Implant

Implant

by F. Paul Willson

Welcome to Federal World.

She cut diagonally across to her left, weaving between suited federal employees and T-shirted tourists, and came out on First Street. She comulted her hand-drawn map, she'd been to the Capitol area many times as a child, but never to a Senate office building. Up ahead the white blocks of the Russell Building sat to the right, the Dirksen Building to the left. She hurried past the Dirksen's shrub and flower-lined parking lot labeled "Federal Employees Only", hopefully she'd have a spot there soon, and up to Constitution, then left past the Dirksen and a scruffy clutch of helmeted bike messengers lounging on the sidewalk, waiting for a call on the walkie-talkies protruding from their vests.

Her destination was the adjoining block of white marble, the Hart Building.

In the white marble lobby she gave her name to the uniformed security guard and signed in. She was directed to place her bag on a conveyor belt. As it was swallowed by the X-ray box, Gin stepped through the metal detector. Just like an airport.

More white marble beyond the guards, the whole building seemed to be made of it. A short walk down a corridor lined with potted trees and she came to the Hart's huge central atrium.

She stopped, struck by the sheer mass of the enormous black steel sculpture that dominated the space. A series of jagged black peaks, stark against the white of their surroundings, thrust upward, reaching for the sunlight streaming through the ceiling beyond. Between the skylight and the peaks floated a gargantuan mobile of equally black disks.

Black mountains and black clouds in a white room. Arresting. But the tension coiled inside prevented her from fully appreciating it. Had to move, keep going, get upstairs to Senator Marsden's office.

As she passed through the atrium she noticed a man staring at her. In his gray suit he could have been any one of the thousands of Senate aides who worked on the Hill. He was good-looking, though, thirtyish, fair, tall, close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, square jaw. But why was he staring at her like that? She wasn't dressed in any way to make her stand out from any of the other women passing through the atrium.

Nothing special about her sedate, navy pinstripe suit, just a knee-length skirt and a short fitted jacket. So why was he ogling her like she was wearing a micromini and a halter top?

It made her uncomfortable. She was glad when she found the bank of elevators. She turned a corner and put some of that white marble between them.

The elevator on the end was marked "Senators Only." Gin rode one of the brightly lit peon cars to the seventh floor and began to look for Senator Marsden's office.

The oEhces occupied the perimeter of the Hart Building, the hallway, actually a ramp that ran around the inner walls, overlooked the atrium and the sculpture. She noticed a gray, powdery coating on the upper surfaces of the mobile. The clouds needed a good dusting.

Down on the floor she noticed someone standing in the center of the atrium, becalmed while everyone else flowed around him. That same man, the one in the gray suit, was staring up at her.

What's year problem, mister?

She looked away and walked on. Quickly. She found 752 at the far end of the hall. A simple black nameplate on the oak door said Sen. H. Marsden.

Vertical blinds blocked her view through the full-length windows that flanked the entrance. She reached for the door, then hesitated.

This is ridiculous, she thought, blotting her moist palms on her skirt.

I've been through premed, med school, internal medicine residency, I've brought people back from the dead, I've been up to my elbows in blood and guts, and here I am nervous as a sixth grader outside the principal's office.

She grabbed the handle and stepped into the front office.

I know her.

Gerald Canney continued to stare up at the seventh-floor walkway where that attractive brunette had disappeared from view.

But from where?

He prided himself on his ability to remember faces and match them with names. Part of it seemed to come naturally, part from his training at the FBAcademy in Quantico. Special agents had to spot faces through extra hair, dark glasses, any sort of disguise.

Only with this gal, no disguise. Her face had been there right in front of him, all but daring him to recognize her. Why couldn't he? Could she be in some way connected to the case? The late, great Senator Richard A. Schulz used to have an office in Hart, still did, in a way, until his successor was named. Gerry had just been up there, sifting through the senator's files.

He sighed. The Schulz case was something of an embarrassment to the Bureau. They'd been tipped that the good senator was laundering honoraria, since Gerry was attached to the public corruption unit, he'd been assigned to the team looking into it.

Schulz was suspected of various other dealings of questionable legality. The corruption team was tightening the noose when he dropped to his death from his apartment balcony.

Did he fall or did he jump? The Bureau did not know. They were reasonably sure that he was alone in the apartment when he went over the balcony rail.

How could he fall? The railing was four feet high. He'd have had to climb onto it to fall, and there was no logical reason for him to climb, no plants to water, no hanging decorations that needed attention.

That left a jump. Had he heard about the investigation and decided he couldn't stand the heat? Not likely. Gerry had interviewed both his current mistresses, neither of whom knew about the other. One was listed on his office payroll as an "assistant" for forty-one thousand dollars a year. No one on his staff knew what she looked like, she'd never been to the office.

The other was a lobbyist for an electronics trade association. Many members of Congress could be accused of being in bed, figuratively, with certain political interests, Schulz apparently took the phrase literally. Neither woman said she'd noticed the slightest sign of stress or apprehension in the senator at any time before he died. Even his physical therapist, who gave him an ultrasound treatment on his back only an hour before his death, said he seemed to be in excellent spirits.

So what had happened to Senator Schulz?

Gerry didn't know. Which was why he'd been at Schulz's officer this morning. That officer was right down the same hall the mystery girl had been traveling a moment ago. And Schulz had been quite a womanizer, a legendary womanizer in . . .

this time

A third mistress? No. Gerry didn't think that was it. Schulz's office had been sealed since his death. No point in anyone going there. She couldn't get in.

But this gal didn't work here. Gerry could tell by the uncertain way she'd walked through the atrium, gawking at the sculpture, looking for the elevators, this was her first time in the Hart Building.

So who was she?

Easy enough to find out. Just go over to the visitors log by the Constitution entrance and check out the names. But that would be cheating.

Hey, I'm a trained special agent, he told himself. I can solve The Mystery of the Strangely Familiar Foxy Brunette without stooping to checking the visitors log.

So FBI special agent Gerald Canney stood in the center of the atrium and flipped through his mental files. After five minutes he walked over to the visitors gate and showed the guards his ID.

'"I'd like to see this morning's visitor sheet." The woman slid a clipboard across the table. Gerry scanned through the names, picking out the female ones. If he saw it, he'd know it. No doubt. It would click.

He slid past one and jumped back to it.

Regzna Panzella.

Regina Panzella . . . why did that ring a bell? Panzella sounded familiar, but not with that first name. Not Regina . . . not Gin .

. .

What went with Panzella?

Pasta.

Oh, Christ! Pasta Panzella. It couldn't be. Absolutely no way Pasta had been . . . well . . . fat. That was how she got the name. A real chubette. This gal was anything but fat.

And yet . . .

Something about her face . . . slim down the rounded cheeks he remembered, do something with Pasta's wild tangle of hair, and it could be. It had been ten years or more since he'd last seen her, but yes, it could damn well be Pasta.

Gerry glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be back at the office soon to meet with Ketter on the Schulz case, but they hadn't set a definite time for the meeting. Maybe he'd hang around here for a while and see if he could get another look.

Pasta Panzella . . . it was almost too much to believe.

'"Okay, " said Joe Blair, Senator Marsden's chief of staff. "Enough about the officer. Let's talk about you." Really? Gin thought.

You're finally going to stop talking about yourself and actually interview me? Can you stand it?

Blair was about her age, with thinning brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, and a wispy mustache. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt, a nondescript tie, and dark blue slacks. He looked too young to be a U.S. senator's chief of staff, but from the stories he'd been telling her, all starring a certain Joseph Biair, he'd been on the Hill for the entire eight years since his graduation from Cornell with a poli-sci degree. This was the third senator he'd worked for, and to hear Joe tell it, he'd written more legislation than any of the members he'd staffed for.

What a guy. Reminded her of some of the orthopedic residents in Tulane.

Gin had been under the impression that she was going to be interviewed by Senator Marsden himself.

"The senator is on the floor, " Joe Blair had told her.

Gin had looked around. "I don't understand." '"That means he's in the Senate, " Blair said with a condescending smile. "On the floor of the Senate."

"I see." She did her best to hide her disappointment.

"Besides, the senator doesn't do the hiring and firing. I do.

Oh, great. Her disappointment was swept away by a wave of apprehension.

She had the distinct impression that Blair didn't like her.

Blair gave her a quick tour of the office. She'd already seen the small front section with its two receptionists, one male, one female, and its antiseptic, dentist's waiting-room ambience. The rear space was much larger and sloppier, looking like a real working office with modular work spaces, cluttered desks, sagging bookshelves, glaring computer monitors, empty coffee cups, papers and folders Lying on every available horizontal surface. And phones. Phones everywhere, each bearing a little U. S. Senate seal.

The staff occupied two floors that communicated via a central stairway.

The two-tiered space offered more room than most senators had, but Marsden represented one of the larger states, and she knew "appropriation by population" was religious dogma on the Hill.

The second floor was pretty much like the first except for a small lounge and the computer room that housed the central processor for the office's LAN. The striking feature of the second floor was the mail room with its bins, many bins, of letters. Blair told her anywhere from ten to fifteen thousand pieces of mail were sorted, filed, and answered on a weekly basis by the staffs legislative correspondents.

Blair decided to interview her in the senator's office. Gin was surprised at the Spartan decor. She'd expected heavy oak paneling, plush carpeting, indirect lighting, a big leather chair, a huge impressive desk sporting a U. S. Senate seal and flanked by state and national flags, the works. Apparently Marsden wasn't impressed by the trappings of his office. The desk and its straight-back chair were of some nondescript wood, looking plain and slightly battered in the late morning sunlight that poured through the high windows. Files were stacked on the desk and floor. A few plaques and diplomas adorned the walls along with pictures of his family. A single bookcase was overflowing. A miniature basketball hoop was set up over the wastepaper basket.

Gin had a pretty good idea right then that she was going to like Senator Marsden.

But first she had to get past his chief of staff.

She and Blair settled themselves on opposite sides of the coffee table in the sitting area of the office. Blair spent another ten minutes or so talking about his prowess in helping guide the senator's bills through the many pitfalls of the legislative process, his gaze all the while drifting between her legs and her breasts. Gin drew the skirt hem closer to her knees.

She had decent legs and wore a 54-C bra. What else did he want to know? Maybe she should have worn a pantsuit.

Finally he began shuffling through her resume.

"Very impressive, ' he said, "but I don't see anything here about party affiliation."

"I'm an independent, " Gin said.

He glanced up at her as if she'd burped, then cleared his throat.

"Party affiliation is very important. We have to know whom we can trust."

"If I'm on your staff, you can trust me. If you want a straight answer, I'll give it to you. If I don't know an answer, I'll find out." He stared at her. "I don't know . . . the senator was impressed that a practicing physician, especially a young one, would apply for a position as a legislative assistant on the Guidelines bill.

Tell me, What do you think you can bring to the committee that we don't already have? " Finally, here was the question Gin had been waiting for.

"I can bring a lot of things. First off, '' "You know the history of the committee, don't you? ' he said. Gin did, but that wasn't going to stop Blair "Well, back when you were still in training, before a national healthcare program and universal coverage became hot topics, Senator McCready, a ranking member of the Committee on Labor and Human Resources, introduced his Medical Practice Guidelines Bill in the Senate at about the same time Congressman Allard introduced a very similar bill in the House. In a rare show of cooperation a joint committee was formed. Senator McCready chaired the hearings but died before the bill could be sent to the floor of either house. With one of its chief sponsors gone, the bill died in committee." Gin nodded.

"But earlier this year the president stepped in.

Yes He persofally asked Senator Marsden to revive the McCready committee. But he wanted the legislation to include not only practice guidelines, but mandates on medical ethics as well. ' "And that's why you need me, " Gin said, rushing in before Blair could drone on further with his recitation. "I'm a board-eligible internist who came through the medicine and public policy residency at Tulane. I'm a fully trained physician who's well versed in public health issues.

You're going to be collecting reams of testimony, much of it conflicting. You'll need someone like me to sift through it and septate the wheat from the chaff. If Senator Marsden, " "Quite frankly, I don't share the senator's enthusiasm for having a doctor on board, " Blair said, staring at her. "I think it could cause too much confusion, maybe even dissension. So, what can you say or do that will change my mind? " Gin's skin crawled at the way he looked at her when he said that. She decided to ignore it.

"I think you need all points of view to draw up a well balanced plan. I can provide the senator with a valuable perspective, one he's not seeing now, one he has little access to. The best generals always keep abreast of the conditions in the trenches. I can offer, " Blair glanced at his watch. "Look at the time We've already carried this over the limit I'd set for it." He closed her file and stood up.

"Well, thank you, Dr. Panzella" He walked to the door and opened it for her. "I'll discuss your application with the senator. We'll be in touch if he decides to hire you." His expression was perfectly flat, his eyes empty. "Can you find your way out? " "Of course, " Gin said, forcing a smile.

Her heart sank as the message came through loud and clean Don't call us, we'll call you.

Gin let the smile fade as she wound past the cubicles and out through the reception area. What a nightmare of an interview. She couldn't imagine how it could have gone worse. What was Blair's problem? Was he threatened by her? Or was he looking for something from her? What can you say or do that will change my mind? What was that all about?

What had he expected her to do, lift her skirt?

She felt her jaw muscles bunch in anger. A little man with a little power equaled a big problem. Was this the way it was going to be?

She had the elevator down all to herself. She leaned against a side wall and fought the disappointment. Okay, so she probably wasn't going to get on the chairman's staff. She'd been prepared for that, not for a screw up like this, but for the real possibility that the senator wouldn't think he'd need her. There were six other members, no, check that, Congressman Lane had died in that car accident a while back. So at the moment there were five other legislators who were members of the Guidelines committee. As the ranking House member, Congressman Allard was the next obvious choice. Gin had set up a fail-safe appointment with him on Wednesday morning. Looked like she'd be keeping it.

She left the elevator and rounded the corner into the atrium. That was when she heard a man's voice from her left.

"Excuse me, but does the word Pasta' hold any special significance for you? " She froze. It was a name she hadn't heard since high school. A name she'd never wanted to hear again.

Gin turned. Him again. Or still. The blond guy in the suit. She now saw some fine linear scars across his forehead and down his right cheek that she hadn't noticed before. He was edging closer, staring at her face like the kids in pediatrics stared at "Where's Waldo" puzzles.

What was his problem?

But then she was struck by something familiar about him. If she imagined his hair four or five inches longer . . .

He stuck out his hand. "My God, it's really you. I don't know if you remember me from high school, but I'm, " The name leapt into her mind.

"Gerry! " She grasped his hand. "Gerry Canney! " "Right! I'm flattered you remember." Remember? How could she forget? Co-captain and quarterback for the football team, captain of the swim team, and an honor student to boot.

She'd had a monstrous crush on Gerry Canney all through Washington-Lee High in Arlington. She remembered positioning herself in the hall outside social studies after third period every day just to watch him stroll by. The scars on his face had wrought subtle changes on his looks, but he was still gorgeous.

"Yox're flattered I remember you? " she said. "I'm flabbergasted you remember me." He grinned. "I've got a great memory for faces. And who could forget a girl with a name like Pasta." He'd said it again.

She'd have to nip this in the bud.

"It's Gin, Gerry. Gin." He blinked. "Got you. I don't think I ever knew your real first name. Gin it is. But I barely recognized you.

You look great." He winced and waved his hands in the space between them, as if trying to erase The words. "Wait. That didn't come out right. I didn't mean, " "It's okay, " she laughed, placing a hand on his sleeve. "I understand. I'm not half the girl I used to be. And you . . . last time I saw you, you had huge sideburns and hair over your ears. ' He rubbed his clean-shaven cheeks. "Yeah. The seventi.

Can you believe how we dressed back then? But tell me, What've you been doing with yourself? " "I just finished an internal medicine residency."

"You're a doctor? That's great! " He glanced at his watch. "Look, I've been waiting down here to meet you since you walked in. I mean, I just had to see if it was really you. But now I'm late for a meeting and I've got to run. But let's get together soon."

"That'd be nice."

"How about tomorrow night? Are you free?

She sensed he was asking about more than just time

"Tomorrow? No, I'm moonlighting Tuesday night." She started a twelve-hour shift at Lynnbrook at eight.

"Wednesday night? " '"Sorry. Moonlighting again." But she didn't want to turn him down flat. "Maybe we could get together for an early bite before I go on duty. Or wait till Friday." '"Friday's a long way off. An early bite it will be. Anyplace special you'd like to go?

" "You schoose."

"Okay. I will." He pulled a small leather folder from his pocket and gave her two cards along with a pen. "Give me your number and I'll call when I think of an appropriate place." She wrote down her number and handed back the cards. He returned the bottom card to her.

"That one's for you. Call me any time you witness a federal crime. " He waved and moved off. "I'll call you tonight or tomorrow." And then he was hurrying through the glistening marble whiteness toward the exit. Gin glanced at his card, Gerald Canney, Special Agent, Federal Bgreav of Investigation.

She smiled. Gerry was an FBI man? Amazing. She'd always imagined him going into business. Who'd have ever thought? And now the former major heartthrob of Washington-Lee High wanted to take her out. Who'd ever believe that?

She just hoped they didn't wind up at a pasta place. That wouldn't be funny.

Pasta . . . when had she picked up that name? Freshman year?

Somewhere around the time her hormones had begun to flow. Overnight she'd seemed to balloon. It was horrible.

She couldn't squeeze into her clothes. Her breasts were growing, which was fine, but so were her thighs and hips and waistline. She hadn't changed her eating habits but her body seemed to have stopped burning off the calories she'd once been able to pack away. She'd gone from slightly above average to obese in less than a year. She'd wanted to die.

Her father couldn't see a problem, "There's more of you to love! " was definitely not a solution to her misery. Mama understood, and together they started a diet, but already it was too late. The school comedians couldn't resist "Pasta" Panzella.

She changed internally as well, becoming moody and reclusive. Looking back now, from the far side of a medical education, Gin realized Pasta had sunk into a clinical depression. She'd tell people she didn't care about her weight or what anybody called her, and to prove it, she'd b inge. Especially on lonely weekend nights. Primarily on chocolate.

Pasta loved chocolate. Chocolate cake, chocolate donuts, Hershey's with almonds, and Snickers. God, she loved Snickers. And bingeing only made her fatter, which made her even more depressed.

Pasta missed the junior and senior proms, and lots of other high-school activities in her self-imposed exile. The only bright spots in those dark days had been her novels and her part-time job in Dr. Lathram's office. Her grades began to slip but not enough to keep her out of the Ivy League.

The summer before going off to college she realized that she had a chance to start all over again. The kids in Princeton had never heard her called Pasta. She vowed that none of them ever would. She began a strict diet, no bulimia, no starvation, no trading one problem for another, just low fat and calorie restriction, plus a grueling exercise program. She remembered the constant hunger, the burning lungs, the aching legs as she forced her body to jog one more mile . . .

just one more. By the time she registered at Princeton she was proud to be merely overweight. According to her charts, her weight hit the fiftieth percentile for her age, height, and sex during sophomore year, as a junior she overshot and got too thin, so she backed off. When she graduated she was the person she wanted to be, She had her BS in biology, was on her way to U. of P. med school, and she liked what she saw in the mirror.

