F Paul Wilson - Novel 02

by Implant (v2. 1)

  "First off, you should know that Senator Marsden ruffled a lot of feathers right off by coming to town with a self-imposed term limit. He said depending on how much he accomplished, he might serve only one term, and absolutely positively no more than two. That was a no-no."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Because term limits is a very touchy subject around here. The members like to think of themselves as elected for life."

  "How can they? Congressmen have to run every two years."

  "Well, as I heard one member say to another back in the eighties, You have to be a real bozo to lose this job. Incumbents average a ninety-five-percent reelection rate."

  "Wow."

  "I tell you, Gin, nobody wants to leave this place once they get here. And can you blame them? You're part of the most powerful government in the world. And the most expensive. Salary, perks, and privileges come to more than two million bucks per member per year. No other government even comes close. And the few bozos who somehow fail to get reelected don't go home, they hire out as lobbyists. It's called Potomac fever. I understand it's incurable."

  "Do you think Senator Marsden will catch it?"

  "Maybe," she said. "You never know. I think he's sincere when he says he doesn't intend to stay here more than two terms. But I'm in the minority. Just about everyone else on the Hill thinks it's a pose. A holier-than-thou act that he'll use to squeeze the PACs for big bucks later. They're all watching, waiting to see if it works."

  "That's sick," Gin said. "Why do you put up with it? Why've you been at it for so long?"

  Alicia shrugged. Her smile was shy. "Potomac fever. We staffers aren't immune either. Who knows? Maybe you'll catch it too. Maybe you already have."

  Not me, Gin thought. I'm immune to that sort of thing. She felt a twinge of uneasiness. At least I hope I am.

  Gin was straightening up her work area, preparing to call it a day as a legislative aide and change into her doctor hat. Another frustrating round of writing reports on referral and utilization patterns and wondering if anyone would read them. She was also sneaking in time on a freelance report, using the Harriet Thompson case as a paradigm of how treatment guidelines can backfire. She hoped the story's poignancy might raise a little consciousness as to the human cost of well-meaning guidelines when they were mechanically implemented.

  Maybe in the process she could help Dr. Conway.

  Alicia bustled by then.

  "Got a maybe from Senator Hirsch," she said as she passed.

  "Just a maybe?" That surprised Gin. Hirsch always seemed to have something to say about health-care policy. "I thought he'd jump at the chance."

  Alicia slowed but kept moving. "It's a joint committee, not a permanent thing. Too ad hoc. It might screw up his ranking position on his other committees, ones that guarantee serious, long-term PAC attention."

  Gin couldn't hide her annoyance. "Is everything about money, dammit?"

  "Senator Mark Hanna said something you should keep in mind when you're working on The Hill, There are two things that are important in politics. The first is money . . . and I l can't remember what the other one is. That's from the horse's mouth. But what this place is really about is influence. And influence brings in campaign donations. And campaign donations help you come back for another term."

  "So you can increase your influence," Gin said without enthusiasm .

  Alicia laughed and gave her a thumbs-up. "Now you're getting it!"

  "I'm afraid I am," Gin muttered as Alicia disappeared down the hall.

  Then her phone with the seal of the Senate rang. It was Gerry.

  "The report's back."

  Gin lowered herself into her chair. "I thought you said not until tomorrow."

  "Your list helped. Much easier to identify compounds when you know what you're looking for. And besides, I told them it was for someone very important. So they rushed it." Gin couldn't help smiling as a warm rush washed through her. She liked this man more each day.

  "And?"

  "And the analysis matches the list perfectly. Nothing in there that isn't supposed to be there." Gin sagged in her chair.

  She felt weak all over. She was so damn glad she could have cried right then.

  "Gin? You still there?"

  "Yes," she said softly. "Thank you, Gerry. You don't know how good that is to hear."

  "How about dinner tonight? That sound good?"

  "Tonight's a Lynnwood night, I'm afraid." A thought struck her. "But I've got a great idea. Come with me to my folks' house on Thursday night. It's Columbus Day and my father always makes a big deal of it. It's crazy. You'll love it. And bring Martha. There'll be plenty of pasta with no meat."

