Shock (15 page)

"Hey! Marilyn Monroe! Your rear end is hanging out!"

USING THE KNUCKLES OF BOTH INDEX FINGERS, SPENCER rubbed his eyes briefly to bring them into better focus. He'd pulled up behind the nondescript Chevy Malibu, feeling irritated that now that he was finally here, his way was blocked by a mini traffic jam. He'd seen the two heads in the car in front but had thought nothing of them until one of them had gotten out.

For Spencer it was like seeing a mirage. The woman appeared like the person he'd been searching for and not finding the entire time he'd been in Naples. Not only was she attractive with a slim, athletic body, but she was dressed in an alluring style the likes of which he'd not seen except on rare visits to Miami's South Beach. To make the unexpected situation even more provocative, the woman's dress was pulled up in the back exposing a near-naked, panty-hose-clad derriere.

Emboldened by a sense of being on home turf, Spencer did not hesitate like he would have had he still been in Naples. He opened his door and got out. He'd heard the yell from the woman's companion, and now the skirt was down where it was supposed to be, yet it still hovered above mid-thigh, and being made of a synthetic, clingy fabric, it undulated sensuously as the woman unsteadily walked over the gravel drive.

Launching himself forward in a jog, Spencer headed toward the gatehouse in hot pursuit. As he passed the women's Malibu he caught a fleeting glimpse of the companion, which was enough to tell him she was of a totally different ilk. Slowing to a walk, he passed the first truck and approached the woman whose back was to him. She was arguing, arms akimbo, with the guard.

"Well, have them back up the damn trucks and let us go by," Deborah was saying. "We have an appointment with Ms. Masterson, head of personnel, and we're already late."

The guard with his clipboard was unintimidated. His eyebrows were raised and he had a smirk on his face as he peered down at Deborah through his aviator sunglasses. He started to respond to her suggestion, but Spencer interrupted him.

"What seems to be the problem here?" Spencer questioned in the most authoritarian tone he could muster. Unconsciously mimicking Deborah's stance, he put his hands on his hips.

The guard glanced at Spencer and told him in no uncertain terms it was none of his business and that he should get back in his vehicle. He used the words please and sir but obviously intended them as mere formalities.

"These feed trucks are not on his list," Deborah explained contemptuously. "They're acting like this is Fort Knox, for crying out loud."

"Perhaps a call down to the farm will clear things up," Spencer suggested.

"Listen, sir!" the guard said, pronouncing sir as if it were an epithet. He pointed toward Spencer's Bentley with the clipboard with one hand while resting the other on the top of his bolstered automatic. "I want you back in that car ASAP."

"Don't you dare threaten me," Spencer growled. "For your information, I'm Dr. Spencer Wingate."

The guard's menacing expression quavered as he stared Spencer in the eye. It appeared as if he were having an internal debate as to how to proceed. Deborah's attention switched from the guard to Spencer with his surprising announcement. She found herself looking up into the face of the stereotypic soap-opera doctor: tall, slender, angled face, tanned skin, and silver-gray hair.

Before anyone could verbally respond, the heavy windowless black door opened. A muscular man emerged, dressed in a black knit shirt, black pants, and black cross-trainer shoes. His dirty-blond hair was cropped short. He moved as if in slow motion, closing the door behind him. "Dr. Wingate,' he said calmly. "You should have warned us you were coming."

"What's with these trucks sitting here, Kurt?" Spencer demanded.

"We're waiting for Dr. Saunders's okay" Kurt responded. "They were not on the manifest, and Dr. Saunders likes to be informed of irregularities."

"They're feed trucks, for chrissake," Spencer pronounced. "You have my okay. Send them down to the farm so we can get in here."

"As you wish," Kurt said. He took a plastic card from a pocket and swiped it through a card swipe mounted on a pole near the first truck's cab. Immediately the heavy chain-link fence began to squeak open.

In response to the gate's movement, the driver of the lead truck started his diesel engine. In the confined space within the gate-ruse tunnel the noise was considerable as were the fumes. Deborah quickly moved outside as did Spencer.

"Thank you for solving that problem,' Deborah said. She noticed that the doctor's eyes, which were darting up and down her frame, were almost the same blue as those of the security man in black.

