✽ ✽ ✽
Fifteen minutes later, Randall stood at the precipice of the open elevator shaft one floor higher. She shined a flashlight downward so Margaret could see the rungs of the ladder built into the side of the shaft. She grasped Margaret’s hand when she neared the top and pulled her onto the floor.
Margaret sat down against the wall and panted. “That’s about the scariest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Scarier than entering that bigfoot nest by yourself?”
At the reminder of where her daughter had died, Margaret seemed to deflate.
“I’m sorry,” Randall said.
She scanned the shaft one last time, noting the position of the elevator far below. Her manual overrides of the two shaft-access doors would keep the shaft open even if the power returned—and thus the elevator would remain inoperable. They would have to leave the building by the stairs.
She faced the gray hallway door labeled CALPARK RESEARCH DEPT. On the wall beside it hung a black-box security card reader. It also appeared functional because the red dot of a laser light was shining through the center. Randall withdrew the blue keycard from her pocket and swiped it across the red dot. The door unlatched.
“Care to join me in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory?” Randall said.
Margaret didn’t respond for a moment—just kept looking into the empty air between her and the opposite wall. She nodded and climbed to her feet.
✽ ✽ ✽
It wasn’t Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. In fact, it was exactly what one would expect from a state-of-the-art biology lab with millions to blow on set-up costs. They found lots of work rooms with cabinets stuffed with chemical flasks and papers and rubber gloves, counters covered with petri dishes and microscopes and laptops and notebooks, offices and conference rooms and a library and a computer room. They found a small greenhouse full of hydroponic plants illuminated by bluish grow lights that still functioned despite the power outage. One room held nothing but an enormous, cylindrical electron microscope and supporting computer terminals. There was even a doctor’s examination room, presumably for test subjects such as Frederica Wolford. It contained an ultrasound machine and an exam table outfitted with stirrups.
Leading the way, Randall shined the flashlight on each discovery and shook her head. “What the hell do they study here?”
They both glanced up as the ceiling lights came back on. Margaret pointed over Randall’s shoulder. “Let’s find out.”
Randall turned to face another door. Its nameplate read NICOLAE C. SCHAEFER.
✽ ✽ ✽
Nick Schaefer’s office turned out to be a big nothing—at least at first.
The man was remarkably without personality, not what you would expect from a real-life evil scientist with an unhealthy interest in the Third Reich. Randall did find three books on his shelf that were relevant in light of her conversation with him: History of World War II, Dr. Joseph DeJarnette of the Western Lunatic Asylum, and Recent Developments in Genetic Engineering. But they were hardly enough to base any serious investigation upon, let alone justify a warrantless search. The rest of the office was equally uninteresting: just administrative files Margaret assured her were typical for the company, and a vast collection of scientific journals on reproductive medicine. His only artwork sat on his bookshelf: a small paperweight shaped like an Egyptian pyramid. Randall wondered what it might signify, if anything.
With the return of power to the floor, Margaret successfully booted up Schaefer’s desktop computer. If there was any dirt, it would be found in his electronic records. There was certainly nothing lying around the office.
“I bet his actual secret laboratory is someplace else,” Margaret said.
“Yeah, and I bet I know just where it is.” Randall was thinking about the empty lot in Fairfax where Sergeant Tucker died and which Schaefer’s mail indicated wasn’t for sale at any price. While Margaret worked with the computer, Randall searched Schaefer’s desk drawers, wondering about underground bunkers and cleverly disguised treehouses.
“Oh, dammit.” Margaret banged the keys too hard as she typed.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s his user name and password. Without it, we can’t access any of his files.”
“Can’t you hack into it?”
Margaret frowned. “I’m a doctor, not a computer expert.”
Randall slammed a drawer shut and opened another. “People usually hide that information in their desks, but I haven’t found anything in here but pens and rubber bands and cough drops. And . . . oh, hello. This might be good.” She handed Margaret a CD-ROM. Either Schaefer must have hidden it during the previous police visit, or the cops didn’t search his desk.
Margaret examined it. A label said Veritas Security. “So what?”
“Isn’t that the security contractor for this building?”
“I don’t know. Is it? I don’t pay attention to those things.”
Randall nodded. “It is. What’s he doing with that? Can you play it?”
“Yes. I can log on to this terminal with my own ID. That won’t give us access to his files, but we could at least see what’s on the disk.”
As she talked, Margaret was already logging onto the computer. She inserted the security company’s CD-ROM and called up its directory.
Peering over her shoulder, Randall pointed at the screen. “Click on that video file there named ‘June 3 2300hrs.’”
Margaret played the video, and they watched in silence for a minute. “This must be a security tape. That’s our parking garage here.”
“That’s the underground garage in this building?”
“Right. It’s level P-2. See, look there on the wall.”
“I see it. And I think I know whose car that is.”
The vehicle parked in the left of the frame was a silver Camaro Z28 with a low-hanging muffler. As they watched, Nick Schaefer entered the frame carrying a woman over his shoulder. He moved with the ease of someone handling a light suitcase. He popped the car’s trunk and dumped the woman inside. Then he got behind the wheel and drove away.
