F Paul Wilson - Novel 02

by Implant (v2. 1)

  "Um? don't you think you sound just a little paranoid?" With good reason, he thought.

  "Even paranoids have real enemies, Gin. They're out to get us, pure and simple. I know how that sounds, but that's how I see it. They're at the bottom of the heap in public confidence, and they want to draw attention away from their own unwillingness to police themselves."

  "But their ethics committees go after people all the time" Duncan laughed. "Congressional ethics, there's an oxymoron for you. Only on those rare occasions when the press turns up the heat, only when their backs are to the wall and they have to do something."

  "Well, whether we like it or not, I kind of think the shape of medical practice in the future is going to be decided at these hearings. So I'd like to be an aide on that committee. In fact, I had an interview at Senator Marsden's office yesterday morning."

  Duncan froze and stared at her, and found Gin staring right back.

  Gin's insides were wound into a Gordian knot. She'd waited until he'd almost closed the incision before mentioning this.

  Why did I tell him? she wondered. I may not even get the job.

  Duncan said nothing as he finished closing the incision, leaving not a single stitch on the surface. Only a hair-thin line remained along the underside of the chin.

  Gin had seen him do this a hundred times at least, but still it awed her.

  When he was done he looked up at her again.

  "You what?"

  "I, I had an interview with,"

  "You are incomprehensible. You have a brilliant mind? an excellent medical education? and you want to be a Hill rat?"

  "Only part-time. I just,"

  "How can you even think of cooperating with that committee?"

  "Doesn't someone have to make sure the read their facts straight?"

  "Facts? Since when is Congress interested in facts?" He stepped back from the table and began ripping off his gloves. "I thought I was working with a doctor, not a Hill-rat wannabe." That hurt, stung like a slap in the face.

  "Duncan,"

  "You can't have it both ways, Gin. When you decide which one you want to be, let me know." He tossed his gloves on the floor and stormed out.

  Gin had feared he might be a little upset, but she hadn't expected anything like this. She stood in the suddenly silent OR, with Marie and Joanna avoiding eye contact. She wondered what would have happened if she'd mentioned her appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. As it was she felt as if the floor had opened beneath her.

  3

  RECOVERY

  WITH THE MORNING'S TRUNCATED SURGERY SCHEDULE finished, the halls were quiet. Too quiet. Gin's stomach was still tight as she completed her dictation on Thursday's scheduled procedures.

  Why did you open your big mouth?

  Because he had to know sooner or later. . . especially when she began asking for extra time off.

  But you may never get the job.

  Right. Too right.

  She finished the last H and P, logged off her terminal, and sat there.

  Now what?

  She had to face him. Had to clear the air. Had to find out where she stood. Was she still welcome here as a pre-op evaluator and surgical assistant? or was she to be cast into the outer darkness?

  Only one way to find out.

  She gathered her courage and hurried upstairs to the main floor. From there a short walk down the hall.

  Duncan's slim, pretty, blond receptionist-secretary guarded the door to his office.

  "Hi, Barbara. Is he in?"

  She smiled up at Gin. "Just missed him. Said he was going to look in on the senator, then,"

  "head for the golf course," Gin said. That was Duncan's routine.

  "He may still be here. If you hurry,"

  "Thanks, Barb." She hurried toward the V.I.P recovery room. Along the way she saw Sharon Collins, the recovery RN, standing in the hall and talking to Joanna. She slowed as she passed.

  "Excuse me, Sharon. Aren't you,?"

  "Doing recovery on the V.I.P?" She was short, dark, and built like a Ninja turtle, but one sharp nurse. "Yeah. Dr. D. told me to take a break while he double-checked his needlework. I'm just about to head back."

  "Good. Maybe I can catch him."

  "You sure you want to?" Joanna said.

  Gin flashed her a smile. "No." She scooted around the corner to the V.I.P recovery room, a plain, unmarked door, and knocked gently.

  When there was no answer she tried again.

  "Duncan?"

  She pushed the door open.