"My pleasure," Spencer said. To his despair his voice cracked as he tried to camouflage a surge of nervousness talking with Deborah directly. Up close, with the amount of cleavage visible, he could tell that her dark olive skin wasn't tan as he'd originally assumed. It was her normal coloring. He also noticed her eyebrows were dark, as were her eyes. Combining it all with the blond hair gave him the impression she was a wild and sensual free spirit.

"Well, see you around, doctor," Deborah said. She smiled and started back toward the car.

"Just a moment," Spencer called out.

Deborah stopped and turned.

"What is your name, if I may ask?"

"Georgina Marks," Deborah responded. She felt her pulse quicken. It was the first time she'd used the alias.

"Is it true you have an appointment with Helen Masterson?"

"At ten o'clock," Deborah answered. "Unfortunately we're late, thanks to that security fellow."

"I will give her a call and let her know it was not your fault."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you."

"So you are looking for work here at the clinic?"

"Yes," Deborah said. "My roommate and I are both interested. We plan to commute together."

"Interesting," Spencer said. "What kind of work are you looking for?"

"I've a degree in molecular biology," Deborah said, being purposefully vague about the level. "I'd like to work in the lab."

"Molecular biology! I'm impressed," Spencer said sincerely. "From what school may I ask?"

"Harvard," Deborah said. She and Joanna had discussed this issue when they'd filled out the E-mailed employment applications. Since they were concerned about being recognized from the Harvard association, they'd considered naming a different school. But they'd decided to be truthful to be able to field any specific questions about their college training.

"Harvard!" Spencer responded. He was momentarily nonplussed. Molecular biology had been enough of a surprise. Harvard only made it worse, suggesting that Deborah might not be quite as much the free spirit he'd originally taken her to be and perhaps not so easily impressible. "What about your roommate?" he asked to change the subject. "Is she looking for lab work as well?"

"No, Prudence - Prudence Heatherly - would like to work in the office," Deborah said. "She's skilled in word processing and computers in general."

"Well, I'm sure we can use both of you," Spencer said. "And let me make a suggestion: Why don't you and your roommate come to my office after you see Helen?"

Deborah tilted her head to the side and squinted her eyes as if she were assessing Spencer's motives.

"Maybe we could have a coffee or something," Spencer suggested.

"How would I find you?" Deborah asked.

"Just ask Helen,' Spencer said. "As I said, I'll be giving her a call about you, and I'll mention we'll be getting together."

"I'll do that," Deborah said. She smiled, then turned around and headed back toward the car.

Spencer watched her go. He couldn't help but notice the voluptuous way her buttocks moved beneath the silky synthetic fabric of her skirt. Although he could tell it was an inexpensive garment, he thought it was erotically flattering. "Harvard," he marveled to himself. He would have thought his old high school alma mater, Sommerville High, more likely and ultimately more promising:

"HOW CAN ANYONE WALK AROUND IN SHOES LIKE THIS ALL day?" Deborah questioned as she climbed back into the car. "You should see yourself," Joanna laughed. "It's hilarious!" "Careful!" Deborah warned. "You're going to undermine my self-esteem."

Joanna restarted the car as the truck in front began to move. "I noticed you were talking with that gentleman with the Bentley."

"You'll never guess who he is," Deborah said coyly.

Joanna put the car in gear and began to move forward slowly. To her chagrin Deborah, as usual, was making her ask. Joanna resisted for several beats, but her curiosity prevailed. "All right, who is he?" she questioned.

"Dr. Wingate himself! And contrary to your concerns, he was titillated by my outfit."

"Titillated or contemptuous? There's a big difference, although it might not be apparent."

"Without doubt, the former," Deborah said. "I have proof: We're invited for coffee after we see the personnel director."

"Are you joking?"

"Absolutely not," Deborah said triumphantly.

Joanna nosed the car into the tunnel. Spencer was still there between the man in black and the uniformed guard. Although the gate was open, it started to close with the distance Joanna had allowed to develop between herself and the truck. Spencer motioned to Joanna to stop. She did and rolled down the window.

