Trace - Cornwell Patricia (серии книг читать онлайн бесплатно полностью txt) 📗

46

"Nine-thirty over eighty," Dr. Paulsson says, touching her again as V_»/Velcro rips and he removes the cuff. "Is it usually that high?"

"No, not at all," Lucy says, acting shocked. "It is? I mean, you would know. But it's usually about one-ten over seventy. Almost too low, usually."

"You nervous?"

"I never have liked going to doctors," she says, and since she is sitting on the table and lower than he is, she leans back a little. She wants Benton to see Dr. Paulsson's face as he talks to her and tries to intimidate and manipulate her. "Maybe I'm a little nervous."

He places his hands on her neck, high under her jaw. His skin is warm and dry as he palpates the soft areas under her ears, and her hair is over her ears. He couldn't possibly see the hidden receiver. He tells her to swallow, feeling her lymph nodes and taking his time as she sits upright and continues to will herself into a state of anxiety, knowing he can feel her pulse beating hard in her neck.

"Swallow," he says again, feeling for her thyroid, checking to see if her trachea is midline, and it flits through her thoughts that she knows all about physical examinations. Whenever she had one as a child she asked her Aunt Kay questions and wasn't satisfied until she knew the reason for the examining doctor's every touch and remark.

He begins palpating her lymph nodes again, pressing in closer to her, and his breath is light on the top of her head.

"Getting nothing but the lab coat," Benton's voice sounds clearly in her left ear.

Nothing I can do about it, she thinks.

"Have you been feeling tired lately, feeling not so great?" Dr. Paulsson asks in his matter-of-fact, intimidating way.

"No. Well, I mean, I've been working so hard, traveling so much. Maybe just a little tired," she stumbles, pretending she is as frightened as she sounds while he presses up against her knees, and she feels him. He is hard against one knee then the other, and the camera can't capture what she feels, unfortunately.

"I need to go to the ladies' room," she says. "I'm sorry. I'll be quick."

He backs off and suddenly the room is there again. It is as if the cover has been removed from a hole in the earth and she is allowed to climb out. She slips down from the table and walks quickly to the doorway while he steps over to the computer and picks up her form, the one she filled in correctly. "There's a cup in a plastic bag on the sink," he says as she leaves the room.

ltr '»

Yes, sir.

"Just leave it on top of the toilet when you're finished." But she doesn't use his toilet, merely flushes it and says "sorry" for Benton's benefit. That's all she says as she removes the receiver from her ear and tucks it into a pocket. She doesn't leave her urine in a cup on top of the toilet because she has no intention of leaving any part of her biological self. Although it is unlikely that her DNA is on a database, she never assumes that it isn't. Over the years, she has employed stringent measures to make sure her DNA and fingerprints aren't on any database in this country or abroad, but she is programmed to live with worst-case scenarios foremost in her mind, so she doesn't leave urine for this doctor, who soon enough will be quite motivated to go after P. W. Winston. Since entering his house, she has wiped off the surfaces she has touched, leaving no prints that might identify Lucy Farinelli, former FBI, former ATF.

She returns to the examination room, willing herself to anticipate the worst. Her pulse reacts accordingly.

"Your lymph nodes seem slightly enlarged," Dr. Paulsson says, and she knows he is lying. "When is the last time… Well, you said you don't like going to the doctor, so you probably haven't had a thorough physical in quite a while. Not bloodwork, either, I am to assume?"

"They're enlarged?" Lucy says, reacting with the expected panic.

"You've been feeling okay of late? No extreme fatigue? No fever? Nothing like that?" He steps close to her again and sticks the otoscope in her left ear, his face very close to her cheek.

"I haven't felt sick," she replies, and he moves the scope to her other ear and looks.

He sets down the otoscope and picks up the ophthalmoscope. He peers into her eyes, his face inches from hers, then he gets the stethoscope. Lucy lets herself be afraid even though she is more angry than afraid. In fact, she isn't afraid at all, she realizes as she sits on the edge of the examination table, and paper crinkles softly whenever her weight shifts even slightly.

"If you'll just unzip your flight suit and pull it down to your waist," he says in the same matter-of-fact tone.

Lucy just looks at him. Then she says, "I think I need to use the ladies' room again. I'm sorry."

"Go ahead," he says rather impatiently. "But I'm running late."

She hurries to the bathroom and is in and out in less than a minute, the toilet flushing in her wake, the receiver back in her ear.

"Sorry," she says again. "I drank a big Diet Coke right before I got here. Mistake."

"Pull down your flight suit," he orders her.

She hesitates. Now the challenge comes, but she knows what to do. Unzipping her flight suit, she pulls it down to her waist, manipulating the position of the pen so it is angled just right, the wire connected to the cellular interface taped on the inside of the flight suit and not visible.

"Not quite so vertical," Benton's voice is in her ear. "Angled down maybe ten degrees."

She subtly adjusts the top of the flight suit that is around her waist, and Dr. Paulsson says, "Your sports bra, too."

"I have to take it off?" she asks timidly, scared. "I never have before…"

"Miss Winston. I really am in a hurry. Please." He tucks the stethoscope earpieces into his ears, his face stern as he moves close, waiting to listen to her heart and lungs, and she pulls her sports bra over her head and sits very still, frozen on top of the white-paper-lined table.

He presses the stethoscope under one breast, then the other, touching her as she sits very still. She is breathing rapidly, her heart racing, registering her anger, not fear, but she knows he thinks she is afraid, and she wonders what images Benton is picking up. Subtly, she adjusts the flight suit around her waist, touching the pen camera as Dr. Paulsson touches her and pretends he has no interest in what he is seeing and feeling.

"Ten degrees down, to the right," Benton instructs her.

Subtly, she adjusts the pen, and Dr. Paulsson leans her forward and moves over her back with the stethoscope. "Deep breaths," he is saying, and he is quite skilled at doing his job while he manages to touch and brush against and even cup his hands around, as he presses against her, hard. "Do you have any scars or birthmarks? I'm not seeing any." He runs his hands over her, looking.

"No sir," she says.

"You must have something. From an appendectomy, maybe? Anything?" j

"No."

"That's enough," Benton says in Lucy's ear, and she detects anger in his calm tone.

But it's not enough.

"I need you to get up now and stand on one foot," Dr. Paulsson says.

"Can I dress?"

"Not yet."

"That's enough," Benton's voice sounds in her ear.

"Stand up," Dr. Paulsson orders her.

Lucy sits on the table and pulls up her flight suit, working her arms into the sleeves and zipping it up, but not bothering with her bra because she doesn't have time. She stares at him, and suddenly she is no longer acting nervous or afraid and he sees the change in her and his eyes react. She gets off the table and steps close to him.

"Sit down," she tells him.

"What are you doing?" His eyes widen.

"Sit down!"

He doesn't move, staring at her. As is typical of every bully she's ever met, he looks scared. She moves in to frighten him more, pulling the pen out of her breast pocket, lifting it up so he can see the attached wire. "Freq test," she says to Benton, because he can check the concealed transmitters she planted in the waiting area and the kitchen downstairs.