D. C.

Correctional Treatment facility to a restricted parking lot, "Decals Only" warned the sign. As Duncan turned in, Gin scooted into the nearby patient lot. She saw uniformed guards everywhere. Security seemed a major concern here.

She spotted Duncan strolling toward the doctors' entrance, a rectangular hole in the brick face of one of the buildings. How was she going to get in? She wasn't on staff.

But she could look like she was.

She grabbed an extra stethoscope from her glove compartment, hung her Senate ID badge around her neck, and hurried after him.

She wished she knew D. C. General. The brick building ahead was a big one and had a jury-rigged look. Eight storiff high at the front end, six at the rear, it looked as if it had started out considerably smaller and grown by accretion, a wing here, a few extra floors there.

This could be tricky. She kept up the quick pace as she passed the guard perched on a stool inside the entrance, smiling and waving with the hand holding the stethoscope, hoping he wouldn't notice that her photo ID wasn't for D.

C.

General.

The guard smiled back and nodded, then went back to reading his newspaper.

About fifty feet ahead of her she saw Duncan heading down the hall.

She broke into a delicate trot to close the distance between them. She knew if she lost sight of him, she'd never find him again in this maze.

He led her on a tortuous course that ended before a bank of elevators.

Gin hung back, uncertain. If she didn't get on that elevator with him, she'd lose him. She wouldn't even know which floor to search.

Only one thing to do. She tucked her Senate ID badge away and stepped forward.

"Duncan! " she said, tapping him on the shoulder. "What are you doing here? " He turned and started when he saw her. Something flashed in his eyes.

Shock? Anger? Suspicion? She wasn't sure which. Maybe all three.

Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant.

He smiled. "Gin! I never expected to see you here." Which doesn't answer my question, she thought. She felt her heart pick up tempo.

What's he going to do now?

"I was just visiting a hematology resident I know. An old friend from U. of P. But how about you? " He sighed unhappily and rubbed his jaw.

"Well, I didn't want anyone to know about this. If word ever got out .

. . " Oh, God, she thought. He's sick.

Terminal diagnoses like cancer and AIDS raced through her brain.

. .

He sighed again. "Easier to show you than explain it all." A battered elevator door wobbled open to their left. He pressed his hand gently against her back and guided her toward the emptying car. "Let's go."

He took her up to the maxillofacial clinic where the nurses beamed at him and the patients seated in the waiting room stared with wide eyes and whispered to their companions as they pointed to him.

She sat with Duncan in an examining room and watched in dazed wonder as he evaluated prospective patients and inspected his handiwork in postsurgical follow-ups .

It was the postsurgical patients who got to Gin. Some were effusive in their praise, some were almost inarticulate in their gratitude, but one and all they worshiped him, all but falling down on their knees before him for what he had done for them.

And finally the last patient was gone and she was alone with him in that tiny room, watching him scribble a progress note.

So this was where he'd been sneaking off to when he'd said he was playing golf. She was baffled.

"Why, Duncan? " '"Hmmm? " He looked up from the last chart and flipped it closed.

"Why are you here? " He shrugged. "I had a few empty hours to fill.

Face-lifts get boring after a while and I like to do something different now and then."

"But this is a free clinic and you're Duncan Cash-upfront-l-don't-give-a-damn-what-insurance-you-have Lathram. " His smile was sad as he shook his head slowly. "It was never about money. It's never been about money."

"Then what is it about? " "Someday I'll tell you. I'm not ready just yet." Gin bit back her frustration. "Okay, then. Why do you keep this a secret? " Another shrug. "When I opened up my cosmetic surgery practice I proclaimed to anyone who would listen about limiting myself exclusively to elective surgery and not accepting insurance of any type. Which was all fine at first, but quickly became stultifying."

He looked away.

"Despite heroic efforts to avoid it, I could not resist the urge to direct my skills toward a somewhat more meaningful application. " "Somewhat? " she said. "This is wonderful. I'm so proud of you.

He looked at her now, and again something flashed in his eyes, different this time Almost like pain.

"Don't get carried away now, Gin. This isn't a one-way street here.

I get something out of it too." At that moment Gin felt very close to him. Her throat constricted and tears swelled against the backs of her lids. Shame made her cringe inside. How could she ever have suspected him of hurting anybody?

She wanted to hug him.

"I've got to go, " she said when she could trust her voice.

"I'll walk you out. ' He guided her back to the elevators. On the way down, she couldn't resist another nagging question.

'"So, who were those men you were touring around today? " "Back at the office? Just some people who wanted to look around."

"Are you selling the place? " '"I should say not."

"Remodeling? " "They simply wanted to look around."

"Oh. Well. That clears that up." He put his arm around her shoulder and laughed. "Gin, Gin, Gin.

You always think you have to know everything. Life is full of little mysteries.

- "And this is one of them, right? " He laughed again. "Right." He escorted her to her car, held the door for her, and waved as she pulled away.

Gin's emotions were in turmoil. She felt like a swimmer in a sea of wild and capricious currents. Where was land?

After thinking the worst of him just days ago, she now found Duncan regaining his hero status. He was almost like . . . she searched for a comparison . . . almost like Zorro. To most of the world he presented a dilettantish demeanor, like the foppish Don Diego in the story, but to the poor, scarred people at the maxillofacial clinic in D. C. 's innermost city, he was the dashing Dr. Duncan, Dr. Zorro, with the flashing blade that made things right.

Duncan probably reveled in the paradox, Insouciant, money-hungry plastic surgeon to the rich and powerful who sneaks off to treat the poor and homeless at a free clinic. But what impressed Gin most was the sneaking. Most people trumpeted their chariry. Duncan kept his hidden, as if it embarrassed him. Charming.

Duncan was almost back on his demigod pedestal. Almost. He'd be at the pinnacle of her personal pantheon if it weren't for that bottle of TPD hidden in his officer.

That damn bottle.

All in all, Duncan thought as he made his way to his own car, that turned out pretty well.

But nonetheless disturbing.

The inescapable fact was that Gin had followed him here and he hadn't a clue she'd been on his tail. The question now was, how long had she been tailing him?

Not that it mattered really. What could anyone learn from tailing him?

He led a drearily mundane existence, never ranging far from home. He almost pitied anyone who had to spend days traipsing after him.

. But Gin was still suspicious enough to devote an afternoon to following him to D. C. General, and that was disturbing. And she had been following him. Not for a second did he buy that story about an old college friend, the hematology resident. D. C. . General was not in a neighborhood that invited casual visitors.

He smiled as he pulled out and headed back to Chevy Chase. But sometimes things work out for the best. What was that old saw? When somebody hands you a lemon, make lemonade.

He'd fought the impulse to launch a verbal assault when Gin had tapped him on the shoulder by the elevator, accuse her of shadowing him, invading his privacy. A wiser part of him knew that would be counterproductive. Instead, why not let her in on his little secret?

It was too late to keep her out, so he might as well welcome her along.

And it had worked. She'd been completely disarmed. He could see it in her eyes as she saw the "before'' photos and the living, breathing "after" results.

And why shouldn't she be disarmed? he thought. I do damn good work.

Good work . . . good works. Weren't good works supposed to be their own reward? Up to now they'd been just that. He'd found satisfaction in removing scars and correcting nature's mistakes in people who'd otherwise have no chance at proper repair.

But today they'd brought an unexpected lagniappe. His altruistic participation in the clinic had blunted, if not completely deflected, the suspicions of one very bright and very nosy young woman.

Perhaps the good men do was not necessarily interred with their bones.

But he couldn't let down his guard. Not yet. Not until after Friday.

And that reminded him of the video camera in his office.

. .

Duncan stood alone in his office. The building was empty except for him, which was just the way he wanted it. He pushed the videocassette into the VCR and hit the REWIND button. The machine hummed and stopped almost immediately. Good sign.

He hit PLAY, then FFWD. A high-angle shot of his office flickered into focus and he recognized his retreating back. Then Barbara fast-walked to and from his desk to drop off his dictation, then again with his mail, then once more with what appeared to be more dictation. And then he saw himself, strolling into the room, sifting through the mail and papers on his desk. Strange to watch himself in fast motion. He looked like a Keystone Kop. Then he approached the counter below the camera's field of vision, reached forward, and . . .

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.

C, 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 lGulane. 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 1? 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 Duncanproof?

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 offLce 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 . .

L - 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.

Barbara was standing in the center of the officer, her palm pressed between her breasts.

"You almost gave me a heart attack! " Barbara said. "Dr. Panzella, you've got to warn me when you're coming in here."

