F Paul Wilson - Novel 02

by Implant (v2. 1)

  He had to be looking for someone else.

  For Gin.

  Excitement surged through Duncan as he stepped back into a doorway and continued to watch Agent Canney.

  I'm still safe, he thought. If the FBI doesn't know Gin's whereabouts, then no one does, at least no one who matters.

  He watched Canney walk across the grass and among the shrubs and benches of Farragut Square, watched him search the entire perimeter, pausing where Gin's car had hit the curb. His movements were quick, efficient, but Duncan detected an underlying anxiety and uncertainty.

  Duncan could have told him, You're wasting your time.

  He watched Canney canvas the area, then get into his car and leave.

  And with the agent's departure Duncan suddenly found himself refreshed, invigorated. He wasn't going home. Not just yet.

  He'd hang around a little longer. At least until dark.

  Gin awoke in pain and confusion. She'd rolled over onto her right side and felt as if something were taking a bite out of her thigh.

  She was hot, wet, bathe in sweat. Her bra and panties were glued to her skin. She threw off the covers. Dark . . . where?

  A few blinks and she recognized the hotel room. It all came back to her. Sitting on the tub, cutting into herself . . .

  She sat up and experienced only an instant of light headedness. No question, the rest had done her good, but how long had she been out?

  She turned the clock radio toward her. 5:05.

  My God, I slept away the whole afternoon!

  She eased herself to her feet and wobbled only slightly on her way to the bathroom. She had to see it, had to make sure it was still there.

  It was. The Coricidin bottle sat where she had left it on the marble counter. She ran the sink water and drank three glasses without taking her eyes off the implant resting within, turning brown now as its blood-streaked surface dried.

  She brought it with her when she returned to the bed. Still weak, but feeling lots better, she carefully lowered herself to sit on the edge.

  Time to call Gerry. Time to meet with him and show him what Duncan had placed inside her.

  She got an outside line and punched in his office number. The FBI operator said he wasn’t in at the moment. Would she like to leave a message?

  "When will he be back?"

  "Agent Canney did not say. May I ask who's calling, please?"

  "That's okay," Gin said. "I'll call back."

  Maybe he got tired of waiting for her and went home. She called his house but got only his answering machine.

  Maybe he was in transit. She'd have to wait till he picked up Martha and got home . . . if home was where he was headed. She wondered if he was worried about her, or even thinking about her. It would be comforting to know that someone besides Duncan was wondering where she was. She unwrapped the Ace bandage from her leg to expose the gauze beneath.

  She noticed that blood was beginning to seep through the dressing.

  Gingerly, she peeled it away. The antibiotic ointment kept the gauze from sticking. The incision looked good, the thread seemed to be holding. But as she stared at the wound, and then at the little bottle containing the bloody implant, she was filled with an overwhelming despair.

  Gerry's not going to believe me.

  The realization made her sick. What would he think when he saw that bloody thing in the bottle? No one had seen her cut it out. No witness to the procedure. Who was to say she hadn't cut herself and smeared the implant with blood to convince others of her delusions?

  Self-mutilation was common in certain forms of psychosis. Or maybe she'd be diagnosed as some sort of variant of Munchausen syndrome.

  She'd done something extreme, something radical, something that would appear bizarre and, well, deranged to anyone who didn't fully understand the threat the implant posed to her.

  In short, showing Gerry that bloody implant and telling him she'd cut it out of her own leg might only confirm his worst fears about her sanity. Her paranoid delusions had now escalated to self-mutilation.

  Gin pressed her hands to her face. Couched in a sob, her voice rang through the tiny room.

  "What am I going to do?" She had to find someone who'd believe her, someone who wouldn't think she'd watched too many episodes of Twilight Zone. . . .

  Oliver.

  Of course. Oliver would believe her. He was the only other person in the world who knew about both TPD and the implants. He'd understand why she'd had to cut herself open to remove the TPD.

  But how would he react when she told him Duncan was behind it all?