Margaret sucked in her breath. “Was that the missing girl you mentioned? Frederica?”
“I think so.”
“He didn’t want anyone to see this, did he? He stole it from the security people.”
Randall nodded. “Now we know what happened to her.”
“But she didn’t look pregnant in that picture. Didn’t you say she gave birth just before she died?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t on the day of this video. June third was the day Frederica’s roommates said she left to have an appointment with Schaefer. Schaefer said she never showed up. But she obviously did, and this tape shows him taking her out of the building.”
“To where?”
Randall smiled. “To his secret laboratory, where she gave birth to the first bigfoot. After she died, Schaefer disposed of her body in a Dumpster in Pimmitt Hills. Then he came back here and moved Frederica’s car to the Tyson’s Corner garage. That’s where the police found it.”
“Oh, this is making my head hurt.”
Randall ejected the CD. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a doctor, not a detective.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Randall was getting hungry again, so Margaret said to follow her. There was a break room in the administrative offices on this floor, the same one where she’d talked with Nick Schaefer a week ago. A lifetime ago. Along the way, they passed the examination room they’d found earlier. Randall said to hold on a second while she checked it out.
Margaret leaned against the door frame and watched her rifle through cabinets of medical supplies. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. I just think this is where Schaefer would have worked on Frederica. I don’t know—a notebook? A hypodermic with some glowing liquid in it? Why don’t you help me.”
Margaret shrugged and set to work. Her head was spinning, and she wanted nothing more than to go lay
down somewhere. But she knew if she did that, she wouldn’t want to move again. At least Randall was giving her something to do.
And then what? Then what will you do? What will you do about Daniella’s body? And her funeral? What will you do about going back one day to an empty house?
She yanked a tissue from a box on the counter and wiped her eyes. Randall either didn’t notice or was too polite to comment.
A minute later, Margaret announced everything in here was pretty much standard for an examination room. “Looks like they did some outpatient procedures in here as well. We certainly didn’t know about it. They kept—keep—everything so secretive.”
“What kind of procedures?”
Margaret gestured behind them at the computer terminal mounted on a rolling cart. “Ultrasounds, for one, although that’s really just diagnostic. And then there’s this:” She reached into a drawer and withdrew a clear plastic bag. It contained a plastic syringe with a plunger, attached to a long, flexible tube.
“What’s that?”
“It’s for a manual vacuum aspiration. An abortion.”
Randall stared at her.
“No.” Margaret held up a hand. “The answer’s still no.”
Randall exhaled and sat down on the exam table. All the strength in her body seemed to leave her as she bent over and pulled her hair tight behind her neck. Margaret handed her a tissue.
“Margaret, look, I wouldn’t ask you to do something you’re ethically against, but this is my life. It may be another day or two before we can make it to a hospital. By then, it’ll be too late.”
“You don’t know that. Abortions can be performed as late as—”
“I do know it. I’ve seen tactical reports you haven’t. They’ve tried abortions on women later in the week, but by then the bigfoot babies are too—I don’t know—entrenched. The procedure ends up killing the mother.”
Margaret grimaced at the syringe and cannula in her hand. She remembered placing the muzzle of a gun against Daniella’s belly and pulling the trigger.
“You’re not aborting a real baby if you do this,” Randall said. “Please.”
Margaret bowed her head. She nodded. The sound of the handgun still echoed in her mind.
✽ ✽ ✽
Ten minutes later, they were still sitting in the examination room, discussing the possible benefits and risks of the procedure. Randall started to relax because it was no longer an argument. She was now naked except for one of the hospital gowns they’d found in a cabinet. She could see Margaret was just warming herself up to the idea and perhaps trying to change mental gears. As they moved onto more clinical details, such as how exactly a manual vacuum aspiration worked, she could almost see the white mantle of a doctor’s coat descend over the poor woman’s shoulders. Since she was actually already wearing one, that wasn’t too much of a stretch.
“The bigfoot fetus matures over thirty times faster than what we’re used to,” Margaret was saying. She was seated on a stool, hands folded primly in her lap. Randall was on the exam table. “That means by tonight or tomorrow morning you could be the equivalent of five weeks pregnant. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. A little hungry. I really have to use the restroom. Those three cups of coffee went right through me.”
“No, not yet. We’re going to use this ultrasound machine to see exactly what’s going on inside you. I’d rather you have a full bladder for that. But first we’ll do a pelvic exam.”
“A pelvic exam? Are you kidding me? . . . No, I can see you’re not.”
Margaret switched on the ultrasound computer and inspected the wand attached to its control board. As it booted up, she hauled out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from the supply cabinets and began a routine physical.
“Everything seems okay,” Margaret said a few minutes later. “Your b/p’s a little high, but I’m not surprised in light of what’s happened. You have any medical conditions I should know about? STDs, heart problems? Anything?”