  "You're on."

  A few minutes later Gin was on her way out of Senator Marsden's office, feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. Duncan and Oliver were in the clear.

  One less thing to worry about.

  19

  COLUMBUS DAY

  GERRY AND MARTHA WERE WARMLY RECEIVED INTO THE folds of the Panzella clan's Columbus Day celebration. Gin knew the welcome might have been a bit more guarded had her folks realized that Gerry was more than just an old high school friend she'd run into again.

  Gin had already explained to her folks about Gerry's being a widower.

  It probably wasn't necessary, but you never knew. Papa had a tendency to verbalize whatever was on his mind, especially after he'd been celebrating for a while. She could just hear him asking Gerry where Martha's mother was. Papa was looking forward to meeting him. He vaguely remembered his name from the Washington-Lee football team, and was intrigued by the fact that he was an FBI agent. Mama wanted to know all the details of his widowerhood, ducking and tsking and Madroneing as Gina told her.

  What she hadn't explained was how she felt about him, the growing need, the building heat between them.

  It went swimmingly. Papa and Gerry hit it off immediately, and Uncle Fiore used to be a cop so he wanted to talk shop with the Fibby. And Martha . . . well, Martha charmed the women immediately and before Gin knew it, the little five-year-old was in the kitchen, draped in an apron almost as big as she was, standing on a chair at the counter helping Mama and Aunt Maria roll meatballs and stuff shells.

  Gin passed her Aunt Terry and her Aunt Anna in whispered conversation.

  ". . . killed in a car accident. A terrible tragedy."

  "And I understand he's raising that little girl all by himself."

  "And doing a good job, I'd say. Isn't she darling?" Gin moved on, smiling.

  She had hoped that as the evening wore on it would become apparent to anyone who saw them together that she and Gerry were more than just friends. She knew she had succeeded when she overheard Mama in serious conversation with Gerry.

  "And now your name. I'm not sure how you spell it. Is that with an i' at the end?"

  "No. With an e-y. C-a-n-n-e-y. It's Irish."

  "Is it now? At's a-nice." Gin almost laughed aloud at Mama's sudden reversion to an Italian accent. She was born in Baltimore.

  But Gerry earned a place in Mama's heart by eating everything she put in front of him, from stuffed calamari to stuffed shells, and coming back for more. How could she stay cool toward anyone with a big appetite who loved her cooking? And Martha . . . Martha actually ate a meatball, a little one she'd made herself.

  Gin was careful what she ate. Pasta had awakened inside her and was urging her to fill her plate, but Gin turned a deaf ear. She stayed on the move, sampling and nibbling, and made sure to leave something on each plate she used.

  After dessert Gin spotted Gerry in a corner doing shots with Papa, Uncle Fiore, and Uncle dorn. Gerry caught her eye, lifted his glass of pale liquid, and winked at her. God, he looked great. And she loved the way he seemed to fit right in, going with the flow of the party, not standing on the side watching, but jumping right into the heart of the festivities. She realized right then how much she wanted him.

  She wondered if she
should warn him about what he was drinking. If that was what she thought it was, he was going to be sorry. But why be a wet blanket? Let him have his fun.

  The dishes were washed and racked and the festivities were waning when Gin, Gerry, and Martha made their way toward his car. Mama, Papa, and a couple of the aunts and uncles were standing on the front stoop waving goodbye.

  "I think you two were a hit," Gin said. "Did you have fun?"

  "I think I had too much fun," Gerry said. He held out the keys. "Do you mind?" He seemed fine, steady on his feet, his voice clear, but Gin took them, glad he could admit when he'd had too much.

  "Not at all."

  "Mama said I could come back and help her cook anytime, " Martha said.

  Gin had to smile. Her mother must have really taken to Martha if she told her to call her Mama.