"Sorry, " Gin said. She hoped she didn't look as shaken and embarrassed as she felt.

"You weren't at your desk and I needed to look up something."

"Just make sure he knows you've been in here." '"What do you mean? " "He likes everything in its place. So if you're going to borrow anything, better check with him first, otherwise I'll hear about it."

This isn't going to work, Gin thought. She held up the green text.

"Okay, Barbara. Watch." With a small flourish, she slipped the book back into its space. "Voila. Right back where it belongs."

"Great.

He's such a stickler for detail, you know." Gin stepped down and slid the step stool back to its original position.

"That's what makes him a great surgeon. He sweats the details. " Barbara placed some papers on Duncan's desk and they left together.

Gin gave one worried backward glance at the green book on the top shelf. She'd have another chance at it tomorrow.

Unless Duncan moved it again.

Oh, no.

Duncan could feel all the warmth drain out of him as he watched the screen. He shuddered.

The videotape showed Gin entering the office at I2, 17 P. M. , dragging the step stool to the bookshelves, and pulling out the book where the TPD was hidden. There had been not the slightest hesitation.

She knew the shelf and the exact volume to remove.

But how did she know?

He felt an urge to step over to the shelf himself, it was only a few feet away, and check to see if she had taken the vial, but he could not move. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the screen.

He watched her peer into the space, saw her hand rise toward it, and then Barbara came in.

Thank God for Barbara.

Their voices were muted but he could make out Gin's excuse and Barbara's comments about his tidiness. And then the book was back in its place and they were leaving. But he saw Gin's wistful parting glance at the bookshelf.

She'd be back. Dammit, she'd be back.

He fast-forwarded through the rest of the tape, but Gin did not return.

That was a relief. He hit rewind and checked behind the book.

Yes, the vial was still there. But how, how had Gin known that he'd moved it?

She watched me.

Of course. She'd followed him to D. C. General yesterday. She'd probably been following him since the fiasco on Friday.

He turned around and stared through the plate-glass outer wall. If she'd been tailing him Sunday night, she could have crouched out there in the darkness among the shrubs and observed his every move.

With a start he realized that she could be out there right now, spying on him.

But no. Since their encounter in D. C. General yesterday, he'd been on guard, keeping careful watch in his rearview mirror, so much so that he'd nearly caused several accidents. No one had followed him anywhere today.

But why had she checked behind the book today and not yesterday? Had something happened today to rekindle her suspicions?

He fast-forwarded to where Barbara and Gin were leaving and paused on Gin's final backward glance. He read anxiety in her expression. No question something was making her apprehensive.

A thought jolted him, Could she know about the president?

Good Lord, if she'd found out about that, she might do something rash, something catastrophic.

He picked up the phone and jabbed in his brother's number. '"Oliver, he said immediately, "did Gin mention anything to you about our special case on Friday? " He took care not to identify the president on the phone.

"Wh-what do you mean? " The hesitation in Oliver's voice gave Duncan a terrible feeling.

"Does she have any idea who it is? " "Um, she knows. She guessed. " "How in the world, ? " "She recognized Dr. VanDuyne, then deduced that the men with him were Secret Service. From there it was two plus two, I guess." '"Did you confirm it? " '"Well, what else could I do? " '"Damn it, Oliver! Dammit to hell! " "Duncan, I swore her to secrecy.

You know you can trust Gin. Wasn't it better to confirm her suspicions than to have her go on wondering and asking questions? " '"Well, maybe." He reined in his anger at his brother. Oliver had no idea why it had been so important to keep Gin out of this. "When did this conversation take place? " "This morning. Maybe eleven or so.

Why? " "Nothing. I'll see you Thursday." He hung up and began to pace the room, pausing only to hit the REWIND button on the VCR.

Damn! Gin confirmed it through Oliver at eleven and an hour later she was here meddling with the TPD.

The chance of a lifetime. The president himself, the commander in chief of the kakistocracy, would be sleeping off his anesthesia right down the hall. The man who singlehandedly had resurrected the Guidelines bill, who had insisted on including medical ethics in its purview, and who would keep pushing relentlessly for the committee to get its foul job done.

So what? Duncan thought. He had nothing to do with it. Lisa's death.

Why not let him go and be satisfied with what I've done so far?

Because I can't. Not yet.

He was out of control and he knew it. He felt like a runaway train careening downhill. McCready had started it, and Duncan would finish it.

He could not let this opportunity pass. He'd never have another like it.

He would impose a symmetry on this madness . . . he would close the circle with the president. But Gin Panzella was going to ruin it. He could see it in her face, feel it in his bones. She was going to meddle again. And he could not allow that. Not this time

The VCR whirred and ejected the tape. Duncan pulled it out and stared at it.

Why, Gin? Why do you have to keeping sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong?

His fury rose, a pressure in his head, his chest, threatening to explode. She was leaving him only two choices, either back down or somehow neutralize her.

He groaned. She had backed him into a corner, and the only option left was to strike out at her. He might have to harm her.

And he loathe himself for it.

With a cry he hurled the videocassette to the floor and smashed it under his heel.

"Damn you, Gin! ' WEDNESDAY ' WE BEEN KEEPING SOMETHING IMPORTANT FROM YOU, Gin, " Duncan said.

"But I decided this morning I'm going to confide in you. ' Gin sat across his desk from him, sipping a late-morning cup of one of his exotic coffees, Jamaican Blue Mountain, she thought he'd said, but she'd been feeling too tense and wary to pay much attention. She'd been up most of the night brooding about the president's surgery. Should she be as worried as she was? Should she do anything? Should she call Gerry about it?

Again, she'd decided not to call Gerry. She had even less to go on this time than the last. He already thought she was distraught. Why add fuel to that particular fire?

She'd still been debating her next step when Duncan had called her in, told Barbara he did not want to be disturbed, and shut the door. He'd handed her a cup and asked her to be seated.

So now she sat, tense and rigid in her chair, the coffee warming her cold hands as she anxiously waited to see what was up.

"Since you are a physician in this facility, what I'm about to say falls under physician-patient privilege. Is that understood? " "Of course."

"Good." He leaned back and steepled his fingers. "You might be wondering why I gave the staff off this Friday. The reason is extraordinary, I'm operating on the president of the United States that day." Gin felt her jaw drop open. Duncan was actually telling her.

He smiled. "I can see by your expression that this was the last thing you expected to hear. Good. That means our security measures are working." He went on to tell her most of what she had learned from Oliver yesterday, the nature of the procedure, the rationale behind it, the reasons for all the secrecy. Not wanting to get Oliver in hot water, she pretended it was all new to her.

All the while her mind was racing, searching for a reason why, if he was planning to harm the president, he would tell her this.

"You must be very proud, " she said when he paused.

"Well, much as I dislike the man's policies, I have to admit it's an honor to be selected as his surgeon."

"Honor aside, " she said carefully, "I'm a little surprised you'd do anything to help him get reelected. I mean, knowing how you feel about him." Duncan waved his hand dismissively, as if physically brushing aside her words. "It's all media-consultant nonsense." His smile was laconic. "As if his eyelids could in any way make or break an election."

"You know what they said about Nixon's five-o'clock shadow in that television debate back in 1960."

"I saw that debate. Nixon's five-o'clock shadow was the least of his problems."

"So you are going to help him look younger." '"No. Actually, I'm going to remove his eyelids completely so he'll have this ghastly bug-eyed look." Her heart jumped. He wasn't serious . . . was he?

"Dun , .

can, don't even, " "Only kidding. Look, the president himself wants me to do it, so I'm doing it. As a rule I don't correct a single-feature defect like this, but the rest of his face is fairly younglooking, so I'm making an exception." He grinned. "And trust me, this is not a freebie."

"Who's assisting? " Oliver had already told her it would be Dr. VanDuyne, but she thought she should cover for him by asking .

Duncan leaned forward. "That's why I called you in here. I'd like you to assist." Gin blinked. The words rocked her. What in heaven was going on? " Me? " "Yes, you. VanDuyne, the president's personal physician, has offered to assist. He'd probably be okay, but the more I think about it, the more I want someone who's worked with me. You've done dozens of these lid lifts with me. So, if you haven't already made plans for Friday . . . " "No . . . no plans."

"Good. I'd also like you to handle recovery. VanDuyne was going to, but again you're more experienced. I'd feel better if you were on hand to watch over things.

" "Sure, ' Gin said, still off balance. She struggled to get her bearings, fought not to be awed. "I'll be glad to."

"Excellent. I intend to add a fat surgical assistant's fee to the bill which will go directly to you." Gin was going to be assisting on the president of the United States, and be well paid for it. Talk about having your cake and . . .