She'd maintained that weight through four years of med school and three years of residency. Pasta Panzella was gone.

Well, almost gone. The ghost of Pasta still haunted her, and every so often she'd propel Gin to the chocolate section of a candy store, and Gin would give in and let Pasta have a Snickers. But only once in a while, and only one.

And now Gerry Canney was asking her out. Strange how things come full circle.

She frowned. Hadn't she heard somewhere along the line that Gerry was married? She wanted to get to know Gerry, she certainly hadn't known him well in high school, but she wasn't into games.

Pasta Panzella had been a vulnerable adolescent.

Gin Panzella, MD, was anything but.

'"Sorry I'm late, " Gerry said as he burst into Marvin Ketter's cramped officer on the EYE Street side of the Bureau building. He was puffing a little and he'd broken a sweat on the rush up from the parking garage.

"Took me a little longer than I planned.

Which was true. It had taken Pasta, no. . . Gina, a long time to finish her business in the Hart Building. And all the way back here his mind had been on her instead of Senator Schulz. God, she was beautiful now.

The metamorphosis from Pasta to Gin fascinated him. Reminded him of the time as a kid he'd left a caterpillar in a dry aquarium and returned after a weekend away to find a graceful butterfly fluttering against the glass. He'd let it fly around his room, watching it in awe for hours before opening the screen to let it glide out the window.

"Well, you've had all mornin' to scratch, ' Ketter said. "Find any worms? " Marvin Ketter had ten years on Gerry. His dark curly hair was just starting to gray at the temples and he wore it very very short. His eyebrows were his outstanding feature, enormous, bushy, Groucho-league tangles that were longer and thicker than the hair on his head. Give him a wide black mustache and a cigar and he could join Harpo and Chico without a hitch. Until he opened his mouth. Groucho didn't have a Georgia accent.

Ketter was SSA, supervising special agent. One notch above Gerry.

Gerry wanted his job. He didn't want to kick him out or make him look bad, he liked Ketter, but when Ketter moved up, Gerry wanted to move into his chair. Not simply as a career move or because he'd been a field agent long enough, there were other, more important reasons.

"Found a few goodies, but I don't know if they mean anything. And the more I learn about our boy, the less I like him. I mean, there didn't seem to be anything too small for this guy to steal."

"Plenty like him down here."

"So I'm beginning to see. Hell, I used to think I had few illusions about what really goes on up there on the Hill, but I'm beginning to think I've been a Pollyanna." He'd learned more than he wanted to know about Washington's honoraria industry.

Years ago the Senate had voted to cap the amount of honoraria each member could collect in a year. This did not deter senators from accepting "speaking engagements, " however. They continued to be flown to plush resorts, put up in lavish suites, wined and dined for days before and after their 'speech", usually a few after-dinner remarks to the corporate sales conference attendees, and then flown back to Washington loaded down with gifts. The thousand-dollar honorarium for speaking? That was donated, very visibly, to a charity.

The all-expense-paid vacation and gifts were enough of a haul for most of the legislators, but not enough for Senator Schulz. He accepted every speaking invitation that came along, demanded high honoraria, but graciously donated every dime to a church in his hometown where his uncle was minister. Gerry's investigation had uncovered evidence that the minister was keeping only a quarter of the donations for the church and funneling the rest back to Schulz.

But then Gerry had come across a connection between Schultz and Representative Hugo Lane. Both were cozy with one of the Japanese auto lobbies. A Japanese auto corporation had bought an $800, 000 condo in Palm Beach. It was registered in the company's name, but its use was reserved exclusively for Schulz and Lane. Whenever they wanted some fun in the Florida sun, it was theirs. They simply had to work it out between themselves so they wouldn't arrive at the same time

Congressman Lane had died in a car crash, ran it into a deep ravine in Rock Creek Park, two weeks before Schulz's death.

A connection? Maybe. Gerry was looking into that. So far he'd come up with zilch, but he was still looking.

"One interesting note, " he said to Ketter. "I came across a fat canceled check for plastic surgery."

"Let me guess, drawn on his reelection campaign funds. ' Of course.

"So what's the point? " "Well, seems to me people who've looking to end it all don't drop a bundle on cosmetic surgery. Sounds more like someone who's looking toward the future.

'"Possibly. Or someone who's unhappy with himself, tries plastic surgery to improve his looks, finds out it doesn't make him feel the least bit better, so he dives for the dirt."

"Spoilsport, " Gerry muttered.

"Leave the second-guessing to the shrinks. Got anything concrete? " "Yes. An odd little correlation popped out of the database. What if I told you that both Lane and Schulz had plastic surgery this summer? " Ketter shrugged. So? ' '"And what if I told you they both used the same surgeon? " "Same response. These Old Boys go to the same dentist, the same chiropractor, eat at the same restaurants, have the same personal trainer, sometimes the same mistresses. So why not use the same plastic surgeon? Who's the doc? " "Duncan Lathram." Ketter stared at him a moment. "Well now, " he drawled. "Seems I've heard that name before. And I do believe I heard it from you. Or am I wrong? " "No, you're right."

"Seems to me you had yourself a bit of a hard-on for this Doc Lathram a while back." '"We had a disagreement. That's all. ' More than a disagreement, actually.

Duncan Lathram had flat out refused to operate on Gerry's face after the car accident. It had been a very bad time for Gerry. The worst.

And Lathram's brush-off had almost put him over the edge. He still smarted from the sting of that rejection.

"You seemed pretty heated up at the time, if I remember." '"Look.

The computer spit out the correlation on its own. I didn't go looking for it. But you've got to admit it seems a little strange that a congressman and a senator both die a month or so after plastic surgery performed by the same doctor."

"One in a car accident, the other in a fall. I don't exactly see a trend here."

"Neither do I. Just mentioning it as a curiosity. ' "Fine. So basically we've got no evidence of foul play in the Schulz death. ' "None."

"Okay. Then let's fold up that tent and move on without muddying the water with plastic surgeons."

"Will do." . .

But Gerry's interest was piqued. It might be nothing, doubtless was nothing, but he'd keep an eye out for any other Lathram patients who wound up in the morgue.

Just for the sheer hell of it.

SURGERY DR. PANZELLA? " Gin sat before a computer terminal, completing a pre-op physical, summarizing her evaluation of a patient's cardiopulmonary status and suitability for surgery. At least that was what she was supposed to be doing. Actually she was staring at the screen ruminating about yesterday's disaster at Marsden's office and that officious little, Don't think about it.

She looked up. A young black woman, dressed in surgical scrubs and cap, had poked her head and upper body through the door of the record room and was looking at her expectantly.

'"He's ready to scrub, " said Joanna, the surgicenter's OR nurse.

"Be right there, " Gin said.

She hit F10 to save the H and P, jotted down the file name so she could finish it later, and headed upstairs for the operating suite. Even on a V.I.P morning, with only one very important patient, Duncan Lathram did not like to be kept waiting. She hustled.

Not that she had that far to go. Lathram Surgical Associates sounded like a multicenter medical group, but actually it was one surgeon at one location in Chevy Chase. That location was an old single-story stone building, somewhat Gothic looking, that had once been a bank.

Duncan Lathram and his brother Oliver, also a doctor, but a PhD in pharmacology, had maintained the old facade while completely gutting and refitting the interior into a state-of-the-art prlyate surgicenter.

The main floor offered a two-room operating suite, a large recovery room with six cubicles, a private V.I.P recovery room, an examination/consultation room, and Duncan's office. The records room, lounge, and Oliver's lab took up the basement.

Gin rushed into the scrub room, shucked her white coat, tucked her unruly black hair under a disposable cap, and joined Duncan at the sink.

His forearms were already coated with tan lather.

"Morning, Duncan." Since her first day here he'd insisted that since she was now a full-fledged physician, she must call him by his first name, "Call me Doctor Lathram' once more and you're fired." But she had to make a conscious effort to say Duncan. He'd been her hero since she was ten.

He grunted and nodded absently as he continued working the Betadine into his skin with the disposable brush.

Hmmm. Preoccupied this morning.

Gin watched him out of the corner of her eye as she adjusted the water temperature with the foot controls and began her own scrub. Assisting Duncan Lathram at surgery, still hard to believe it was true. Simply being alongside him like this never failed to give her a warm tingle.

She'd been working with him for months now and still marveled at how good he looked for a man of sixty-two. Neat as the proverbial pin, with dark, glossy, perfectly combed hair graying at the temples, piercing blue eyes over a generous nose set in a longish, rugged face that creased deeply when he smiled, which wasn't all that often. Six feet, maybe six-one, with a weathered Gary Cooper-Randolph Scott look, more like a saddle hand than a plastic surgeon. Long, lean, and close to the bone, a rack of baby-back ribs.

The image made her smile and took her back to her childhood when she worked in the family's Italian deli and meat market. Her dad made a practice then, still did, no doubt, of labeling certain customers with the names of cuts of meat or one of his Italian specialty dishes. Mrs. Fusco, who always had to touch everything, was a calatnan, potbellied Mr. Prizzi was a pork loin, Mrs. Bellini, who'd always leave her shopping list home and could never remember what she needed, was capozella, and once when he'd thought she was in the front of the store, Gin had heard Dad ask one of the butchers if he'd got a load of the cannolis on Mrs. Phillips.

Little Gin adopted the practice and began categorizing the kids she knew by cuts of meat. Duncan Lathram was definitely a rack of baby-backs.

But Duncan's hands didn't quite go with the rest of him, long, delicate, agile fingers that could perform miracles, do medical origami with human tissues.

She felt awkward even thinking it, but the old guy was sexy.

Listen to me, she thought. He's older than my dad.

But no getting around it, Duncan Lathram was an attractive man. Not that she felt any libidinous tugs toward him. God, no. But from a purely esthetic standpoint, he was pretty hot for an old dude.

Must be our history, she thought. We go back a long way. And I've got the scars to prove it.

The big guy was quiet today. Duncan almost always had something to talk about. A news junkie. Read all the District papers, plus the Baltimore San and the northern Virginia rags. Had them strewn all over his office every morning. Never missed MacNeil/Lehrer and Meet the Press.

And never failed to find something to tick him off.

Duncan had his Permanently-Ticks-Me-Off list and his Ticks-MeOff-Today list. Always had something to talk about.

But not today.

The silence was starting to get to Gin.

"Hear about Senator Schulz? " she said.

She thought he seemed to stiffen at the name.

"Schulz? " Duncan's voice was smooth, deeply melodic. "What about him? " "According to the TV there's rumors that his cause of death is being investigated." Duncan began to rinse the honey-colored foam from his arms and hands.

"The scuttlebutt on Schulz is that he jumped. And with reason. He was, please excuse the demotic crookeder than most, and his scams were unraveling." Duncan shook his head sadly. "Twenty stories straight down, flat on his face." He sighed. "All that exceptional plastic work, all those hours of toil, wasted."

"Duncan!"

"Well, it's true. If I'd known defenestration was in his future, I wouldn't have taken such pains with him." Gin thought she was used to his dark sense of humor, so often skating along the line between mordant and sick. But sometimes he did veer over the line.

He pressed his elbow against a chrome disk in the wall and the OR doors swung open. "Hurry up. Another of the kakistocracy's finest awaits us." Gin glanced at the clock. Another minute to go with her scrub.

She felt a warm flush as she remembered yesterday's chance encounter with Gerry Canney, and wondered if he'd call. Not the end of the world if he didn't, but it would certainly be nice. She reviewed the obscure words she'd collected to spring on Duncan today, and then her thoughts probed the enigma that was Duncan Lathram.

When they first met nineteen years ago he wasn't a plastic surgeon.

At age ten she woke up in a hospital with everything hurting.

Struggling through the maze of her jumbled thoughts was the memory of horsing around with two of the neighborhood boys, proving to them that she could ride a bike as well as they could, and matching any dare they wanted to try. Suddenly she was in the middle of Lee Highway with a panel truck screeching and swerving toward her. She remembered the pale blurs of the driver's bared teeth and wide, shocked, terrified eyes through the dirty windshield as he stood on his brake pedal and tried to miss her.

Pain shoved the memories aside . . . pain and fear ... Where was her mama and who were these strange people bustling around her? Who was this big doctor bending over her and pressing his fingers into her tummy? Some deep part of her subconscious must have felt her life slipping away. She remembered asking him if she was going to die, and how he'd looked so shocked that she was conscious. Most of all she remembered the giant doctor going down on one knee beside the gurney so that his face was only inches from hers, squeezing her hand and saying, "Not if I've got anything to say about it. And around here, what I say goes." Something about his supreme confidence soothe her. She believed him.

She closed her eyes and slipped back into unconsciousness .

That big doctor had been Duncan Lathram. And Duncan Lathram had been a vascular surgeon then. Not just a run-of the-mill type who spent his days doing varicose-vein strippings, but a gonzo with a scalpel, unafraid to take on any vascular catastrophe, the messier the better.

Like hers. The impact with the truck had ruptured her spleen and torn her renal artery. Duncan had removed her spleen and repaired The gushing artery, saving her kidney and her life.

Gin remembered being absolutely infatuated with the man. He became a demigod in her eyes. From age ten on she sent him a card every Christmas. Even went to work for him at sixteen as a part-time clerk in the record room of his office in Alexandria. She learned how hard he worked, putting in fourteen- and sixteen-hour days in the hospital and office, and often being called to the emergency at one or two in the morning to repair leaking or severed arteries damaged by everything from atherosclerosis to car wrecks to knife fights. He could be gruff, self-absorbed, even arrogant at times, but Gin didn't mind. After all, wasn't that part of being a demigod? His stamina amazed her, his dedication and boundless enthusiasm for his work inspired her so much that when she registered as a freshman at Princeton, she chose premed biology as her major. The course of her life had been set.

Eleven years later she returned to the D. C. area as a board eligible internist and was shocked to learn that Duncan Lathram was no longer the gung-ho, life-saving surgical whirlwind she had left behind, somehow he had metamorphosed into a cosmetic surgeon who devoted his abbreviated workdays to prettifying the rich and powerful of Washington society.

From gonzo to dilettante, or something close to a dilettante. What had happened during those seven years? Gin had tried to piece it together but got nowhere. No one who knew was talking. Only Gin seemed to care. Something was missing. Duncan used to fight bleeders, now he fought wrinkles. If he'd been specializing in tummy tucks instead of vascular repair nineteen years ago, she might not be here today. So Gin's perspective differed from all the youth-chasing ninnies who flocked to Duncan to help them turn back the clock. They worshiped this man who could help them escape the unsightly dues that nature , nurture, genetics, and lifestyle demanded they pay.

Duncan had become someone else's god.

"Morning, Gin, " said a voice behind her.

Over her shoulder she saw Duncan's younger brother Oliver delivering a sterile tray of implants to the OR. He smiled and waved as he passed.

If Duncan was a rack of baby-backs, Oliver was a roast beef, rounder, heavier, with thinning hair, thick hornrimmed glasses, and a protective layer of fat. Also softer, gentler, far more easygoing than his older brother. A sweetheart. He made sure all the women on the staff received flowers on their birthday. And when Joanna's son got arrested for joyriding, Oliver was there to bail him out. Everybody loved him.

Gin rinsed, shook, and entered OR-1 just as Marie, the nurse anesthetist, said, "He's out." Gin took in OR-1 as Marie tied her mask and Joanna helped gown and glove her. Smaller than anything at Tulane, but the skill and professionalism here could hold their own against any tertiary medical center. Odorless, the laminar airflow kept it that way, and cold. Duncan liked to work under almost arctic conditions.

She approached the table where a middle-aged man, fiftyish or so, lay supine, his face covered except for the lips, chin, and throat, which were prepped for surgery. He looked something other than human with his skin stained yellow brown from the Betadine and his chin and throat marked up with the lines Duncan had drawn to guide his surgery.

Gin had met him last week when she'd done his pre-op history and physical, Senator Harold Vincent. Another member of the recently revived joint committee.

Like Congressman Allard.

She was struck by the coincidence, but only for a moment. Hell, half of Washington's officials or their wives had been Duncan's patients at one time or another since he'd started in plastic surgery, and the other half probably were on the waiting list. Not surprising, really.

His technical skills were second to none and he saw to it that people who considered themselves V.I.Ps were treated accordingly, they got absolute discretion, and, thanks to his brother, he had exclusive use of an innovative technique that halved the healing time greatly reduced.

"Ready to begin, Gin? " Duncan said. "The senator is getting impatient.

He's got a bunch of lobbyists camped out in his office with pockets full of cash. We don't want to keep them waiting, do we? " Joanna tittered behind her mask.

Duncan made his first incision under the chin, carefully following the natural lines of cleavage, then began the delicate task of dissecting away and trimming off portions of the stretched muscle, the platysma, that gave the senator's neck a sagging, aged look. Senatot Vincent had a particularly large amount of excess tissue, giving him a Tom-turkey wattle that fluttered when he spoke and flapped back and forth when he walked.

"Senator Impatience here couldn't wait, " Duncan said as he worked.

"An emergency, he told me. Had to have it immediately. Any one care to guess what the emergency is? " "Has to be TV, " Marie said from her spot at the top of the senator's head.

"Bingo. Give that woman a cigar." Marie didn't miss a beat, "Not while the o2 is running, thank you."

"It's the Joint Committee on Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines, of course, " Duncan said.

Gin stifled a groan. Here we go again. The joint committee was on Duncan's Permanently-Ticks-Me-Off list. He hated it and everything it was set up to do. He could go on for hours. Today the subject was a particularly uncomfortable one for Gin, what with no word from Senator Marsden's office, and her pending interview with Congressman Allard tomorrow.

"I've seen Senator Vincent on TV plenty of times, " Gin said, sponging the blood that began pooling in the incision.

"Sure. C-SPAN. But who besides you and I watches CSPAN? This boy has his eye on a much larger audience. Suction. Daily sound and video bites for all the network news shows, even looking for some live prime-time coverage. And our self-styled Champion of the Working Person' wants to look pretty for the nation. Clamp." Gin glanced at Joanna who rolled her dark eyes as she slapped the handles of the clamp into Duncan's gloved palm. He' olf to the races.

All right, so Duncan had a few fixations. Everybody had one or two.

His just happened to be the Old-Boy network in the federal government and its intrusion into the practice of medicine. But even from his ramblings you could learn something.

"Some champion, " he continued. "Voted himself a thirty-one-thousand-dollar pay raise during the recession, not to mention a government-issued Diners Club Card. Hand me the curved hemostat. That's the one. Here he is, vocal supporter of the Equal Pay Act, the Age Discrimination in Employment Act, the Occupational Health and Safety Act, and the National Labor Relations Act, as he'll remind you at every opportunity. But what he doesn't say is that behind closed doors he voted to keep the U. S. Senate exempt from all those acts. Suction." He was silent as he made another incision.

Gin continued to marvel at the grace and precision of his scalpel work.

He made it look so easy.

Gin knew it was anything but.