  "And I know she meant it," Gin told her. "It's been a long time since she had a little girl around to help her cook." She remembered with a pang all the holidays she'd stood on a chair at the very same counter and helped her mother prepare the feasts. She wondered if Mama felt abandoned by the daughter who went off to become a doctor.

  Without sons there'd be no daughter-in-law to take under her wing.

  I wonder if she knows how much I love her? Gin thought. But when was the last time I told her?

  She couldn't remember. That shook her. She took it for granted Mama knew, but everyone needed to hear it once in a while. Gin vowed to start doing just that on a regular basis.

  Why not start now?

  She ran back to the front steps and threw her arms around her mother. "I love you, Mama. You're the best." She kissed the stunned woman and then hurried to the car. A glance over her shoulder showed Papa beaming and Mama smiling and wiping her eyes.

  After strapping Martha into the backseat, Gerry slumped into the passenger seat.

  '"What was that your father was pouring at the end?"

  "Grappa, " Gin said.

  "I was fine up till then. I mean, I'm Irish. We can drink just about anything that won't kill us. But that stuff. . . "

  "Grappa won't kill you, " Gin said with a smile. "But if you're not used to it, it can make you wish it had."

  Martha's bedtime was long past but she was wired, talking at light speed about filling cannolis and grating cheese and how ugly the calamari were before Mama cleaned them. Gin was glad it hadn't been Easter. How would Martha have reacted to napozella? If she and Gerry were still seeing each other next spring, and she hoped they would be, Gina would have to prepare Martha for the sight of a sheep's head in the kitchen.

  Martha talked nonstop right into the parking lot by their apartment, but was sound asleep in her father's arms by the time they reached the front door. Gin went upstairs and helped put her to bed, Downstairs, Gerry put his arms around her. She snuggled against him.

  "Thanks, Gin," he whispered. "This has to be the best Columbus Day of my life."

  "It's not over yet, " she said, and kissed him.

  He leaned back and looked at her for a second, then they kissed again, long and passionately. Gin didn't want this night to end yet.

  They tumbled to the couch and before long were fumbling with each other's buttons, shucking off their clothes like old skins until there was nothing between the new skins. And they didn't need much foreplay because he was ready and God knew she'd been ready all night.

  She didn't want to ask, but she forced herself to say it. "I don't have to worry about you, do I?"

  "What? Oh, you mean . . . no. Well, two women, both very straight. We thought something might be there but nothing came of either. How, how about you?"

  "One guy for most of my residency."

  "What happened?"

  "I came here, he stayed there. It's over."

  And then he was above her and in her and he rode her furiously, bringing her to the peak . . . and then leaving her there.

  '"I'm sorry," he said when he'd caught his breath a moment later.

  "It's been so long, and I've wanted you so bad. I just . . . "

  She put her arms around his neck and held him close. "It's all right," she said. "I understand. There'll be other times." Physically, she was frustrated, here she was with Gerry Canney, her high school dream man, her very much now man, and her pelvis felt as if it were ready to explode. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the perfect lover and she should have been drifting on ecstatic clouds of delight. But another part of her was charmed. She'd sensed he was a straight arrow, and this confirmed it in a way. If he'd performed like a stud tonight she might have wondered about him. She did wonder about herself. Did she really feel this deeply about Gerry, or was it a rebound thing, someone to fill the void left by Peter?

  No, she decided. This is real. This has been a long time coming.

  As they cuddled, he ran a hand over her abdomen and traced the long, puckered scar that ran from the lower tip of her sternum straight to the left of her navel.

  "What's this?"

  "The reason you'll never see me in a bikini."

  "No, really."

  She told him about being hit by the truck, her torn-up insides, and how Duncan had put her back together.

  "Ah. Now I see why you're so devoted to him. I guess I owe him."

  "What for?"

  "For saving you for me. Let me show you a couple of my scars. Here's my appendectomy . . . "

  "Mine is bigger than you-ors, " Gin singsonged.

  And somewhere along the way as they compared scars, she noticed that he was ready again.

  "It really has been a long time, hasn't it?" she said.

