Implant

by F. Paul Wilson

  What was going on? She was pretty sure now it wasn't a matter of taking on a new associate. Was Duncan selling the building? He'd never mentioned moving. And why did this Dr. V. look familiar?

  Curiosity was eating Gin alive. She'd have given almost anything to be a fly on a wall in that officer right now.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later all five came out in a group. They stood in the hall, shaking hands. The suits looked as grim as ever, Duncan and Dr. V. were pleasant, and Oliver was quite literally beaming. Then the visitors headed for the parking lot, Duncan returned to his office, and Oliver bustled down the hall toward Gin.

  "This is wonderful," he said as he approached. The overhead fluorescents gleamed from his glasses and exposed scalp. He was grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery. "This is so wonderful!"

  "What is, Oliver? What's going on?"

  "I can't tell you," he said as he hurried past her. "I wish I could, but I can't. Not now. Maybe sometime." Gin watched him disappear into the stairwell down to his lab. She'd never seen him like this. Had he worked out some huge deal for his implants? She started to follow. She was sure she could pry it out of him.

  But then she saw Duncan shrugging into his sport coat as he stood before Barbara's desk. He was talking, she was taking notes and nodding her head. Then he was on his way.

  Gin ducked into the locker room, grabbed her coat and purse, and hurried after him. She'd have to put off grilling Oliver until later.

  "Hey, great news, " Barbara said as Gin passed her desk. "We've got a three-day weekend coming up." Gin slowed. "When?"

  "This weekend. We're going to be closed on Friday. Dr. Lathram just told me to give everybody the day off with pay. Isn't that great?"

  "Yeah," Gin said, picking up speed again. "Great." Friday off. Normally she'd assume Duncan had someplace to go this weekend and wanted an extra day. But the decision seemed to have been made right after his conference with Dr. V. and the suits. How come?

  * * *

  No surprise when Duncan's Mercedes led her away from his golf club, but she was completely unprepared for the course he took through the District. East, then down Connecticut, past Adams Morgan to Dupont Circle. From there he took Massachusetts downtown.

  He's heading for the Hill, Gin thought, but he breezed past Union Station and kept going, deep into Southeast. Mass was lined with two and three-story row houses down here, painted in bright reds, yellows, blues, greens, even orange. The neighborhoods deteriorated, on a couple of corners she saw men in rough clothes drinking from bottles in paper bags. Gin was almost afraid to stop at the red lights. And she was in a three-year-old American compact. Duncan's Mercedes stood out like a luxury yacht in a fleet of tugboats. Yet nobody was bothering either of them.

  What was he doing here? He had such a haughty attitude, she could not imagine him down here among the po' folk.

  And then they came to the end of Mass Avenue and she caught on. D. C. General Hospital lay spread out on the downhill slope before them. She followed Duncan along the winding driveway through the well-kept complex of a dozen or so brick and stucco buildings, past the D. C. Correctional Treatment facility to a restricted parking lot, "Decals Only" warned the sign. As Duncan turned in, Gin scooted into the nearby patient lot. She saw uniformed guards everywhere. Security seemed a major concern here.

  She spotted Duncan strolling toward the doctors' entrance, a rectangular hole in the brick face of one of the buildings. How was she going to get in? She wasn't on staff.

  But she could look like she was.

  She grabbed an extra stethoscope from her glove compartment, hung her Senate ID badge around her neck, and hurried after him.

  She wished she knew D. C. General. The brick building ahead was a big one and had a jury-rigged look. Eight stories high at the front end, six at the rear, it looked as if it had started out considerably smaller and grown by accretion, a wing here, a few extra floors there.

  This could be tricky. She kept up the quick pace as she passed the guard perched on a stool inside the entrance, smiling and waving with the hand holding the stethoscope, hoping he wouldn't notice that her photo ID wasn't for D. C. General.

  The guard smiled back and nodded, then went back to reading his newspaper.

  About fifty feet ahead of her she saw Duncan heading down the hall.

  She broke into a delicate trot to close the distance between them. She knew if she lost sight of him, she'd never find him again in this maze.

  He led her on a tortuous course that ended before a bank of elevators.

  Gin hung back, uncertain. If she didn't get on that elevator with him, she'd lose him. She wouldn't even know which floor to search.

  Only one thing to do. She tucked her Senate ID badge away and stepped forward.

  "Duncan! " she said, tapping him on the shoulder. "What are you doing here?" He turned and started when he saw her. Something flashed in his eyes.

  Shock? Anger? Suspicion? She wasn't sure which. Maybe all three.

  Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant.

  He smiled. "Gin! I never expected to see you here." Which doesn't answer my question, she thought. She felt her heart pick up tempo.

  What's he going to do now?

  "I was just visiting a hematology resident I know. An old friend from U. of P. But how about you?"

