F Wilson - Implant

Terror slammed Duncan from behind but he resisted the urge to run. He had seen him before, with Gin at the Guidelines committee hearing.

Canney the FBI agent.

Is he looking for me?

Keep calm, Duncan told himself. How could he be? He drove right past me. And besides, why, of all the possible places in the District, would he look for me here?

He had to be looking for someone else.

For Gin.

Excitement surged through Duncan as he stepped back into a doorway and continued to watch Agent Canney.

I'm still safe, he thought. If the FBI doesn't know Gin's whereabouts, then no one does, at least no one who matters.

He watched Canney walk across the grass and among the shrubs and benches of Farragut Square, watched him search the entire perimeter, pausing where Gin's car had hit the curb. His movements were quick, efficient, but Duncan detected an underlying anxiety and uncertainty.

Duncan could have told him, You're wasting your time

- He watched Canney canvas the area, then get into his car and leave.

And with the agent's departure Duncan suddenly found himself refreshed, invigorated. He wasn't going home. Not just yet.

He'd hang around a little longer. At least until dark.

Gin awoke in pain and confusion. She'd rolled over onto her right side and felt as if something were taking a bite out of her thigh.

She was hot, wet, bathe in sweat. Her bra and panties were glued to her skin. She threw off the covers. Dark . . . where, ?

A few blinks and she recognized the hotel room. It all came back to her. Sitting on the tub, cutting into herself . . .

- She sat up and experienced only an instant of light headedness. No question, the rest had done her good, but how long had she been out?

She turned the clock radio toward her. 5:05.

My God, I slept away the whole afternoon!

She eased herself to her feet and wobbled only slightly on her way to the bathroom. She had to see it, had to make sure it was still there.

It was. The Coricidin bottle sat where she had left it on the marble counter. She ran the sink water and drank three glasses without taking her eyes off the implant resting within, turning brown now as its blood-streaked surface dried.

She brought it with her when she returned to the bed. Still weak, but feeling lots better, she carefully lowered herself to sit on the edge.

Time to call Gerry. Time to meet with him and show him what Duncan had placed inside her.

She got an outside line and punched in his office number. The FBI operator said he wasn-t in at the moment. Would she like to leave a message?

'"When will he be back? " "Agent Canney did not say. May I ask who's calling, please? " "That's okay, " Gin said. "I'll call back. " Maybe he got tired of waiting for her and went home. She called his house but got only his answering machine.

Maybe he was in transit. She'd have to wait till he picked up Martha and got home . . . if home was where he was headed. She wondered if he was worried about her, or even thinking about her. It would be comforting to know that someone besides Duncan was wondering where she was. She unwrapped the Ace bandage from her leg to expose the gauze beneath.

She noticed that blood was beginning to seep through the dressing.

Gingerly, she peeled it away. The antibiotic ointment kept the gauze from sticking. The incision looked good, the thread seemed to be holding. But as she stared at the wound, and then at the little bottle containing the bloody implant, she was filled with an overwhelming despair.

Gerry's not going to relieve one.

The realization made her sick. What would he think when he saw that bloody thing in the bottle? No one had seen her cut it out. No witness to the procedure. Who was to say she hadn't cut herself and smeared the implant with blood to convince others of her delusions?

Self-mutilation was common in certain forms of psychosis. Or maybe she'd be diagnosed as some sort of variant of Munchausen syndrome.

She'd done something extreme, something radical, something that would appear bizarre and, well, deranged to anyone who didn't fully understand the threat the implant posed to her.

In short, showing Gerry that bloody implant and telling him she'd cut it out of her own leg might only confirm his worst fears about her sanity. Her paranoid delusions had now escalated to self-mutilation.

Gin pressed her hands to her face. Couched in a sob, her voice rang through the tiny room.

"What am I going to do? " She had to find someone who'd believe her, someone who wouldn't think she'd watched too many episodes of Twilight Zone. . . .

Oliver.

Of course. Oliver would believe her. He was the only other person in the world who knew about both TPD and the implants. He'd understand why she'd had to cut herself open to remove the TPD.

But how would he react when she told him Duncan was behind it all?

Oliver was so devoted to his older brother. Damn near worshiped him.

Would he be able to accept the idea that Duncan was hurting people?

Another thought, a shattering one, What if Oliver was involved? No. She couldn't buy that. Oliver was the straightest of straight.

arrows. He'd be crushed at the thought of his implants being used to harm instead of heal. And if he were involved in any way, he' d never have given her Dr. VanDuyne's name.

That was it. She'd present her case to Oliver, and once he was convinced, the two of them would go to Gerry or the Secret Service, or anyone who could stop Duncan.

She stood up quickly, then sat down again, suddenly weak. Maybe she should eat something first. No breakfast, no lunch. . . just a few Snickers bars. She was asking for trouble if she didn't pack in a few calories pretty soon.

She pulled out the room service menu and ordered a hamburger, fries, and a Coke, protein, complex carbs, and caffeine. That ought to keep her going for a while.

She stood up again, a little more deliberately this time, and made her way back to the bathroom. She redressed the incision with clean gauze and secured it again with the Ace wrap. Then she pulled on her sweatshirt and carefully slipped back into her jeans. She was looking pretty normal by the time room service knocked.

She glanced out the window as the waiter positioned the rolling cart and uncovered the food. The aroma set her mouth to watering. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. Dusk outside. She'd gobble down her food and wait until it was fully dark, then she'd hustle out to the curb, jump into the first waiting cab, and make a beeline for Oliver's house.

Oliver lived in the northwest extreme of the District. She'd been there once for a dinner party. A nice little ranch in a nice neighborhood, but not even close to the same class as Duncan's.

Probably didn't even have to wait until dark. Duncan was surely long gone by now.

Tracking down Gin's credit trail took a little longer than Gerry had expected. He'd had to call Mrs. Snedecker and ask her if she'd keep Martha a few hours longer and feed her dinner. He'd spoken to Martha to tell her that he'd be late and had been warmed by her cheery 'Okay.

' Good thing she liked Mrs. S.

The credit crace came through a few minutes later showing a charge to her Visa from the Tremont Hotel on K Street. K Street! Christ, he'd just been there! What was she doing in the Tremont? Hiding?

More baffled than ever, he got the number from information and asked the desk to connect him to Ms. Panzella. He let the phone ring a dozen times, almost hung up, then listened to at least half a dozen more rings.

Where the hell was she? If she'd already checked out, the desk wouldn't have connected him. Was she afraid to answer the phone?

Gerry grabbed his coat and headed out.

* * * d , .

I

. t As night shrouded the District in umbral gloom and the streetlights flared to life, setting the misty air aglow, Duncan decided to call it quits. Obviously she was nowhere about, most likely gone for hours.