F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 by Implant (v2.1) Page A

finally fell apart, he didn't contest the divorce action. So while
it wasn't exactly an amicable dichotomy, it never got vicious. He let Diana
have what she wanted, agreed to generous alimony payments, and, of course, he'd
seen to it that Brad had whatever he needed. He loved his son, wanted to stay
close to him, and most of all, wanted to spare him the spectacle of his parents
hissing and clawing at each other.
                 And Duncan got . . . what?
                 What
did I get besides out?
                 He
and Diana still were on speaking terms, but only on neutral, practical matters,
never anything personal. And he would never set foot in that house again.
                 He
tended to heal slowly, sometimes not at all. He had no implant full of beta-3
for the soul.
                 Which
was why he had been on the west portico of the Capitol yesterday morning. Trying
to heal himself by balancing the scales, by closing the circle, by imposing a
symmetry on the chaos his life had become.
                 Only
then would this cancerous rage cease its relentless metastasis and allow him to
get on with his life.
                 He
barked a laugh in the empty room. His life? What life?
                 Marge
poked her head in. "Dr. Duncan . . . you all right?"
                "Fine, Marge. Just fine."
That's a laugh, he thought, waving her off.
                 Nothing
at all is fine.
                 Yesterday
morning . . . another failure. Why wasn't anything ever simple? Why couldn't
things go the way he planned?
                 Neither
of the other two had gone the way he'd intended either.
                 Lane
and Schulz, both dead, one in a car, the other in a twenty-story swan dive.
                 And
yesterday . . . Allard was supposed to crack up in front of the cameras, not
crack his skull on the Capitol steps. Duncan hadn't wanted him physically hurt. Hell,
any hired thug could do that. He'd come prepared to see Allard mortally
embarrassed, terminally humiliated, politically ruined, he'd wanted his
credibility bloodied, not his head. Damn! All the planning, the exquisite
timing, wasted. Now Allard was just a victim of a bad fall, pitied, pathetic,
an object of sympathy instead of ridicule.
                 Duncan wondered at his own cold-heartedness, but
only briefly. He had plenty of warm emotions left, but they were already spoken
for. No leftovers for the likes of Congressman Allard.
                 Allard,
at least, was still alive.
                 Next
time . . . next time he'd get it right.
                 Duncan rubbed his eyes. He'd started this for a
payback in kind, not to kill or maim. Merely devastate their careers, their
marriages, their reputations, and let them live among the ruins. A living
death.
                 Like
mine.
                 Although
not his intent, the fatalities didn't particularly bother him.
                 After
all, Lisa was dead because of them, and she was worth ten, twenty, a hundred of
them.
                 Gin's
presence yesterday had been another complication, one of those perverse
coincidences that might one day trip him up and expose what he'd been doing.
                 Slim
as it was, the possibility of exposure knotted his gut.
                 Indictment
for murder, a circus of a trial, then jail. The scandal . . . what would it do
to Brad? His son was one of the few things left in his life that mattered to him.
                 He'd
do anything to avoid that. Anything.
                 But
where was the risk, really? He had a virtually untraceable toxin, and an
all-but-invisible means of delivery. The only one who might put it together
would be Oliver, but his preoccupied brother tended to take little notice of
events outside his lab. The