F Wilson - Implant

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

Indications.

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

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

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

But where was that publicized?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

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

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

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

The irony should have been delicious.

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

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

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

Just like Lisa.

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

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

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

He lifted his glass.

Par, Regina.

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

If not . . .

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

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

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

This is not over.

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

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

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

"Boy toys, " she'd muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

No more Nancy Drew stzz.

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

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

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

,Better just stick to following him around.

Nice way to spend a weekend.

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