"But I'm thankful I'm only his plastic surgeon. Can you imagine being his proctologist? " He looked up and winked at her. "I mean, where to begin? ' Marie guffawed.

"As always, ' Duncan said, "laws imposed to assure fair play among the constituency do not apply to the kakistoc . .

racy.

Gin didn't want to, but felt compelled to ask. "All right, I give up.

What's this kakistocracy you're always talking about? I can't find it in the dictionary. ' "You won't unless you use an unabridged edition.

The kakistocracy reflects the anomie of our times."

"Oh, that helps a lot." '"It is rulership by the worst." Perfect time to spring one of my own words for the day, Gin thought.

'"I guess then you might say that the members of the kakistocracy excel at casuistry." She saw Duncan smile behind his mask. "Very good! " Marie turned to Joanna. "Great. Now neither of them are speaking English." Gin said, "I'm merely participating in the lingua franca.

' Two! she thought. I got two of them in! Duncan's eyes sparkled as he turned to Marie and Joanna. "Casuistry is the rationalization of matters of conscience, but I wonder if we can presume that the Senator Vincents of the world even have a conscience.

' He held out a gloved hand. "The implant, Gin. Time's a-wasting. " '"Oh sure. Sorry." Joanna uncovered the sterile tray, revealing the implants, tiny cylinders, soft, shiny, and slightly curved, looking like sausages or hot dogs. Hot dogs for a Barbie Doll. They came in all sizes. These on the tray were the mediums, twenty millimeters long, maybe five millimeters in diameter, each filled with Oliver's "secret sauce, " an enzyme solution that promoted healing, reduced edema, and retarded scar formation.

Here was the real key to Duncan's phenomenal popularity. He had the best hands in the business, but that was only part of his appeal.

These implants did the rest, allowing his patients the fastest recovery time, speeding them back into circulation to show off their new faces.

The brainchild of Duncan's younger brother, the implants were a crystal-protein matrix consisting of magnesium and albumin. Shortly after Gin came on staff, Oliver had shown her serial magnetic-resonance images of the implants after surgery. Each successive MRI showed a shrinking, shriveling membrane as the implant released its enzyme contents into the subcutaneous tissues to reduce scarring and post-operative edema. The final MRI a few weeks post-op showed nothing, After the implant had done its work, the crystals dissolved and the body's enzymes broke down the albumin to its component ammo acids, those were absorbed along with the magnesium into the surrounding tissues and eventually into the bloodstream, leaving no trace.

With a probe, Gin nudged one of the implants onto the special narrow, oblong spoon Duncan had custom-made after too many implants ruptured in the grip of an ordinary forceps. She reached over and gently deposited it in the incision. Duncan used a probe to position the implant where he wanted it, then signaled for another. When he had four of them placed deep in the incision, he moved his field closer to the surface.

"He looks younger already, ' Gin said.

Right, Duncan thought as he trimmed a wedge of platysma. Just what I want to do, make this bastard look younger.

What he really would have liked to do was restructure Vincent's features into a configuration that reflected the man within. Not too hard with Vincent . . . slant the eyes, tilt up the nose, spread the nostrils, flare the lips . . . and find some way to make him say "I'm

Senator Harold Hogg, potentate of the pork barrel.

He smiled under the mask. He'd had so many of Congress's Old Boys on the table, he could have changed the face of American politics by now, literally.

I could be Dr. Moreau in reverse. Instead of vivisecting animals into men, I'd recast pols into the animals and reptiles they emulate. I could wear a mask and skulk through the halls of the Capitol, Duncan Lathram, the anti-Moreau, demon doctor of devolution, Phantom of the Longworth Building, scourge of the Senate shuttle. A peal of insane laughter now and I'll be ready for Hollywood .

He sighed. Nothing so melodramatic for Senator Vincent. But Duncan did have definite plans for him.

Don't worry, Senator. You'll get yours. Trust me.

As he was placing the final implants he heard Gin's voice but didn't catch what she said.

"Hmmm? " "I said, what is it exactly that so irks you about the joint committee?

Gin's dark, dark eyes were fixed on him expectantly, as if his answer mattered very much to her. Under that cap and mask was a sultry Mediterranean beauty with wild, glossy black hair, full lips, high cheekbones, and flawless skin. A narrow waist and a perfect bust.

Nothing at all like the pimply, pudgy adolescent who'd worked in his file room a dozen or so years ago. In fact, when she'd shown up last June looking for part-time work as a physician, and told him who she was, he'd half considered having her investigated as an impostor.

The ugly duckling had returned as a swan. A dark swan. A cygnet.

But if he had been twenty minutes later in getting to that emergency room nineteen years ago, she wouldn't be anywhere now. That had been the great perk of his former life, saving someone who might make a difference in the world.

And he loved the way she'd started coming up with new words for him.

One day she'd stump him, but that was all right.

Seems I did us all a favor when I put your insides back together, Gin.

Not for the first time, he questioned having changed his field of practice, but only for a heartbeat. The choice had been made for him.

No going back.

But where was Gin going with all her brains and hardwon education?

"What irks me? " he said slowly as he began restructuring Vincent's trimmed platysma. "I don't think too much of the Joint Committee on Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines." He made a point of enunciating the committee's name in its entirety. Simply saying the joint committee didn't do justice to the pretentiousness of its title.

"I don't like its name, I don't approve of its mission, and I think it is staffed with arrivistes, parvenus, Pecksniffs, and bumptious ... yanoos He watched Gin's dark eyes crinkle at the corners.

I made her smile.

'"Hey, don't hold back, " she said. "Tell me what you really think. ' He would have liked to tell her the truth about what they did to his life, his family, but that would serve no purpose.

Never complain, never explain.

"Do you know what they're up to? " he said.

"Well, I understand it was the president's idea to revive the old McCready committee." Duncan straightened and paused in his suturing.

He didn't trust himself with a scalpel in his hand and McCready on his mind.

"Alas, our dear president didn't get his health-care plan, so he's taking it out on the medical profession. A medical guidelines bill wasn't good enough7 wasn't broad enough. No. Now it's mandates on medical ethics." Duncan closed his eyes to control his fury.

"Can you imagine it? Mark Twain said there's no distinct American criminal class except for Congress. And yet this collection of edacious, minatory pharisees is going to deliver ethical guidelines to a profession'that has had a code of ethics since the time of Babylon. " "We're not all so perfect, either, ' Gin said.

'"If all you've got is larceny in your heart, you don't spend four years in premed, four years in med school, three to ten years in postgraduate training working hundred-hour weeks at slightly more than minimum wage, all for the privilege of being six figures in debt by the time you hang out your shingle."

"Of course not, " Gin said. "You do it SQ you can work seventy-hour weeks for the rest of your life." Duncan smiled and felt his muscles relax. My dear cygnet. It's good to have you around.

He'd finished resecting and tightening the platysma. Time to close.

He asked for 6-o gut on a curved needle. Using a continuous subcutaneous technique, he began suturing.

"Anyway, " she said, "since Senator Marsden is McCready's successor, he's been asked to chair the joint committee. Got any dirt on him? ' Why was she so interested?

"Actually7 no7 Duncan said. "But he hasn't been around all that long.

Give him time You know what the committee's up to, don't you? " "Holding public hearings to gather information to help them write the bill? " "Their stated purpose, at the president's behest, is to set rigid standards for medical practice. What they're really out to do is parade a bunch of horror stories before the public present a lot of one-sided testimony on the worst cases of negligence and medical malfeasance they can find and paint the whole medical profession as a cartel of reckless, irresponsible, knife-happy, money-grubbing brigands who must be brought to heel."

"Um? don't you think you sound just a little paranoid? " With good reason7 he thought.

"Even paranoids have real enemies7 Gin. They're out to get us, pure and simple. I know how that sounds, but that's how I see it. They're at the bottom of the heap in public confidence, and they want to draw attention away from their own unwillingness to police themselves. " '"But their ethics committees go after people all the time" Duncan laughed. "Congressional ethics, there's an oxymoron for you. Only on those rare occasions when the press turns up the heat, only when their backs are to the wall and they have to do something."

"Well, whether we like it or not, I kind of think the shape of medical practice in the future is going to be decided at these hearings. So I'd like to be an aide on that committee. In fact, I had an interview at Senator Marsden's office yesterday mornmg.

Duncan froze and stared at her, and found Gin staring right back.

Gin's insides were wound into a Gordian knot. She'd waited until he'd almost closed the incision before mentioning this.

Why did I tell him? she wondered. I may nor even get the job.

Duncan said nothing as he finished closing the incision, leaving not a single stitch on the surface. Only a hair-thin line remained along the underside of the chin.

Gin had seen him do this a hundred times at least7 but still it awed her.

When he was done he looked up at her again.

"You what? "

"I, I had an interview with, "

"You are incomprehensible. You have a brilliant mind? an excellent medical education? and you want to be a Hill rat? "

"Only part-time. I just, " " How can you even think of cooperating with that committee? " '"Doesn't someone have to make sure the rer their facts straight? " O "Facts? Since when is Congress interested in facts? " He stepped back from the table and began ripping off his gloves. "I thought I was working with a doctor, not a Hill-rat wannabe." That hurt, stung like a slap in the face.

"Duncan, " '"You can't have it both ways, Gin. When you decide which one you want to be, let me know. ' He tossed his gloves on the floor and stormed out.

Gin had feared he might be a little upset, but she hadn't expected anything like this. She stood in the suddenly silent OR, with Marie and Joanna avoiding eye contact. She wondered what would have happened if she'd mentioned her appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. As it was she felt as if the floor had opened beneath her.

RECOVERY WITH THE MORNING'S TRUNCATED SURGERY SCHEDULE finished, the halls were quiet. Too quiet. Gin's stomach was still tight as she completed her dictation on Thursday's scheduled procedures.

Why did you open your big mouth?

Because he had to know sooner or later. . . especially when she began asking for extra time off.

But you may never get the job.

Right. Too right.

She finished the last H and P, logged off her terminal, and sat there.

Now what?

She had to face him. Had to clear the air. Had to find out where she stood. Was she still welcome here as a pre-op evaluator and surgical assistant? or was she to be cast into the outer darkness?

Only one way to find out.

She gathered her courage and hurried upstairs to the main floor. From there a short walk down the hall.

Duncan's slim, pretty, blond receptionist-secretary guarded the door to his office.

"Hi, Barbara. Is he in? ' She smiled up at Gin. "Just missed him.

Said he was going to look in on the senator, then, " ", head for the golf course, " Gin said. That was Duncan's routine.

"He may still be here. If you hurry, "

"Thanks, Barb." She hurried toward the V.I.P recovery room. Along the way she saw Sharon Collins, the recovery RN, standing in the hall and talking to Joanna. She slowed as she passed.

"Excuse me, Sharon. Aren't you, ? ' "Doing recovery on the V.I.P? " She was short, dark, and built like a Ninja turtle, but one sharp nurse.

"Yeah. Dr. D.

told me to take a break while he double-checked his needlework. I'm just about to head back."

"Good. Maybe I can catch him."

"You sure you want to? " Joanna said.

Gin flashed her a smile. "No." She scooted around the corner to the V.I.P recovery room, a plain, unmarked door, and knocked gently.

When there was no answer she tried again.

"Duncan?

She pushed the door open.

Noon brightness filtered through the full-length beige drapes across the picture window. Carpeting instead of linoleum, mahogany instead of Formica. A veneer of luxury for the sort who craved it, but very functional beneath.

In the bed, Senator Vincent snored softly, sleeping off the general anesthetic. But no Duncan.

Damn. She'd missed him. He couldn't have got that far.

She was half turned to leave when she saw Senator Vincent move his leg.

An unfolding length of sheet revealed a spot of red on the white over his thigh. She leaned closer.

Blood.

Just a tiny spot. No more than a drop. But there shouldn't have been any blood down by his leg. On his pillow, maybe, but not there.

She lifted the sheet and looked at the senator's leg. A small, semicircular puncture wound, less than a quarter inch in length on the outer aspect of the thigh, slightly toward the rear.

She probed the area around it and the senator moved again. Within the bandages his lids struggled open. His glazed eyes stared at her, then closed again.

"Shot, " he mumbled.

"What? " "Gave me shot."

"Who gave you a shot? " "Docker Lafram." He opened his eyes again and smiled. "Summin special.

Only choice patients." The senator smacked his lips and closed his eyes. He began to snore.

Gin stood over him. A shot? Since when did Duncan give injections?

Never. It was unheard of.

Vincent had to be wrong . . . and yet there definitely was a puncture wound in his thigh.

She adjusted the covers back over him.

Weird. Very weird.

A noise behind her made her turn. Collins was slipping through the door. She glanced around. "He's gone? " "Gone when I got here. Did Dr. Lathram say anything about giving the senator an injection? " Collins checked the order sheet. "No. Just the usual, Tylenol, two P-O every four hours P-R-N."

"No, I mean himself, giving the senator an injection himself."

Collins's wide face broke into a grin. "Dr. D. ? Giving meds personally? No way. That's what us RNs are for. Where'd you get an idea like that?

" "There's a puncture on his thigh and he said something about Dr. Lathram giving him a shot." Collins stepped over to the bed and examined his thigh.

"Hmmm. Where'd that come from? Looks more like a tiny cut than a needle mark."

"He said, " Collins gave Senator Vincent's shoulder a gentle shake.

"Senator? Are you awake? " He snorted and his eyes fluttered but didn't open.

"Okay, Mom, " he said.

Collins grinned again. "You see? I'd sooner believe the Man in the Moon gave him an injection than Dr. D. And besides, where's the syringe?

Where's the injection vial? " She had a point.

"You're right." Gin turned and headed for the door. "I'm out of here.

See you Thursday." It was strange, it didn't add up, but Gin pushed it out of her mind.

She had other things to think about. Like her appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. Another of Duncan's patients, by the way. She'd assisted on his abdominal liposuction a while back.

And if he didn't work out, she could come back to Senator Vincent.

She hadn't realized it when she signed on here, but here was one of the perks of working with Duncan, If they had juice and they wanted cosmetic surgery, Duncan Lathram was the man to see.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Words failed him.

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

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

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

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

Half turning to the flannel shirt, Duncan said, "I've always believed that one can augur the course of a civilization through observation of its indigenous cuisine, don't you agree? " The flannel shirt said, "What? " ' Exactly." Then it was Duncan's turn to pay.

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

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

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

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

Here it was Wednesday, a nosurgery day. He should have been relaxed, but a fine tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in the cup. He knew it wasn't the caffeine.

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

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

He distracted himself by admiring the scenery.

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

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

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

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

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

Duncan hadn't been back since.

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

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

Duncan stopped and reached into his pocket. "Which war was that? " "Which one were you in? " the man said.

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

"Me too." Duncan had to smile. "What if I'd said Vietnam? " '"Was in that one too. I'm the Unknown Soldier." Duncan figured he probably meant Universal Soldier but then again, it was very likely that he couldn't remember his name.

'"Clever rain gear you've got there, soldier. The latest from the House of Hefty, if I'm not mistaken." '"Does the job." Duncan handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man glanced at it, then did a double take.

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

"And you have a good day."

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

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

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

"Something big happening? " Duncan asked.

"Just an interview, " the bearded cameraman said. "Congressman . " "Which one? " "Allard." '"Not Kenneth Allard! The Kenneth Allard?

Here? Right here? " Duncan clapped his hands. "He's one of my favorites! " The cameraman grinned at the soundman. "First time I ever heard anyone say that. ' "Oh, he's a great statesman. A wonderful intellect. An isle of probity in a sea of venality."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The kakistocracy was in session.

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

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

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

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

It had been much larger before Duncan had gone to work on it with the liposuction tube. What had been protuberant and tremulose was now flattened and firm.

Not a bad job, he thought as Allard started moving toward him across the open, granite-paved expanse, even if I do say so myself.

But a face only a bacteriologist could love.

A good many of the arriving lobbyists smiled deferentially and waved to Allard as they passed. He was something of a legend on the Hill, admired, almost revered, by his colleagues in the kakistocracy for the innovative approach to campaign financing he developed while serving on the Committee on Energy and Commerce. A couple of campaigns ago, when Congressman Allard became aware that his reelection coffers were down to their last million or two, and the PACs weren't coming up with fresh money fast enough, he introduced a flurry of bills that would have devastating impact on the coal, oil, gas, and timber industries.

Suddenly the energy PACs and lumber trade associations, not to mention the associated unions that would be hit hard by the new Allard bills, were swarming around him with open checkbooks. He collected eight million in three months, some of which probably paid for his surgery.

After gorging himself on the pecuniary viands, he withdrew the bills from committee. The procedure had been imitated by his colleagues many times since.

But none of that had anything to do with why Duncan was here today.

He watched Allard nod to a few of the passing lobbyists, but the congressman was more interested in conferring with his aides, he looked like a quarterback huddling with his coaches, only they were all in suits.

Duncan wondered if he was the only one on Capitol Hill wearing something other than a business suit.

"Good morning, Kent, " Duncan said as he neared the group.

Allard looked up at the sound of his sobriquet and squinted at Duncan. An instant of confusion, Duncan could almost hear him thinking Who the hell? , and then recognition.

"Doc, " He cleared his throat. "Duncan! What are you doing up here?

Welcome to the Hill." His expression was wary instead of welcoming.

Doesn't want to call me Dr. Lathram. Probably afraid someone will recognize the name and want to know what fixups I performed on him.

Duncan stuck out his hand and delivered his lines smoothly.

'"Waiting for some relatives from out of town. Promised to show them the sights . . . tour guide for a day. You know the drill, I'm sure.

" Chicklet caps flashed. "I sure do." Casually, Duncan reached into his blazer pocket and gripped the oblong bulk of his pager. He felt the sweat collecting under his arms. He was close now, but he wanted to be closer still. Just to be sure.

"You're looking good, Kent. The cameras down there are going to love you." Bat nowhere near as mach as you love them.

The smile faded. The wariness reemerged. "Thank you. ' Don't worry, Congressman, Duncan thought. I'm not going to say anything about the liposuction.

But he couldn't resist turning the screw a little tighter.

"How do you stay so young looking? " Allard's smile returned, but looked forced now. "Clean living." You son of a bitch.

"I must try that sometime.

They both laughed. Duncan flipped the ON switch on his pager and it began to beep. He pulled it from his pocket. A vintage model, considerably larger than the new ones. He stared at the blank message window, trying to still the ague tremor of his hand.

"Looks like my service wants me. I'd better find a phone and see what they want." He edged past Allard and his aides, coming within a few inches of the congressman.

This is as close as I'm going to get, he thought.

His finger found another button on his pager. The special button. But he hesitated. No turning back once he pressed it.

Old questions assailed him again. Isn't this going too far? Is it really worth the risk? What if I'm caught? And the most disturbing of all, Is this something a sane man would do?

Then he remembered what Allard had participated in five years ago .

.

. and today's clean-living remark.

Duncan pressed the button.

This time the pager made no sound, but he felt it vibrate against his palm.

Allard winced and rubbed his right thigh.