But even more disorienting was that Duncan had asked her to assist him.

How could he be planning any harm if he wanted her right there in OR and in recovery?

Had all her suspicions been for nothing?

No, not all. That vial of TPD still loomed in the background, but Gin began to feel the tension uncoil within her, felt her neck and shoulder muscles relax as if the weight of the world had been lifted from them.

She half listened as he went on about the anesthesiologist from Bethesda, the security measures, and the need for absolute discretion.

"You can't tell anyone, not your best friend, not your parents, not even your boyfriend in the FBI."

"We're just friends, " she said.

Although even that might be pushing things at this point.

"Whatever. Only the Secret Service and the four doctors in OR-1 on Friday morning will know about this. We're scheduled for seven-thirty.

The president and VanDuyne will arrive at six-thirty. You, Oliver, and the anesthesiologist will be here at six. I'll come at five to open up for the Secret Service so they can secure the premises, I believe that's the expression they used. Any problem with that? " "None at all. " "Wonderful. Oliver, by the way, is nearly delirious about this. Wants to celebrate in advance. I think it's rather silly but if we don't do something to mark the occasion he just might explode. Since we all have to be up early on Friday, and since Oliver loves Italian food, I've reserved us a table at Galileo tonight. Oliver and I would both very much like for you to join us." Galileo. God, the four-star restaurant where the president took his Hollywood friends when they were in town. Gin was beginning to get excited herself.

"How could I say no to Galileo? " "I'll pick up Oliver and we'll be by at half past seven to pick you up." He rose. "And now, unless you have any questions, I suggest we both get back to work." Feeling slightly dazed, Gin nodded, rose, and made her way to the hall.

Life was certainly full of surprises.

Duncan watched Gin go, then poured himself another cup of coffee.

That went rather well, he thought grimly. Too well.

Under different circumstances he might find this sort of cat-and-mouse game stimulating. But not with this particular mouse. Plus, everything was rigged in his favor, he knew what she knew, but she hadn't the slightest notion that he was on to her.

Gin was beginning to trust him again. And he was going to use that to cut her off at the knees.

He didn't much like himself today.

He spotted a sliver of black plastic and plucked it from the carpet. A remnant of the videocassette he'd smashed last night. After that little tantrum, he'd picked up the pieces, discarded them, and slipped a new cassette into the camera. Then, with his emotions locked away where they could not interfere, he'd sat down, assessed the cards he'd been dealt, and worked out the best way to play his hand.

First, he'd lock up the TPD in his desk drawer again and see that Gin did not get another chance to pick the lock.

Then he'd take the offensive. She'd learned about the president, something he'd been desperate to keep secret. The worst thing to do then would be to retreat. That would confirm that he had something to hide. So do the opposite, the unexpected. Don't lock her out. Welcome her in. Show his hand, but only those cards that have already been exposed Which was exactly what he had done. He'd sounded so 0, open this morning, he'd almost scared himself.

<,"t The result, Gin was not only thoroughly off balance, but literally starstruck at the opportunity to assist on the . president's surgery.

She was honored, for God's sake.

Maybe he'd overestimated Gin.

He shook off the irritation and reviewed the last element of -- his plan, keeping Oliver out of this. Oliver usually took Wednesdays off and today was no exception. But just to be sure, he'd called him and told him that he mllst not, under any circumstances, mention their conversation of last night to Gin. Not until Duncan had a chance to talk to her today.

This was crucial because if Gin ever learned that Duncan was aware that she already knew about the president, his credibility would crumble, and with it, his plan.

Now he had only to keep them apart until dinner tonight.

After that, it wouldn't matter.

Duncan rubbed his tired, burning eyes. If only there were another way out of this. He'd walked the floor most of the night trying to come up with one. He couldn't.

A wave of nausea rippled across his stomach.

Lord, he wished this night were over.

The phone rang. It was Duncan.

'"Are you ready? " '"Of course I'm ready, " Gin said. "You said seven-thirty, didn't you? Don't tell me you haven't left yet. ' "I'm crossing the Ellington as we speak. I'll be there momentarily." The wonder of the cellular phone, Gin thought as she hung up.

She assumed from the call that Duncan didn't want her to keep him waiting. The Duke Ellington Bridge was less than minute away and no doubt he expected her to be standing downstairs in the vestibule when he arrived. Oliver would probably be glad to run up and escort her down, but why make him go to the trouble?

She checked herself one last time in the mirror. The little black dress Mama always told her to keep in her wardrobe certainly had come in handy today. When she'd returned from Louisiana she'd invested in a slinky little Donna Karan number, nicely fitted, with a jewel neckline.

She'd added a short string of pearls and pearl earrings. Simple but elegant. The perfect look for all those receptions on Capitol Hill she'd dreamed of attending. So far the dress hadn't left the closet.

Tonight would be its coming out. At Galileo. Not too shabby a spot for its debut.

The forecast was wet so she threw her raincoat over her shoulders and headed downstairs. Duncan's black Mercedes pulled up a moment later.

He got out and opened the front passenger door for her. As she slid in she glanced in the back. Empty.

"Where's Oliver? " "A little under the weather. That stomach thing that's going around.

He sends his regrets and says, Galileo or not, he can't even think of food tonight." '"Oh, that's terrible. Let's call him right after dinner and see how he feels."

"I think he was going to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head until morning."

"No one to take care of him? " She couldn't resist seizing the moment to satisfy her curiosity about Oliver. Have I no shame? "No friends to look in on him? ' "Oliver is one of the most self-sufficient people I know. He has a maid come in once a week, otherwise he's alone and .

.

. , quite happy to be so. No wife, no kids, no mistress, and no, he's not a homosexual." '"I never thought, " , . "If you did, you wouldn't be the first."

"Poor Oliver. I feel bad for him. Didn't you say this dinner was his idea7" "I was going to call it off but he insisted that we not stand you up. So tonight I'll have to be myself and Oliver as well."

"Does that mean you're going to be eating for two? " "Yes.

With lots of garlic." Gin noticed that Duncan's smile seemed a little forced. He looked tense, his posture stiff. He seemed generally uneasy. Because of her?

Could it be he was uncomfortable taking a young female employee out to dinner?

But Duncan rarely gave a damn what anyone else thought - of him.

The Mercedes cruised down Connecticut like a battleship on a lake. She'd never been in Duncan's car before. She felt invulnerable as she watched the shops and hotels along Connecticut roll past on the other side of the tinted glass. They cruised around Dupont Circle, then turned right onto M Street A left on Twenty-first Street and they were there.

"Galileo, " he said as they pulled into the garage next door. A simple maroon canopy jutted out from what looked like an officer building.

"Where the effete elite meet to eat." Gin decided to go him one better. "Where the voracious and edacious mendacious can wax loquacious while looking gracious, sedacious, and perspicacious. " There. That was two or three better.

Duncan stared at her a moment, then said, "That, my dear, was a thing of beauty." But he wasn't smiling. His expression was strange.

Almost . . .

pained.

What's eating him tonight? she wondered.

Her before-dinner manhattan was perfect, the mezze lune di granachio was superb, the service impeccable, and the wine Duncan ordered, a I 984 amarone, as smooth as silk. Galileo's spare decor was not what she'd expected. No heavy Mediterranean drapes and furniture.

Everything was light and understated. But the mood at their table was anything but light. At times the conversation actually dragged, something she would have thought impossible in Duncan's presence. He didn't rant, didn't launch into a single tirade. Even when Larry King and Senator Rockefeller arrived and were seated three tables away, Duncan managed only a few disparaging remarks. At times she'd find him staring at her, his eyes intent on her face, other times he'd be a million miles away. He picked at his veal and barely sipped his wine, but kept refilling her glass. She wondered if he might be coming down with what Oliver had.

She wished she could get a grip on this jigsaw puzzle of a man. Every time she thought she had him figured, a new piece would pop up requiring her to rearrange everything and start over again.

She watched him stare into his half-full glass of wine for the longest time

"Are you okay? " He looked up. "Hmmm? Yes. Fine." '"You seem down." He shrugged. "Just thinking about life, the twists and turns it takes you through. The cruel tricks it plays on you." "Some of the tricks are funny, " she said.

"Sometimes we back ourselves into corners, " he said, as if she hadn't spoken, "and we despise the means necessary to extricate ourselves. ' What was wrong with him tonight?

"Do you want dessert? " he said as the waiter was clearing the dinner plates.

"I don't think I could eat another thing. But I could go for some coffee."