  Oliver was so devoted to his older brother. Damn near worshiped him.

  Would he be able to accept the idea that Duncan was hurting people?

  Another thought, a shattering one, What if Oliver was involved? No. She couldn't buy that. Oliver was the straightest of straight arrows. He'd be crushed at the thought of his implants being used to harm instead of heal. And if he were involved in any way, he'd never have given her Dr. VanDuyne's name.

  That was it. She'd present her case to Oliver, and once he was convinced, the two of them would go to Gerry or the Secret Service, or anyone who could stop Duncan.

  She stood up quickly, then sat down again, suddenly weak. Maybe she should eat something first. No breakfast, no lunch. . . just a few Snickers bars. She was asking for trouble if she didn't pack in a few calories pretty soon.

  She pulled out the room service menu and ordered a hamburger, fries, and a Coke, protein, complex carbs, and caffeine. That ought to keep her going for a while.

  She stood up again, a little more deliberately this time, and made her way back to the bathroom. She redressed the incision with clean gauze and secured it again with the Ace wrap. Then she pulled on her sweatshirt and carefully slipped back into her jeans. She was looking pretty normal by the time room service knocked.

  She glanced out the window as the waiter positioned the rolling cart and uncovered the food. The aroma set her mouth to watering. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. Dusk outside. She'd gobble down her food and wait until it was fully dark, then she'd hustle out to the curb, jump into the first waiting cab, and make a beeline for Oliver's house.

  Oliver lived in the northwest extreme of the District. She'd been there once for a dinner party. A nice little ranch in a nice neighborhood, but not even close to the same class as Duncan's.

  Probably didn't even have to wait until dark. Duncan was surely long gone by now.

  Tracking down Gin's credit trail took a little longer than Gerry had expected. He'd had to call Mrs. Snedecker and ask her if she'd keep Martha a few hours longer and feed her dinner. He'd spoken to Martha to tell her that he'd be late and had been warmed by her cheery 'Okay.

  Good thing she liked Mrs. S.

  The credit trace came through a few minutes later showing a charge to her Visa from the Tremont Hotel on K Street. K Street! Christ, he'd just been there! What was she doing in the Tremont? Hiding?

  More baffled than ever, he got the number from information and asked the desk to connect him to Ms. Panzella. He let the phone ring a dozen times, almost hung up, then listened to at least half a dozen more rings.

  Where the hell was she? If she'd already checked out, the desk wouldn't have connected him. Was she afraid to answer the phone?

  Gerry grabbed his coat and headed out.

  * * *

  As night shrouded the District in umbral gloom and the streetlights flared to life, setting the misty air aglow, Duncan decided to call it quits. Obviously she was nowhere about, most likely gone for hours.

  Futile to dally here any longer.

  But what next? Where next? He couldn't quit now. Too much hung in the balance. As he headed for his car, he made a last-ditch effort by experimenting with a little mental exercise.

  If I were Gin, and I were still in the vicinity, where could I possibly be? Where could I have hidden this long?

  He rolled the question through his mind as he walked along
the north end of the square. He was turning down K Street when the marquee of the Tremont Hotel caught his eye.

  He paused, shook his head, took a few more steps, then stopped at the curb and stared . He'd noticed it before, but . . .

  Could she have rented a hotel room? Not likely. He could see the possibility of her running in there, renting a room, and using it as a safe place to meet with her FBI man. But obviously she hadn't done that, or else Agent Canney wouldn't have been wandering around Farragut Square like a lost soul a little while ago. And Duncan couldn't see Gin holing up there by herself all afternoon watching television.

  But still . . . it was one place he hadn't checked out. It wouldn't take him long. What were a few more minutes added to all the time he'd already wasted?

  He entered the lobby and strolled toward the registration desk. The young man behind the counter looked at him expectantly. Duncan debated how he should pose his questions about her, then realized that no decent hotel gave out guest room numbers.

  He smiled at the desk man whose badge said Roy. House Roy pointed to the far corner of the lobby. "Right over there, by the big fern, just past the elevators." Duncan nodded his thanks. He found the row of phones and dialed "O" on the nearest.