"Good luck with the TV folks, Kent, " Duncan said. "And think of an eighteen-year-old named Lisa."

"Pardon>" Allard said.

"Her name was Lisa. Keep that in mind." I want it to be your last coherent thought.

He turned and almost bumped into a dark-haired young woman.

wIn"T Gin tried to speak but found her voice locked. Not from the shock of seeing Duncan on the Capitol steps, but from the look on his face as he'd turned away from Congressman Allard. His eyes, arctic cold, cobalt hard, full of rage and hatred so intense she thought they'd leap from their sockets. Never in her life had she seen an expression like that.

For an instant she thought she was facing a feral stranger.

And suddenly it was gone. As soon as he spoke her name his face changed, metamorphosed into the Duncan Lathram she knew.

And then she could speak.

'"Duncan. You're the last person I expected to run into down here. " He stared at her for a few heartbeats. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool, distant.

"I might have said the same about you . . . until yesterday. How long have you been standing here? " She'd arrived early at the Rayburn Building for her meeting and had been told that Congressman Allard would be slightly delayed because of his television interview. Rather than sit cooling her heels, Gin had opted to stroll across Independence to catch the interview live.

Staying a discreet distance from the congressman's group she'd noticed a man who reminded her of Duncan, but she couldn't be sure from the rear, and besides, what would Duncan be doing down here? She'd edged closer, had been almost on top of him when he'd turned and they'd come nose to nose.

How long have you been standing here? The answer seemed important to him. Very important.

Long enough to hear you say something very strange, she thought.

'-Just a few seconds. But what on earth are you doing here? " "Me? " He looked around. I love the Capitol area . . . the Mall . . .

the monuments . . . they're beautiful."

"Knowing how you feel about politicians" "Let's just say I consider it a beautiful mansion that happens to be infested by termites and all sorts of vermin." His eyes bored into her.

"So why are you here? " The question she'd been dreading. "I, uh, have an appointment with Congressman Allard this morning." He grimaced. "You want to be on his staff? " "I'll be on anybody's staff. I want to be on this committee .

He stared at her again. "Yes. Yes, I see you do. Why didn't you mention this yesterday? " "You didn't exactly give me a chance." He made a soft guttural sound and glanced at the oldfashioned beeper clutched in his hand, a dinosaur of a beeper, at least six inches long.

Odd, she thought. She hadn't realized Duncan carried a pager. He wasn't on emergency call, but she guessed there was always the chance of a postsurgical complication.

Suddenly he seemed in a rush. He spoke quickly.

"I want to discuss something with you, Gin, but I have to make a call and this is neither the time nor the place. I will see you in my office after lunch this afternoon. Can you be there? " . . .

something to discuss with you . . . She didn-t like the sound of that.

"I think so."

"Good. See you then." He turned and headed for one of the doors into the south wing. Gin watched him for a few seconds, then turned her attention to where Congressman Allard continued to huddle with his aides. The totaled ages of the three younger men probably exceeded Allard's by very little, yet they were doing all the talking. Good haircuts, expensive suits, six-figure incomes or close to it for many of the more experienced aides, and a smug We're-where-it's-at look.

Too many of the Hill rats she'd met seemed to adopt that attitude after a couple of years on the job. She promised, swore, that wouldn't happen to her.

No doubt doing some last-minute fine tuning of his remarks before the camera.

Finally he seemed ready. He nodded to his aides, straightened his tie, adjusted his suit coat, patted his toupee, then started down the steps.

Gin sidled to her right to where she had an unobstructed view of the steps. She watched Allard descend on an angle toward the waiting camera and reporter. His movements were smooth and fluid during the first two flights, then he stopped on the landing halfway down.

He paused and rubbed his eyes, shook his head as if to clear it, then continued down. At the top of the last flight he stopped again.

A warning bell sounded in Gin's brain. Something was wrong.

Allard leaned against the bronze handrail and pressed a hand over his eyes. Even from here Gin could see that the hand was shaking.

He lowered his hand and began to sway. He grasped the rail and turned around to stare back up at the Capitol. His expression was frightened.

He looked lost, confused, as if he didn't know where he was. He took a faltering step to his left but wobbled backward instead.

Gd, he's going to fall!

As his arms windmilled for balance, his aides cried out and rushed down to him. But Allard was already toppling. He managed to twist around but could not break his fall. He hit the granite steps and began to roll.

Shouts now from the TV crew as the reporter rushed toward the falling legislator. The cameraman followed her, taping all the way A couple of Capitol Police started running from the other end of the steps.

Gin was already on her way down as Congressman Allard landed in a heap at the base of the steps and lay still, arms akimbo, his toupee skewed so that it hung over his left ear. His aides, the TV crew, and the cops converged on him from three directions.

Gin reached the growing knot and forced her way in.

'"I'm a doctor, " she said. "Let me through. ' The onlookers made way for her and soon she was kneeling at Allard's side. He was on his back, his face was a mess, blood everywhere. Gin dug her index and middle fingers into the side of his throat, probing for a carotid. She found it, pulsing rapidly, but strong and regular.

She saw his chest moving with respirations, small bubbles of saliva fluttering at the corner of his bloodied lips as air flowed in and out.

Pulse and respiration okay. Good. But he did seem to be in shock.

"All right, ' she announced to the onlookers. "His heart's beating and he's breathing. No need for CPR. But nobody move him. He may have a spinal injury." She looked around. "Is somebody calling an ambulance?

' One of the Capitol cops pointed to his partner who was babbling into his radio. We're on it, " he said.

Gin returned her attention to Allard. She couldn't do a neurological evaluation here, but if she had to bet she'd put her money on a stroke.

Maybe he'd flipped an embolus to his brain.

She glanced up and saw someone standing at the railing along the edge of the west portico, looking down. She blinked. It was Duncan. She couldn't read his expression. He stood there staring for a moment, then turned and disappeared from view.

Duncan? she thought. Aren't you going to help?

COFFEE GINA DIDN'T GET BACK TO THE SURGICENTER until shortly before noon. She'd hovered by Congressman Allard's side until the E.M.Ts arrived. She watched them bandage his face, strap him to a back board, load him into their rig, and howl away toward G. W. Medical Center.

She stopped back at Allard's office to let them know what had happened, and after that she'd been at loose ends, wandering around the Capitol area, thinking, wondering . . .

Duncan had acted so strange this morning, and he hadn't shown the slightest concern for the fate of the congressman, who wasn't just some stranger, he was one of Duncan's patients. And who was this Lisa he'd been talking about to Allard? It had seemed like such a non sequitur.

She took the Metro Red Line up to Friendship Heights and walked the rest of the way, still thinking, still wondering.

By the time she reached the surgicenter she still didn-t have an answer.

"He wanted to see me, ' she told Barbara as she paused at her reception desk.

"He mentioned it, but right now he's conferencing with another doctor.

Strict orders not to disturb." "Really? Anybody we know? " Barbara shrugged. "All he tells me is to block out half an hour for Dr. V.

Now you know as much as I do. But he's very good-looking." Barbara's eyebrows oscillated as her voice took on a Mae West tone. "This is his second visit, and I hope it's not the last." Why so mysterious about the name? A doctor who wanted cosmetic surgery maybe?

Gin shrugged. Not her business.

"Let him know I'm here."

"Will do." A few minutes later she was sitting in the basement lab across the workbench from Oliver, diffidently watching him fill the next batch of a dozen or so implants for tomorrow's surgery. She already had a headache, and the residual olfactory tang of solvents was conspiring with the bright overhead fluorescents to make it worse. She should have been working with Oliver, learning the technique, but she couldn't muster the concentration.

Her chin rested on her hands and her elbows were propped on the marred black counter. She felt leaden, as if someone had siphoned off all her energy . . . the aftermath of. the morning's events, and the certainty that Duncan was going to fire her.

'"He's not going to fire you, " Oliver said.

She glanced up at him. He sat calmly in his white coat, his pudgy hands folded in front of him. But she read genuine sympathy in the round, pale face and in the blue eyes behind the thick horn-rimmed lenses. Hard to believe he and Duncan shared the same gene pool.

"How can you be so sure? ' "He tends to fly off the handle lately.

Ever since they reconvened that darn committee. ' "What is it with him and that committee? " '"Well, years ago he had a bit of trouble . .

.

' His voice trailed off.

"What sort of trouble? " '"Nothing. Forget I said anything." Gin wasn't forgetting anything. Especially after this morning. Another question was burning through her brainpan.

"All right then. Tell me this, Who's Lisa? " "Lisa? " "Yes. I heard Duncan mention something about a Lisa this . , .

morning.

The implant Oliver was filling suddenly burst. "I . . . I don't know.

He had a daughter named Lisa."

"Had? " "Yes, well, " The phone rang.

Oliver picked it up and listened. "She's right here, " he said, then handed it across to her. Duncan's voice, "Gin, please come to my office." Her mouth went dry. "Okay. Sure." The other end clicked dead. That in itself was not indicative of anything, Duncan rarely said hello or good-bye on the phone, but she could feel her insides coiling into knots. She handed the receiver back to Oliver. "He wants to see me." Oliver smiled. "See?

He's cooled down already."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that."

"I'll talk to him if you want."

"Thanks, but I'd better handle this myself.

" With the knots inside pulling even tighter, she rose and headed for Duncan's office. This was it. She'd been in his office before, many times, but usually just a quick stop before surgery to discuss some potential problem with one of his patients. This was the first time he'd actually called and asked her to his office.

He's going to fire me.

Financially, that would not be a catastrophe. She wasn't getting paid all that much here and she could take an extra shift as house doctor at Lynnbrook. But still . . . Her throat constricted.

Fired . . . being fired by anyone from any job would hurt. But to be kicked out by Duncan Lathram . . .

Devastating.

She wasn't going to back down, though. Not when she was doing the right thing. But how to explain it to him? From what she could see, the days when doctors could focus solely on their patients and ignore what Washington was up to were gone. Dead as the Jurassic age.

For their patients' sake as well as their own, doctors had to get involved in the process. And any doctor who thought otherwise was a dinosaur, already extinct but simply unaware of the fact.

Sure, she thought. That's it. Tell Duncan he's the best surgeon alive, but he's a dinosaur. He'll definitely want to keep me on then.

Gin forced a smile as she approached Barbara's desk.

"He's expecting me."

"I know, " Barbara said. "He told me to hold his calls." Oh, great.

Gin hesitated at the door, then pushed through.

Duncan's officer was a spacious quadrangle with floor-to ceiling glass along most of the far wall. The last of the morning sun was slipping from the room but still shining brightly on the oriental rock garden and koi pond outside.

Very little of the off-white walls was visible, the few sections not obscured by mahogany bookcases filled with medical texts and surgical journals were studded with plaques, degrees, diplomas, and certificates from licensing and specialty boards. An oversized antique partners desk stretched before the window-wall. A glorious Persian rug covered most of the hardwood floor.

The wall on the far right angled to a large cabinet custombuilt for the narrow corner. Duncan had the cabinet open and stood before it now, his back to her, engrossed in whatever he was doing.

He half turned as she closed the door behind her.

'"Good. You're just in time" He motioned her closer. "Come watch this." A little off balance from the casual greeting, he seemed a changed man since this morning, and more than a little unsure of herself, she complied. As she approached she heard a whirring noise, like an electric drill. When she reached his side she was startled to see what he was up to.

Grinding coffee.

'"Just got these in, ' he said. "Costa Rican La Minita Tarrazu. A superb batch of beans." He dumped the ground coffee into the open end of a chrome funnel set in the top of an insulated carafe.

Gin didn't see any white inside the funnel. "You forgot the filter.

" '"Don't worry. It's in there. I use a gold mesh filter. Paper soaks up too many of the oils that give a coffee its character.

Remember that.

Always use a gold filter. And here's something else to remember." He reached into the little microwave to his left and removed a half-quart Pyrex cup full of steaming water. He took two tablespoons of water and added them to the cone.

"Always wet your grounds first. Give them about thirty seconds to swell, then add the rest of the water. But not boiling water.

You don't want scalded coffee. Bring the water to a boil and let it sit for about a minute, then pour it over the damp grounds. But not just any water. Use spring water. Don't use that chemical-laden junk from the tap." He emptied the Pyrex cup into the cone, then rubbed his . . . . . .

hands in anticipation.

"You're about to have a real experience, Gin. Just possibly the best cup of coffee in the world." He turned to her. "Any news from Marsden's office yet? " "No. I'm not terribly sanguine about my chances. ' Sanguine? She never used that word. Must be Duncan's influence. "My interview wasn't with Senator Marsden, you know. It was with his chief of staff. We didn't exactly hit it off."

"Shot down by the senator's staff, eh? And I guess you didn't get your chance to impress Allard either."

"Hardly. That was some fall he had. Lucky to be In one piece after the way he hit the sidewalk."

"Right in front of the TV cameras.

They've been replaying it all morning on CNN. Too bad." Too bad?

He'd been there, watching, and hadn't helped. Or didn't he want to admit that?

"Had some nasty facial lacerations. Chances are he'll be calling you to fix him up." '"He can save his dime, " Duncan said. "You ought to know by now I don't operate on people who need surgery, only those who want it. By the way, sorry about my outburst yesterday morning. You didn't deserve that." Just like that, Oh, by the way, sorry I damn near gave you a heart attack.

But relief blotted out his offhandedness. The bunched muscles in her shoulders and the back of her neck began to uncoil.

'"You mean I'm not fired? " He laughed. "Hell, no! But I do want to talk to you." His smile faded.

"I want to know why a bright, talented young woman like you wants to get involved with the Harold Vincents and Kenneth Allards of the world.

" Oh, God, she thought as she took a deep breath. Here we go.

'"Somebody's got to, Duncan. They're calling all the shots. But when they want to know what's going on with doctors and medical care, look who they ask, insurance companies, A.M.A officers, public service doctors, VA doctors, whoever's handy." Duncan grimaced with distaste.

"Or even worse, Samuel Fox." Gin nodded. She remembered sitting around with her fellow residents and laughing at Fox's asinine statements during a Donahue appearance a couple of years ago. But he had a knack for PR and had parlayed his alarmist books and press releases into a position of credibility with Congress.

"Exactly. Congress gets its input from doctors who aren't physicians.

" "Stands to reason, ' Duncan said. "Real doctors are out in the trenches practicing medicine. They've got too many sick people on their hands to hang around Capitol Hill."

"Too true. But that's got to change." Duncan's jaw jutted at her.

"Why? " "Because the government's got its sights on health care. The big reform package didn't fly, but that doesn't mean the government's going to go away.

It's going to keep inching in, the old salami-slicing method.

Nothing's going to stop it." Duncan sighed. "Yeah, I know. Don't get me wrong. I'm not opposed to everyone having some sort of coverage. I hate the thought of anyone, especially a child, going untreated. But I loathe the idea of the kakistocracy designing and administering the program, imposing guidelines for medical decisions that should be a matter solely between doctor and patient." His voice took on a TV announcer's tone, " And now, from the people who brought you the House Post Office scandal and the debatable, Health care!

" He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Doesn't it make sense to standardize medical care and costs across the country? " His gaze was hard as steel. "Don't you think we've got enough guidelines already?

" She thought of old Mrs. Thompson at Lynnbrook Hospital. "Well .

.

. " "What this bill will do is enforce cookbook medicine. The real thrust of all this legislation isn't quality assurance, it's cost control.

They'll save a few bucks but the human costs will be huge."

"It doesn't have to be that way. We, " Duncan glanced at the carafe and held up a hand. "Coffee's ready." He lifted the cone from the carafe and placed it in the small chrome sink next to the microwave. Then he filled two thick white diner-style mugs with the fresh, steaming coffee. He handed one to Gin.

"Now this is coffee. Taste." Gin sniffed, the aroma was fabulous, then sipped. Usually she drank her coffee black with a little sugar. This didn't need sugar. The tSavor was so deep, so rich . .

.

"It's . . . " She struggled for words. "It's like I've never had real coffee before. This is amazing." Duncan beamed. "It's worth the trouble, isn't it? An anodyne for weltschmerz. I'll grind you up some beans to take home. But use them soon. And if you use a regular drip machine, never, never, leave the pot on a heater. Always decant the coffee immediately into a carafe. Even the best coffee gets bitter when it's overheated."

"Thanks. I'll remember that." Gin had had no idea Duncan was such a coffee connoisseur. The rituals, the rules .

. . it was like a religion. But the result was awfully good.

They sipped in silence for a moment. Gin wandered along the glass wall and admired the koi pool, the rock garden, and the dwarf shrubs that lined it. She continued on, passing his desk. The top right drawer was open. Inside was a glass injection vial filled with a clear amber fluid.

Something else too. Something metallic, almost like a large trocar .

.

Suddenly Duncan was beside her, sliding the drawer closed.

"You were saying? " "Where was I? Well, the point I was trying to make is that if I can get on a committee member's staff, I can see to it that he gets some straight dope on how these guidelines will affect patient care. And if I can influence him even a little, won't it be worth it? " Duncan stared at her, slowly shaking his head. "For some time now I've been worrying that you had no direction. I was afraid you were just going to drift, make a career of moonlighting and locum tenens work. Now I almost wish that were the case." Had he actually been thinking about her? "Maybe I'll simply devote myself to lexiphania." Duncan appeared taken aback. Had she stumped him?

Lexiphania, the tendency to use obscure and unusual words. The irony would be rich. How wonderful to catch him with a word that described himself.

Duncan laughed. "Where'd you find that one? " "Wasn't easy, believe me. ' '"All right. I plead guilty to compulsive grandiloquism, to singlehandedly trying to correct for the entire language's drift into banality." Damn. He did know it.

She said, "I don't think it's working."

"More's the pity." He gazed at her, smiling. "Lexiphania . . . that s wonderful. How can I stay angry at you? But seriously, Gin, you've been trained for a higher sort of work than being legislative aide to some pretentious pinhead pol. I hate to see you wasting your talents."

For a moment she was struck by how much he sounded like Peter. He'd said almost exactly the same thing when she'd told him she was leaving Louisiana to get involved in medical politics.

Focusing on Duncan, Gin bit her tongue and thought, I could say the same about your facelifts.

As if reading her mind he smiled crookedly and said, "Not that I'm one to talk about wasting training." For an instant there was real pain in his eyes. Her heart went out to him.

"Duncan . . . whatever, " He held up the coffee carafe. "Refill? " '"No, thanks. Can I ask, ? " "I don't envy you, Gin." Obviously he didn't want to talk about Duncan Lathram. "I wouldn't want to be starting out in medicine today and facing the terrain that's ahead of you.

"All the more reason to get involved." Why couldn't he see that?

'"But what do you hope to accomplish? What is your goal down there on Capitol Hill? " "Fair guidelines. Realistie guidelines we can all live with."

"Never happen, " Duncan said. He sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing, Gin."

"I've given it a lot of thought."

"Have you? They're a pretty corrupt bunch, Gin, and, " "And I'm so impressionable? " "No. It's not that. It's just that, well, as doctors, we're a different breed.

Our values are different. We don't speak the same language. We don't walk in the same shoes as other people."

