Betrayed. By Gin.
He wanted to punch something.
I saved your life, f, hild!
How could she? And what had she done just now?
A thought struck him. He stepped back to his terminal and reran a DIR on the hard drive. The scroll of directories blurred past as before, but ended in a different place.
No "RFP" file.
She must have realized she'd left the file on the disk and came bacLa to cover her tracks. The perfidious little ingrate. What was she up to?
And dammit, how much did she Xenovv?
He had to have answers, and soon. Before next Friday.
GINA GINA YAWNED AND SHOOK HERSELF AS SHE WOVE through the traffic on Connecticut Avenue.
Tired.
Not just tired. Exhausted.
She'd done a shift as house doc last night. Tried to get out of it, tried to trade, but no one was buying.
At least she'd been able to get Jim Grady to agree to take the last two hours of her shift. But much as she'd love to, she wouldn't be using the time for sleep. She wanted to get the jump on Duncan before today's surgery. She was going to be there first, be there when Duncan arrived, and keep an eye on him until Senator Marsden arrived. After that she was going to stick to the senator like Krazy Glue, Assist with his surgery and not let him out of her sight until he walked out to his waiting car.
She turned into the office parking lot and skidded to a halt. Duncan's black Mercedes was already in his space.
She pounded her fist against the steering wheel. Damn it!
All right. She'd have to adjust. If Duncan asked she'd simply say she got off her shift early but not early enough to go home first.
She pulled into one of the staff spaces and hurried to the door. Once inside she stopped. Muzak filtered through the air, a lush, inappropriate string arrangement of a Beatles tune, accompanied by the rich aroma of Duncan's fresh coffee. Gin wasn't tempted. She'd been drinking coffee all night.
Her shoes were soft-soled and made no sound and she walked slowly down the hall toward his office. She slipped past Barbara's desk and listened a moment at the open door. No sound from within. Not even the television. Duncan almost always had CNN or C-SPAN running. She tapped lightly as she peeked inside.
' Duncan? " Empty. Except for the heavy aroma of coffee, the office was pretty much as she'd left it on Tuesday. But where was he?
As she turned to leave, a glint of light from the desktop caught her eye. She stepped closer. A bottle.
Her mouth went dry as she recognized the TPD. It sat on a metal tray.
So did the trocar and obturator, now sealed inside an autoclave pouch.
The assembly had been sterilized. Why? Being readied for use? Beside it lay an uncapped syringe. And a large implant. A full implant.
She felt sick. The room swayed and nausea rippled through her stomach.
Oh, Duncan! It's true!
Tears welled in her eyes, a sob bubbled in her throat. How could he?
Then Gin heard a door slam somewhere out in the hall. Panic bolted through her. She couldn't let him catch her in here.
She spun and ran to the door. No one in sight but she could hear footsteps approaching from around the corner. Her heart pounding madly, she scampered two doors down and ducked into the employee restroom. She stood-there gasping, sweating as the nausea surged back.
Then she bent over the toilet and retched.
Nothing came up. As she turned and sagged against the sink, tasting the acid in her throat, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, pale, sick, trembling.
Dunaan . . . Duncan . . . Duncan . . . this can't be happening.
This Can't be you!
But it was Duncan. The pieces all fit. Her wildest speculations had been right on target. Duncan was poisoning these men, implanting a neurotoxin in their tissues, sending them over the edge into psychosis . . .
Where he himself already was.
Gin gripped the edge of the sink and steadied herself. She splashed water on her face and tried to focus her thoughts.
Duncan had had a breakdown.
Not a breakdown, she told herself. Let's get clinical. Use your training.
Not easy to do when it was someone so close, but she had to take a couple of steps back and look at him.
Duncan . . . some form of paranoid schizophrenia . . . taking revenge on the Guidelines committee for ruining his practice years ago . . .
and now, in his mind, threatening to destroy all medical practice.
Paranoid delusions were often anchored, however tenuously, in reality, but the psychosis magnified the threat. Every one was a potential enemy. He could rely on no one, so his only recourse was to take drastic action on his own.
Left alone, Duncan most likely was a danger to no one but the Guidelines committee. But if challenged, if threatened, if cornered, he could be unpredictable, could become a danger to anyone within reach.
So what do I do? she asked her reflection as she dried her face. Her color was better now. Her sick expression had faded. She felt a little more in control, but only a little. Her stomach had settled and she wasn't looking to run.
One thing she knew not to do, Confront Duncan. He might go wild, do something crazy. Except he's already done that. Four times. Possibly more.
With Senator Marsden next.
A violent tremor rattled through her, starting in her spine and rolling outward. An after shock.
Get a grip, Panzella. You can handle this.
She straightened, smoothed her blouse, shook her hair back, and tried to think of a plan.