F Wilson - Implant

"Really. I'm surprised."

"Maybe you should be flattered. He said it was because of you." He clapped her on the upper arm. "See. I knew I'd be glad I hired you."

I hope so, Senator, she thought. She made what she hoped was a graceful exit and hurried away. She had someplace to go.

She sat in the periodicals section of the D. C. Public Library's main branch on G Street. She'd remembered something Oliver had said about the Guidelines committee . . . shortly after Duncan had exploded at the news that she was looking for a post on the committee.

. . . years ago he had a bit of trouble . . .

Trouble with the Guidelines committee? How many years? Oliver wasn't talking. Maybe the microfilm would.

She ran a search of the Washington Post the year of Lisa's death, looking for Duncan.

The earliest was dated May 7th, about a week before the first anti-Duncan article in the Alexandria Banner. Front page, lower right corner.

Gin's stomach lurched as she read the heading, "Committee Decries Gross Overcharging' by Surgeon." She scanned the article until she spotted his name, then backtracked.

From his seat beside the committee chairman, ranking member Senator Harold Vincent said his staff had uncovered a case of "flagrant abuse of the current system, right here in our own backyard." He went on to excoriate Dr. Duncan Lathram, a vascular surgeon in Alexandria, for collecting over a million dollars from Medicate last year. "This sort of gouging is a prime example of a profession running wild, lining their pockets with millions of taxpayers' hard-earned money. If ever there was a doubt that the medical profession needs guidelines imposed on it, that doubt should be banished by the likes of Dr. Lathram. " Gin sat rigid in her seat before the microfilm screen, shocked not only by the words, but by their speaker. Senator Vincent . . . Duncan had operated on him just a few weeks ago, they'd been bantering in the committee hearing room moments before his seizures. And though he'd attacked Duncan in public five years before, neither had ever mentioned it. Had they both forgotten?

No. Not Duncan. Vincent, maybe. In a quarter century on the Hill, this was simply another in an endless series of remarks prepared by one of his aides and tossed away after they were read into the record.

But Duncan . . . those words no doubt were branded on his brain. He'd never forget something like this. Nor would he forgive.

She went back and read the article from the beginning. Vincent had attacked Duncan from his seat on the Committee for Medical Practice Guidelines, the original Guidelines committee under Senator McCready.

The article listed the other members of that first committee. Besides Vincent and McCready, it named Lane, Allard, and Schulz.

Schalz! Schulz had been on the original committee. Gin hadn't known that.

'"Oh . . . my . . . Ciod, " she whispered. That was the connection between the four dead or injured legislators, all had been members of the McCready committee.

She found another mention of Duncan, deeper in the paper, a week later.

This time it was Congressman Allard pillorying this price-gouging surgeon and calling him "the tip of the iceberg." Something must be done on the federal level. He demanded a Medicate audit of Duncan's officer and hospital records.

Gin leaned back. So this was where Duncan's hell had begun, ignited by a spark from the original Guidelines committee. He must hate these men . . . yet he'd done cosmetic surgery on four of them.

And now those four were either dead or hospitalized.

It was all circumstantial, all four cases were different, and she couldn't see how any grand jury could indict on the available evidence . . . yet only a fool could deny the obvious and terrifying pattern.

But where was the connection to Lisa?

And did it matter?

At the moment, no. What did matter was that Senator Marsden was going under Duncan's knife next week.

She remembered him signing the surgical consent forms a few hours ago.

Wasn't there an expression about signing your life away?

GINA GINA DIDN'T T WAKE UP SATURDAY MORNING. SHE DIDN"T have to. She never got to sleep.

A night of endless tossing and turning. She'd tried everything short of a sleeping pill. She didn't have one around and it probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Her racing mind was stuck in overdrive and refused to downshift.

Something's going to happen Jo Senator Marsden.

The thought had ricocheted off the walls of her brain like a racquetball. She'd countered it with every explanation she could dredge up. It all came down to the fact that despite a seemingly obvious pattern, all the evidence was circumstantial. Yes, the committee had initiated a series of events that had ruined Duncan's practice, but it would take more than that to set him on a murderous vendetta.

Yet every time she thought she'd laid the fear to rest, some dark, formless dread from her hindbrain, that ancestral home of primal instincts, would rear up and slam it into wild, random motion again.

So now she sat in her bay window and looked down on the Saturday-morning quiet of Kalorama Road. God, what was she going to do?

She'd have to do something.

Stop the surgery? How? What reason could she give? No, she'd have to find a way to ease her mind so she wouldn't go crazy waiting for something to happen.

But anything bad that happens to Marsden after the surgery, even if he gets hit by a meteor while raking leaves in his front yard, I'm going to blame on Duncan.

Gin could handle just about every question except the one about Duncan's desk drawer.

She had seen the vial and the oversized trocar. And she couldn't explain them.

What was in that vial? What was a trocar doing in there?

Only one way to find out. Did she dare?

She headed for the bedroom to throw on some clothes.

Gin let herself into the surgicenter through the private rear entrance and coded off the alarm. She felt more than a little guilty about this.

After all, Duncan had entrusted her with a set of keys and here she was sneaking in to snoop through his desk.

It's not as if I'm going to steal anything, she thought. I'm just going to borrow a little reassurance.

She locked the door behind her, then set up her excuse for being here.

Not much chance that anyone else would be in on a Saturday, and her car was in the rear lot, hidden from the street, but you never knew. So, first thing, she trotted down to the records room and left her Senate ID badge on the floor under the dictation desk. Should anybody ask, that was why she was here, looking for her lost badge.

Back upstairs, she let herself into Duncan's officer. She noticed her hands were sweaty. What if Duncan popped in and caught her here? Not likely. He couldn't wait to get out of here weekday afternoons, so why would he show up on a Saturday? Oliver was a different story. But he'd mentioned a trip to Virginia Beach for the weekend, so it was unlikely he'd show up. Through the picture window she saw that the rock garden was half in shadow. The shrubbery shielded her from anyone outside, but also blocked her view of the rear parking lot, so she left the office door open to hear anyone unlocking the private entrance.

She moved to Duncan's desk, praying she'd find the top right drawer sitting open.

No such luck.

Okay, another prayer that he'd forgotten to lock it. She pulled on the handle. The drawer wiggled but wouldn't slide.

Damn! She slapped her palm against the drawer. She wanted this over with. She couldn't stand it.

She slumped into Duncan's chair and stared at the drawer. The putting-to-bed, or God forbid, confirmation, of all her distress lay on the far side of half an inch of wood. She stared at the brass face of the lock. She'd seen Duncan's key ring hanging from that lock, which meant the drawer key went wherever he went. But maybe there was a spare around.