"That sounds just a little elitist to me." He shrugged.

"Maybe. But sometimes I think the weight of the life-and-death decisions doctors have to make sets them apart from the rest of humanity. When you've felt someone's life draining through your hands, and you've reeled him back in and sent him home to his family, it does something to you. You've seen things that regular folk will never see, done things they'll never do, glimpsed them at their most vulnerable, when they're stripped of all their pretenses. You've been master of life and death, and that can't help but change you. It leaves you one step removed from everybody else. ' Gin had run up against this gods-who-walk attitude all through her residency.

"It's time we ditched the god thing, don't you think? We're not gods, and it's damaging to us and our patients to foster that kind of reverence. We can do extraordinary things, seemingly miraculous things.

But we're not gods. We're just people." He was sullen as he sipped his coffee in silence.

Finally Gin said, "Doesn't look like we'll ever see eye to eye, does it? " '"No, it doesn't." '"Can we agree to disagree, then? " "I don't suppose I have much choice." '"You could fire me."

"I don't want to do that. But don't expect my blessing." '"I never did." Bat I want it, dammit. I wish I didn't, but I do. "I don't even know if I'll get the job. But if I do I'll have to adjust my schedule to, " "Cassidy can take up the slack. We'll work it out."

Gin felt a trickle of warmth, seeping through her. This - was a blessing of sorts, wasn't it? If not, it would have to do.

"Thank you, Duncan. I didn't expect, " "I want to keep you nearby .

.

. where I can keep an eye on you.

The warm trickle became a chill. What was that supposed to mean?

"Just don't let us down, Gin, " he said, his blue eyes burning into hers. "Don't betray us." He held her locked in his gaze a moment longer, then turned away.

"I'm glad we had this talk, Gin. The first of many, I hope. I'm sure you've got some dictation to catch up on. ' "Yes. Sure. I'll see you later." '"Be sure to let me know as soon as you hear from Marsden.

As for me, I'm off to the links." He pulled out a key ring and matter-of-factly locked his top drawer. "Surgery tomorrow at eight.

" Idly wondering why he bothered locking the drawer, Gin waved and left him.

This was turning out to be one strange day.

i G IN. \ EASY NOW, OLIVER SAID SOFTLY, WATCHING OVER HER shoulder, coaching her.

"That's it. Just go easy . . . easy . . . " Gin hadn't felt like being alone this afternoon. No word from Marsden's office, or from Gerry, so she'd arranged to spend a couple of hours in Oliver's lab practicing her implant-filling technique. She'd learn and get paid for it.

She smelled garlic on his breath and wondered what he'd had for lunch.

Nothing low cal, she was sure. Oliver had a weakness for Italian food and didn't seem to care what effect it had on his waistline. Probably linguine and clam sauce, don't spare the garlic, Better forget Oliver's dietary indiscretions. She needed to concentrate on what she was doing.

Gin had the 26-gauge needle of a tuberculin syringe inserted in the end of one of Oliver's medium, -size membranous implants and was injecting it with normal saline. Had this been for real, she'd be working under sterile conditions and filling the implant with Oliver's "secret sauce." Staring through the magnifying lens centered in the round head of the fluorescent examination lamp, she watched the half-inch-long tubular membrane swell and stretch. Like filling the world's tiniest water balloon.

"It's full now, " Oliver said. "Feel that back pressure? " She hadn't felt any until now, which was why half a dozen membranes lay ruptured on the side of the tray. But this time she did feel a hint of resistance on the plunger.

"Believe it or not, I think I do."

"Swell! Now it's time for the zapper." Gin repressed a smile as she reached for the cautery handle. Did anyone else on earth still say swell? Oliver had to be the last.

He was a bit of an enigma. Didn't seem to have much of a life outside his lab. No wife or family. No significant other that she knew of.

He'd had the staff over to his house for a dinner party one night and Gin had felt she knew less about him afterward than before.

'"Okay, " she said. "I'm ready."

"You know what to do. Just take your time" Gin had seen Oliver do this a hundred times but had never got this far. She readied the flattened tip of the cautery unit in position near the puncture site, slowly withdrew the needle, then stepped on the round power pedal near her left foot. A tiny blue spark arced from the tip to the implant, searing and coagulating the protein membrane around the puncture.

She watched through the magnifying lens, waiting for a telltale bead of fluid to form, signaling the need for another zap. But the membrane remained dry. She'd sealed the opening.

Success. Finally. A tiny triumph. Hardly made up for the fiasco in Marsden's officer Monday or Allard's accident this morning, but right now she'd take anything.

Gin looked up and found Oliver's round face grinning at her.

"It's going to be swell having someone else around who can fill these things. I'm sick to death of it."

"Why don't you just hire an assistant or two to help with the scut work? " "There's really not all that much to be done at this stage of the studies. And I'd like to limit the number of people who know what we're working with."

"And just what are we working with? " "Secret sauce."

"Oliver, come on.

Don't you think I have a right to know.

He thought a moment. "All right. Fair enough. But keep it under your hat. This solution is not patentable, sodon't want anyone stealing my thunder by beating me to market with it."

"Mum's the word, " she said.

"I'm sure I can trust you, " he murmured as if he'd just now realized it.

He removed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses as he sat down next to her.

He began to talk, rapidly, as if someone had opened a valve. Gin realized he must have been dying to expound on his secret sauce.

'"Are you familiar with the work done by the Department of Cell and Structural Biology in the University of Manchester in England? " "No.

Not a bit."

"Not many clinicians are. Okay then, how about fetal surgery? Have you seen any of that? " "Some down in Tulane. It wasn't part of the internal medicine rotation, obviously, but I picked up some information by osmosis."

"Good. Then you know that a fetus can have surgery in utero and be born months later completely scar free.

" "Yes, I remember a couple of OB residents talking about that. This high-risk baby they'd delivered had had a mass removed from its abdominal wall at about sixteen weeks' gestation and was born without a trace of an incision."

"Exactly. But the surgery has to be performed during the first five months. Any procedure done later leaves a scar just as it would on an adult. Cellular biologists have wondered about it for years. What's happening in there? What's different? What prevents the usual excess amount of collagen from being laid down and forming the scars we all know so well? The folks at the University of Manchester came up with the answer a few years ago." Gin snapped her fingers. She remembered something . . . where had she seen it? "Some sort of growth factor, wasn't it? " Oliver clapped his hands. "Excellent! Transforming growth factor beta, to be precise. They identified three types of the growth factor, and found that the third, beta type 3, falls off sharply at the end of the second tnmester of pregnancy. The type-three molecule, I call it beta-3 for short, has been synthesized since then and that's the key ingredient in the secret sauce." '"So that's the secret behind Duncan's incredible results. " ''llh-uh, " Oliver said, wagging a finger. "Duncan has the eyes and the hands that do the remodeling. Even without a drop of beta-3 his patients would have minimal scarring. All I've done is find a way to gild the lily."

"But why the implants? Couldn't he just coat the incisions with beta-3? ' "No. You need it in the final phase of healing. Remember the three stages of wound repair, inflammation, proliferas ion, and remodeling?

Beta-3 does its work in stage three where scar tissue forms to replace granulation tissue. At suturing time, beta-3 would accomplish nothing.

You need a means of delayed release." as, slaving away, testing antidepressants on rats in Skinner boxes as a psychopharmacologist at GEM Pharm during the day, and at night working in my home on a continuous delivery system for medication. Norplant was the hot topic then, but the Norplant implants have to be removed after five years. I thought I could improve on that, develop an implant that would deliver its medication in a metered dose for five years, maybe longer, and then dissolve. Great idea, no? " "I take it that didn't happen."

"Not completely. I developed a soft, flexible, crystalprotein matrix that would indeed dissolve without a trace.

However, it was nonpermeable. Wouldn't allow a drop of anything on one side to pass through to the other, until it dissolved, and then it would dump its entire contents into the surrounding tissues. I'd come up with nothing more than a very elaborate and expensive way of giving someone an injection. I was terribly discouraged. ' "And then along came Duncan."

"Right. After his . . . well, after he left vascular surgery, I heard about Manchester's results with transforming growth factor beta type 3 and saw how my imperfect slow-delivery membrane might be perfect for delivering something else. The FDA approved us for clinical trials and the results have been astounding." Gin had seen patients on postsurgical follow-up visits and only with a magnifying glass was it possible to tell they'd had surgery. Suddenly Gin was struck by the enormous potential for Oliver's implants.

"But plastic surgery is just icing on the cake, " she said. "Think of what you could do in general surgery." Oliver was nodding excitedly.

"Of course. The implants would-have the most value in trauma cases, but they'll become routine in procedures like hysterectomies and appendectomies. A few weeks post-op you could wear your bikini, heck, you could even go to a nxde beach if you wished, and no one would even guess you'd had surgery." Gin's hand strayed to the front of her blouse. Through the fabric she could feel the upper end of the thick, numb, puckered ridge of scar that ran the length of her abdomen.

Duncan's scar.

Bikini? she thought. I've never owned even a two-piece. Never even considered it.

"But the biggest benefit I see is in pediatrics, " Oliver was saying.

"Kids scar more than adults, and some of those scars, depending where they are, can be disabling because they don't stretch as the rest of the body grows." Tell me about it.

"That sounds wonderful."

"It will be. And the word is out. Other surgeons want to try the implant. Companies are calling every day wanting to license it and the FDA has put it on the fast track for approval. And that's only the start. Duncan came up with an innovative idea on how to enhance the implant, and I've just about got the bugs worked out of the new, improved model. And . . . " He raised his hand and wagged his index finger in the air. "And . . . someone very important has taken a very personal interest in the implant procedure." ' Who? " "Sorry. I can't tell you. Not yet, anyway." She didn't want to care, but the way his eyes shone with excitement piqued her curiosity.

"Come on, Oliver. You just told me about beta-3, you can trust me with this too."

"No. Duncan would kill me. It's his secret after all.

And it's big."

"Okay, " she declaimed with her best forlorn sigh. "I guess I'll just have to read about it in the papers." '"Oh, dear. I hope you never do that. But I have a feeling Duncan may tell you himself when the time comes."

"Speaking of Duncan, you started telling me about the daughter Lisa he had. Does that mean what I think it does? " Oliver nodded glumly.

"She was just eighteen when she died five years ago." From her days as a teenaged file clerk in Duncan's office, Gin vaguely remembered an occasional mention of his two children, a boy and a girl, both younger than she.

"Five years ago . . . I was away in medical school then. I never heard about it. What happened? " "A fall. She never regained consciousness. It was terrible. Duncan was devastated. It was the straw that almost broke his back."

"Why? Was there something else?

" "I've said enough. If Duncan wants you to know, I'm sure he'll tell you. He's put it all behind him." His gaze wandered away. "He's put a lot of things behind him." He took a deep breath. "But as for the here and now, why don't you solidify your technique by filling a few more membranes? Then call it "Will do, " she said, and patted his shoulder. "One thing's for sure, Oliver, it looks to me like these implants are going to make you a very rich man."

"Oh, I hope so."

"What are you going to do then? " "Get as far away from here as I can.

" "Really? Where? Hawaii? " He sighed. "Anyplace where I don't have to watch Duncan wasting his talents like he is . . . prettifying twits and playing . . . golf! " And then he hurried out with his white lab coat flapping around him.

Gin stared after him in shock.

DUNCAN

DUNCAN GRIPPED THE LITTLE GIRL'S CHIN BETWEEN HIS thumb and forefinger.

He tilted her head up, then down, then rotated it left and right.

Her name was Kanesha and she was six. She wouldn't meet his gaze directly, and her hand kept rising and fluttering about the left corner of her mouth, hovering there like a hummingbird that had found a nectar-loaded blossom. Only there was nothing sweet or flowerlike about the thick wad of scar tissue massed at that corner of her mouth.

Her skin was a glossy milk chocolate, her eyes huge and a deeper brown, the color of espresso. She had big white teeth and a smile that would have been knockout beautiful if not for that scar, fusing the lips at the corner, cutting every smile in half.

Her skin was scrubbed, her hair was braided, her shirt and shorts had been ironed. Kanesha and her mother had dressed up for her visit to the doctor.

Duncan liked that, not simply because it showed respect for him, but for themselves as well. Some of the people he saw in the clinic had estranged relations with all species of the soap genus and didn't give a damn. What the hell, it was a free clinic, right' Right. The maxillofacial clinic occupied a fifth-floor corner of one of D. C.

General Hospital's older buildings. The seats and fixtures in the waiting room were worn but clean, the examining room smelled faintly of the bleach that had been used to wipe the counters, its sickly yellow paint was chipped, its examination table needed reupholstering, but the staff was efficient and, more important, they cared.

Duncan turned to Kanesha's mother. "When did this happen, Mrs. Green?

" No father was listed on the intake form, but Duncan had never been able to adjust to the noncommittal "Ms " Cindy Green was young, barely into her twenties, probably little more than a baby herself when she'd had Kanesha. The intake form said she worked as a waitress. She was very pretty in a round-faced, full-lipped way. Duncan studied those lips.

Kanesha's mouth would look exactly like her mother's if nOt for the cicatricial deformity.

"About four and a half years ago. When she was seventeen months old.

Happened before I knew it." How many times had he heard that one?

But he kept his voice neutral, "They're a handful at that age, aren't they." ' One minute she was sitting on the floor playing with the pots and pans. I turn to clean the sink and I hear her scream. I turn around and she . . . " Her throat worked and her voice grew thick.

"She was knocked out and her mouth was smoking. I knew she was teething but I never dreamed she'd bite an electrical cord."

"Happens more often than you'd think." Which was true. Obviously it happened more often in neglected kids, but he didn't think Kanesha was neglected. Just one of those tragic accidents.

Near tragic, actually.

Duncan could fix it.

He was mapping out the incisions now . . . debride the scar tissue, restore the mouth to full width, evert some mucosa for the lips . .

.

This wasn't the first time he'd reconsmlcted an electrical burn on a child's face, and it wouldn't be the last. Kanesha was a lucky one.

She'd survived without brain damage, and she had a mother who cared.

And now she had him.

A shame he couldn't use the beta-3 on her, but a clinic was no place for an experimental protocol. The hospital didn't want the hassles, and he couldn't blame them. As soon as free-clinic patients heard the word "experimental" they started thinking Frankenstein and feared someone was going to use them as guinea pigs.

"Can you fix her, Dr. Duncan? When I saw what you did for little Kennique, " "Who? " "Kennique LeFave . . . you know . . . her cheek was all, " "Oh, yes. Of course." The names people came up with these days. But he certainly remembered the three-year-old who'd fallen from a window last year and ripped the right side of her face to the bone.

That had been a real challenge.

"All her mommy does is sing the praises of Dr. Duncan, Dr. Duncan.

So I knew I just had to bring Kanesha to you. Do you think you can .

. . ? " Duncan nodded. "It will take a couple of procedures, but yes, I think we can fix her up good as new." The mother's eyes were intent on Duncan's. "Can you? Can you really? " "Is that a note of doubt I detect? ' "No, it's just, " "Smile for me, ' Duncan said.

" What? " '"Go ahead. Smile." The mother smiled, a lovely smile, even when forced.

Duncan reached out and grasped her chin just as he had Kanesha's.

"I'd like to make your daughter's smile look just like yours.

'"You can do that? ' the mother whispered.

Yes. He could. This was the age of miracles, and he was a miracle worker.

But still . . . never promise too much. Better to give them more than they're expecting.

"A certain amount depends on Kanesha. Not everyone heals the same. So . . . a smile like yours . . . that'll be okay? " The mother smiled softly, hesitantly, but genuinely this time "Yes. That will be okay."

"Good! " He pressed a buzzer on the wall. A heavyset black nurse entered. "Marge, see if we can set up Kanesha for a facial reconstruction, left upper and lower labial, f. or late Wednesday, morning.

" "Next week? " the mother said.

"Too soon? " "Well, no, I just . . .

"She's had that scar long enough, don't you think? " The mother looked at him, staring into his eyes, looking for assurance there.

"Yes, " she said finally. "Too long." As Marge led them out, Cassie Trainor stepped into the room and slipped behind him. She was tall, blond, and well proportioned, her uniforms were tailored to maximize the effect of her ample bust. Midforties, trim, and sexy. She gripped his shoulders and began to knead the muscles at the back of his neck with her thumbs.

"How's Dr. Duncan today? ' Duncan had everyone at the clinic refer to him as "Dr. Duncan." It was a legitimate moniker and it obscured the Lathram name.

He didn't want it getting around that Duncan Lathram was doing charity work. He'd made such a point of refusing to deal with insurance companies, private, government, or whatever, and about performing no surgery that was necessary, that he didn't want to have to explain why he was fixing up ghetto kids for free.

He had stopped explaining.

"I'm fine, and that feels good."

"So, what're you doing after we finish here? Ready to buy that drink you've been promising? " Duncan tried to keep his shoulders from tightening. He'd been ducking Cassie for months now. Not long after his divorce they'd had a little fling.

Very hot. Too hot not to cool down, as the song went. She was an excellent nurse and uninhibited under the covers. He remembered one night when . . . no, now was not the time to relive that, not with her fingers kneading his shoulders. Eventually, they'd gone their own ways, but every now and again Cassie seemed to like to fan the embers of old blazes. Duncan knew there were plenty of old blazes in Cassie's past.

Too many for comfort nowadays when casual sex had stopped being a recreational sport and metamorphosed into serious business, grim business, requiring research and background checks, especially with someone with such a busy and enthusiastically varied history as Cassie Trainor.

He hated that something so basic and so wonderful as sex had become a source of paranoia and anxiety, a new religious sect with purification rites and latex Eucharists.

What a world. What a goddamn screwed-up world.

Casual sex was all he had the heart for these days, and casual sex was like Russian roulette. No time or heart to invest in a lasting relationship, and no desire to pursue one, not after what had happened to his marriage.

What had happened to him since the divorce? Where had his passion for life gone? He'd withdrawn from all his old friends. Not consciously.

He hadn't even realized what was happening until it was done. He spent a lot of time alone now, but that didn't seem to bother him. He didn't know this preoccupied, isolated man he had become.

Maybe Lisa hadn't been an aberration. Maybe it ran in the family.

Whatever the reason, he realized he'd become a man who feared intimacy more than solitude.

But at least today he could tell Cassie the truth.

"I'd love to, Cassie, but I'm meeting my son for dinner." '"Too bad.

How old is he now? ' "Twenty-one last month." Lisa would have been 23 last spring, already graduated a year. "Starting his senior year in college. We're trying that new Italian restaurant in Georgetown. " "Giardia? " Duncan laughed. "Not funny." Giardinello. I'd ask you along but we're going to talk about the flare."

"I getcha. Okay.

Maybe next time"

"Definitely." She glided away and he watched the white fabric of her uniform slide back and forth over her buttocks, an urge rose within and he almost changed his mind, almost called her back. Instead he looked at his watch. He'd have to pick Brad up soon at the house.

The house . . .

Used to be his house too. Now it was just Diana's. He wondered how she could live there, walk through that foyer where . . .