  Noon brightness filtered through the full-length beige drapes across the picture window. Carpeting instead of linoleum, mahogany instead of Formica. A veneer of luxury for the sort who craved it, but very functional beneath.

  In the bed, Senator Vincent snored softly, sleeping off the general anesthetic. But no Duncan.

  Damn. She'd missed him. He couldn't have got that far.

  She was half turned to leave when she saw Senator Vincent move his leg.

  An unfolding length of sheet revealed a spot of red on the white over his thigh. She leaned closer.

  Blood.

  Just a tiny spot. No more than a drop. But there shouldn't have been any blood down by his leg. On his pillow, maybe, but not there.

  She lifted the sheet and looked at the senator's leg. A small, semicircular puncture wound, less than a quarter inch in length on the outer aspect of the thigh, slightly toward the rear.

  She probed the area around it and the senator moved again. Within the bandages his lids struggled open. His glazed eyes stared at her, then closed again.

  "Shot," he mumbled.

  "What?"

  "Gave me shot."

  "Who gave you a shot?"

  "Docker Lafram." He opened his eyes again and smiled. "Summin special. Only choice patients." The senator smacked his lips and closed his eyes. He began to snore.

  Gin stood over him. A shot? Since when did Duncan give injections?

  Never. It was unheard of.

  Vincent had to be wrong . . . and yet there definitely was a puncture wound in his thigh.

  She adjusted the covers back over him.

  Weird. Very weird.

  A noise behind her made her turn. Collins was slipping through the door. She glanced around. "He's gone?"

  "Gone when I got here. Did Dr. Lathram say anything about giving the senator an injection?"

  Collins checked the order sheet. "No. Just the usual, Tylenol, two P-O every four hours P-R-N."

  "No, I mean himself, giving the senator an injection himself."

  Collins's wide face broke into a grin. "Dr. D.? Giving meds personally? No way. That's what us RNs are for. Where'd you get an idea like that?"

  "There's a puncture on his thigh and he said something about Dr. Lathram giving him a shot." Collins stepped over to the bed and examined his thigh.

  "Hmmm. Where'd that come from? Looks more like a tiny cut than a needle mark."

  "He said," Collins gave Senator Vincent's shoulder a gentle shake.

  "Senator? Are you awake?" He snorted and his eyes fluttered but didn't open.

  "Okay, Mom," he said.

  Collins grinned again. "You see? I'd sooner believe the Man in the Moon gave him an injection than Dr. D. And besides, where's the syringe? Where's the injection vial?" She had a point.

  "You're right." Gin turned and headed for the door. "I'm out of here. See you Thursday." It was strange, it didn't add up, but Gin pushed it out of her mind.

  She had other things to think about. Like her appointment with Congressman Allard tomorrow morning. Another of Duncan's patients, by the way. She'd assisted on his abdominal liposuction a while back.

  And if he didn't work out, she could come back to Senator Vincent.

  She hadn't realized it when she signed on here, but here was one of the perks of working with Duncan, If they had juice and they wanted cosmetic surgery, Duncan Lathram was the man to see.

  4

  DUNCAN


  DUNCAN Lathram, MD, STOOD AMONG THE EARLY morning regulars at the self-serve coffee counter at the rear of the 7-Eleven on F Street off Fifth. Not exactly his purlieu. He felt a little out of place in his pale blue oxford shirt, blue blazer, and tan slacks, but no one seemed to pay him much mind.

  He considered the array of partially filled glass urns before him.

  They leave the pots on the heaters, he thought. Barbaric.

  Grimacing, he reached for a medium-sized cup, foam, no less, emblazoned with the red-and-green corporate logo, and poured himself a cup of the loi-disant coffee.

  He could tell from the color, he was sure he could read the morning paper through it, that they were stretching the grounds by adding too much water. The aroma, make that smell--this acrid effluvium did not deserve three syllables , testified that it had been sitting on the burner far too long.

  He'd always drunk his coffee black and, even though he knew he was going to regret this, he wasn't about to change now. He blew steam off the dark surface, sipped . . .