  When the operator answered, he said, "Panzella room please," and was startled when she thanked him and connected him.

  Stunned, he listened to the phone ring, wondering what he was going to say. He realized he could say nothing. He couldn't let her know he'd found her.

  He hung up and leaned against the wall.

  She's here.

  She'd probably been here all day. But what had she been doing all this time? And why had she registered under her own name? Such a dumb thing to do, and Gin was anything but dumb.

  It didn't matter. None of it mattered except the fact that he'd found her. All he needed now was her room number. He glanced over at the registration desk. Roy was alone there. Would a hundred-dollar bill,?

  And then the revolving doors began to move and Special Agent Canney strode into the lobby. Startled, Duncan froze, his heart pounding.

  No! Not when I'm so close!

  He ducked behind the large fern and peered through the branches.

  Canney was showing his ID to the desk man and talking fast. He looked agitated.

  Apparently Gin had finally got in touch with him. But if so, why was he showing his ID?

  What did it matter? Duncan realized that a solution had just presented itself. The elevators were only a few feet away. Canney would go up to Gin's room and bring her down, or perhaps call her to come down and meet him. Either way, she'd have to pass close to Duncan's position.

  He removed the transducer from his pocket. She'd be in range She'd feel a twinge in her thigh, but that would be it. She'd probably get all the way to the FBI Building before the TPD kicked in.

  All he had to do was wait. He'd been waiting all day. He could wait a little longer.

  "I want her room number, and I want the key, and I want them now!" Gerry said.

  The desk man had called out the manager, Joel Heinrich, according to his name tag. A fussy little man with a thin mustache "I'm sure you need a warrant for that kind of search. I'm certainly not authorized to barge into a guest's room,"

  "Dr. Panzella has not been well lately," Gerry said, improvising. "She's not answering her phone. She may be unconscious." That got him.

  "Sick?" The fussy manager evaporated. "You mean with something contagious?"

  Gerry lowered his voice and moved in for the kill. "We don't know. We hope not. Something went wrong at the lab. We want to find her and quarantine her with as little fuss as possible, if you know what I mean." Heinrich knew exactly what Gerry meant. He nodded curtly and reached for his phone. "Very well. Just let me check her room once." He punched in four numbers, listened for a moment, then hung up.

  "She might simply have gone out to eat."

  "Let's hope so," Gerry said, but didn't mean it He wanted to find Gin and settle this mess.

  "If that's the case, I'll wait down here for her return." Heinrich searched the key rack, selected one, then pointed across the lobby.

  "I'll meet you by the elevators." A few minutes later they were on the fifth floor and Heinrich was knocking on the door to 532. Gerry hovered impatiently behind him, anxious to get in there, yet dreading what he might find.

  "Dr. Panzella? Dr. Panzella, this is the manager." No reply.

  Please, God, nothing nasty, Gerry thought as Heinrich fitted the key into the lock. Please.

  As soon as he heard the latch click, Gerry pushed past him and barged inside.

  "Wait here." The lights were on. A half-eaten burger and fries swam in spilled cola on a rolling cart by the rumpled, empty bed.

  "Gin?" He stepped into the bathroom. An iron fist slammed into his chest at the sight of the bloody razor blade by the sink. He stepped closer and the red in the tub caught his eye. He groaned. The porcelain was splattered up and down with blood.

  Christ, what happened here?

  He put a hand out and leaned against the wall for support as he dragged his gaze from the tub back to the sink counter. The bloody razor, and bottles of alcohol and peroxide as well, and a needle and thread . . . a bloody needle.

  First some fantasy about the president having surgery, now . . . this.

  Whatever it was.

  "Aw, Gin," he whispered. "Gin, Gin, what have you done?" He stepped back into the other room and found Heinrich standing there, looking bewildered.

  "Is something wrong? Is she here?" Gerry brushed past him and checked the closet. Empty. A glance at the bed told him there wasn't room to hide under the box spring.