"Leave the coffee to me, " he said. "I don't care if this is one of the best restaurants inside the beltway, their coffee can't hold a candle to mine. We'll have real coffee back at the office." She considered begging off, but realized she couldn't deny Duncan his coffee ritual. Maybe it would pull him out of his funk. Besides, it was only a few miles out of the way.

After Duncan paid the bill, Gin rose and felt a little wobbly. She realized that she'd consumed most of the amarone.

As she stood staring at the languid koi in the rock garden pool beyond Duncan's offwce window, Gin wondered if there was any place on earth she'd feel less comfortable than Duncan's officer. This was where she'd broken into his drawer, where just yesterday she'd been sneaking through his bookshelf. And here he was toiling a dozen feet away making her what he called the best coffee in the world.

She felt like such a rat.

But at least the prospect of some good coffee seemed to have cheered him up. Maybe that had been his problem all along tonight, caffeine withdrawal.

"At last, " he said, turning from his drip equipment with a steaming cup. "The perfect after-dinner coffee." Gin took it from him and sniffed. "Licorice? " "I know, I know. You must promise never to mention to anyone that I adulterated my own coffee. But I figured that after an evening of Italian food, I'd break down and add some sambuca.

' Gin sipped and repressed a grimace. Bitter. She could taste the coffee, and the licorice tang of the sambuca, but there was something else there, something she couldn't identify.

"Mmmm, " she said. "Unusual."

"A special black sambuca, " he told her, sipping his own. "Gives it a unique flavor. Drink up." Gin took another sip. Definitely not to her taste, but she couldn't very well dump it after he'd gone to the trouble of brewing it for her.

Rather than prolong the agony, she drank it quickly.

"Another cup? ' Duncan asked.

"No, thanks, " she said. "Between the manhattan, the wine, and the sambuca, I think I'm already over my limit." That was an understatement. She was definitely woozy now.

"Maybe I'd better take you home, " Duncan said.

"Maybe you'd better, " she said. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. You're not driving, so what difference does it make? " A fine drizzle had begun to fall. In the Mercedes, the swirl of lights from the streets and passing cars refracting through the myriad beads of water on the windows made her stomach begin a slow turn. She- squinted and breathe deeply. She would die before she'd throw up in Duncan's car.

He double-parked on Kalorama, took her keys, and walked her up to her apartment. He let her in, then stepped back onto the landing.

"Are you going to be all right? " "I'll be fine. Thanks for dinner.

And I'm sorry about . . . " "Don't give it another thought. I shouldn't have given you that doctored-up coffee." Something strange in his voice as he said that, but his face was unreadable Or was that because her vision was blurred?

"Good night, Duncan."

"Good night. Go right to bed." '"Don't worry about that."

As soon as he closed the door, Gin headed for the bathroom. But she didn't vomit. The nausea was still there, but now that the world around her was no longer in motion, it seemed to have eased.

She thought about taking a shower, then said to hell with it. What she needed was sleep.

She took off her raincoat and threw it on a chair. She sat on the bed and peeled off her panty hose, then began working on the buttons of her dress. Before she reached the last she flopped back and closed her eyes. Just for a second . . . no more than a minute . . . then she'd finish undressing . . .

THURSDAY MORNING GINA AWOKE WITH GLUE IN HER MOUTH, SAND IN HER eyes, and heavy metal pounding in her ears. She rolled out of bed and stumbled across the floor with her hand stretched toward the snooze button. She always left her clock radio on a hard-core metal station.

Never failed to get her up. No way she could stay in bed with that stuff playing.

Only now she wished she'd spun the dial to something else, anything else, before passing out last night. Noise equaled pain this morning, but speed metal went beyond pain into torture. The throbbing bass and drums were piercing straight through to the center of her brain. One of these groups should name itself Torquemada.

She banged her fist on SNOOZE, then turned around and headed for the bed again. She looked down and noticed she was still in her dress.

Damn!

It looked like hell. So did she, most likely.

Like a failing tree, she collapsed facedown on the mattress.

Why did she feel so rotten? She hadn't had that much to drink last night. The combination, maybe?

. \ Whatever it was, she didn't like it. Her stomach was queasy, and her head . . . God, her head.

She was just dozing off when the howling guitar riffs filled the room again. This time she got up and turned off the radio. She staggered to the bathroom, removing the dress along the way. She looked at herself in the mirror.

Yuck. Awful. Simply awful.

She turned on the shower and stripped. As soon as the water was warm, she stepped in and let it run over her head and down her body.

God, that felt good.

She began lathering herself, starting with her face and working down.

The water and the scrubbing action began to revive her. She was returning from the dead, reentering the world of the, "Ow! " She twisted and looked down at the lateral aspect of her right thigh.

She'd felt a stab of pain while scrubbing the area. Tender there.

She ran a hand over the spot and noticed a small bruise. She must have collided with the corner of a table or her nightstand on her way to bed last night.

But wait . . . this bruise was more toward the rear of her thigh than the front. The only way she could do that was by walking backward.

She braced her foot on the edge of the tub and took a closer look.

More than a bruise. The skin had been broken. A little semicircular cut in the center of the bruise. Almost like the one she'd seen on .

. .

Senator . . . Marsden . . .

Gin's knees buckled and she grabbed the towel rack to steady herself.

No, wait, stop, she told herself as the bathroom wobbled around her and she fought to regain her balance. This is crazy. This is impossible.

But when she looked again the tiny laceration was still there. She probed it. She could feel the fine ridge of the edge. Had to be fresh. She pushed harder. A tiny droplet of blood appeared at its center. She probed deeper around the bruise, palpating the subcutaneous fat, looking for, Her fingers froze. Was it her imagination or was something there?

Something soft like fat but too smooth to be fat. Something oblong, cylindrical. Like an implant.

The bathroom wobbled again. And even with the hot water coursing over her, Gin suddenly felt cold. And sick. She stepped out of the shower and bent dripping over the toilet and retched. Nothing came up.

Her head throbbed even more painfully as she sank to her knees. When the room steadied, she took another, closer look at her thigh. She touched the spot again, but gingerly this time If there really was something under it, and if that something was an implant, she didn't want to disturb it or . . . rupture it.

But how could it possibly be an implant? Duncan had dropped her off, and she'd locked the door . . .

Wait. Duncan had had the keys. He'd opened the door for her and let her in. And then he'd left. Had he handed her the keys? No. Had she seen him leave them? No. She hadn't seen much of anything. The door latched automatically, and she hadn't bothered with the chain lock.

All she'd wanted was to hit the pillow.

Gin pulled herself to her feet, wrapped a towel around her, and shut off the water. She shivered.

The coffee in Duncan's office last night. She'd believed the bitterness was due to some strange black sambuca he'd said he was trying. But it could have been something else. Could have been chloral hydrate.

An old-fashioned Mickey Finn.

He'd had her keys. He could have kept them, driven around the block a few times, come back, let himself in, and stuck an implant in her thigh while she was out cold.

Still dripping, she stumbled out of the bathroom and went to the front door. The chain wasn't on, but she didn't remember fastening it. And her keys . . .

She looked around and spotted them on the coffee table.

But of course he'd leave them behind after he'd finished with her.

What use were they to him then?

But why? Why would he do this to her just hours after asking her to assist on the president's surgery? It didn't make sense. Unless .

.

.

Unless he thought she knew too much. What if he'd found out about the FBI and the staged accident and the Mltl done on Senator Marsden's leg?

What if Oliver had told him that she''d guessed about the president?

He' d want to make sure she was out of the way. Before Friday. He'd, The phone rang. Her hand trembled as she lifted the receiver. When she recognized Duncan's voice, she almost screamed.

"How are you feeling? " Controlling her terror, the hurt, Gin forced herself to reply calmly.

"Fine. A little headache, maybe."

"Glad to hear it. You were sailing last night. For a while there I, " "Duncan! " Unable to repress them any longer, the words burst from her.

"Duncan, how could you do this to me! " "Do what? " "You know damn well what! You stuck an implant in me last night! " "What? Hold on just a minute." He put me on hold! she thought. I don't believe this!

She was just about to slam the receiver down when she heard a click and pressed it back to her ear.

"Now, Gin, " he said. "I don't understand this. What do you think I've done? " "Don't play dumb with me, Duncan. I know all about it.

You slipped me a Mickey last night and put an implant filled with TPD in my leg. ' "You think I broke into your apartment and did surgery on you? And what's TDP? " "You know damn well what it is! It causes psychotic symptoms.