  "Forever." But this time she took charge, straddling him, riding him, controlling the tempo, and when she climaxed it was as if the almost-orgasm of before had been waiting in the wings and had jumped in at the last minute to explode with the new one. She moaned and he reached up to cover her mouth and she bit down on his hand and thought she was going to pass out.

  Later, as they sprawled exhausted on the couch, she saw that his hand was bleeding.

  "Oh God, I'm sorry. Look what I did. I didn't mean to."

  "I know. I just didn't want anything to wake Martha." God, she'd forgotten all about Martha.

  "But you said she's a sound sleeper."

  "She is. And she's probably sleeping like the dead after that party tonight, but still .. . "

  "Even in the throes of passion, you don't stop being the protective father."

  "It's not a hat I can just take off when I want to. I hope that doesn't offend you."

  "Not in the least," she said and kissed him to make sure he understood. "It tells me something about you, something good." She loved this man. She felt so at home with him. They shared a past, and she sensed they shared a set of values. Here was something that could really last.

  With that thought bright and warm in her mind, Gin dozed off.

  Gin was almost dressed when Gerry woke up. Dawn was moments away. He winced at the light. She could tell he had a headache.

  "What're you doing?"

  "Got to get home and get showered. Surgery this morning with Duncan."

  "At least stay for coffee. I can put on,''

  "I think it's better if Martha doesn't find me here when she wakes up."

  "Maybe you're right," he said, "but I won't be getting her up for a while yet."

  "Still, I've got to go." They embraced. She didn't want to let go, didn't want to leave. She wanted to spend the morning with Gerry having coffee and bagels and then making love again and showering together and then, maybe only then, think about assisting on cosmetic surgery.

  "My place next time. We can scream and shout all we want. Nobody in Adams Morgan notices that sort of thing." On her way home, the sun was just peeking over the horizon and silhouetting the spire of the Washington Monument as she crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge.

  Again she worried that she was rushing things with Gerry. But no . . . this felt right.

  Does it get any better
than this? she wondered. She was assisting Duncan Lathram, she was legislative aide to Senator Marsden on health-care matters, she was making love to Gerry Canney. Finally, all the pieces of her life seemed to be falling into place.

  No. It did not, could not, get any better than this.

  20

  CONSULTATIONS

  MRS. JABLONSKY WANTED A BREAST REDUCTION. SHE SAT topless on the examination table, lifting her large, pendulous breasts and letting them drop . . . lifting and dropping . . .

  "I'm sixty-eight years old," she told Duncan. "I've had these since I was fourteen. I used to be proud of them, but now they're quite literally a pain. They're weighing me down, making me stoop-shouldered, giving me backaches. I want them gone."

  "Surely not gone," Duncan said.

  "No, of course not. Just less of them. If they droop any farther I'll be able to tuck the damn things into my waistband." Duncan laughed.

  "That doesn't sound too comfortable. We'll trim them to a more manageable size for you. But what . . . ?" He'd noticed a large number of white and pink lesions all over her trunk. He touched one, then another. They looked and felt like the aftereffects of cryosurgery.

  "Oh, those. That's Dr. Suer's work. You know, the dermatologist? He's been removing my lesions."

  "Your lesions?"

  "That's what he calls these things." She pointed to a halfinch area of seborrheic keratosis on her upper arm. "He says they're not cancerous but they could change anytime."

  "These things? He said they might turn cancerous?"

  "Yes. And I had loads of them."

  Duncan felt his jaw muscles tighten. "How many of these lesions' has he removed?"

  "Oh, fifty at least. He had me coming back every week to take off a few more. We're just about done. It's been quite a trial, but it's such a relief to know I won't have to worry about skin cancer anymore."

  "Must have cost you a fortune."

  "Oh, no. He just billed Medicare. He accepts insurance. Not like you."

  "You're right there, Mrs. Jablonsky. I'm nothing like Dr. Suer."

  He lowered his voice and muttered, "Probably graduated from the Ingraham."