F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 Read online

  Memories swirled around him like the leaves starting to drop from the trees, swimming lessons in grammar school, middle school science projects, the trauma of not making the varsity cut for the high-school basketball team, all the ups and downs of raising a child.

  Somehow, he thought, we did all right with Brad. We weren't the best parents, what with our preoccupation with Lisa and all her problems, my own self-absorption, but somehow, in spite of everything, Brad turned out all right. A testament to the primacy of nature over nurture.

  Impulsively, Duncan threw an arm around his son's shoulder and pulled him close. He wasn't given much to outward displays of affection, but God he loved this boy.

  "Thanks for tolerating me." Brad put an arm around Duncan's waist.

  "Somebody has to."

  Each with an arm still around the other, they crossed Wisconsin and followed M Street's gentle down slope toward Rock Creek.

  "So you're not disappointed?" Brad said.

  "What do I have to do," Duncan said, "have it tattooed on my forehead? No. En-oh. I am not disappointed."

  "That's such an awesome relief, I can't tell you." Brad had told him he wanted to get together and talk about the future, his plans for his own future. Duncan had suggested dinner. But turned out Brad hadn't so much wanted to discuss what he planned to do with his future, as what he planned not to do.

  And he did not plan to go to medical school.

  Years ago, before his public lapidation by the Guidelines committee, before managed care snared the medical profession in its tendrils, Duncan would have been bitterly disappointed .

  But tonight he was almost thrilled.

  "Why should I be upset because you don't want to spend another eight-to-ten years in brain-busting study for the privilege of answering to panels of political appointees? The only thing medicine's got going for it anymore is job . . . security.

  "Yeah. People will always need doctors, I guess."

  "That they will. But the doctor-patient relationship is eroding. There used to be an almost sacred bond between a doctor and a patient that no one could break. The examination room was the equivalent of a confessional. The intimate secrets that used to be hieroglyphically recorded in our crabbed shorthand and hermetically sealed behind the inviolable walls of our offices are now open to any government or insurance company hireling who wants to see them."

  "So I've got to be careful what I tell my doctor."

  "Damn right. And for your sake he's got to be choosy about what he sets down on paper."

  "Sounds pretty grim. But none of that's why. The main reason is it's just not my thing."

  He gave Brad's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Just what is?"

  "I don't know, Dad. I just don't know."

  Duncan sighed. So many of this so-called Generation X seemed to have no-idea what they wanted or where they were going. Duncan couldn't understand that. All his life he'd wanted to be a doctor.

  He'd set a course for it when he was a child.

  Never could he recall even an instant of uncertainty.

  Maybe that was why he felt such kinship with Gin. She was as determined to do things her way as he'd been at her age. Her way wasn't his, but he could forgive her that, she'd see the error of her ways. She was almost like a daughter. Maybe he'd subconsciously slipped Gin into the empty place within that he'd reserved for Lisa.

  Yes . . . like a daughter. After all, he'd given her life in a way, sewing her insides back together.

  But not knowing the next step . . . the anxiety that had to cause.

  What uncertainties roiled through Brad when he lay in bed at night, asking the dark where his life was headed?

  "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you. Any time you,"

  "Faggots!"

  Duncan started at the word and glanced around. To his right, three shadowy figures slouched in predatory poses in a darkened recessed doorway, each with a bottle or can of some sort in hand. Light from the street reflected from their bare scalps. He kept walking.

  "Skinheads," Brad whispered and began to pull his arm from around Duncan's waist.

  Duncan grabbed his wrist. "Don't you dare."

  "Dad, they think we're,"

  "Are you going to let them be the arbiters of how a father and son can walk down the street?"

  "I know how you are with the never complain, never explain stuff, but these guys are crazy." Duncan reached his free hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped his fingers around the metal cylinder there.

  "Maybe I'm crazier." The M Street-Wisconsin Avenue area had always been the tacky section of Georgetown. A farrago of trendily overpriced boutiques, bars, clubs, and evanescent restaurants ranging from upscale ethnic cuisine to Little Tavern Hamburgers, peopled by roaming demimondaines and boulevardiers in search of something called fun.