"Gin, listen. Think. If I wanted to dose you with something, why bother with an implant? Why not just inject you with it? " That took her back. Why hadn't he just shot her up and been done with it? And then suddenly she knew.

"Because you were out with me last night. We were seen together. You want a comfortable buffer zone between when you were with me and when I have a breakdown."

"I fear you're having one now, Gin."

"Just what you'd like people to think, isn't it? Well, listen, Duncan, " "Have you heard enough, Barbara? " And then Gin heard Barbara's voice, husky with pity. "Gin, you've got to calm down.

We're you're friends here.

We only want to help you.

Please. You've got to believe that." Gin nearly dropped the phone.

"Oh my God! Barbara! He's conning you! " The bastard! He'd put Barbara on the line while she was on hold. Now he had a witness that she was making wild accusations before her complete breakdown.

'"Just stay where you are, Gin, " Duncan said. "I'm calling an ambulance to come to your place. We'll get you to where you can receive the help you need."

"NO! " She slammed the phone down and ran for her bedroom.

"Damn me! How could I be so stupid! " She pulled on her clothes. She had to get out of here. She could see it all now . . .

He had set all this up, and so cleverly. First the fake-out on , r, i.

.

Marsden. She must have made it too obvious that she suspected something.

So he'd pulled a reverse on her by puncturing the senator's thigh with an empty trocar. He'd led her into making a complete fool out of herself. But that was the least of it. Now her rationality and soundness of judgment were suspect.

But how in the world did he know how much she knew? Unless he had a security camera in the office or something.

My God! Was that possible? Then he would have seen her picking the lock on his desk drawer, seen her peeking behind that book two days ago. She groaned. No wonder he wanted her out of the way.

She pulled on a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. She stuttered to a halt at the threshold.

Where am I going?

Home? But that was the first place he'd look for her. And she did not want to get her folks involved.

Gerry? He had awful doubts about her reliability. But this time she had proof. Right here in her leg. An implant nestled there in the fatty layer.

She leapt back to the phone and dialed Gerry's home. He'd still be there now. At least she hoped so. As the phone began to ring, she worked to keep her voice under control. She wanted to sound sane while she explained something insane. How to say it all in as few words as possible? And make it believable. She had to make Gerry believe.

"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 tgmorrow. 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? ' -, .

. s , 0 "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 ceXtain 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.

t .

, . T . S , , "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.

g everybody thinks you're crazy, maybe you shogldn'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.

Am I sane?

Could all this be simply the fabrication of a mind sent off course because her brain had begun synthesizing faulty neurochemicals or producing the right ones in the wrong proportions? How many paranoids had she seen in her psych rounds who were utterly convinced of the veracity of their absurd claims? They'd heard with their own ears, seen with their own eyes. If you can't trust your senses and your own ability to interpret their input, who or what can you trust?

Gin rubbed her thigh, gently. Maybe that mark was nothing more than a bruise. And maybe the hangover this morning was nothing more than too much amarone and sambuca. And maybe Duncan hadn't asked her to assist on the president's surgery tomorrow.

God, what was real?

She slammed her palm once against the pay phone.

No! She wasn't crazy!

That's what they all say . . .

Something black and gleaming caught her eye. Duncan's Mercedes, or one exactly like it, was passing on the street. It turned onto Kalorama.

Abruptly the doubts were gone, the fatigue and the eadache forgotten.

She ducked back to her booth, threw a couple of dollars on her table, and returned to the door. The car was out of sight now. She stepped outside. The cool, damp air refreshed her. A drop of water hit her forehead. She glanced up. The low, gray, moisture-laden clouds seemed to be sinking under their own weight.

She begged the rain to hold off a few more minutes.

She hurried across Columbia and trotted downhill to Kalorama. She stopped under the front canopy of an apartment house on the corner and craned her neck to peer down the street. She could see her building from here.

Duncan, looking very dapper in his blue blazer and charcoal slacks, was on his way up the front steps.

She watched him step inside the front door. Unless someone let him in, unlikely because everybody worked, he'd spend the next few minutes waiting for her to answer his rings. As soon as he left, she'd jump in her car and head straight downtown to the FBBuilding.

She waited. What was he doing in there? Why didn't he come out?

Then she glanced up at the third floor and gasped when she saw a man standing in her bay window.

Duncan! He had a key. He must have had a copy made last nighc Sure.

He establishes with Barbara that Gin's . _ acting irrationally, so he rushes down, supposedly to see what he can do. He finds her, zaps the implant in her leg, and then reports that the poor girl was sitting there drooling and babbling incoherently when he found her.

Well, guess what, Duncan, Gin thought as her jaw muscles bunched.

Gin's not there. And she's not letting you within striking distance.

It began to rain. Only a gentle drizzle now, but cold.

Great. What else could go wrong? She was wearing only jeans, an old Tulane sweatshirt, and no hat. If her hair and her clothes got wet, how convincing would she be if she looked like a drowned rat when she got to Gerry?

, . Duncan gazed down at the street from the empty apartment, his right hand gripping the ultrasound transducer in his pocket.

What am I doing here?

. , He hated this. He'd regretted implanting Gin with the TPD almost as soon as he'd done it. But performing the act was like burning a bridge behind you, Once done, there was no going back. He had to follow through and dissolve it.

He seemed to be spiraling out of control. It was never supposed to turn out like this. But he couldn't stop himself. He had to keep going until he got to the president. After that he didn't care.

The situation was deteriorating, as well. Gin had been scheduled to show up at the surgicenter this morning, they were to go through their usual routines, then, somewhere around lunchtime, he'd intended to give her leg a burst of ultrasound and leave for the day. He'd have been miles away before she began to show the first effects. Maybe some visual hallucinations, maybe auditory, maybe both. She'd become disoriented, incoherent, might even start pulling at her hair and screaming. Or she might simply withdraw into a catatonic state, curled in a fetal position and drooling in a corner of the records room.

The images nauseated Duncan. He swallowed back the acid creeping up from his stomach.

Why couldn't you have stayed out of this, Gin?

Bad enough he'd have to pull the trigger on her. But she'd somehow discovered what he'd done to her last night. So now he had to hunt her down. That implant was a two-edged sword. Knowing it was there, she could use it against him, if she could get someone to believe her. He had to catch up with her before she had it removed.

Where was Gin now? Couldn't be too far. Her car was parked on the street below. Maybe she was out there, watching him, waiting to see his next move.

He nodded slowly. Yes . . . that would be just like her. Let him find her gone, then return to her place and ponder her next move calmly and in comfort while he ran around in circles.

All right. He'd do a circle. Circle the block and see if he could catch sight oњ her.

Lord, he hated this. The whole idea sickened him. He wanted to have it all over and done with.

And after that he'd have to find a way to live with himself.

Gin watched Duncan hurry down her front steps and get into his car.

Where to now, Duncan? A little worried, perhaps, now that your pigeon has flown?

She watched him drive away. She waited until he turned off Kalorama onto 18th, then she sprinted for her Sunbird. She jumped in and started her up.

The drizzle graduared to full-fledged rain as she headed down Kalorama, following Duncan's path. Only she wasn't following him. He was probably on his way back to Chevy Chase, she was headed downtown.

She peered up and down 18th, very possibly the most colorful street in the District. No sign of Duncan. She made a right and raced down to Florida where she hung another right. That brought her to a red light at Connecticut Avenue.

Gin searched Connecticut uphill and down, but no sign of Duncan. She allowed herself to relax. She had to forget about Duncan for the moment and figure out a way to convince Gerry that she, Gin jumped in her seat as she glanced in her rearview mirror. Through the rain and the slightly fogged rear window she saw a black Mercedes ease to a stop two cars behind her. She stared at the Mercedes's windshield, but the rain and the sweeping wipers prevented her from seeing the driver.

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She couldn't make out the plates, but that could be Duncan back there. . . could easily be Duncan.

But why would he be following her? Had to be more than simply to see where she was going. What did he have in mind? Running her off the road?

Hardly. She was sure the last thing he wanted was to be placed in her vicinity. So what was he up to? What did he hope to, Ultrasound.

An icy hand clamped down hard on the back of her neck as she remembered the specialty electronics store he'd visited. Did Duncan have a device that could send an ultrasonic pulse into her car and dissolve the implant) She didn't see how. What she knew of the physics of sound said it wasn-t possible, but a lot of events connected with Duncan didn't seem possible. Maybe he had a way . . .

Another glance in the rearview mirror.

How convenient to have her begin to hallucinate while driving.

The Honda directly behind her gave a polite toot. She looked up and saw the light was green. She also saw the NO LEFT TURN sign. One way to find out if that Mercedes was following her . . .