  He sighed unhappily and rubbed his jaw.

  "Well, I didn't want anyone to know about this. If word ever got out . . . " Oh, God, she thought. He's sick.

  Terminal diagnoses like cancer and AIDS raced through her brain. . .

  He sighed again. "Easier to show you than explain it all." A battered elevator door wobbled open to their left. He pressed his hand gently against her back and guided her toward the emptying car. "Let's go."

  He took her up to the maxillofacial clinic where the nurses beamed at him and the patients seated in the waiting room stared with wide eyes and whispered to their companions as they pointed to him.

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

  It was the post-surgical 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-I-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 charity. 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.

  30

  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.

  "Don't be silly," Gin said. "You're his brother." She winked. "And besides, he needs these implants."

  Oliver rolled his eyes behind his horn-rims. "Thanks. That does wonders for my self-esteem."

  "Seriously, though. This is driving me crazy. I've caught this Dr. V. ducking in and out of here at least three times now, and I know I've seen him before. Just tell me who he is. Not what he's doing here, just his name. Just that one little thing, and I won't ask another question, I promise."

  "I'm sorry, Gin, but,"

  "I'll sneeze all over your implants."

  "No. You wouldn't do that." She sniffed. "Uh-oh. I feel one coming on now. It's building up. It's gonna blow right through this mask."

  "Gin, please don't kid around like,"

  "Here it comes. Ah . . . ah . . . "

  "All right, all right."

  Gin shook her head as if to clear it. "Well, what do you know. All better. For the moment. Now, who is Dr. V.?"

  "I really shouldn't. I promised Duncan I wouldn't breathe a word."

  She sniffed again. "Oliver . . . "

  "All right. But just his name. If it doesn't ring a bell, too bad. Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  Oliver leaned forward and Gin could tell by the look in his eyes that he'd been dying to confide in someone. Now she'd given him an excuse.

  "His name is VanDuyne. Dr. VanDuyne." VanDuyne . . . Gin knew that name. It was scampering about the back corners of her mind, just out of reach. VanDuyne . . . VanDuyne . . .

  And then she had him. One of the guest lecturers at the public policy seminars back in Tulane. A physician, he'd come from Washington and he'd seemed uncomfortable lecturing, and in his role with the government. VanDuyne, one of the higher-ups in HHS . . . but he was something else too. She'd read an article or heard some other mention of him. Dr. VanDuyne . . .

  "Ohmigod'' she cried. "Duncan's going to operate on the president!"

  Oliver tore off his mask and slumped back in his seat. He ran his fingers nervously through his thinning hair. "Oh
, no! Now I've done it!"

  "I'm right, aren't I? He nodded resignedly, a look of astonishment on his face. "I don't believe you put it all together so fast. Just from a name. How did you do it?"

  When she remembered that VanDuyne was the president's personal physician, suddenly it was obvious that the men with him yesterday had been Secret Service. And the way they'd been looking around, studying entrances and exits, peering through wipdows . . . why else unless they were reconnoitering before a presidential visit?

  But she felt no triumph at her lightning deduction, instead, a cold sodden weight was growing in her stomach.

  The president of the United States going under Duncan's knife. After yesterday, she should have felt proud that Duncan had been chosen for whatever it was the president wanted done. But she was terrified.

  "He's coming Friday?" Again Oliver nodded. His eyes looked wounded.

  So that explained the day off with pay.

  "What procedure?"

  "His eyes, " Oliver said. He slipped the tips of his index fingers under his glasses and touched his lower lids. "Wants to be rid of the bags. A lift on the upper lids, too, while Duncan's at it."

  "But those baggy eyes have become his trademark. What will all the cartoonists do without them?"

  Oliver shrugged. "Apparently his media consultants and spin doctors have converged and decided that his baggy lids have become much baggier and people think the president looks tired and older."

  "Being president of the United States tends to do that to people."

  "But they want the youth vote. That's what put him in the first time They don't want some younger-looking upstart to steal that constituency. They blame the eyelids for his tired, older look, so they have to go."

  "Ridiculous. The election's more than a year away."

  "But not the primaries. He's expecting a strong challenge, so he wants to be looking his best in New Hampshire."

  "So why Duncan?"

  "Why not? He's the best." He pointed to the tray of implants. "Especially with these." Gin had to admit he had a point there.

  "But why all the secrecy?"

  "Isn't it obvious? The president doesn't want anyone, especially the press, to find out. He's going to arrive at the crack of dawn on Friday. As soon as he's out of recovery he'll be whisked off to Camp David for a long weekend and some extra days of vacation. He'll wear dark glasses all weekend, and by the time he returns, there'll be minimal evidence of the surgery. Any slight discoloration that persists can be covered by makeup. Foolproof, huh?"