  Folksingers had peopled the cafes in the early sixties, giving way to the hippies at the end of the decade. Discos came and went in the seventies. Through it all, the Georgetown street people had upheld a noble tradition of remaining determinedly dissolute but generally good-natured.

  Until lately. Strolling the area these days was like navigating a third world bazaar. The boutiques bedizening Wisconsin's terminal slope were cheaper and gaudier, nobody seemed to speak English or be on speaking terms with a bar of soap, and lumpen denizens panhandled on every corner. The slovens of the grunge cadre were as unwashed as the hippies of old, but they lacked the latter's sense of style and humor.

  The atmosphere was as blowzy as ever, but the mood had turned grim.

  Despite a new mall and brighter lighting, the Georgetown street scene, like everything else, was changing for the worse.

  What a world. What a screwed-up world.

  They moved out of the pedestrian traffic and turned right onto 2gth, Duncan had parked the Mercedes on the hill that fell away toward the C8cO Canal. He was just turning the key in the lock when something whizzed by his head and smashed on the sidewalk half a dozen feet away.

  "Faggots!" The light wasn't as good here as up on M, but he had no trouble recognizing the skinheads. The three of them were trotting down the hill. They must have belonged to some sort of gang because they all wore jeans, black leather jackets, and fingerless black leather gloves. One carried a Budweiser can, one was empty-handed but repeatedly pounded his fist into his palm, and the guy in the lead carried some sort of metal pipe.

  "Shit, Dad," Brad said. "Let's get out of here."

  Duncan's mouth was dry. His legs urged him to run but his feet seemed anchored to the pavement. The thugs were too close and moving too fast. No time to get in the car, get it started, and maneuver out of the parking spot.

  His heart began to hammer as he pulled the little cylinder from his pocket and held it down by his thigh, out of sight.

  "Time to make some faggo-burgers," said the leader, grinning as he raised the pipe and charged. His two companions were close behind.

  "Hey, listen!" Brad shouted. "We're not,"

  "Quiet, Brad." Duncan's thumb found the trigger atop the little cylinder. It slipped and swiveled in his sweaty palm. His hand shook wildly as he raised the canister and shot a stream of liquid at the leader's face.

  It missed, arcing past the raised pipe to splash against the throat and upper chest of the second in line. As that one gagged and turned, throwing his arms across his eyes and mouth, Duncan adjusted the stream and caught the leader square in the face. He dropped the pipe and fell to his knees, choking, clawing at his eyes. Meanwhile the third skinhead had run into the second, who had skidded to a stop and doubled over. The two went down in a tangled heap.

  "Fucking Mace!" screamed the third.

  Duncan caught him square in the mouth with a squirt and that was the last he heard from him.

  Duncan sagged back against his car, gasping, panting as if he'd run a marathon. He could feel his underwear sticking to his sweaty skin.

  How long had it taken? Three seconds? Five? Seemed like so much longer.

  Wha
tever the interval, the three attackers had been reduced to writhing, wheezing, groaning, gagging, cursing lumps of blind flesh.

  "Thank God, Dad!" Brad said. "I didn't know you carried Mace."

  Actually it was pepper spray, five-percent capsicum. Duncan had never had occasion to use it before now. He was impressed. And almost giddy with relief. He held it up to the light.

  "Not exactly a Wayne thing, I know," Duncan said. "But since I'm not exactly a street fighter, I figured it was the prudent thing to do." He slipped the canister back into his pocket. "Maybe we should,'' The rattle of steel on concrete made Duncan turn. One of the skinheads had picked up the pipe and was on his feet, careening their way. His eyes were puffy slits, streaming tears. He couldn't see. He had to be homing in on their voices. Duncan lurched out of the way as he saw the bar swing wildly in his direction. It left a chipped dent in the car ender near where he'd been leaning an instant before.