Duncan rubbed his eyes and rose from the chair. When things finally fell apart, he didn't contest the divorce action. So while it wasn't exactly an amicable dichotomy, it never got vicious. He let Diana have what she wanted, agreed to generous alimony payments, and, of course, he'd seen to it that Brad had whatever he needed. He loved his son, wanted to stay close to him, and most of all, wanted to spare him the spectacle of his parents hissing and clawing at each other.

And Duncan got . . . what?

What did I get besides out?

He and Diana still were on speaking terms, but only on neutral, practical matters, never anything personal. And he would never set foot in that house again.

He tended to heal slowly, sometimes not at all. He had no implant full of beta-3 for the soul.

Which was why he had been on the west portico of the Capitol yesterday morning. Trying to heal himself by balancing the scales, by closing the circle, by imposing a symmetry on the chaos his life had become.

Only then would this cancerous rage cease its relentless metastasis and allow him to get on with his life.

He barked a laugh in the empty room. His life? What life?

Marge poked her head in. "Dr. Duncan . . . you all right? " "Fine, Marge. Just fine." That's a laugh, he thought, waving her off.

Nothing at all is fine.

Yesterday morning . . . another failure. Why wasn't anything ever simple? Why couldn't things go the way he planned?

Neither of the other two had gone the way he'd intended either.

Lane and Schulz, both dead, one in a car, the other in a twenty-story swan dive.

And yesterday . . . Allard was supposed to crack up in front of the cameras, not crack his skull on the Capitol steps. Duncan hadn't wanted him physically hurt. Hell, any hired thug could do that. He'd come prepared to see Allard mortally embarrassed, terminally humiliated, politically ruined, he'd wanted his credibility bloodied, not his head. Damn! All the planning, the exquisite timing, wasted. Now Allard was just a victim of a bad fall, pitied, pathetic, an object of sympathy instead of ridicule.

Duncan wondered at his own coldheartedness, but only briefly. He had plenty of warm emotions left, but they were already spoken for. No leftovers for the likes of Congressman Allard.

Allard, at least, was still alive.

Next time . . . next time he'd get it right.

Duncan rubbed his eyes. He'd started this for a payback in kind, not to kill or maim. Merely devastate their careers, their marriages, their reputations, and let them live among the ruins. A living death.

Li/ee 7nine.

Although not his intent, the fatalities didn't particularly bother him.

After all, Lisa was dead because of them, and she was worth ten, twenty, a hundred of them.

Gin's presence yesterday had been another complication, one of those perverse coincidences that might one day trip him up and expose what he'd been doing.

Slim as it was, the possibility of exposure knotted his gut.

Indictment for murder, a circus of a trial, then jail. The scandal .

. . what would it do to Brad? His son was one of the few things left in his life that mattered to him.

He'd do anything to avoid that. Anything.

But where W'dS the risk, really? He had a virtually untraceable toxin, and an all-but-invisible means of delivery. The only one who might put it together would be Oliver, but his preoccupied brother tended to take little notice of events outside his lab. The only other real risk was someone like Gin. Someone who knew the patients, knew about the implants, and was bright enough to put all the pieces together.

Remote as it was, he grimaced at the possibility. What a frightful quandary that would be. What would he do if Gin stumbled onto him?

He'd have to find a way to neutralize her. He couldn't allow her to .

. .

He shook off the grim train of thought. It wouldn't happen. Vincent would be the next to last. One more after him and then Duncan would close this chapter of his life.

But the last one would be the big one. The biggest.

MARTHA GINA DELAYED HER RETURN TO THE APARTMENT. SHE didn't want to hear any bad news. And no news was bad news as far as the Hill was concerned. The capper would be a message from Gerry telling her he had to call off their dinner plans, or worse yet, no call from Gerry at all.

Gimme a break, she thought. Something's got to go right this week.

So she got off the Metro at the zoo and did a slow walk along Calvert Street across the Duke Ellington Bridge into her neighborhood.

Adams Morgan was sometimes described as funky, sometimes eclectic, but most times just plain weird. Gin loved the area. A big triangle on the hill sloping down toward Dupont Circle, roughly bordered by Calvert Street and Florida and Connecticut avenues, where you could find ethnic jewelry, folk art, and cutting-edge music while breathing the exotic aromas of an array of cuisines that could rival the entire United Nations for diversity. Where else in the District could you find an Argentine cafe flanked by a top-notch French restaurant and a Caribbean bistro? Even Ethiopian restaurants. Who'd ever heard of an Ethiopian restaurant? Yet there were three in her neighborhood.

Gin browsed an African bookstore, did touchy-feely with some Guatemalan fabric, tried on some Turkish shoes, then decided she'd delayed the inevitable long enough. She walked to her building, an old brick row house on Kalorama between Columbia and Eighteenth, it had a tower on its downhill side and was painted sky blue. She let herself into her third-floor apartment.

The rental agency had listed it as "furnished." Gin thought "not unfurnished'' would have been more in line with most truth-in-advertising laws. The rickety furniture had been varnished so many times that the type of wood underlying all those coats was a mystery. - Sometimes she suspected the varnish was the only thing holding some of the pieces together. But it was clean, and she loved her front bay window high over the street. She'd had a new mattress delivered and added a few of her own touches, a bright yellow throw rug and her three posters of Monet's Le J Nyrntheas. She kept meaning to brighten up the place, maybe with some new curtains. As soon as she had the time She went straight to her bedroom where the answering machine crouched on the nightstand. The message light was blinking. A good start.

The first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be able to come over for a family dinner.

"Soon, Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old homestead in Arlington at least twice a month.

The next voice was Gerry's.

"Hi, Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the way I'd hoped for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excse?

"But I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that we'll have to eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet at a, uh, Taco Bell? There's one up your way on Connecticut, near Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all when you get there. 6 you get there. Which I hope you do. But if you can't make it I'll understand. Just let me know if you're not gonna show, otherwise, see you there at six. Hasta la vista." Gin pressed the repeat button. Yes, she'd heard it right, Taco Bell.

Truth was, she liked Taco Bell, but it didn't quite make her short list of restaurants for a rendezvous with an old high school crush.

On the bright side, at least he hadn't stood her up.

But Taco Bell?

Gin hunted for a parking space amid the flow of D. C. workers heading home to Maryland. Connecticut Avenue was mostly residential at its northern end, strips of street-front shops interspersed with low-rise apartments and an occasional office building, all flanked by magnificent oaks and elms. Only three or four miles from Capitol Hill but like another country.

She found a spot up the street from the Taco Bell and turned off the engine.

Now what?

She scanned the curb and sidewalk around the storefronr. No sign of Gerry. She didn't know what his car looked like. She didn't feel like going inside just to stand around, waiting. In fact, she didn't like any of this. Where was his wife, if he still had one? Why Taco Bell?

Why had she even come?

Lighten up, Panzella.

Five minutes of watching a steady stream of bodies of all races and ages in and out of the door and no Gerry.

All right. Let's get this over with.

She went inside and looked around. This storefront Taco Bell wasn't as heavy on the southwestern motif as its freestanding kin she'd seen in Louisiana, it sported a few adobe touches, but the service counter, the soft drink machine, the booths and tables were all generic fast-food decor. Nothing generic about the aromas, though. The air was redolent of onions and spices. Gin realized how hungry she was.

She heard her name, turned, and saw Gerry waving from the other side of a partition. He stood as she approached but when she reached his booth she saw that he wasn't alone. Another female occupied the opposite bench. She was adorable, with short, wavy blond hair and huge blue eyes.

She looked to be about five and was working on a burrito half the length of her arm.

"I'm really sorry about this, " Gerry said. "My sitter had unbreakable plans for this evening. This is my daughter Martha. Martha, say hello to Gina, I mean, Dr. Panzella." Martha waved and smiled around a mouthful of burrito.

'"Martha's a vegetarian, " he said.

Gin stared at her. "Get out." He raised his right hand, palm out.

"True. I swear. I could put you on and say it's an ethical position but the fact is she just doesn't like meat. Never did. Even as a baby she used to spit out her junior foods if they were so much as flavored with meat."

"But she'll eat tacos? " "Bean burritos. Loves bean burritos, with green sauce and extra cheese.

Right, Martha? " The little blonde looked up and nodded vigorously.

Obviously she'd been following every word. "And hold the onions, " she added in a squeaky voice.

Gerry beamed at her. "Right. Always hold the onions. So that's why we're here. Miss Fussytummy has a very limited palate, so there was no point in bringing her anywhere else. I il hope you don't mind. I'll make it up to you, I promise." Gin had been taken completely by surprise by Martha but was charmed and touched by the warm father-daughter bond she sensed.

"Don't be silly. I'm glad you brought her. In fact, I'm honored to meet her."

"Great. What can I get you? " "How about two bean burritos with extra cheese . . . " She winked at Martha. "And hold the onions. ' Martha grinned and scrinched up one side of her face in a grotesque attempt to return the wink. Gin laughed and sat down opposite her.

"Are you a real doctor? " Martha said, cocking her head and looking up at her. Her cheeks were pink roses, her skin flawless.

'"Yes, I am."

"Do you give shots? " "Sometimes."

"I don't like shots." She held up a pair of fingers. "I had to get two shots before they let me into kinnergarden." What a darling. So relaxed, so comfortable with a stranger. Obviously she liked people, and that spoke volumes about her home life.

"Shots keep you from getting sick." She gave a Jackie Mason shrug.

"I still get sick! " Gin was saved by Gerry's return.

'"I brought you a Mountain Dew. Through extensive research and experimentation, Martha and I have determined that Taco Bell food goes best with a Dew."

"Mountain Deeeew! " Martha said and raised her cup. Gerry clicked his own against it, then Martha waited, eyeing Gin expectantly. She clicked her own cup against Martha's, then they all sipped.

"Sorry there's nothing higher octane available, " Gerry said.

"Since I have to play doctor in less than two hours, Mountain Dew has all the octane I need." Gin watched across the table as Gerry slid in next to his daughter.

She saw the resemblance between the two, same blond hair, same blue eyes, same nose and smile. And the way that little smile flashed for Gerry .

. . here was a little girl who loved her daddy.

Gin was intrigued, maybe even fascinated. She'd been looking forward to this time with Gerry as a way of tying up one of her life's loose ends. A date, if you could call it that, with the big man on campus, something she'd dreamed of all through high school. But Gerry was so much more than she'd expected. He was warm, he was open, and he was a doting father. She liked that. Liked it a lot. She wanted to know more about him. The closure she'd sought here was opening to something new.

Between bites and sips they caught up on the decade or so since high school. Gerry told her about joining the PBI after graduating U.V.A with a criminology degree but never mentioned marriage or where Martha came from. It took all her will to keep from asking. He nodded encouragingly as Gina took her turn and skimmed through her education, but his head snapped up when she mentioned Duncan Lathram.

"You work for Lathram? The celebrity surgeon? " "He's not the celebrity, just his patients."

"Yeah, " Gerry said sourly. "And you've got to be a celebrity to be treated by him." Gin wondered at the sudden note of hostility in his voice.

"Every day he treats people no one's ever heard of." Gerry leaned forward and pointed to the hairline scars on his face. "He wouldn't take me."

"How . . . ? " "M.V.A." He glanced quickly at Martha.

"Tell you about it sometime." Motor vehicle accident. So that explained the scars.

"Whoever worked on you did a nice job."

"Dr. Hernandez is tops. But I requested Lathram first and he wouldn't even give me a consultation.

" '"Duncan takes only certain kinds of cases."

"The insurance company was footing the bill, so it wasn't a question of money. Why wouldn't he help me? " She was tempted to say, Because he wonnt operate on anyone who needs him, just people who want him. just vanity surgery, the more famous and narcissistic, the better. No trauma repair. But how could Gin explain what she herself didn't understand? Better not to get into it.

"I don't know, Gerry. He's got some strange ideas about who he takes as patients."

"And some of his patients have had some bad luck lately."

"You mean like Congressman Allard? " Gerry stiffened in his seat. "That guy who fell this morning? On the Capitol steps? He was a Lathram patient too? ' "What do you mean, too? " Gerry didn't answer immediately. His eyes took on a faraway look. What was he thinking?

And how did the FBI know, and why should they care, who was and wasn't Duncan's patient?

His mind racing, Gerry stared past Gin at the chicken faiitas poster on the window behind her.

Allard was a Duncan Lathram patient too. That made three . . . three Lathram patients with fatal or near-fatal accidents in the past month or so. What could, ?

werryf He shook himself free of speculation and focused on Gin again.

God, he was drawn to her. All that glossy black hair and deep brown, almost-black eyes, and he loved the way her mouth curved up at the corners when she smiled. He'd never noticed any of that when she was an overweight kid. But then, he'd never looked at her much when she was Pasta.

That had to be part of it. They had a history. He'd known her when, back in the Bad Old Days when she was a homely . chubette, and again, now, when she was sleek and turning heads.

But he hadn't known her then, not really, and he certainly didn't know her now. But he sensed things about her, strength and confidence surging within her, and that was as sexy as anything external.

She'd remade herself, decided how she wanted to be, who she wanted to be, and become that person.

And now that person was waiting for an answer.

He said, "Two powerful legislators have died in the past month.

Congressman Lane and Senator Schulz. Both were, " "Patients of Duncan Lathram. I know. But they were accidents.

Weren't they? " "That's what they appear to be so far."

"How did you know they were both Duncan's patients? " He narrowed his eyes and said, "Vee haf ways . . . " while his mind ranged ahead, calculating how much he should and could tell her.

" I'm serious, Gerry." She seemed upset. Why? Lathram was just her boss. Or was there more to it?

"It just happened to come up in the investigations."

"I heard about the investigations. Why? " '"Two political bigwigs?

Violent deaths within a few weeks of each other? The Bureau investigates. If there is a connection, we want to be the firsr to know. ' '"Oh, " she said, leaning back. "I guess that makes sense."

"Allard's accident wasn't fatal, but he won't be doing much legislating for a while."

"What do you mean? " '"Apparently he's been babbling nonsense since he came to in the hospital."

"Really? ' she said, her brow furrowing. "Must be some sort of postconcussion syndrome. Poor guy."

"Must be." Three disabling mishaps, two permanently so, and all patients of Duncan I'm sorry - but - the - doctor - doesn't handle ^ posttrauma Lathram.

Gerry wondered what other links the three men might have to the good doctor.

""Scuse me, Dad." Gerry looked around as Martha nudged him with her hip.

"Where do you think you're going, miss? ' "Need another Mountain Dew.

" "Think you can handle it yourself? " She rolled her eyes.

"Da-deee!

" "Okay, but only half a cup." He slid off the bench to let her out.

"Got enough money? " Another roll of the baby blues. "Free refills, Dad! " "Right. I knew that." He sat down again but never let her out of his sight as she made her way to the drink dispenser. She knew exactly what to do, and half of her fun in coming here was holding the cup under the ice dispenser and letting the cubes clunk into it, then filling it from the Mountain Dew spigot. So he let her do it on her own. But Gerry was watching her and everybody around her. Anybody got the least bit frisky with Martha and he'd been on them like a pit bull on a T-bone.

"She's a doli, " Gin said.

That she is, " he replied, never taking his eyes off her.

'"You never mentioned her mother." He glanced at Gin's intent expression, then back toward the drink dispenser.

"Remember Karen Shannick? The tall blond? " "The cheerleader?

Sure.

" '"Well, she went to U.V.A too. We got serious in college and were married right after. Martha came along about a year later."

"You still together? " He pointed to the scars on his face and spoke quickly to get the story out before Martha came back.

- "These are from a windshield. A rainy night on 50. Truck jackknifed in front of us. I was driving, Karen was in the passenger seat, Martha in her car seat behind me. We slid right into the truck. Martha was fine, my face was hamburger, and Karen . . . Karen didn't make it. " Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gin's hand dart to her mouth.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry! " Not as sorry as I was.

"The really sad part is, Martha doesn't remember her mother. We have pictures, but that's all Karen is to Martha. I wish . . . " His throat constricted. Karen had been the careful one, and she'd been wearing her seat belt, Gerry hadn't bothered with his that night. Yet Karen was dead and Gerry was alive.

Wasn't fair.

He saw them sliding across the wet pavement, swerving out of control, his hands hauling on the steering wheel as he rammed the brakes to the floor, watching the rear corner of the truck loom in the passenger window before It smashed through the glass into Karen. . . .

Not fair.

He'd been an emotional basket case afterward, and his cutup face only added to the misery. Martha hadn't recognized him, screamed whenever she saw him. He looked like the Frankenstein monster. And Dr. Duncan Lathram had refused to treat him . . .

He blinked and saw Martha hurrying back to him with her brimming plastic cup of Mountain Dew clutched between her little hands. She'd never finish it all, but so what? She'd gone and filled it herself.

'"So Martha and I are managing on our own, " he said as he helped her back into her seat. "And trying to spend as much time together as my schedule permits." Which wasn't nearly enough for him. But what could he expect as a field agent? This wouldn't last much longer, he hoped. As soon as he was offered an S.S.A spot, he was taking it, no matter where it was, so he could get on a nine-to-five schedule and be with her more.

Right now she went to kindergarten, then after school to Mrs. Snedecker's. Thank God for Mrs. Snedecker.

He smoothed Martha's blond bangs and adjusted her Minnie Mouse barrettes. Incredible how much he'd learned. He could bathe Martha, shampoo hair, wash clothes, iron dresses, buy tights. His mother had helped some, but last year her heart had given out.

So it was Gerry and Martha. And God he was glad to have her. She'd filled some of the void Karen had left in his life. He might have gone to pieces but he'd had to hold together for Martha.

He still saw Karen. She came to him in his dreams. He'd ask her how he was doing with Martha but she never answered.

How was he doing?

Martha'smiled up at him and he kissed her forehead.

"But enough about me, " he said to Gin. "What were you doing in the Hart Building today? It's not exactly a doctor hangout." She told him about her quest to have a say in the Guidelines bill, her lackluster interview with Senator Marsden's chief of staff, and her aborted interview with Allard.

"All that medical cramming and you want to hang with the pols? " She laughed, "You sound like Duncan."

"Well, maybe he's got a point."

"It's not all I want to do, just a part. And I am going to do it. All of it." She rattled the cubes in her cup. "I think I could use a refill too. ' Gerry reached for her cup and started to rise. "Let me, " "Thanks, " she said, holding it out of his reach, "but I may want a different flavor this time" Gerry watched her stroll to the drink dispenser, watched most of the other guys in sight follow her progress.

Yes, she was definitely worth a second look. Even a third.

And I am going to do it. All of it.

The fiery determination in her eyes made her even more attractive. A self-made woman. She'd gone from a girl who could only be described as a schlub, to a woman with Iimitless possibilities. "Martha, " he whispered, "I do believe I'm becoming infatuated. " Martha didn't look up. "That's cause there's beans in this stuff.

Gerry laughed out loud.

"But don't worry, " Martha said. "We can tell Gin about it. She'll make you better She's a doctor. ' '"No, no, " Gerry said, gently pressing a finger over her lips. "We won't tell Gin anything about it.