  And shuddered. It tasted like . . . like . . .

  Words failed him.

  He watched the man in the blue flannel shirt next to him lighten his coffee with half-and-half, then spoon in three sugars.

  "Does that kill the taste?"

  The man glanced up at him, apparently startled at being spoken to. "Uh, sorta. I don't really like coffee, but I need it to get going in the morning."

  "Yes. You might say I'm abstemious in all matters except coffee. What we won't do to render ourselves properly caffeinated, ay?" He got in line at the cash register. The flannel shirt followed him.

  Ahead of him, Duncan watched a steatopygous woman with rollers wound into her orange hair dump three cans of Arizona Iced Tea and twenty creamsicles onto the counter, then ask for two packs of Parliament, boxes, please.

  Half turning to the flannel shirt, Duncan said, "I've always believed that one can augur the course of a civilization through observation of its indigenous cuisine, don't you agree?"

  The flannel shirt said, "What?"

  "Exactly." Then it was Duncan's turn to pay.

  "Anything else?" said the Middle Eastern gentleman behind the counter.

  "Sorry, no, " Duncan said. "My doctor won't allow me more than one medium-size kerosene a day."

  "Yes, sir," the man said and took his money. "Have a nice . . . day."

  Outside he walked south, crossed Constitution and strolled up the Mall, gingerly sipping the coffee-like substance as he approached the Capitol.

  Here it was Wednesday, a no surgery day. He should have been relaxed, but a fine tremor from his hand rippled the surface of the liquid in the cup. He knew it wasn't the caffeine.

  Admit it, he told himself. If you were wound any tighter you'd implode.

  But why shouldn't you be? This is an important day. Even more important for a certain congressman.

  He distracted himself by admiring the scenery.

  He rarely got downtown anymore. Too bad. It had rained last night, and now a fine mist hazed the air and the grass coruscated in the early morning sunlight. Starlings managed to make themselves heard over the growing thunder of the stampeding herd of arriving federal workers.

  He'd forgotten how beautiful the Mall could be before the tourists arrived.

  The last time he'd ventured this way had been a big mistake. He'd come down in May during the annual invasion by busloads of eighth graders from everywhere east of the Rockies. The National Gallery had been crawling with roving, cachinnating packs of barely bridled hormones wrapped in scabrous, whelk-laden skin to whom the epitome of true art and intimate self-expression was spray painting the name of their favorite heavy metal group on a wall.

  But then, one of the central pieces on exhibit at the National Gallery at the time had been a huge mural, ten feet high, twenty long, all stark white except for a beige vertical stripe two feet from the left edge.

  Maybe the kids were onto something after all, Megadeth Rules indeed.

  Duncan hadn't been back since.

  Further on, a dirty, unshaven man approached him, wearing a black trash bag, he had the drawstring around his waist, his head and arms poking through appropriately placed slits.

  "Got some spare change for an old soldier?" the tatterdemalion said.

  Duncan stopped and reached into his pocket. "Which war was that?"

  "Which one were you in?" the man said.

  '"The Korean Conflict, as it is now known." Not true. He'd been in college then, premed. But he wanted to see what this "old soldier" would say.

  "Me too." Duncan had to smile. "What if I'd said Vietnam?"

  "Was in that one too. I'm the Unknown Soldier." Duncan figured he probably meant Universal Soldier but then again, it was very likely that he couldn't remember his name.

  "Clever rain gear you've got there, soldier. The latest from the House of Hefty, if I'm not mistaken."

  "Does the job."

  Duncan handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The man glanced at it, then did a double take.

  "God, man! Thanks! Thanks a million!"

  "Why not? I expect this to be a good day for me. Might as well be a good one for you too." The fellow began backing away, most likely trying to put some distance between them before Duncan changed his mind. "I'll spend this wisely, I assure you, sir."

  Duncan laughed. "I'm sure you will."

  "And you have a good day."

  "I assure you I will. A very good day." It all goes according to plan this time.