Gin floored the Sunbird and swung left onto Connecticut. She saw the startled face of the driver of a yellow VW coming the other way as Gin dodged in front of him. The VW stuttered to a halt with an angry horn blast as Gin swerved past. She felt her back end slip a little on the wet pavement but the front-wheel drive pulled her out of it and seconds later® she was speeding downtown.

Another glance in the rearview showed no Mercedes, didn't show much of anything through the rain and foggedup glass. The traffic behind her was a mass of blurred gray shapes. He could be anywhere.

Dupont Circle was dead ahead. She could see traffic slowing, backing up. A perfect spot for Duncan to pull up alongside and . . .

Her hands became slippery on the wheel as she began to weave through the traffic. Had to get through the circle. She made a few reckless moves, earned a few more angry horn blasts, but moments later she was cruising toward the circle.

She blew through an amber light and then slowed to get her bearings.

As she swung around the curve she checked the rearview again. She twisted left and right, peering out the side windows. No Mercedes.

She leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. Maybe it hadn't been Duncan after all. Lots of big black Mercedes in this town. The diplomats loved them.

She swung off the circle onto Connecticut again.

Okay. She was on her way. With a pang she suddenly realized where she was. Only a few blocks from Galileo. Seemed like so much longer, but only a dozen hours had passed since she'd been dining with Duncan, feeling happy, carefree.

Now she was running for her life. Or if not her life, her sanity.

She put the painful memory aside and concentrated on the now. Not far to the FBBuilding from here. Had to calm herself, gather her wits.

Couldn't act as frazzled as she felt. Had to be convincing. Had to .

.

In her left sideview mirror . . . rising out of the Dupont Circle underpass like some dark demon from the netherworld . . . looming ever larger, ever closer . . . a black Mercedes. And this time she could make out the MD plates.

Duncan!

He'd bypassed the circle by going under it. Now he was nearly on top of her.

Her heart raced ahead of her engine as the Mercedes pulled in behind her and began riding her rear bumper. She sprang ahead, darting in and out of the traffic, squeezing her smaller car through openings where the Mercedes could not hope to follow, especially on this wet pavement.

She pushed the lights, gunning through intersections whenever one threatened to turn red.

It was working. Slowly but steadily she increased the distance between them.

But she was coming to the end of Connecticut. The traffic lights of K Street loomed ahead. Green now. Traffic was flowing through. Good.

Where to now? Normally she'd swing onto Seventeenth past Farragut Square and head down to Pennsylvania, but Duncan was only two cars back. And just ahead, the light was turning amber. Again, NO LEFT TURN hung over the intersection.

It hadn't worked before, but maybe this time . . .

But then the BMW in front of her began to brake for the light.

"Oh, no! " she cried aloud. "You wimp! " Instead of slowing, Gin set her jaw, punched the gas, and wrenched the steering wheel to the right, swerving around the Beamer and into the middle of the intersection.

Then she yanked it back into a hard left to head east on K.

She cried out as she hit a puddle and felt the tires begin to slip sideways on the wet pavement. She floored the brake pedal but the car didn't slow. It was completely out of her control. She saw the curb and the sidewalk careening toward her.

'"Oh, God, no! " Gin braced herself for the impact as the Sunbird slammed into the curb. The right rear wheel bounced over onto the sidewalk and the car tilted and threatened to tip over. Gin's head hit her side window as the car fell back onto four wheels. She shook her head to clear it. The window was okay and the car, thank you, God, had finally come to a halt without hitting anybody.

Gin wanted to cry, wanted to be sick, but she didn't have time for that. Except for a bruised scalp she was all right. Her seat belt had kept her from being tossed about the inside of the car. Horns were blaring all around her, frightened pedestrians were staring and either pointing fingers or shaking fists her way.

And her engine had stalled. She restarted it and tried to turn back into traffic, but her wheels were locked. She couldn't turn the steering wheel. She got out and ran around to the other side of the car and gasped when she saw the front wheel. The tire had been knocked off the rim and the wheel itself was bent, canted under the car. She didn't know if that meant a broken axle or what, but she did know her little Sunbird wasn't going anywhere without extensive repairs.

She was at the top of Farragut Square, a block of grass and shrubs and park benches with a statue of the admiral at its center. A wide-open area. She felt exposed. She looked around and S'dW Duncan's Mercedes pull into the curb on the other side of Seventeenth Street.

With a small cry she turned and bolted into Farragut Square. Her sneakers slipped on the wet grass as she ran. She found a walk and slowed enough to look over her shoulder. No sign of Duncan's car back at the curb. Good. That meant he wasn't following her on foot.

But where was he? She'd feel better if she knew. Because she didn't know the effective reach of whatever ultrasound device he might be carrying.

Ahead and to her right, across Eye Street, she spotted a Metro sign.

Immediately her spirits lifted. The Orange Line would leave her a couple of blocks from the FBBuilding. She picked up her pace and cut across the grass toward the entrance. She was less than thirty yards from it when a black Mercedes pulled up and Duncan stepped out.

"Oh, no." He stood by the Metro stairs, looking around. When he spotted her, he started walking toward her with a determined stride.

Gin made a sharp right turn and hurried on an angle back toward the corner of K and Seventeenth. A glance over her shoulder revealed that Duncan must have changed his mind about following her on foot. He was heading back to his car.

Gin broke into a run and turned down K. She had to get off the street.

She was a sitting duck out here. She passed a CVS and ducked inside.

As good a place as any to hide. Big and crowded with other people getting out of the rain.

She moved toward the side wall and wandered among the nail-care items hung on the Peg-Boards. She pretended to be shopping but all the while her eyes were fixed on the front doors. She migrated toward the rear, near the pharmacy counter where the first-aid items were stocked. She ducked behind a condom display as she saw Duncan walk past the front windows, under an umbrella no less. She hung there with her nose poking among the party-colored boxes. Any one watching would have thought she had a hot time planned for tonight.

When she thought she'd waited long enough, she stepped i. _ out into the aisle and made her way toward the front of the store.

Halfway there she saw Duncan on the sidewalk outside again. Only this time he didn't pass. This time he pushed through the door and came inside.

Gin dropped to a crouch. In case anyone was watching, she quickly untied and retied her shoelace. She glanced around. No one was paying her any attention. She half straightened and looked around. Her heart tripped over a beat when she saw Duncan heading her way, his head rotating back and forth like a radar dish as he roamed the aisles.

She ducked down and cowered near the Halloween candy displays, frantically casting about for a plan. She could run, get up and sprint for the doors and the street, but that would give her away. Duncan wasn't sure where she was right now, couldn't even know she was in the store. If she ran, he'd have her. And worse, fleeing at full speed might bring the store detectives after her. If they grabbed her and held her, all Duncan would have to do was walk by, let loose an ultrasonic pulse, and she'd join Senator Vincent in the psych ward.

She glanced up and noticed one of the convex antishoplifter mirrors overhead. In it she saw a dapper-looking man in a blue blazer with a folded umbrella coming down the aisle on the other side of the counter.

Duncan. No more than three feet away.

Head down, she ran in a crouch in the opposite direction and stopped at a break in the display counter. She checked the mirror again. Duncan was at the far end and turning into her aisle. She scurried around into the aisle he'd just left, moved along a dozen or so feet, and huddled, waiting, barely breathing as she pretended to compare the prices of the various widths and sizes of bandage gauze and adhesive tape.

She didn't dare peek at the mirror again. Not yet. If she'd been able to see Duncan in it, he'd could just as easily use it to see her.

Finally she reared up and cautiously peeked around a display of Ace bandages. It took her a moment before she spotted him. Near the front of the store now. Pushing through the door. Leaving.

But he wouldn't be leaving the area. He'd be wandering around, watching the Metro entrance, cruising the streets. He knew she was somewhere around here, and he wasn't going away. Trying to slip past him was too dangerous, especially in daylight. She needed a place to hide until it was dark.

Gin's fists knotted in frustration. She was so damn vulnerable with this . . . this thing in her leg. She wished she could be rid of it.

Then she could walk up to Duncan and thumb her nose at him. If only .

.

She looked at the tape and bandages in her hands.

And came to a decision.

Where the hell is she?

Duncan opened the umbrella and looked up and down K Street as the rain increased its intensity, falling in sheets. The weather matched his mood.

This wasn't going well at all.

He tried to look on the bright side, If nothing else, the downpour was driving people indoors. That would make anyone still wandering about outside even more conspicuous. Gin would be easier to spot if she made a break for it. Obviously she'd ducked into one of the stores on this side of the street. She hadn't had time to cross to the other side o reach the far end of the block before he'd arrived.