"I'll be looking forward to seeing you ladies later," he said. "Enjoy your interviews." From his wallet he pulled a blue plastic card similar to the one the man in black had used earlier, and ran it through the card swipe. The gate stopped, lurched, and then began swinging open again. Spencer motioned for them to drive on with a gracious welcoming gesture.

"He's rather distinguished-looking," Joanna said as she motored out of the tunnel.

"I should say," Deborah agreed.

"Strangely enough, he bears a strong resemblance to my father."

"Now you're the one joking," Deborah said. She looked over at Joanna. "I don't think he looks like your father in the slightest. To me he looks like a doctor on a soap opera."

"I'm serious," Joanna said. "He has the same build and the same coloring. Even the same cold aloofness."

"You have to be reading the aloofness into him," Deborah said. "With me he was anything but aloof. You should have seen the gymnastics his eyeballs were doing thanks to the cleavage my Miracle Bra has created."

"You don't think he looks a little like my father?"

"Nope!"

Joanna shrugged. "That's strange, because I do. Maybe it's something subliminal."

The car cleared the stand of evergreens just beyond the gatehouse, affording the women the first full view of the old Cabot building.

"This place is even grimmer than I remembered," Deborah said. She leaned forward to get a better look through the front windshield. "I don't even remember those stone gargoyles on the downspouts."

"There's so much Victorian decoration it's hard to take it all in at once," Joanna said. "It's certainly easy to see why the employees call it the monstrosity."

The curving driveway bore them up to the parking area on the south side. Just as they broached the top of the hill, the smokestack could be seen off to the east. As was the case when Deborah saw it previously, it was belching smoke.

"You know," Deborah said, "that chimney reminds me there was something about this place I forgot to tell you."

Joanna found a parking spot and pulled in. She turned off the ignition. Silently she counted to ten, hoping that for once Deborah would finish one of her delayed thoughts without Joanna having to ask. "I give up," she said at length. "What did you forget to tell me about?"

"The Cabot had its own crematorium as part of its power plant. It gave me a queasy feeling when I was told about it, wondering if some of the inmates' remains back then could have been used to heat the place."

"What a ghastly thought," Joanna responded. "Why on earth did you think that?"

"I couldn't help it," Deborah said. "The crematorium, the barbed-wire fence, laborers they must have had for the farm - they made me think of Nazi concentration camps."

"Let's go inside," Joanna said. She wasn't about to grace such a thought with a response. She opened the car door and got out. Deborah did the same on her side.

"A crematorium would also be a handy way to cover up any mistakes or mischief of any sort," Deborah added.

"We're late," Joanna said. "Let's get in there and get these jobs."

NINE

MAY 9, 2001 1O:25 A.M.

THE ODOR WAS WARM, MOIST, fetid, and offensively feral. Paul Saunders was wearing a surgical mask but not for antiseptic purposes. It was purely because he found the smell intolerable in the sow's birthing stall. He was standing with Sheila Donaldson and Greg Lynch, the powerfully built veterinarian he'd been able to entice away from the Tufts University veterinary program with a high salary and the promise of stock options. He and Sheila had surgical gowns over their street clothes and were sporting rubber boots. Greg had on a massive rubber apron and heavy rubber gloves.

"I thought you said this birth was imminent," Paul complained. He had his arms crossed and his hands in surgical gloves.

"All indications are that it is," Greg said. "Besides, we're at day two hundred and eighty-nine in this pregnancy. She's long overdue." He patted the pig's head, and the animal let out a loud prolonged squeal.

"Can't we induce her?" Paul said, wincing at the high pitched shriek. He looked over the stall's railing at Carl Smith as if to ask whether Carl had brought any oxytocin or any other kind of uterine stimulant. Carl was standing by the anesthesia machine they'd purchased for the farm. He was there in case of an emergency.

"It's best we just let nature take its course," Greg said. "It's coming. Trust me."

No sooner were the words out of Greg's mouth than a shower of amniotic fluid sprayed out over the straw-covered floor accompanied by another ear-splitting squeal. Both Paul and Sheila had to leap out of the way to avoid being drenched by the warm fluid.

Paul rolled his eyes once he'd regained his footing. "The indignities I have to bear in the name of science!" he complained. "It's unreal!"