F Wilson - Implant

Who to believe? A week ago there'd be no contest. But after the Marsden mess . . .

Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup as Gerry pounded his fist on the desk.

Damn it, what was he going to tell Gin?

And where was she now? Racing around the city in her car? Or hunched over a cup of coffee at the rear table of some diner?

He had to get her help. And fast.

Gin sipped a cup of cappuccino and watched the street. She'd found a Moroccan coffee shop on Columbia Road with a booth that offered a view of the eastern corner of Kalorama, half a block uphill from her apartment. If Duncan or an ambulance arrived, they'd turn that corner.

So far, no ambulance, no black Mercedes. But Duncan was tricky. He'd certainly proven that in the past week. Who said he had to come in his Mercedes?

Rather than run all over the city with no definite destination, she'd left her car parked in front of her building and walked up here to sit watch. Was Duncan really calling an ambulance, or coming himself?

God, she wished she knew. The only thing she knew for ceXtain right now was that she had to stay as far as possible from Duncan Lathram.

She glanced at her watch. Time to give Gerry a call. Another good thing about this little coffee shop was the location of the phone, right inside the front door. She could call and still keep watch on the corner.

Gerry sounded tired when he said hello.

"Did you call the Secret Service? " '"Yes."

" And? " His sigh was full of angst. "They say he's not having surgery tomorrow or any other day. As a matter of fact, he's leaving in the morning for Camp David for a long weekend." '"To recover from the surgery! " "According to the Secret Service, there's no surgery, Gin."

"But how . . . ? " Oh, God, why hadn't she thought of that? "Gerry, of course they're going to deny it. It's all hushhush. He doesn't want anyone to know it's being done."

"I already thought of that. Look, Gin, you can't keep doing this.

You're a doctor. Don't you see a pattern here? There's no surgery on the president, just like there was no implant in Senator Marsden's leg.

" "Well, there's one in mine! I can show you! " '"Gin, you need help." She heard real pain in his voice now. "Let me get you in touch with someone we use at the Bureau. Maybe he can, " Tears of frustration welled in Gin's eyes. "I'm not paranoid, Gerry.

Duncan has done a beautiful job of manipulating events to make me look that way, but I'm not. And I've got the implant in my leg to prove it.

" "Gin, ' was all he said.

t .

, . T . S , , "All right. That does it. ' She was angry now. "You don't believe me, so I'll show you. I'm coming down there right now and I'll prove to you that there's an implant in my leg. And you leave word at the desk that I'm coming."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Gin."

"Maybe not, but it seems to be my only option now. So get ready, Gerry.

I'm on my way. ' "Gina, " She hung up on him and stood inside the door trembling with anger and fright. What if she couldn't get anyone to believe her? She realized how she must have sounded. She had to stay calm and sound rational. She wasn't going to convince anyone if she kept flying off the handle.

But I'm scared, dammit.

And worse than the fear was the question that had begun tapping with increasing insistence on the back door of her consciousness.

g everybody thinks you're crazy, maybe you shogldn't completely dismiss the possibility they might be right.

Feeling utterly miserable, she leaned against the door and pressed her right temple against the cool glass. The caffeine and a couple of Tylenol had helped, but her head still throbbed. And the doubts only intensified the pain.

Am I sane?

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

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

God, what was real?

She slammed her palm once against the pay phone.

No! She wasn't crazy!

That's what they all say . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What am I doing here?

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

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

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