She was here. This side. And she had to come out sometime.

But what if her fellow from the FBI was on his way to meet her here now?

That could be trouble. But not insurmountable. All he had to do was sidle up within range, press a button on the transducer, and TPD would begin seeping into her bloodstream.

But that scenario was risky. Far better to find her before the cavalry arrived . . . if it was even coming.

Duncan sighed. He'd have to search these stores one by one. Most of them were small. It wouldn't take long.

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 hded 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 lockr 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 iceddown 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.

Gin allowed herself a tight, wry smile. She thought she was used to seeing blood. Other people's blood. Not quite the same as seeing her own.

She touched the wound edge and jerked her hand back. Exquisitely tender. Those severed nerve ends were screaming. This was when she really could have used some anesthetic.

Replacing the washcloth between her teeth, she clamped down on it and groaned as she separated the wound edges. The subcutaneous fat was blood-red instead of its natural yellow. Gingerly she probed the fat with her pinky. A strange, curious, slightly sickening sensation, this groping among her own fat cells. Painful, but it wasn't the pain that was making her queasy. She'd never touched human fat with her bare hands before. Like playing with greasy tapioca.

The pain increased as she pressed deeper, searching for an opening, a depression, a channel, any clue that would tell her what course the trocar had followed.

And then her fingertip slipped a little deeper into one area of the fat. She stiffened. Could that be it? She probed further, but gently, feeling the fat give way easily before her. Yes. Something had been this way before. And recently.

And then her fingertip came to rest against something soft but firmer and smoother than fat.

Gin didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. At least she hadn't imagined all this. There was an implant in her leg and only one man could have put it there.

And it had to come out. Now. And she had to remove it without breaking it. If she ruptured it, or even caused a tiny leak, she'd have done Duncan's job for him.

Biting down harder on the washcloth, Gin dug her finger deeper into the fat. Propelled by pain, air hissed in and out of her nostrils as she worked to get around the implant. Had to get behind it. Gently .

. .

. . . gently . . .

Gerry slammed the phone down in the middle of Gin's instructions to leave a message after the beep. He'd already left two on her machine.

Where is she?

He glanced at his watch again. What for, he didn't know.

Only half a minute had passed since the last time he'd looked.

He stretched his neck to relieve the growing lump of tension between his shoulder blades. She should have been here by now. Visions of Gin wandering around the District, dazed and confused, replayed in his mind.

Or worse yet, huddled behind a Dumpster in some alley, hiding from imaginary enemies.

Damn it. He couldn't concentrate on anything. All he could think about was Gin. The way she'd sounded . . . like her world was coming to an end.

Only one thing to do. Go out and look for her.

He picked up his car keys and called the switchboard. He left instructions that if a Gin Panzella or a Dr. Panzella called, or anyone called about her, or if she showed up in person, to put her through to his car phone.

On the chance that she might be hiding in her apartment, afraid to pick up the phone, refusing to answer the door, he grabbed the Electropick on his way out. Just in case.

He got his car out of the Bureau's underground lot and drove up Pennsylvania toward the White House, trying to backtrack along the most logical route for her to follow from Adams Morgan. She'd have to come down Connecticut, but after that it was anybody's guess.

He worked his way up to K Street where he saw a couple of cops standing outside their unit at the top of Farragut Square watching a sanit man sweep up some broken glass. He flashed his ID and asked what had happened. The older of the pair, heavyset with a mustache, leaned in the window. His breath reeked of old coffee.

"A one-car M.V.A. Nobody hurt. Driver hopped out and took off. You can bet what that means." Gerry nodded. "Hot."

"You got it." Just so no stone was left unturned, Gerry said, "You remember what make it was?

" The cop shrugged. "Nh. It was already towed when we got here.

They're running the plates, though. Somebody you looking for? " "Not likely. Just thought I'd ask." As he drove away, he made a mental note of the location. If he couldn't find Gin, he'd check with the locals later on the registration of that car.

He turned back and headed up Connecticut. Maybe the best place to start was Gin's apartment.

Gin leaned, gasping, trembling, against the side wall of the tub alcove. When the pain receded from excruciating to merely brutal, she opened her hand and looked at the bloody little lump Lying in her palm.

G ha.

She was safe. Even if Duncan bathe the entire hotel with ultrasound, he couldn't harm her. But she wasn't out of the woods yet. She had a deep, wide gash in her leg that had to be closed.

But first, Save the evidence.

She reached over to the counter and grabbed the Coricidin bottle.

Carefully she scraped the sticky implant off her palm with the lip of the bottle. She'd already learned the hard way how much more fragile these things became once they'd been implanted. The implant slid down the inside of the bottle, slowly, like some sort of scarlet slug, and came to rest on the bottom. She capped the bottle and returned her attention to the incision in her leg.

Bleeding had slowed considerably. The blood oozing around the growing clot was thick, almost syrupy. She reached for the sewing kit and began threading a needle. The adrenaline tremor from the pain and stress caused her to miss S.

on the first few tries. She was beginning to fear that she'd never get it threaded, but finally the tip slipped through the eye.

She considered sterilizing the needle with the Cricket but discarded the idea. She couldn't sterilize the thread that way, and the wound was already grossly contaminated. She was covered for tetanus, but she had to get herself some antibiotic, a broad-spectrum cephalosporin preferably, to fend off the inevitable infection that would follow this egregiously unsterile little surgical procedure.

By way of compromise, she doused the needle and soaked the thread with hydrogen peroxide. She laid that aside and replaced the washcloth in her mouth. Then she expressed the clot from the wound and poured the peroxide directly into it. She groaned into the cloth as pink foam erupted from the opening. She writhe from the sharp, stinging agony of the nest of enraged hornets trapped inside her thigh.

When that passed, she wiped the sweat and tears from her eyes, pressed the wound edges together, and began suturing. She started at the distal end, figuring it would be easier to work her way up.

Gin winced as she forced the needle through her skin. Painful, but nothing compared to what she'd already put herself through. The needle was sharp enough, but it was designed for fabric, not the toughness of human skin. And it was straight, which made the job all the more difficult .

Forget the lidocaine, she thought. I'll settle for a hemostat and a curved needle now.

A few subcutaneous sutures and a vertical mattress repair would have been ideal, but out of the question without gut and a curved needle.

She had to settle for a simple, single loop.

She tied the first suture carefully, afraid to pull too hard and break the thread. She'd bought the heaviest she could find, but still this wasn't silk or nylon, this was plain old thread. If this repair was going to hold, she'd have to place the sutures close together, no more than an eighth of an inch apart.

She finished the first knot and cut the free ends with the little scissors from the kit. There. One done. Only fourteen or fifteen more to go.

Half an hour later, she was done. She foamed the blood off her skin with peroxide and examined her handiwork. Sixteen puckered sutures in a neat row. She blotted it dry, smeared some bacitracin ointment over it, then covered it with gauze. She held that in place with a few strips of adhesive tape, then wound the six-inch Ace bandage around her thigh to make a pressure dressing. Then she swung her legs out of the tub and stood up.

And almost fell as black spots exploded in her vision and a diesel-engine roar filled her head. She went down on one knee and clung to the vanity until the room stopped swaying and spinning.

She pressed her forehead against the cool marble and gathered her strength.

Weak. She'd figured she'd be weak afterward, but not this bad. She reached for the other little bag she'd picked up in CVS and pulled out a package of Snickers bars. Good old Pasta had always suffered chocolate attacks in times of stress and hadn't been able to resist all that Halloween candy. Gin was glad she'd given in to her. She'd need some extra calories for healing, some glucose for energy. Another thing she knew she needed was fluids. After wolfing down three of the Snickers, she filled the glass by the sink with cold water and gulped it down. She washed down four more Tylenols with a second glassful.

She felt a little better, but no way ready for the road. She pushed herself to her feet and, keeping a hand on the wall for support, made her way to the bed. She turned off the TV as she passed.

She yanked down the covers and gingerly, gently, eased herself between the cool sheets. She shivered. Had to get some rest. She was safe now.

Just a nap for an hour or so, then she'd call Gerry. She had the implant. She could show him hard evidence now. He'd have to believe.

Every one would believe.

After she had some sleep . . .

THURSDAY AFTERNOON GERRY WAS BEGINNING TO FEEL A LITTLE FRANTIC.

He couldn't help it. He'd been to Gin's apartment earlier. He hadn't been able to find her car on the street. He got no response to his repeated knocks on the door, so he'd used the Electropick to let himself in and found the place deserted. No sign of a struggle, no note left, no indication that Gin hadn't made a routine departure this morning fully expecting to return at her usual time tonight.