  "She's gone." He propelled Heinrich out into the hall.

  "Look. I want this room sealed. No one, no one, is to go in there. Not housekeeping, not room service, not you, not anybody. Is that clear?"

  "But why?"

  "For the moment I'm treating it as a crime scene. So if that room is disturbed in the least, I'll have you up on charges of obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact. Do we understand each other?"

  "Yes. Yes, certainly." Heinrich pulled the DO NOT DISTURB sign from inside the door and hung it on the outside knob. Then he closed the door and rattled it to make sure it was locked.

  "I'll leave word that 552 is off-limits until further notice."

  "Good." Yeah, good. Fine. Heinrich knew what he had to do. But what was Gerry's next move? He was worried sick. What had she done to herself in that bathroom? And where was she now?

  He had to find her. And soon. If it wasn't already too late.

  Something's wrong.

  Duncan was baffled and disappointed when Canney returned to the lobby without Gin, but then he noticed his grave expression and agitated manner and knew he hadn't found what he'd expected in Gin's room. Or had he found more than he'd expected?

  Duncan wished he had a key to that room. What had Canney seen up there?

  Just one look was all he asked.

  "Any questions?" he heard Canney say to the manager. "You've got her description and you've got my card. Any one sees her, you call me right away. Clear?" The manager nodded and mumbled something that Duncan missed. It wasn't important. What mattered was that Gin wasn't here. She'd left without checking out. And Canney didn't expect her back soon, otherwise he'd be hanging around.

  He watched Canney's departure, but stayed behind the fern a while longer, giving the agent plenty of time to reach his car. And giving himself time to plan his next move.

  Gin was proving damnably unpredictable. He felt his nerves fraying with every passing hour that she remained out of reach. He wondered how much more of this he could take. When had she rented the room?

  How long had she been there? And where the hell was she now? Back in her apartment?

  Duncan sighed. Where else could he look? He'd go back to Adams Morgan and check it out. If she wasn't there, he could see nothing else to do but go home and wait.

&nbs
p; If he didn't find her soon, he'd have to change his plans for tomorrow.

  And he did not want to do that.

  34

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  GINA STUCK HER HEAD OUT THE WINDOW OF THE CAB and glanced nervously up and down Connecticut Avenue.

  "Shouldn't it be here by now?" The cabby leaned against the fender by the open hood of his vehicle and puffed on a little cigar.

  "I call in. He be along any minute. Any minute. You wait." She withdrew into the interior. She didn't want to stand out on the street in plain view. That was why she'd asked the driver to call her another cab. But maybe she should have risked hailing one. Dozens of cabs had passed. She'd be well on her way to Oliver's by now if she'd grabbed one.

  But that call back at the hotel . . . her heart was still racing from the fright it had given her. She'd knocked over her Coke and nearly choked on a french fry when the phone had started ringing.

  Maybe it had been an accident, a misdial, someone calling 533 or 432, and maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had been Duncan, God, she didn't want to think that. Or maybe it had been Gerry.

  Maybe she'd never know.

  Whatever its origin, the sudden jangle of the phone had completely unnerved her. She'd stared at it in horror for a few pounding heartbeats, thinking someone had found her, someone knew she was there, and then she'd bolted. No precautions, no stealth. She hadn't even waited for an elevator, taking the stairs instead and limping through the lobby for the street.

  In retrospect, now, she realized how foolish that had been. But she'd had to get out, right then, not a second later. The hotel that had been her refuge all afternoon suddenly had become a trap.

  Fortunately the lobby had been empty. That had been her good luck.

  Her bad luck had been picking a taxi that would gasp and die a couple of blocks from the hotel.

  "He comes now," said her driver.

  Gin craned her neck and saw another Diamond cab pull up behind hers.

  She jumped out, waved her thanks to her driver, and hopped into the newcomer. She gave the driver Oliver's address and was jounced back into her seat as the cab lurched ahead. She winced with the stab of pain from her left leg.