  Anxiety nibbled at his stomach lining like hungry fish. Timing was everything here, but with so many variables beyond his control, luck was a considerable factor as well. And Duncan hated to depend on luck.

  He walked on until he spotted the camera crew setting up on the House side at the base of the steps leading up to the west portico of the Capitol.

  "Something big happening?" Duncan asked.

  "Just an interview," the bearded cameraman said. "Congressman ."

  "Which one?"

  "Allard."

  "Not Kenneth Allard! The Kenneth Allard? Here? Right here? " Duncan clapped his hands. "He's one of my favorites!" The cameraman grinned at the soundman. "First time I ever heard anyone say that."

  "Oh, he's a great statesman. A wonderful intellect. An isle of probity in a sea of venality."

  "If you say so." Obviously the cameraman had lost what little interest he'd had in talking to Duncan. Not that Duncan could blame him.

  Make sure that camera's working, Duncan thought. You're going to see the end of someone's career.

  He headed up the four flights of granite steps that led to the Capitol.

  He had to get to Congressman Allard before Allard got to the camera.

  Last night he'd heard a TV newsreader mention that they'd be interviewing Congressman Allard today on the revival of the Joint Committee on Medical Ethics and Practice Guidelines. Duncan had decided then to be here bright and early. This was too rare an opportunity to miss.

  He climbed to the top of the Capitol steps and gazed back along the green expanse of the Mall. A mile and a half away, past the Capitol Reflecting Pool, past the towers of the Smithsonian and the museums and galleries that lined the Mall, the obelisk of the Washington Monument gleamed like a spearhead in the morning sunlight and cast a narrow shaft of shadow toward the white rectangle of the Lincoln Memorial behind it. Above them, the Delta shuttle glided toward a landing at Washington National.

  Flanking the Mall to the right and left, Pennsylvania, Constitution, and Independence avenues were thick with traffic, all heading this way.

  And all around him a steady stream of men and women, mostly men, dressed in suits and carrying briefcases or attache cases, scurrying up the steps. They obviously were not tourists, no Bermuda shorts, cameras, and "I Washington" caps, and he knew they weren't senators or representatives or staffers. The people who worked here, who belonged here, moved back and forth between the Senate and House office buildings o
n underground shuttles. These were lobbyists, armed with checkbooks loaded with the grease that keeps the wheels of Congress turning.

  The kakistocracy was in session.

  Duncan sighed as he watched their hurried, purposeful climb toward the House and Senate chambers. God, there were an awful lot of them.

  The Congress of the United States, he thought with a grim smile. The best government money can buy.

  Far below, at the bottom of the steps, the soundman nodded as the reporter checked his mike. Good. They were ready. All set up and waiting for U. S. representative Kenneth Allard. Duncan was waiting for him too.

  And then he saw him. Allard stepped out on the House side flanked by three of his aides. Pushing sixty, medium height, and on the glabrous protuberance that passed for his head, a thatch of dark brown hair that had once belonged to someone else. He had a paunch but a small one.

  It had been much larger before Duncan had gone to work on it with the liposuction tube. What had been protuberant and tremulose was now flattened and firm.

  Not a bad job, he thought as Allard started moving toward him across the open, granite-paved expanse, even if I do say so myself.

  But a face only a bacteriologist could love.

  A good many of the arriving lobbyists smiled deferentially and waved to Allard as they passed. He was something of a legend on the Hill, admired, almost revered, by his colleagues in the kakistocracy for the innovative approach to campaign financing he developed while serving on the Committee on Energy and Commerce. A couple of campaigns ago, when Congressman Allard became aware that his reelection coffers were down to their last million or two, and the PACs weren't coming up with fresh money fast enough, he introduced a flurry of bills that would have devastating impact on the coal, oil, gas, and timber industries.

  Suddenly the energy PACs and lumber trade associations, not to mention the associated unions that would be hit hard by the new Allard bills, were swarming around him with open checkbooks. He collected eight million in three months, some of which probably paid for his surgery.