He'd even called Lathram's surgicenter. The receptionist had said Gin wasn't there and wasn't expected in today. He thought he'd heard something in her voice, as if she wanted to say more, but that could have been wishful thinking.

He'd checked all eleven of the District's emergency rooms and even a few in northern Virginia and southern Maryland. No Gin Panzella or Jane Doe fitting her description had come through. Same with all the local police departments. No one named Panzella or anyone like her on the arrest records.

And then he'd remembered the accident over by Farragut , , , , , i, 0', '- , . , z. = Square. He'd placed a call to the D. C. Police and was hanging around his desk waiting for a call-back now. He didn't have much hope of help from them, but he wasn't ignoring any possibility.

The phone rang.

"Agent Canney? " said a nasal voice. "We have the ID on the vehicle in that one-car M.V.A you inquired about. Belongs to a Regina Panzella of Kalorama Road here in the District."

"Damn! " Gerry said. He should have checked this out hours ago. "And the report says she left the scene of the accident? " ""Driver abandoned vehicle, according to the report." '"Nothing else?

"Witnesses said she was female, dark hair, and was the sole occupant.

" That fit Gin.

"Okay. Thanks a lot."

"Any time" So where was she? She'd cracked up her car and run away.

Where to? It had rained most of the morning.

How far could she go on foot in the rain?

Gerry reached for his coat. Better go and inspect the scene. But nother thought occurred to him as he was leaving. He called down to the data center and told them to research the credit sources for Regina Panzella. Find out what credit cards she carried and see if she made any charges today, and where.

Who knew? Maybe she rented a car. Or bought a motorcycle. Who could tell what she was going to do next?

Gerry left for Farragut Square. Without knowing Gin's credit card number or even her card company, it would take a while. The information would be waiting when he got back.

He hoped he wouldn't need it.

* * * Duncan was exhausted, frustrated, angry, and not a little afraid.

But at least the rain had stopped.

That was about the only good thing Duncan could say about the afternoon. He stood on Seventeenth Street, on the edge of Farragut Square, and eyed the pedestrians. So many more now that it was getting late. Workers, released from their offices, were beginning to crowd the sidewalks. He lifted his gaze to the square's eponymous statue.

Appropriately enough, a seagull was squatting on its hat.

About time to give it up. He'd patrolled the area for hours on foot and in his car, ranging as far north as Scott Circle and as far south as the White House itself, and had found not a single trace of Gin.

It was fear that kept him from packing up and heading for home. Or for the hills.

What if Gin had managed to convince her FBI boyfriend that she carried an implant in her leg? And what if he'd been able to arrange its removal? The tables might have been turned on him this afternoon while he was wandering around. His role might already have changed from hunter to hunted.

He'd better find out.

Duncan glanced at his watch. Barbara still would be in the officer. He pulled out his cellular phone and called in.

"Did you find her? ' were the first words out of Barbara's mouth.

"No luck yet, " he said. "Just checking in. No word from Gin, I take it."

"Nothing, " Barbara said. "Someone called for her, but, " "Who?

" "That guy she's been seeing. Gerry Canney." Duncan stiffened. The FBI man? That didn't bode well.

"When did he call? " "Late this morning. He was looking for her. " '"You remembered what I told you, didn't you? " "Yes. I just said she wasn't here and wasn't expected in."

"Excellent. We need to protect Gin until we can find out what's wrong with her and get her some help.

" "I know. It's just that he sounded worried."

"We're all worried, Barbara." Especially me. "Any calls for me? " "A couple of people looking for appointments. Mr. Covington called to complain about your canceling all surgery this morning. He said his wife was hysterical.

" "She's had that nose for almost fifty years, she'll survive another week with it. No others? No visitors? " '"No. It's been pretty quiet." That was a relief. No calls or visits from any lawenforcement agencies looking for Dr. Lathram. A good indication that Gin had yet to convince anyone.

Maybe there was still time

Time for what? He couldn't see much use in patrolling this area any longer. He had to face it, Gin was gone. She'd hopped a cab, or sneaked into the Metro, or simply walked away. She could be in Virginia or Maryland by now. Or down at the FBBuilding. If she was still around here he would have seen her.

He reached into his pocket for the car keys and found the pager-transducer. Conflicting emotions swirled within him. If Gin walked past right now he'd use it on her, without hesitation, not out of malice but out of the most basic drive of all, self-preservation.

And yet . . . some small part of him was almost glad that she had eluded him.

He found his keys. Time to go. But whtere? Home to sit and wait for the ax to fall? Even if no one came to put the cuffs on him, his plans for the president tomorrow would have to be changed. He would simply do the surgery and forget about the implant. He would destroy the TPD, and then it would be Gin's word against his.

Except for that implant in her leg.

Damn, damn, damn! His options were becoming narrower with each passing hour.

As Duncan turned to head for his car, he saw a monotone sedan pass and pull into the curb a few dozen feet from him, stopping directly under a no-parking sign. A warning alarm rang in his brain, so he turned and crossed Seventeenth, keeping his face averred until he reached the other side. As he mingled with the thickening rush-hour crowd there, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a young, fair-haired man standing on the sidewalk, surveying the square. He seemed to be looking for someone.

Terror slammed Duncan from behind but he resisted the urge to run. He had seen him before, with Gin at the Guidelines committee hearing.

Canney the FBI agent.

Is he looking for me?

Keep calm, Duncan told himself. How could he be? He drove right past me. And besides, why, of all the possible places in the District, would he look for me here?

He had to be looking for someone else.

For Gin.

Excitement surged through Duncan as he stepped back into a doorway and continued to watch Agent Canney.

I'm still safe, he thought. If the FBI doesn't know Gin's whereabouts, then no one does, at least no one who matters.

He watched Canney walk across the grass and among the shrubs and benches of Farragut Square, watched him search the entire perimeter, pausing where Gin's car had hit the curb. His movements were quick, efficient, but Duncan detected an underlying anxiety and uncertainty.

Duncan could have told him, You're wasting your time

- He watched Canney canvas the area, then get into his car and leave.

And with the agent's departure Duncan suddenly found himself refreshed, invigorated. He wasn't going home. Not just yet.

He'd hang around a little longer. At least until dark.

Gin awoke in pain and confusion. She'd rolled over onto her right side and felt as if something were taking a bite out of her thigh.

She was hot, wet, bathe in sweat. Her bra and panties were glued to her skin. She threw off the covers. Dark . . . where, ?

A few blinks and she recognized the hotel room. It all came back to her. Sitting on the tub, cutting into herself . . .

- She sat up and experienced only an instant of light headedness. No question, the rest had done her good, but how long had she been out?

She turned the clock radio toward her. 5:05.

My God, I slept away the whole afternoon!

She eased herself to her feet and wobbled only slightly on her way to the bathroom. She had to see it, had to make sure it was still there.

It was. The Coricidin bottle sat where she had left it on the marble counter. She ran the sink water and drank three glasses without taking her eyes off the implant resting within, turning brown now as its blood-streaked surface dried.

She brought it with her when she returned to the bed. Still weak, but feeling lots better, she carefully lowered herself to sit on the edge.

Time to call Gerry. Time to meet with him and show him what Duncan had placed inside her.

She got an outside line and punched in his office number. The FBI operator said he wasn-t in at the moment. Would she like to leave a message?

'"When will he be back? " "Agent Canney did not say. May I ask who's calling, please? " "That's okay, " Gin said. "I'll call back. " Maybe he got tired of waiting for her and went home. She called his house but got only his answering machine.

Maybe he was in transit. She'd have to wait till he picked up Martha and got home . . . if home was where he was headed. She wondered if he was worried about her, or even thinking about her. It would be comforting to know that someone besides Duncan was wondering where she was. She unwrapped the Ace bandage from her leg to expose the gauze beneath.

She noticed that blood was beginning to seep through the dressing.

Gingerly, she peeled it away. The antibiotic ointment kept the gauze from sticking. The incision looked good, the thread seemed to be holding. But as she stared at the wound, and then at the little bottle containing the bloody implant, she was filled with an overwhelming despair.

Gerry's not going to relieve one.

The realization made her sick. What would he think when he saw that bloody thing in the bottle? No one had seen her cut it out. No witness to the procedure. Who was to say she hadn't cut herself and smeared the implant with blood to convince others of her delusions?

Self-mutilation was common in certain forms of psychosis. Or maybe she'd be diagnosed as some sort of variant of Munchausen syndrome.