F Wilson - Implant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked away.

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

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

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

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

She wanted to hug him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That damn bottle.

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

But nonetheless disturbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. .

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

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

The screen blanked. That was when he had turned off the power.

Very good, he thought as he rewound the tape. No sign of Gin. No snooping around, no trying to get into the locked desk drawer again.

He prayed for similar results every time he reviewed this tape.

The last thing on earth he wanted was to hurt Gin.

TUESDAY ALL RIGHT, OLIVER, GINA SAID. ENOUGH WITH THE secrecy. You've got to tell me why those men were wandering around the building yesterday." It was early. Gloved and masked, they were down in Oliver's lab, filling implants under sterile conditions for the day's procedures. Gin had spent half the night cudgeling her brain for a way to learn the identity of Dr. V. and the mysterious suits.

"I can't, Gin, " Oliver said. "Duncan would kill me." Poor choice of words, Gin thought, annoyed at the chill they gave her. Duncan wouldn't kill anyone. She believed that now. She had to.