  Rage flared in Duncan. Impulsively he grabbed the steel shaft of the pipe and ripped it from the staggering skinhead's grasp. Then he swung it like a bat, catching him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling into his two companions, who had struggled to their hands and knees.

  Duncan found himself standing over them, flailing away with the pipe, "You . . . " muttering through clenched teeth ". . . dirty . . . " as he cracked a head, ". . . filthy . . . " broke a rib, ". . . rotten . . . " crushed a nose ". . . lousy . . . " Then someone had hold of his arm and a familiar voice was shouting in his ear.

  "Dad! For Christ sake! Dad!" He turned. Brad's face was inches from his, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

  "Dad, you're gonna kill them!" Duncan looked down at the squirming, bloody tangle of their attackers.

  He dropped the steel bar and turned toward the car. "Let's get out of here." The keys rattled in his shaking hand as he fished them out of his jacket pocket. "You drive." The next few minutes were a blur, a fugue state in which he was vaguely aware of the car moving, pulling away, joining the flow of traffic on M Street. He sat in the passenger seat, shaking, shivering, trembling with the aftereffects of the adrenaline that had surged into his system moments before. High-pitched beeps brought him around.

  Brad was punching the buttons on the car phone.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Calling nine-one-one."

  Duncan gently pulled the phone from his son's fingers and turned it off.

  "No police. Let them crawl back to their cave and lick their wounds. Maybe they'll think twice or even three times - before they jump another faggot."

  "Shouldn't we report,?"

  "If we involve ourselves, you know what will happen? We'll be on trial for assaulting them. That's the way our legal system works."

  They drove in silence for a while before Brad spoke again. "Why wouldn't you tell them?"

  "Tell them what?"

  "That we're not gay."

  Gay. He hated that term. He couldn't imagine anything gay about being a homosexual. And he was a little disappointed in Brad. He just didn't get it.

  "That's not the point. If I want to put my arm around my son's shoulder, that's my business. I don't need anyone's permission but yours. I will no more allow myself to be dictated to by these troglodytes on the street than by the decerebrates on Capitol Hill. Once you start backing down, you've got to keep backing down. So you don't start."

  "But what happened to you back there, Dad? I've never seen you like that."

  "That's because I've never been like that." He was nonplussed at the volatility of the rage seething within him.

  He'd long been aware of its presence, had felt it percolating through him for years, but he'd thought he had it focused now, slowly bleeding off in the direction of the proper targets. He hadn't realized it was so near the surface, so ready to break free and hurl him at the nearest target.

  "You're a scary guy, Dad."

  He nodded.

  "Sometimes I scare myself."

  10

  GINA

  GINA HAD JUST FINISHED CHECKING A PATIENT WITH chest pain on Three North at Lynnbrook. She couldn't help thinking about Gerry and what a nice time she'd had with him and Martha earlier at that little Taco Bell.

  Dinner at the Palms wouldn't have been half as warm. She'd hated to leave.

  As she passed the nurses station she spotted Dr. Conway leaning on the counter, writing orders. She was surprised to see him. It was almost midnight, and usually she was the only doctor in the house at this hour.

  He looked up and smiled as she took a seat on the other side of the counter. He tapped the chart in front of him.

  '"Hey, Panzella. If I'd known you were in the house tonight I'd've let you handle this guy."

  "Maybe you should have. You look beat." She wasn't exaggerating. He had circles under his eyes. "Go get some sleep."

  "Soon as I finish this progress note, I'm gone."

  Gin spotted Harriet Thompson's chart and pulled it out of the rack. "I see your favorite little old lady is still here."

  "Harriet?" He nodded and sighed. "Yeah. And still not ready to go home, unfortunately. Weak as a kitten, she says."

  Gin flipped through the chart. "All her numbers still look good."

  "Perfect."

  "You think there might be some secondary gains here? Like maybe she gets more attention here than at home?"