At least not yet." DUNCAN -)UNCAN AND BRAD STEPPED OUT OF IL GIARDINELLO INTO the sulfurous air of Georgetown's M Street. The traffic streaming in from Virginia was stop-and-go, and the carbon monoxide from the idling cars mixed with the light fog drifting up from the nearby Potomac. The concoction hung in the still fall air like a toxic pall.

They turned east and headed back toward the car, passing a gallimaufry of restaurants, bars, bistros, upscale clothing and jewelry stores, alternative music shops, and, yes, even a condom shop.

"Not a bad meal, ' Brad said.

"No, not bad at all if you like your pasta overcooked, your veal practically raw, air thick with smoke, and acoustics so bad you can barely hear yourself think. The service was dilatory and indifferent at best, the decor was like one of the Borgias' bad dreams, the wine list wouldn't pass on the Bowery, and the espresso . . . " He shuddered.

"Execrable." Suddenly he smiled. "I must remember to recommend the place to your mother." Brad gave his father a gentle punch on the shoulder. "Come on, now.

None of that."

"All right."

"I guess we won't be back here real soon."

"Of course we will. As soon as it changes its name, owner, and chef."

Brad only shook his head, smiling.

Duncan loved this boy, this young man, this good-natured twenty-something with his open face and guileless blue eyes, his long, lean body, his too-long brown hair, the way he never wore socks and never cinched his tie all the way up and never fastened the top button on his shirt.

Memories swirled around him like the leaves starting to drop from the trees, swimming lessons in grammar school, middle school science projects, the trauma of not making the varsity cut for the high-school basketball team, all the ups and downs of raising a child.

Somehow, he thought, we did all right with Brad. We weren't the best parents, what with our preoccupation with Lisa and all her problems, my own self-absorption, but somehow, in spite of everything, Brad turned out all right. A testament to the primacy of nature over nurture.

Impulsively, Duncan threw an arm around his son's shoulder and pulled him close. He wasn't given much to outward displays of affection, but God he loved this boy.

"Thanks for tolerating me." Brad put an arm around Duncan's waist.

"Somebody has to.

Each with an arm still around the other, they crossed Wisconsin and followed M Street's gentle down slope toward Rock Creek.

"So you're not disappointed? " Brad said.

"What do I have to do, " Duncan said, 'have it tattooed on my forehead?

No. En-oh. I am not disappointed."

"That's such an awesome relief, I can't tell you." Brad had told him he wanted to get together and talk about the future, his plans for his own future. Duncan had suggested dinner. њt turned out Brad hadn't so much wanted to discuss what he planned to do with his future, as what he planned not to do.

And he did not plan to go to medical school.

Years ago, before his public lapidation by the Guidelines committee, before managed care snared the medical profession in its tendrils, Duncan would have been bitterly disappointed .

But tonight he was almost thrilled.

"Why should I be upset because you don't want to spend another eight-to-ten years in brain-busting study for the privilege of answering to panels of political appointees? The only thing medicine's got going for it anymore is job . , , security.

'"Yeah. People will always need doctors, I guess." "That they will.

But the doctor-patient relationship is eroding. There used to be an almost sacred bond between a doctor and a patient that no one could break. The examination room was the equivalent of a confessional. The intimate secrets that used to be hieroglyphically recorded in our crabbed shorthand and hermetically sealed behind the inviolable walls of our offices are now open to any government or insurance company hireling who wants to see them."

"So I've got to be careful what I tell my doctor."

"-Damn right. And for your sake he's got to be choosy about what he sets down on paper. ' "Sounds pretty grim. But none of that's why.

The main reason is it's just not my thing." He gave Brad's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Just what is? " '"I don't know, Dad. I just don't know." Duncan sighed. So many of this so-called Generation X seemed to have no-idea what they wanted or where they were going. Duncan couldn't understand that. All his life he'd wanted to be a doctor.

He'd set a course for it when he was a child.

Never could he recall even an instant of uncertainty.

Maybe that was why he felt such kinship with Gin. She was as determined to do things her way as he'd been at her age. Her way wasn't his, but he could forgive her that, she'd see the error of her ways. She was almost like a daughter. Maybe he'd subconsciously slipped Gin into the empty place within that he'd reserved for Lisa.

Yes . . . like a daughter. After all, he'd given her life in a way, sewing her insides back together.

But not knowing the next step . . . the anxiety that had to cause.

What uncertainties roiled through Brad when he lay in bed at night, asking the dark where his life was headed?

"Whatever you decide, I'm behind you. Any time you, " "Faggots! " Duncan started at the word and glanced around. To his right, three shadowy figures slouched in predatory poses in a darkened recessed doorway, each with a bottle or can of some sort in hand. Light from the street reflected from their bare scalps. He kept walking.

"Skinheads, " Brad whispered and began to pull his arm from around Duncan's waist.

Duncan grabbed his wrist. "Don't you dare." "Dad, they think we're, " "Are you going to let them be the arbiters of how a father and son can walk down the street? " "I know how you are with the never complain, never explain stuff, but these guys are crazy." Duncan reached his free hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers around the metal cylinder there.

"Maybe I'm crazier." The M Street-Wisconsin Avenue area had always been the tacky section of Georgetown. A farrago of trendily overpriced boutiques, bars, clubs, and evanescent restaurants ranging from upscale ethnic cuisine to Little Tavern Hamburgers, peopled by roaming demimondaines and boulevardiers in search of something called fun.

Folksingers had peopled the cafes in the early sixties, giving way to the hippies at the end of the decade. Discos came and went in the seventies. Through it all, the Georgetown street people had upheld a noble tradition of remaining determinedly dissolute but generally good-natured.

Until lately. Strolling the area these days was like navigating a third world bazaar. The boutiques bedizening Wisconsin's terminal slope were cheaper and gaudier, nobody seemed to speak English or be on speaking terms with a bar of soap, and lumpen denizens panhandled on every corner. The slovens of the grunge cadre were as unwashed as the hippies of old, but they lacked the latter's sense of style and humor.

The atmosphere was as blowzy as ever, but the mood had turned grim.

Despite a new mall and brighter lighting, the Georgetown street scene, like everything else, was changing for the worse.

What a world. What a screwed-up world.

They moved out of the pedestrian traffic and turned right onto 2gth, Duncan had parked the Mercedes on the hill that fell away toward the C8cO Canal. He was just turning the key in the lock when something whizzed by his head and smashed on the sidewalk half a dozen feet away.

" Faggots! " The light wasn't as good here as up on M, but he had no trouble recognizing the skinheads. The three of them were trotting down the hill. They must have belonged to some sort of gang because they all wore jeans, black leather jackets, and fingerless black leather gloves. One carried a Budweiser can, one was empty-handed but repeatedly pounded his fist into his palm, and the guy in the lead carried some sort of metal pipe.

"Shit, Dad, " Brad said. "Let's get out of here." Duncan's mouth was dry. His legs urged him to run but his feet seemed anchored to the pavement. The thugs were too close and moving too fast. No time to get in the car, get it started, and maneuver out of the parking spot.

His heart began to hammer as he pulled the little cylinder from his pocket and held it down by his thigh, out of sight.

"Time to make some faggo-burgers, " said the leader, grinning as he raised the pipe and charged. His two companions were close behind.

"Hey, listen! " Brad shouted. "We're not, " "Quiet, Brad." Duncan's thumb found the trigger atop the little cylinder. It slipped and swiveled in his sweaty palm. His hand shook wildly as he raised the canister and shot a stream of liquid at the leader's face.

It missed, arcing past the raised pipe to splash against the throat and upper chest of the second in line. As that one gagged and turned, throwing his arms across his eyes and mouth, Duncan adjusted the stream and caught the leader square in the face. He dropped the pipe and fell to his knees, choking, clawing at his eyes. Meanwhile the third skinhead had run into the second, who had skidded to a stop and doubled over. The two went down in a tangled heap.

"Fucking Mace! " screamed the third.

Duncan caught him square in the mouth with a squirt and that was the last he heard from him.

Duncan sagged back against his car, gasping, panting as if he'd run a marathon. He could feel his underwear sticking to his sweaty skin.

How long had it taken? Three seconds? Five? Seemed like so much longer.

Whatever the interval, the three attackers had been reduced to writhing, wheezing, groaning, gagging, cursing lumps of blind flesh.

'"Thank God, Dad! " Brad said. "I didn't know you carried Mace. ' Actually it was pepper spray, five-percent capsicum. Duncan had never had occasion to use it before now. He was impressed. And almost giddy with relief. He held it up to the light.

"Not exactly a Wayne thing, I know, " Duncan said. "But since I'm not exactly a street fighter, I figured it was the prudent thing to do.

" He slipped the canister back into his pocket. "Maybe we should, '' The rattle of steel on concrete made Duncan turn. One of the skinheads had picked up the pipe and was on his feet, careening their way. His eyes were puffy slits, streaming tears. He couldn't see. He had to be homing in on their voices. Duncan lurched out of the way as he saw the bar swing wildly in his direction. It left a chipped dent in the car ender near where he'd been leaning an instant before.

Rage flared in Duncan. Impulsively he grabbed the steel shaft of the pipe and ripped it from the staggering skinhead's grasp. Then he swung it like a bat, catching him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling into his two companions, who had struggled to their hands and knees.

Duncan found himself standing over them, flailing away with the pipe, "You . . . " muttering through clenched teeth ". . . dirty . . . " as he cracked a head, ". . . filthy . . . " broke a rib, ". . . rotten .

. . " crushed a nose ". . . Iousy . . . " Then someone had hold of his arm and a familiar voice was shouting in his ear.

"Dad! For Christ sake! Dad! " He turned. Brad's face was inches from his, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

"Dad, you're gonna kill them! " Duncan looked down at the squirming, bloody tangle of their attackers.

He dropped the steel bar and turned toward the car.

"Let's get out of here. ' The keys rattled in his shaking hand as he fished them out of his jacket pocket. "You drive." The next few minutes were a blur, a fugue state in which he was vaguely aware of the car moving, pulling away, joining the flow of traffic on M Street. He sat in the passenger seat, shaking, shivering, trembling with the aftereffects of the adrenaline that had surged into his system moments before. High-pitched beeps brought him around.

Brad was punching the buttons on the car phone.

"What are you doing? " "Calling nine-one-one. ' - Duncan gently pulled the phone from his son's fingers and turned it off.

"No police. Let them crawl back to their cave and lick their wounds.

Maybe they'll think twice or even three times - before they jump another faggot."

"Shouldn't we report, ? " "If we involve ourselves, you know what will happen? We'll be on trial for assaulting them. That's the way our legal . .

system works.

They drove in silence for a while before Brad spoke again. "Why wouldn't you tell them? " "Tell them what? " '"That we're not gay." Gay. He hated that term. He couldn't imagine anything gay about being a homosexual. And he was a little disappointed in Brad.

He just didn't get it.

"That's not the point. If I want to put my arm around my son's shoulder, that's my business. I don't need anyone's permission but yours. I will no more allow myself to be dictated to by these troglodytes on the street than by the decerebrates on Capitol Hill.

Once you start backing down, you've got to keep backing down. So you don't start."

"But what happened to you back there, Dad? I've never seen you like that."

"That's because I've never been like that." He was nonplussed at the volatility of the rage seething within him.

He'd long been aware of its presence, had felt it percolating through him for years, but he'd thought he had it focused now, slowly bleeding off in the direction of the proper targets. He hadn't realized it was so near the surface, so ready to break free and hurl him at the nearest target. "You're a scary guy, Dad." He nodded.

"Sometimes I scare myself." GINA GINA HAD JUST FINISHED CHECKING A PATIENT WITH chest pain on Three North at Lynnbrook. She couldn't help thinking about Gerry and what a nice time she'd had with him and Martha earlier at that little Taco Bell.

Dinner at the Palms wouldn't have been half as warm. She'd hated to leave.

As she passed the nurses station she spotted Dr. Conway leaning on the counter, writing orders. She was surprised to see him. It was almost midnight, and usually she was the only doctor in the house at this hour.

He looked up and smiled as she took a seat on the other side of the counter. He tapped the chart in front of him.

'"Hey, Panzella. If I'd known you were in the house tonight I'd've let you handle this guy." '"Maybe you should have. You look beat." She wasn't exaggerating. He had circles under his eyes. "Go get some sleep."

"Soon as I finish this progress note, I'm gone." Gin spotted Harriet Thompson's chart and pulled it out of the rack. "I see your favorite little old lady is still here."

"Harriet? ' He nodded and sighed. "Yeah. And still not ready to go home, unfortunately.

Weak as a kitten, she says." Gin flipped through the chart. "All her numbers still look good."

"Perfect."

"You think there might be some secondary gains here? Like maybe she gets more attention here than at home? " "No. She's a real independent old lady. Hates it here. I think she's got some sort of postinfection asthenia. I've seen it before, especially after a pneumonia like hers. You can't see it, can't touch it, there's no lab test to confirm it. Mostly a diagnosis by exclusion."

"The administration still on your back? " "That's only half the story." He shook his head wearily. "It's getting a little ugly.

They've brought in reinforcements. I've had calls from the head of the family practice section and from the chief of staff himself. Nothing's been said in so many words, but they've dropped broad hints that I might have a rough time moving up to full attending here if I don't prove myself to be a team player." No wonder he looked harried.

"You can't get any family involved? " "Called the daughter in San Diego. Talked to her myself. She can't get away. It's not a good time' for her." '"So what's your next step? " "Same as ever. Screw em. She stays till she's ready to go. ' He closed the chart in front of him, left it where the charge nurse could review it, and pushed away from the counter.

"See you, Panzella."

"Hang in there, " she said as she watched him go.

Gin was worried. He could be headed for trouble here if he didn't back down soon.

Her thoughts'drifted back to Gerry and what he'd said earlier about Duncan's patients. Lane, Schulz, and now Allard . . . Gerry seemed to suspect a connection. What would he think if Gin told him that Duncan had been on the Capitol portico this morning, talking to Allard just before he fell? That he'd mentioned his dead daughter's name as a parting shot?

But how could she describe the frightening look in Duncan's eyes as he'd turned away from the congressman. The memory still gave her a chill. This was silly. What connection could there be between Congressman Allard and Duncan's daughter? She died five years ago. Gin was pretty damn sure from the presurgical history and physical she'd done on the congressman that he'd never met Duncan until he'd come in for a surgical consultation.

But still . . . it bothered her. She promised herself that when she had some time she'd do a little independent research on the late Lisa Lathram.

Gin was just stepping out of the stairwell on the first floor when she got paged again. She called the switchboard from the doctors lounge.

"Personal call, " said the operator. "Long distance. ' Who, she wondered, would be calling her here, long distance?

"Gin? " came a familiar drawl. "Gin, is that you? " "Peter! How did you find me here? " ' Wasn't easy .

She sat on the bunk and leaned back. Peter Hanson's dark eyes and strong, angular features floated before her.

"It's so good to hear your voice. ' "I miss you, Gin."

"Oh, and I miss you." She felt almost guilty now about dinner with Gerry tonight and enjoying it so much. They were two different types, really, Why was she thinking about Gerry with Peter on the phone?

He was talking about how empty their old apartment was without her, how lonely he was.

'"We really could use another internist here, Gin. Someone with your talent, your personality, and, being a woman to boot, I guarantee you'd have a beautiful practice in three months. We need you, Gin. I need you." Needed . . . wouldn't that be nice. No one seemed to need her around here.

She'd spent the last two years of her residency with Peter. He joined a multispecialty medical group in Baton Rouge. Gin had had an offer from the same group but turned it down. She'd felt she had to come to Washington and wanted Peter to come with her. They'd gone around and around with it until she'd finally left to return east.

As she listened to his voice she realized how much she missed him, missed Louisiana with its slower pace and rich, spicy food. And Peter.

And now, after the cool reception at Senator Marsden's offhce and still no call, it was so tempting to call it quits here and run back to New Orleans.

She ached to be with him but she couldn't go back. Not even for a visit. She might never leave, might never have the strength to say good-bye again.

"Peter, I need to see if I can work things out with this committee. " "You don't need a damn committee, Gin. You need to be practicing medicine." They'd had this conversation dozens of times and it always ended the same, Peter angry and Gin upset.

How could she say it without hurting him?

I still care very deeply for you, Peter, bxt the power here, the enormity of the decisions being made every day . . . it's an adrenaline bgzz like nowhere else in the world. It's, well, it's intoxicating.

She opted for her old standby instead.

"We've been over this so many times, Peter. I'm not ready to commit myself to a practice yet. There are a few things I want to try first, and this is the only place I can try them."

"How long am I supposed to wait? " he said with a hint of an edge in his voice.

"I'm waiting, too, Peter. I'm going half crazy waiting." He sighed.

"Fine. Keep me hanging. Let me know when you find out what you're going to do. As soon as you find out.

"I will. And I'm sorry."

"That makes two of us. Bye, Gin. Call me soon." She sat in the doctors lounge for a long time with the phone in her lap, wondering how she could be right if everyone else thought she was wrong. Her beeper chirped before she came up with an answer.

They wanted her on Two South.

THE WEEK OF SEPTEMBER LM GINA OVER A WEEK NOW SINCE THE INTERVIEW AND STILL no word from Senator Marsden's office. Chances of a call from Joe Blair seemed slim to none but Gin kept hoping the senator himself might intervene. Because throughout her meeting with Blair she'd got the impression that he was deigning to interview her only because his boss wanted it.

The waiting was affecting her concentration. She had to resist the urge to call her answering machine every hour. The Guidelines committee started hearings in another week. Time was getting short.

True to her promise, though, she wasn't forgetting about looking into Lisa Lathram. The question was how. She had a feeling Oliver had said all he was going to say, and she couldn't very well ask Duncan.

Wouldn't the sudden death of the daughter of a prominent local warrant some newspaper coverage?

Yes, it would. She called the D. C. Public Library and they connected her with their periodicals section. They were most L cooperative but could come up with only one reference to Lisa Lathram.

In the August 17 issue of the Washington Post, her obituary. Gin stopped in the main branch on G Street and found it on microfilm.

No help there. Except for mention of the survivors, it might as well have been a high school yearbook entry.

Gin would have liked to surf through the microfilm but she was due at Lynnbrook to do her house-doctor thing, so she left that for another day.

She wasn't giving up on this. When Gin had left for medical school, Duncan was a top Virginia vascular surgeon with a wife and two children, when she returned from residency he was a divorced Maryland plastic surgeon with one child.

Something had happened in that interval to turn his life upside down.

Lisa's death? Maybe. Or maybe that was just a part of it. There had to be more. And Gin made up her mind to find out what it was.

While on Three North at Lynnbrook she passed Mrs. Thompson's room and decided to stick her head in the door to see how she was doing. She saw the old woman shuffling between the chair and the bed. She tottered forward and would have hllen if she hadn't caught hold of the metal footboard.

Gin stepped into the room as Harriet eased herself onto the bed.

"You should call for a nurse before you try anything like that, " Gin said as she helped her under the covers.

