only other real risk was someone like Gin. Someone
who knew the patients, knew about the implants, and was bright enough to put
all the pieces together.
Remote
as it was, he grimaced at the possibility. What a frightful quandary that would
be. What would he do if Gin stumbled onto him?
He'd
have to find a way to neutralize her. He couldn't allow her to . . .
He
shook off the grim train of thought. It wouldn't happen. Vincent would be the
next to last. One more after him and then Duncan would close this chapter of
his life.
But
the last one would be the big one. The biggest.
8
MARTHA
GINA DELAYED HER
RETURN TO THE APARTMENT. SHE didn't want to hear any bad news. And no news was
bad news as far as the Hill was concerned. The capper would be a message from
Gerry telling her he had to call off their dinner plans, or worse yet, no call
from Gerry at all.
Gimme
a break, she thought. Something's got to go right this week.
So
she got off the Metro at the zoo and did a slow walk along Calvert Street across the Duke Ellington Bridge into her neighborhood.
Adams
Morgan was sometimes described as funky, sometimes eclectic, but most times
just plain weird. Gin loved the area. A big triangle on the hill sloping down
toward Dupont Circle, roughly bordered by Calvert Street and Florida and
Connecticut avenues, where you could find ethnic jewelry, folk art, and
cutting-edge music while breathing the exotic aromas of an array of cuisines
that could rival the entire United Nations for diversity. Where else in the
District could you find an Argentine cafe flanked by a top-notch French
restaurant and a Caribbean bistro? Even Ethiopian restaurants. Who'd
ever heard of an Ethiopian restaurant? Yet there were three in her
neighborhood.
Gin
browsed an African bookstore, did touchy-feely with some Guatemalan fabric,
tried on some Turkish shoes, then decided she'd delayed the inevitable long
enough. She walked to her building, an old brick row house on Kalorama between Columbia and Eighteenth, it had a tower on its
downhill side and was painted sky blue. She let herself into her third-floor
apartment.
The
rental agency had listed it as "furnished." Gin thought "not
unfurnished'' would have been more in line with most truth-in-advertising laws.
The rickety furniture had been varnished so many times that the type of wood
underlying all those coats was a mystery. - Sometimes she suspected the varnish
was the only thing holding some of the pieces together. But it was clean, and
she loved her front bay window high over the street. She'd had a new mattress
delivered and added a few of her own touches, a bright yellow throw rug and her
three posters of Monet's Le J Nyrntheas. She kept meaning to brighten up the place,
maybe with some new curtains. As soon as she had the time She went straight to
her bedroom where the answering machine crouched on the nightstand. The message
light was blinking. A good start.
The
first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be able to come
over for a family dinner.
"Soon,
Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her
much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old homestead in Arlington at least twice a month.
The
next voice was Gerry's.
"Hi,
Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the way I'd hoped
for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excuse?
"But
I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that we'll have to
eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet at a, uh, Taco Bell?
There's one up your way on Connecticut , near Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all
who knew the patients, knew about the implants, and was bright enough to put
all the pieces together.
Remote
as it was, he grimaced at the possibility. What a frightful quandary that would
be. What would he do if Gin stumbled onto him?
He'd
have to find a way to neutralize her. He couldn't allow her to . . .
He
shook off the grim train of thought. It wouldn't happen. Vincent would be the
next to last. One more after him and then Duncan would close this chapter of
his life.
But
the last one would be the big one. The biggest.
8
MARTHA
GINA DELAYED HER
RETURN TO THE APARTMENT. SHE didn't want to hear any bad news. And no news was
bad news as far as the Hill was concerned. The capper would be a message from
Gerry telling her he had to call off their dinner plans, or worse yet, no call
from Gerry at all.
Gimme
a break, she thought. Something's got to go right this week.
So
she got off the Metro at the zoo and did a slow walk along Calvert Street across the Duke Ellington Bridge into her neighborhood.
Adams
Morgan was sometimes described as funky, sometimes eclectic, but most times
just plain weird. Gin loved the area. A big triangle on the hill sloping down
toward Dupont Circle, roughly bordered by Calvert Street and Florida and
Connecticut avenues, where you could find ethnic jewelry, folk art, and
cutting-edge music while breathing the exotic aromas of an array of cuisines
that could rival the entire United Nations for diversity. Where else in the
District could you find an Argentine cafe flanked by a top-notch French
restaurant and a Caribbean bistro? Even Ethiopian restaurants. Who'd
ever heard of an Ethiopian restaurant? Yet there were three in her
neighborhood.
Gin
browsed an African bookstore, did touchy-feely with some Guatemalan fabric,
tried on some Turkish shoes, then decided she'd delayed the inevitable long
enough. She walked to her building, an old brick row house on Kalorama between Columbia and Eighteenth, it had a tower on its
downhill side and was painted sky blue. She let herself into her third-floor
apartment.
The
rental agency had listed it as "furnished." Gin thought "not
unfurnished'' would have been more in line with most truth-in-advertising laws.
The rickety furniture had been varnished so many times that the type of wood
underlying all those coats was a mystery. - Sometimes she suspected the varnish
was the only thing holding some of the pieces together. But it was clean, and
she loved her front bay window high over the street. She'd had a new mattress
delivered and added a few of her own touches, a bright yellow throw rug and her
three posters of Monet's Le J Nyrntheas. She kept meaning to brighten up the place,
maybe with some new curtains. As soon as she had the time She went straight to
her bedroom where the answering machine crouched on the nightstand. The message
light was blinking. A good start.
The
first call was from her mother, wanting to know when Gin would be able to come
over for a family dinner.
"Soon,
Mama, " she said aloud. "Soon." Her schedule didn't leave her
much free time, but she made a point of getting back to the old homestead in Arlington at least twice a month.
The
next voice was Gerry's.
"Hi,
Gin. It's Gerry. Look, uh, things aren't working out quite the way I'd hoped
for dinner." Oh, great. What's the excuse?
"But
I'd like to try to get together with you tonight. It's just that we'll have to
eat a bit more down market than I'd planned. Can we meet at a, uh, Taco Bell?
There's one up your way on Connecticut , near Veazey, I think. It's a long story and I'll explain it all
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