“Well, I have been kind of . . . ill the past few months. Stress-related, you know.”
“Oh?”
Reluctantly—God, she hated these types of conversations—Randall detailed her problems with allergies, breast tenderness, and headaches.
Margaret’s eyes widened. “Have you seen a doctor about this?”
“Are you kidding? I hate doctors. I only go to one when I’m bleeding.”
“You’re the most macho woman I’ve ever met. When was your last pelvic exam?”
“Oh, probably my junior year of college.”
Margaret shook her head. “Jesus Christ.”
“Come on. Do you really gotta know all this for an abortion?”
“Yes, absolutely. Now tell me, these symptoms you’ve been having. Do they include fatigue, moodiness, depression, decreased sex drive?”
“I . . . well, yes, actually. How did you know?”
“How about dry eyes and cold hands?”
Randall was astonished. “Yes.”
“And how long ago was your last period?”
“My last one was about a week ago. Then it was about six weeks before that, then two months, I think.”
Margaret laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was unnerving, and Randall wondered if the woman had snapped under the pressure.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Let me complete my exam first. Lay down and put your feet in the stirrups.”
Randall bit her lip so hard it hurt. She was glad Margaret could chuckle about something on the same day her daughter had died, but this was making her angry. She didn’t like feeling helpless and out of control.
“Just relax.” Margaret positioned a light to point at Randall’s crotch and snapped on rubber gloves. “Sometimes I have to be a detective, too.”
The exam made her feel even more helpless and uncomfortable, especially that first moment of baring her genitals to a relative stranger. But she did ask for an abortion—didn’t she—so she told herself to get used to it. To her credit, Margaret proceeded in a professional fashion from here out, telling Randall exactly what she was doing and announcing each touch and step before she did it. At one point, Margaret choked up, about to cry, then shook it off. She asked questions about pain and discharge. She also revealed that while Randall was unconscious earlier, she’d taken the liberty of disinfecting the vaginal abrasions caused by the rape.
“I figured you did something like that when I woke up with new panties and an IV.”
Margaret nodded. “Well, what I did not do is insert this into you.” She held up what looked like some kind of cooking utensil. Randall dimly recognized it. A speculum.
“Oh, shit.”
“It’s all right. Just relax. I’m going to spare you the pap smear this time.”
The exam only took a few more minutes, but it felt like hours. After retracting her labia with the speculum, Margaret visually inspected her cervix and re-treated the wounds left by the rape. Then she removed it and told her again to relax. Easier said than done—especially when Margaret began the next phase of the exam by lubing two fingers and inserting them. Randall tried to ignore her continued feelings of discomfort and humiliation by focusing on Margaret’s facial expressions.
Margaret used her free hand to probe Randall’s abdomen. “Have you ever had problems with fibroids?”
“No. I’m not even sure what they are.”
“They’re non-cancerous tumors. You have at least four of them.”
“What?”
But Margaret declined to answer further questions for now. Randall’s head spun as she watched Margaret slip a condom onto what looked like a dildo and then lube it with something like blue toothpaste. A curly wire attached it to the ultrasound machine. Going slowly, Margaret inserted the probe into Randall’s vagina. She moved it around as she watched the computer screen.
“Why are you smiling?” Randall said. “Should I be smiling?”
“Yes, you should. But go use the re
stroom and come back. Then we’ll talk about the bigfoot baby you’re not having.”
Chapter 21
“Okay, I’m back. Now tell me what you saw on that computer screen.”
“It’s what I didn’t see.”
“No baby?”
“Nothing. At four and a half weeks, you should be able to see a gestational sac on ultrasound. At five and a half, an embryo.”
“But you said I won’t be five weeks until tonight or tomorrow—at least in bigfoot time.”
“That’s true. We’ll spend the night here and do another scan tomorrow to make sure. But I’m ninety percent certain we won’t find anything.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Well, it’s only been a week since your last menses, for one.”
“And I’m not due to ovulate for another week, is that right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I thought of that before. It doesn’t mean anything with me. My periods don’t follow a normal schedule.”
“Randall, your endometrium needs two weeks to thicken up in order to be ready to receive a fertilized embryo. I know your body’s on a wacky schedule, but there’s no way to rush two weeks. Trust me.”
“That’s it? That’s all your evidence?”
“Yes, that and the fibroids.”
“The non-cancerous tumors, you mean.”
“Correct. You have six large fibroids inside your uterus. Two of them are almost completely obstructing the openings to your fallopian tubes. The others are large enough and positioned in such a way that even if a fertilized egg dropped safely, it would have a difficult time implanting itself into your uterine wall. We see it all the time. Fibroids can physically disrupt the whole implantation process.”
“Okay, so let’s say you’re right and I’m not pregnant . . .”
“Can’t get pregnant.”
“Will these fibroids hurt me?”
“They can cause abdominal pain, sure. And until we do more tests I can’t be certain there’s no cancer. Not to mention you’re functionally infertile.”
“After today, I wouldn’t mind being infertile.”
Blood Born Page 34