"I'm practicing. I've got to go home. I don't want to get Dr. Conway in trouble." Curious, Gin sat on the end of the bed. "What makes you think he's in trouble? " "I overheard two of the nurses talking.

They said the TRO and the hospital were on his back because of me. " "That's PRO, Physician Review Organization. And don't you worry about Dr. Conway. He can take care of himself. You just worry about getting stronger."

"Don't worry. I'll be strong enough to go home real soon. You can count on that. Real soon."

"Good for you, " Gin said. "And remember, Call the nurse when you need to get up. You fall and break a hip you'll never get out of here." "That will never happen. I'll not be a burden on anyone.

I'll be out of here sooner than you think."

"That's the spirit." Gin liked the old woman's determination. Maybe things would work out for Dr. Conway after all.

A September storm was drenching the city when Gin dragged herself into her apartment around half past eight. As she passed the bedroom she noticed the message light on her -. answering machine blinking.

Probably Gerry again. She'd been playing telephone tag with him since Taco Bell. Their schedules weren't meshing.

When he was free, she was moonlighting. But they'd managed to connect last Friday when Gerry delivered on his promise to take her out to 'a real restaurant for a real dinner." That turned out to be a delightful evening. A little French place on Massachusetts. Good wine, good food, and good conversation. They talked and talked, lingering over coffee until the maitre d' informed them that the place was closing.

She learned that Gerry Canney was not only a dedicated father, he was a dedicated FBI agent as well.

She yawned. Tired. This was no way to live. The rest of the city was up and about and starting the day while hers was just finishing.

Luckily she didn't have to assist Duncan today.

She sat in the bay window, watched the rain splatter and run down the panes, then sifted through her mail. Mostly "Occupant" fliers and the throwaway medical journals that had tracked her down and followed her from Tulane. The pile yielded two letters, both from medical headhunters looking for board-certified or board-eligible internists or family practitioners to fill primary-care slots. She averaged half a dozen offers a week.

"Tired of being on call? Need a change of scenery? " As a matter of fact, yes.

"Move to sunny Nevada." She read on. A new Las Vegas megahotel was opening an on-premises clinic for its ten thousand employees. No thanks.

The other letter played coy with the precise location, but guaranteed $ 1 20,000 plus benefits to start as the fifth member of a family practice group "located just ninety minutes from beach, mountains, and D. C. " Gin thought about $120,000 to start . . . wouldn't that be nice. The profession had been running low on primary-care docs for years, probably because they occupied the bottom rung in prestige and income. But The growth of managed care had created a sudden demand for the lowly generalist. Over twenty-three hundred dollars a week, probably for fewer hours than she was working now. Tempting.

But not yet.

She dropped the letters into her lap and gazed down at the street watching the fallen yellow leaves swirl as they floated down the gutter toward 18th Street. Was she kidding herself? Was this whole idea of hooking up with the Guidelines committee a fool's errand? Was Peter right? Wasn't she wasting her training by doing presurgical medical clearance on Duncan's patients when she could be in a real practice treating her own patients?

Maybe. But this wouldn't last forever.

She spoke silently to the city beyond her window.

I know it looks like I'm just treading water, folks, but trust me, I really do have a direction. It's just that lately the cgrrent always seems to be running against me. But don't worry. The tide will change.

At least she hoped it would.

I've got the blues, she thought. And why not? It's a damp, chilly, crummy morning, I've been up all night, my energy has bottomed out, and I'm overtired.

Not the best time to make big decisions.

She tossed the headhunters letters and occupant mail into the wastebasket, and put the journals aside to skim later. Then she hit the button on her answering machine. It would be good to hear Gerry's voice.

- But instead of Gerry it was an unfamiliar woman's voice. "Ms. Panzella. This is Senator Marsden's office. Mr. Blair asked me to call and inform you that Senator Marsden wishes to personally interview you tomorrow afternoon at four P. M. If you cannot make it at that time, the senator will not be able to reschedule. Please call to confirm that you will be there. ' She left a number and an extension.

Gin realized with a start that the message had been left sometime yesterday. "Tomorrow" was today.

She replayed it. She'd only met Joe Blair once, but she could smell him all over that message. "His. ", incapable of calling her "Doctor.

" The arbitrary time and no rescheduling. She could almost hear his voice, Do or die, Panzella.

She sensed some sort of a power struggle. What was it? The senator choosing new staff and his chief of staff resisting an intrusion into his bailiwick? That could make for a tense atmosphere. Did she want to get caught in the middle of that? Come in on the wrong side of Joe Blair and have to buck him from the get go?

She'd love it.

Smiling tightly, Gin reached for the phone and jabbed in the number.

After confirming her meeting, she strode back to the window and looked out on Kalorama Road.

See, fol/2s? What'd I tell you? The tide's turning.

DUNCAN M AMAZED, SAID SENATOR VINCENT. EVEN IN THE close confines of a doctor's examining room he spoke as if he was delivering a speech.

"I'd been told how incredibly rapid your surgery healed, but didn't appreciate exactly how rapid until I'd seen it with my own eyes.

Truly amazing." Duncan refrained from reacting to the man's condescension and continued inspecting the hairline incisions under The chin through an illuminated magnifier. Yes, the beta-3 was doing its work. Only a week post-op and, except for some fading ecchymosis, virtually all traces of the procedure were gone.

Too bad I coaldn't have done the Hogg reconstrsction. Then you'd really be amazed.

Sometime since the surgery, Vincent had had his hair per med. It stuck out from his head in frizzy tendrils, making him look like one of those Chi Pets they hawked on TV.

Duncan backed up, examined Vincent's throat from the left, then the right. "Damn, I do good work! " Vincent laughed nervously. "So I guess it will be safe to go on TV next week." "Oh? " Duncan said with all the ingenuousness he could muster. "Face the Nation? " '"No.

More important. The hearings. On the Guidelines bill."

"Next week?

I didn't realize you'd be getting started so soon."

"Oh, yes. We're pressing on without Lane and Allard. The first hearing is Wednesday.

" Got your sights set on any particular targets? Duncan wondered.

Who's life are you going to ruin this time around?

"You know, " Duncan said slowly, "I've never been to one of these hearings. Do you think you could get me in to the opening session? " Senator Vincent scratched his head. "I don't know. It's a pretty hot ticket. And the hearing room's not that big . . . " "Well, I have other patients on the committee who'll take care of it.

No problem."

"You do? " the senator said, his tone warbling between pique at Duncan's implication that there was someone on the committee with more juice than he and voracious curiosity as to who else was getting fixed up for the hearings. "Who? " Duncan wagged a finger.

"Now, now. You should know that's privileged information."

"Yes, of course. But if you truly want a seat, Dr. Lathram, you've got one.

I'll have my legislative director call you tomorrow. No problem. " '"Thank you, Senator. I knew I could count on you. It promises to be quite a show. And I bet yours will be a household name from the very first day." I guarantee it.

* * * Later, Duncan stopped by Oliver's lab. He had to get down to D.

C.

General for The surgery on little Kanesha Green, but first he wanted to check his brother's progress on the latest refinement of the implant.

\ He found Oliver seated with a number of empty implants in a tray on the counter before him. He handed one to Duncan who rolled it back and forth in his palm. Light as a feather.

Duncan said, "How long can we count on the new model to sit in the subcutaneous fat without dissolving? " Oliver shrugged. "How can I say? Six months, two years, forever. We haven't tested them. We'll have to do animal studies. I mean, really, Duncan, we haven't even finished the clinical trials on the regular implants, and here you've got me working on a whole new type."

"Got to stay ahead, Oliver. If we don't keep innovating, the intellectual slovens and me-too artists will plunder our work."

"But why this new model? I thought the whole idea was to have it dissolve shortly after surgery."

"Because I foresee a time when I may want an implant that dissolves when I tell it to. In trauma cases, for instance, with wide, deep wounds, premature release of beta-3 could prove counterproductive." He had to choose his words carefully. Oliver was bright but he hadn't the faintest idea what lay behind Duncan's insistence on an implant that would dissolve on command, and no inkling of what Duncan had already done with it.

Duncan flipped the empty implant into the air and caught it.

"But you do think it's possible one of these things could nest in the fat for a couple of years? " "I guess so. But I couldn't imagine why anyone would want it to sit there that long. The time when its dissolution would be of any benefit would have long since passed. " Not exactly, Duncan thought. Not if it was filled with the right substance and hidden in the tissues of the right person.

"Just wondering, " Duncan said.

Oliver's eyes lit. "But you mentioned trauma repair. Are you thinking of returning to real surgery? " Duncan laughed. "You mean vascular surgery? God, no. Why would I want to go back to being on call twenty-four hours a day and getting rousted out of bed at all hours of the night? For what? What good would that do me? " "You're a great surgeon, Duncan. You'd be putting your talents to their best use. It wouldn't just be good for others, it would be good for you as well. " Moved by his brother's concern, and afraid Oliver might see something in his eyes that he shouldn't, Duncan looked away. Oliver was a good soul, the most decent of men. Complaisant, assiduous Oliver, his irenic presence, his lambent insight were a balm on Ouncan's soul.

And he so admires me.

At times like these Duncan hated himself for putting Oliver's discovery to uses that would horrify him. And Duncan himself was horrified by the knowledge that if his machinations were ever brought to light, Oliver's fulgent, indefectible character would be tainted.

But that doesn't stop me, does it.

Again he wondered what he'd do if Oliver found out. Or Gin. How far would he go to protect himself?

He tried not to think about it.

"Why would it be good for me, Oliver? You know what happened when I was in vascular surgery. The same thing might happen again. Why should I make myself vulnerable again? Look at me now. I'm working fewer hours, I have no calls to speak of, whoever heard of an emergency tummy tuck in the middle of the night? I'm earning far more now with half the effort."

"You never cared about money."

"The public did.

' "And you were saving lives then."

"But while I was saving or improving all those lives, I was publicly stoned for unalloyed greed.

Remember that time, Oliver? Remember? ' Oliver nodded. "I remember.

" "Now I rake in seven figures simply for resuscitating the vanity of the local gentry, and no one says a word. No one even lifts an eyebrow.

Truly we live in a remarkable society, Oliver. A remarkable society.

" What a world, Duncan thought, straining to hide the lava of rage erupting in his chest, flowing through his gut. What a goddamn world.

Oliver was staring at him. "You shouldn't have let them drive you out, Duncan." '"Now, now, Oliver. We've been over this countless times.

I those to leave vascular surgery. And it's the best thing I ever did.

" "But you could have gone into another surgical field where your work actually meant something."

"But you had this new membrane you'd discovered, and then the Brits came up with beta-3. The writing was on the wall, cosmetic surgery was it. ' Actually, he had decided never again to deal with insurance companies, or governments, or any mixture of the two. Cosmetic surgery was perfect.

Only a rare insurance policy covered it anyway, and he could limit his patients to those who wanted it and exclude those who needed it.

"If that's the case, " Oliver said, "then I wish I'd never developed this membrane." Duncan gripped his brother's shoulder. "Don't ever say that, Oliver.

These implants are going to transform a host of lives. People all over the world, mothers of children who'd otherwise be scarred for life will bless your name. And as for me, I've made peace with the past. Trust me, Oliver. I'm at peace."

"I hope so, " Oliver said, searching Duncan's face. "I find it hard to believe, but I hope it's true." Duncan glanced at his watch. "Oops.

Time to run. Got to get over to the club." Oliver's expression was dismayed. "You can't play golf today. It's pouring. ' '"Poker, Oliver, " he said, nudging his brother's ribs. "When it rains we play poker. Want to join in? " '"No, " he sighed, turning back to his implants. "I've got work to do.

" For a moment Duncan was tempted to tell his brother where he was really going. It would make Oliver's day, make his year. But dear Oliver was a blabbermouth. He'd be explaining to anyone who'd listen that his brother really wasn't the coldhearted, cash-up-front bastard he pretended to be. He was a saint in hiding.

No, Oliver would have to go on being disappointed in the older brother he had once admired. And Duncan prayed he never found out about how he was using the new implants.

"See you tomorrow, then." Duncan hurried across the wet parking lot, jumped in the Mercedes, and started the engine. But instead of putting it in gear, he sat staring at the hub of his steering wheel.

I've made peace with the past. Trast me, Oliver. I'm at pere.

How easily the lies come now. Peace? What was peace? He hadn't known a moment of it since the day he'd found Lisa Lying in the foyer in a pool of blood.

If only . . .

Bright light in Duncan's eyes brought him back to the present. The sun had broken through the clouds. He shook off the memory and threw the Mercedes into gear. I was all right, he thought. And I'd have stayed all right if not for the president's resurrection of the damn Guidelines bill. It all came back, all the pain, the rage, because of him.

But he'll get his. His turn is coming.

ON THE HILL SENATOR MARSDEN MADE HER WAIT ONLY A FEW minutes, then Gin was ushered in.

The otrice was pretty much as she remembered it, the stacked files, overflowing bookcases, photos, plaques, and the miniature basketball hoop over the wastepaper tbasket.

Joe Blair was there, again in a white, short-sleeve shirt, a different but equally nondescript tie, and dark slacks. Strangely, he greeted her warmly, a smile beneath the wispy mustache as he moved forward to shake her hand and lead her toward the senator's battered old desk.

Gin wasn't sure what to make of theuncharacteristically gracious behavior. An act for his boss? It was in Blair's honor that she had worn a longer skirt today.

Senator Hugh Marsden leaned forward over his desk and extended his hand. He was average height, sixtyish, balding, portly, but possessed a commanding presence. It was his eyes, Gin decided, intensely, piercingly blue, they caught her and held her as firmly as his hand gripped hers. His voice was deep and commanding as well.

"Dr. Panzella. Welcome." A third person was in the room, a short, compact, darkhaired woman of about forty. She introduced herself.

"Hello, Dr. Panzella, " she said, extending her hand. She had a warm, easy smile and bright brown eyff. Gin liked her immediately. "I'm Alicia Downs, the senator's press secretary."

"Gin. Please call me Gin."

"All right, Gin, " the senator said. "Pull up a chair. I hope you don't mind if we get right down to business. Senator Moynihan moved a five o'clock budget briefing up to four-thirty, so time is short." He seated himself in the straight-backed chair behind the desk and cleared the files from his desk blotter. Gin took one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk, Alicia took the other. Blair stayed on his feet, hovering. Positioning himself where he could get a good look at her legs, maybe?

"I can't help being intrigued by the fact that a young physician with your qualifications would want this position, " he said. "I'd say you were overqualified. What is it you hope to accomplish here? " Here we go again, Gin thought.

She went into her spiel of how she thought the impact of the Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines Act would be so far-reaching, so important to the future of medical practice, that she couldn't sit idly by without attempting to have some input.

"You can't have guidelines that smother individuality, " she concluded.

"Do you want all doctors to be exactly the same? I hope not. Minimum standards of training and care, sure. But then allow variety in style of practice. Each practice should have its own personality, otherwise you've deprived patients of a critically important choice." The senator studied her a moment in silence, his blue eyes intent on her.

Gin was beginning to feel uncomfortable when finally he spoke.

"You realize that this is a part-time position for which I doubt we'll be able to squeeze twenty thousand, if that, out of the budget." '"I explained that to her, Senator, " Blair said. He seemed vaguely anxious, while not actually moving, he seemed to be pacing in place.

"The money's not important, " she said. "I've-got the rest of my life to make money. This is a chance to matter, to be part of something that will affect the rest of my professional life. If I were already in practice, with a mortgage, kids in school, I wouldn't be able to drop everything and devote months to this committee. But I'm not.

There's only me to worry about. This is something I want to do, something I can do, and do well. And if I don't do it now, I'll never do it. And. . . ", dare she say it? , "your committee will be poorer for it."

"Is that so? " Senator Marsden said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Blair bite his upper lip and ever so slightly shake his head.

Had she overplayed it? "At least that's my opinion."

"Yes, well, you may have a point there. Will you give me a day to make a final decision? " "Of course." Do I have a choice?

'"Fine." He glanced at his watch, rose, and extended his hand.

"Sorry to cut this short, but that budget briefing, you know." Gin smiled as she shook his hand. "I understand."

"I'll walk you out, " Alicia said.

Gin glanced back as she exited and saw Joe Blair leaning over the senator's desk, yammering in a low voice.

'"I don't think your chief of staff is in my corner, " Gin said as she and Alicia wound through the cubicles.

Alicia snorted. "Joe's a dickhead. He's pissed because he already told the senator you're not right for the job but the boss wanted to meet you anyway."

"So he's back there now trying to scuttle me? " "Maybe. Don't take it personally. He's a control freak. Wants it to be his staff, handpicked by Joe Blair."

"Fair enough, guess, " Gin said with far more equanimity than she felt.

"Maybe, but he's still a dickhead."

"Gin! " She was almost to the elevators. She turned and saw Joe Blair hurrying after her.

"Glad I caught you, " he said as he reached her.

"What's up? ' she said, watching him closely. "Has he made up his mind? " She didn't trust this guy. And there was something in his eyes .

. .

"Despite my strong recommendation, the senator's still undecided. More of a budgeting problem than any difficulty with your qualifications.

" He unfolded the piece of paper in his hand and passed it to her.

"But we need to figure out how to respond when he sees this." We?

Gin thought. Since when are we a we?

She looked at the sheet and suppressed a groan. It was a Xerox of an article she'd written for the New Orleans TimesPicayvne during the second year of her residency. She'd been in a particularly grouchy mood after reading that paper's series on what was wrong with American medicine. She'd fired off a long letter vehemently disagreeing with their delineation of the problems and the proposed solutions. The paper told her if she'd expand it they'd publish it as an op-ed piece.

Giddy with the prospect of having an audience, Gin had fired all her guns, sparing no one. It was a diatribe Duncan himself would have been proud of.

But . . . a very negative, even strident article, with no attempt at a balanced argument, and she'd cringed when she'd reread it on the day it was published. If only she'd put it in a drawer for a week before sending it in, she certainly would have leavened some of her remarks.

She hadn't given it much thought since, and yet here it was, resurrected and staring her in the face.

"This isn't really me, " she said.

"I'm sure it isn't." Blair touched her hand solicitously. "But we've got to do some brainstorming to assess our options if it reaches the senator's desk." She backed up an inch and his hand broke contact.

There it was again, we.

"What do you suggest? " "Oh, " he said so casually, "how about my place? Tonight. And wear something nice." Gin felt her hands close into fists. She wanted to ram one of them into his nose, and then yank out that wimpy mustache one hair at a time

"Sorry, " she said calmly, moving her jaw so she wouldn't be talking through gritted teeth. "I've got plans for tonight."

"Tomorrow night, then. We haven't much time" We have no time

She regarded him coolly, levelly. "Nope. Sorry. I'm busy. Tonight, tomorrow night, every night. ' He stared back at her, obviously confused. Then his eyes narrowed, but only for a second. He shrugged carelessly and turned away.

"Okay, " he said over his shoulder. "Your loss. But don't say I didn't offer to help."

"I won't, " she said softly as she stretched a trembling finger toward the DOWN button.