But that scenario was risky. Far better to find her before the cavalry arrived . . . if it was even coming.
Duncan sighed. He'd have to search these stores one by one. Most of them were small. It wouldn't take long.
He noticed a Burger King down the block. A perfect place to hide. She could sit in the back and sip a cola and no one would make her move.
He'd start there.
Gin clutched a white plastic bag filled with her purchases and checked the street and sidewalk outside as best she could from inside of the window. Duncan was nowhere to be seen. But that didn't mean he wasn't somewhere out there watching.
Her knees shook. Her hands nervously rolled and twisted the loops of the bag. She didn't want to go out there. She wanted to stay here where it was safe and dry, where Duncan had already searched and probably wouldn't search again. At least not for a while.
But she couldn't. Couldn't crawl into a hole and pull the earth over her. She'd made up her mind to do something about this, and dammit, that was it. She would not stay here and be a sitting duck any longer.
Across the street she could make out a bank, a copy shop, and a dingy marquee that read The Tremont. That little old hotel held one part of the key. The contents of the paper bag another. The rest was up to her.
She watched the traffic outside, waiting for a break . . .
Finally it came. Setting her teeth, she leaned against the door and burst from CVS into The downpour at a dead run, straight across the street and into the lobby of the Tremont.
Inside the revolving door she stopped and looked back on K Street. No sign of a blue-blazered man with an umbrella dashing across to intercept her. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be along soon.
As she hurried to the reservation desk she scanned the hded glory of the lobby. The brass needed polishing, the mirrors were smudged, and the carpet was showing its age. But there was still dignity here in the carved wood and dark green wallpaper. An old, independent dowager refusing to yield to the age of international hotel chains.
"I'd like a single please, " she told the beige-suited young black woman behind the counter. "Just for the night." The woman said, "Of course, " and placed a card on the counter. "Please fill this out. " Gin paused with the pen poised over the NAME line. She didn't want to put her own name, but how much cash did she have? Thirty bucks? Maybe forty? Nowhere near enough to cover a room in the heart of D. C. And if she was going to use cash instead of a credit card, the hotel would be looking for at least one night in advance.
Reluctantly, she wrote in "Gin Panzella" and handed over her Visa with the registration card.
"Any luggage? " "I'm having that sent over later." She was tempted to make up a place from which her bags would be arriving and a story as to why she didn't have them with her, but decided to clam up. This woman didn't care and too much talk might make her sound as if she was hiding something. She was inexperienced at the art but guessed that lies, like medical reports and research papers, worked best when one observed the KISS rule, Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Five minutes later she was in a narrow room on the top floor with one double bed and an alley view.
Perfect.
She put on the chain lock, dropped into the single chair by the writing table, and closed her eyes. So good to feel safe. Temporarily safe.
At least she didn't have to worry about running into Duncan here.
Gin looked at the phone and thought about calling Gerry, to tell him that she was going to be delayed. Maybe she should tell him why, because of his insistence on objective proof.
Well, she was going to give him his damn objective proof.
Forget calling Gerry. He'd only try to stop her.
She closed her eyes again. Why couldn't she simply stay here?
Hibernate for a week or a month. Order room service and watch the movies on cable all day. Anything but go outside again and dodge Duncan so she could prove to Gerry that she wasn't nuts.
Her life seemed to be a lose-lose proposition right now. Why not just, She bounded from the chair. No. She had to do this. And now. Had to go on autopilot. Couldn't think about what she was asking of herself.
Had to fight the nausea and the revulsion and fear. Had to keep up the momentum. If she stopped or even slowed she might not be able to go through with this.
And the longer she waited, the greater the chance of Duncan tracking her here.
She grabbed the ice bucket and scurried down the hall to the service nook where she quickly filled it with cubes. Once back in her room, she replaced the chain lockr drew the curtains, and turned on the TV.
She punched the remote until she found a noisy game show, then turned up the volume. Not too loud, but enough to mask any incidental noise.
She checked the thermostat and pushed it up to 75.
She turned on the light in the bathroom. Bright, clean, white the and tub, a marble vanity. She made sure the drain was open, then started the water running in the tub. As she waited for the temperature to reach a comfortable warm, she emptied the contents of the bag from CVS on the vanity counter. She set aside the smaller separate bag within, then opened the bottle of Tylenol Extra Strength and washed down four of them with a glass of water. Next she opened the bottle of Coricidin tablets. She would have preferred a test tube, but this glass cylinder full of cold tablets would have to do. She emptied the pills into the toilet. Then she began arranging the rest of her purchases.
The bacitracin ointment, gauze pads, Ace bandage, adhesive tape, and the hydrogen peroxide went to the rear of the counter, in front of them she placed the empty Coricidin bottle and the small traveler's sewing kit, along the edge she lined up the bag of cotton balls, the tweezers, the bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the Cricket lighter, and the package of single-edge razor blades.
The last item was an ice pack. She filled that with ice cubes and set it on the edge of the tub. She unbuttoned her jeans, slipped them off, and hung them on the towel rack. Gooseflesh ran up her thighs to the edges of her panties.
She soaked one of the cotton balls with the alcohol and then began rubbing it on her thigh, firmly but not too vigorously, in the area of the bruise. Didn't want to break anything under the skin. She then poured alcohol over the contact surface of the ice pack and pressed it over the bruise. This was welcomed by another rush of gooseflesh.
She glanced at the ceiling. No heat lamp. Too bad. Would have been nice.
Wedging the ice pack between her thigh and the vanity, she picked up the black and yellow box of razor blades. "SMITH single edge, Made in U. S. A. ' said the top. On the side, "Fits all single edge scrapers.
For industrial use." She had to smile at that. Industrial use? Not today.
She slipped one of the blades from the box, gripped it with the tweezers, then applied the Cricket flame to the cutting edge until it glowed red. As she let that cool on the edge of the marble vanity top, she pulled off her sweatshirt and tossed it toward her jeans.
Now she really could have used a heat lamp.
Still holding the ice pack to her thigh, she seated herself on the edge of the tub with her feet in the lukewarm water running from the spout.
Another ten minutes and the iceddown area of her thigh was good and numb. She swabbed the area again with alcohol, then poured some over her hands. She picked up the razor blade.
And began to shake.
I can't do this.
But another part of her said she could. Told her she had to. Had to do it now, before the numbing effect of the ice wore off.
But the first part of her brain screamed, Wait!
What if this whole situation was another elaborate scam by Duncan?
He'd already undermined her credibility, and made Gerry look like a fool. What if he'd. pulled the same on her? A double reverse? Slip her a Mickey, steal her key, sneak into her apartment, and jab an empty trocar into her leg while she was unconscious? Who'd expect him to pull the same stunt twice?
But he might be counting on that sort of thinking, counting on her to go running to Gerry, crying about bad old Duncan sticking a drug-filled implant in her leg. And if and when she finally convinced Gerry to check out her leg, they'd come up with another negative MRI.
And anything she said after that would be dismissed as the ravings of a lunatic.