Duncan rubbed his eyes. He'd started this for a payback in kind, not to kill or maim. Merely devastate their careers, their marriages, their reputations, and let them live among the ruins. A living death.
Li/ee 7nine.
Although not his intent, the fatalities didn't particularly bother him.
After all, Lisa was dead because of them, and she was worth ten, twenty, a hundred of them.
Gin's presence yesterday had been another complication, one of those perverse coincidences that might one day trip him up and expose what he'd been doing.
Slim as it was, the possibility of exposure knotted his gut.
Indictment for murder, a circus of a trial, then jail. The scandal .
. . what would it do to Brad? His son was one of the few things left in his life that mattered to him.
He'd do anything to avoid that. Anything.
But where W'dS the risk, really? He had a virtually untraceable toxin, and an all-but-invisible means of delivery. The only one who might put it together would be Oliver, but his preoccupied brother tended to take little notice of events outside his lab. The only other real risk was someone like Gin. Someone who knew the patients, knew about the implants, and was bright enough to put all the pieces together.
Remote as it was, he grimaced at the possibility. What a frightful quandary that would be. What would he do if Gin stumbled onto him?
He'd have to find a way to neutralize her. He couldn't allow her to .
. .
He shook off the grim train of thought. It wouldn't happen. Vincent would be the next to last. One more after him and then Duncan would close this chapter of his life.
But the last one would be the big one. The biggest.
MARTHA GINA DELAYED HER RETURN TO THE APARTMENT. SHE didn't want to hear any bad news. And no news was bad news as far as the Hill was concerned. The capper would be a message from Gerry telling her he had to call off their dinner plans, or worse yet, no call from Gerry at all.
Gimme a break, she thought. Something's got to go right this week.
So she got off the Metro at the zoo and did a slow walk along Calvert Street across the Duke Ellington Bridge into her neighborhood.
Adams Morgan was sometimes described as funky, sometimes eclectic, but most times just plain weird. Gin loved the area. A big triangle on the hill sloping down toward Dupont Circle, roughly bordered by Calvert Street and Florida and Connecticut avenues, where you could find ethnic jewelry, folk art, and cutting-edge music while breathing the exotic aromas of an array of cuisines that could rival the entire United Nations for diversity. Where else in the District could you find an Argentine cafe flanked by a top-notch French restaurant and a Caribbean bistro? Even Ethiopian restaurants. Who'd ever heard of an Ethiopian restaurant? Yet there were three in her neighborhood.
Gin browsed an African bookstore, did touchy-feely with some Guatemalan fabric, tried on some Turkish shoes, then decided she'd delayed the inevitable long enough. She walked to her building, an old brick row house on Kalorama between Columbia and Eighteenth, it had a tower on its downhill side and was painted sky blue. She let herself into her third-floor apartment.
The rental agency had listed it as "furnished." Gin thought "not unfurnished'' would have been more in line with most truth-in-advertising laws. The rickety furniture had been varnished so many times that the type of wood underlying all those coats was a mystery. - Sometimes she suspected the varnish was the only thing holding some of the pieces together. But it was clean, and she loved her front bay window high over the street. She'd had a new mattress delivered and added a few of her own touches, a bright yellow throw rug and her three posters of Monet's Le J Nyrntheas. She kept meaning to brighten up the place, maybe with some new curtains. As soon as she had the time She went straight to her bedroom where the answering machine crouched on the nightstand. The message light was blinking. A good start.
The first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be able to come over for a family dinner.
"Soon, Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old homestead in Arlington at least twice a month.
The next voice was Gerry's.
"Hi, Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the way I'd hoped for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excse?
"But I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that we'll have to eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet at a, uh, Taco Bell? There's one up your way on Connecticut, near Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all when you get there. 6 you get there. Which I hope you do. But if you can't make it I'll understand. Just let me know if you're not gonna show, otherwise, see you there at six. Hasta la vista." Gin pressed the repeat button. Yes, she'd heard it right, Taco Bell.
Truth was, she liked Taco Bell, but it didn't quite make her short list of restaurants for a rendezvous with an old high school crush.
On the bright side, at least he hadn't stood her up.
But Taco Bell?
Gin hunted for a parking space amid the flow of D. C. workers heading home to Maryland. Connecticut Avenue was mostly residential at its northern end, strips of street-front shops interspersed with low-rise apartments and an occasional office building, all flanked by magnificent oaks and elms. Only three or four miles from Capitol Hill but like another country.
She found a spot up the street from the Taco Bell and turned off the engine.
Now what?
She scanned the curb and sidewalk around the storefronr. No sign of Gerry. She didn't know what his car looked like. She didn't feel like going inside just to stand around, waiting. In fact, she didn't like any of this. Where was his wife, if he still had one? Why Taco Bell?
Why had she even come?
Lighten up, Panzella.
Five minutes of watching a steady stream of bodies of all races and ages in and out of the door and no Gerry.
All right. Let's get this over with.
She went inside and looked around. This storefront Taco Bell wasn't as heavy on the southwestern motif as its freestanding kin she'd seen in Louisiana, it sported a few adobe touches, but the service counter, the soft drink machine, the booths and tables were all generic fast-food decor. Nothing generic about the aromas, though. The air was redolent of onions and spices. Gin realized how hungry she was.
She heard her name, turned, and saw Gerry waving from the other side of a partition. He stood as she approached but when she reached his booth she saw that he wasn't alone. Another female occupied the opposite bench. She was adorable, with short, wavy blond hair and huge blue eyes.
She looked to be about five and was working on a burrito half the length of her arm.
"I'm really sorry about this, " Gerry said. "My sitter had unbreakable plans for this evening. This is my daughter Martha. Martha, say hello to Gina, I mean, Dr. Panzella." Martha waved and smiled around a mouthful of burrito.
'"Martha's a vegetarian, " he said.
Gin stared at her. "Get out." He raised his right hand, palm out.
"True. I swear. I could put you on and say it's an ethical position but the fact is she just doesn't like meat. Never did. Even as a baby she used to spit out her junior foods if they were so much as flavored with meat."
"But she'll eat tacos? " "Bean burritos. Loves bean burritos, with green sauce and extra cheese.
Right, Martha? " The little blonde looked up and nodded vigorously.
Obviously she'd been following every word. "And hold the onions, " she added in a squeaky voice.
Gerry beamed at her. "Right. Always hold the onions. So that's why we're here. Miss Fussytummy has a very limited palate, so there was no point in bringing her anywhere else. I il hope you don't mind. I'll make it up to you, I promise." Gin had been taken completely by surprise by Martha but was charmed and touched by the warm father-daughter bond she sensed.
"Don't be silly. I'm glad you brought her. In fact, I'm honored to meet her."