  "No. She's a real independent old lady. Hates it here. I think she's got some sort of postinfection asthenia. I've seen it before, especially after a pneumonia like hers. You can't see it, can't touch it, there's no lab test to confirm it. Mostly a diagnosis by exclusion."

  "The administration still on your back?"

  "That's only half the story." He shook his head wearily. "It's getting a little ugly. They've brought in reinforcements. I've had calls from the head of the family practice section and from the chief of staff himself. Nothing's been said in so many words, but they've dropped broad hints that I might have a rough time moving up to full attending here if I don't prove myself to be a team player." No wonder he looked harried.

  "You can't get any family involved?"

  "Called the daughter in San Diego. Talked to her myself. She can't get away. It's not a ‘good time’ for her."

  "So what's your next step?"

  "Same as ever. Screw em. She stays till she's ready to go." He closed the chart in front of him, left it where the charge nurse could review it, and pushed away from the counter. "See you, Panzella."

  "Hang in there, " she said as she watched him go.

  Gin was worried. He could be headed for trouble here if he didn't back down soon.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Gerry and what he'd said earlier about Duncan's patients. Lane, Schulz, and now Allard . . . Gerry seemed to suspect a connection. What would he think if Gin told him that Duncan had been on the Capitol portico this morning, talking to Allard just before he fell? That he'd mentioned his dead daughter's name as a parting shot?

  But how could she describe the frightening look in Duncan's eyes as he'd turned away from the congressman. The memory still gave her a chill. This was silly. What connection could there be between Congressman Allard and Duncan's daughter? She died five years ago. Gin was pretty damn sure from the presurgical history and physical she'd done on the congressman that he'd never met Duncan until he'd come in for a surgical consultation.

  But still . . . it bothered her. She promised herself that when she had some time she'd do a little independent research on the late Lisa Lathram.

  Gin was just stepping out of the stairwell on the first floor when she got paged again. She called the switchboard from the doctors lounge.

  "Personal call," said the operator. "Long distance." Who, she wondered, would be calling her here, long distance?

  "Gin?" came a familiar drawl. "Gin, is that you?"

  "Peter! How did you find me here?"

  "Wasn't easy."

  She sat on the bunk and leaned back. Peter Hanson's dark eyes and strong, angular fea
tures floated before her.

  "It's so good to hear your voice."

  "I miss you, Gin."

  "Oh, and I miss you." She felt almost guilty now about dinner with Gerry tonight and enjoying it so much. They were two different types, really, why was she thinking about Gerry with Peter on the phone?

  He was talking about how empty their old apartment was without her, how lonely he was.

  '"We really could use another internist here, Gin. Someone with your talent, your personality, and, being a woman to boot, I guarantee you'd have a beautiful practice in three months. We need you, Gin. I need you." Needed . . . wouldn't that be nice. No one seemed to need her around here.

  She'd spent the last two years of her residency with Peter. He joined a multi-specialty medical group in Baton Rouge. Gin had had an offer from the same group but turned it down. She'd felt she had to come to Washington and wanted Peter to come with her. They'd gone around and around with it until she'd finally left to return east.

  As she listened to his voice she realized how much she missed him, missed Louisiana with its slower pace and rich, spicy food. And Peter.

  And now, after the cool reception at Senator Marsden's office and still no call, it was so tempting to call it quits here and run back to New Orleans.

  She ached to be with him but she couldn't go back. Not even for a visit. She might never leave, might never have the strength to say good-bye again.

  "Peter, I need to see if I can work things out with this committee."

  "You don't need a damn committee, Gin. You need to be practicing medicine." They'd had this conversation dozens of times and it always ended the same, Peter angry and Gin upset.

  How could she say it without hurting him?

  I still care very deeply for you, Peter, but the power here, the enormity of the decisions being made every day . . . it's an adrenaline buzz like nowhere else in the world. It's, well, it's intoxicating.

  She opted for her old standby instead.

  "We've been over this so many times, Peter. I'm not ready to commit myself to a practice yet. There are a few things I want to try first, and this is the only place I can try them."