by Robin Cook
“Georgina Marks and Prudence Heatherly,” Joanna said. “And both passed away this year, 2001.”
“It takes a week to ten days for the certificates to get here,” the woman said.
“We have to wait that long to get them?” Joanna questioned with dismay.
“No, that’s how long the death certificates take to get here to the registry after the individual dies. I only mention it because if these people you’re interested in have just passed away, the certificates won’t be here.”
“Both these people have been dead for over a month,” Joanna said.
“Then they should be here,” the woman said. “That will be six dollars each.”
“We only want to look at the certificates,” Joanna said. “We don’t need to remove them from the premises.”
“Six dollars each is fine,” Deborah interjected. She gave Joanna a jab in the side to keep her quiet.
After writing the names down while eyeing Joanna skeptically, the woman leisurely disappeared behind the file cabinets.
“Why did you poke me?” Joanna complained.
“I didn’t want you messing things up to save twelve dollars,” Deborah whispered. “If the woman guesses we’re here just to get Social Security numbers she might get suspicious. I think I would. So we’ll pay the money, take the certificates, and get the hell out of here.”
“I guess you’re right,” Joanna said reluctantly.
“Of course I’m right,” Deborah said.
The clerk returned a quarter hour later with the forms. Deborah and Joanna had the money ready and the exchange was made. Five minutes later the women were back outside where each carefully copied down the respective Social Security numbers onto a piece of paper. They pocketed the death certificates.
“I suggest we try to memorize the numbers while we’re on the way to the bank,” Joanna said. “It might attract attention if we don’t.”
“Especially if we pulled out the death certificates by accident inside the bank,” Deborah said.
Joanna chuckled. “I also think we should start addressing each other with our assumed names. Otherwise we’ll forget in front of people and that could be a problem.”
“Good point, Prudence,” Deborah said with a chuckle of her own.
It was only a ten-minute walk from City Hall to the Charles River Plaza where the local branch of the Fleet Bank was located. For the most part the women were silent while committing the respective Social Security numbers to their memories. When they turned into the Charles River Plaza, Joanna pulled Deborah to a stop.
“Let’s discuss this for a moment before we go inside,” she said. “We should open these accounts with just a token deposit because we’re not going to be able to get this money back out.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t think it really matters,” Joanna said. “How about twenty dollars.”
“Fine by me,” Deborah said. “But I wouldn’t mind hitting the ATM machine on the way in.”
“That’s not a bad idea either,” Joanna said.
Each got several hundred dollars in cash before entering the bank proper. They then went directly to the service desk. Since it was in the middle of the lunch hour, the bank was busy with hospital people from the MGH, and the women had to wait almost twenty minutes before being helped. But setting up the accounts was accomplished quickly since the bank officer whose turn it was to help them was particularly efficient. Her name was Mary. The only minor problem was the lack of any IDs, but Mary solved it by saying they could bring them in the following day. By one o’clock Mary had already excused herself to activate the accounts and get them receipts. Joanna and Deborah were sitting on vinyl chairs facing Mary’s desk.
“What if she comes back and says we’re dead?” Deborah whispered.
“Then we’re dead,” Joanna answered. “But that’s what we’re here for.”
“But what are we going to say? We’d have to say something.”
“We’ll just say we must have been mistaken about the numbers. We’ll tell them we’ll check them and come back.”
“I was enjoying myself a half hour ago,” Deborah complained. “Now I’m nervous. We can’t tell them a fishy story like that.”
“Here she comes!” Joanna said in a forced whisper.
Mary came back clutching the deposit receipts. “I’ve got you all set up,” she reported. “Every thing is just fine.” She gave a receipt to each woman along with one of the packets of material sitting on her desk which she’d prepared earlier. “You’re all set. Do you have a parking ticket?”
“No, we walked over,” Joanna said. For an address the women had given Seven Hawthorne Place, part of the Charles River Park apartment complex behind the hospital.
A few minutes later the women were back out in the May sunshine. Deborah was euphoric. “We did it!” she declared as they walked quickly away from the bank. “I had my doubts there for a minute, but apparently we’ve got good names and Social Security numbers.”
“They’re good for now,” Joanna said. “But that’s going to change sometime in the near future. Let’s head back to the apartment, put in a call to the Wingate Clinic, and get the next step out of the way.”
“What about a bit of lunch?” Deborah said. “I’m starved. That coffee and pastry we had a little after seven this morning is long gone.”
“I could use some food myself,” Joanna agreed. “But let’s make it quick.”
“WINGATE CLINIC,” A PLEASANT VOICE SAID CHEERFULLY. It came from the speaker phone in Joanna and Deborah’s apartment. The telephone itself was on the couch between the women who were sitting on either side of it. It was two-thirty-five and sun was just beginning to spill onto the hardwood floor through the front windows.
“I’m interested in employment in your institution,” Joanna said. “To whom should I speak?” The women had flipped a coin to see who should make the call. Joanna had won.
“That would be with Helen Masterson, Director of Personnel,” the operator said. “Shall I connect you?”
“Please,” Joanna said.
The same elevator music they’d heard the day before drifted out of the phone, but it didn’t last long. A strong, deep, woman’s voice preempted the Muzak. Both women jumped: “Helen Masterson here. I understand you are looking for employment.”
“Yes, both myself and my roommate,” Joanna said as soon as she’d recovered.
“What kind of experience do you and your roommate have?” Helen asked.
“I’ve had extensive word-processing experience,” Joanna said. “As a student or in a work environment?”
“Both,” Joanna said. She’d worked summers during undergraduate school in a Houston law firm with whom her father did a great deal of business.
“Are you college graduates?”
“Yes, indeed,” Joanna said. “I’ve a degree in economics. My roommate, Georgina Marks, was a biology major.” Joanna looked over at Deborah who gave her a thumbs-up sign.
“Has she had any laboratory experience?”
Deborah nodded emphatically.
“Yes, she has,” Joanna said.
“I must admit you both sound perfect for the Wingate Clinic,” Helen said. “How did you hear about us?”
“Excuse me?” Joanna said while making a grimace of consternation for Deborah’s benefit. It was a question she’d not anticipated. Deborah fumbled for the pad and pencil on the floor. While Helen repeated the question, she quickly wrote: “A friend saw an ad.”
“Word of mouth,” Joanna said. “A friend of ours saw an ad.”
“Was that a newspaper ad or a radio ad?”
Joanna hesitated. Deborah shrugged.
“I’m not sure,” Joanna said.
“Well, it doesn’t matter except to know which is more effective,” Helen said. “Do you live here in Bookford?”
“We currently live in Boston,” Joanna said.
“So you are willing to reverse commute.”
“That’s the plan, at least for the time being. We’d be driving out together.”
“Why do you want to work out here in Bookford?” Helen asked.
“We need to find work quickly,” Joanna said. “We heard your organization was in need of help. We just got back from a rather long stay in Europe, and frankly we need the money.”
“It sounds like we can help each other,” Helen said. “I can either fax you or E-mail you employment questionnaires which you can fill out and send back the same way you got it. Which way would you prefer?”
“E-mail is fine,” Joanna said. She gave Helen her E-mail address which conveniently had no association with her name.
“I’ll E-mail forthwith,” Helen said. “Meanwhile I think we should go ahead and schedule interviews. What would be a convenient date for you and your roommate? Just about any day this week or next week is available.”
“The sooner the better,” Joanna said. Deborah nodded. “In fact, tomorrow would be fine for us if it works for you.”
“By all means,” Helen said. “I applaud your eagerness. Would ten o’clock be okay?”
“Ten o’clock will be fine,” Joanna said.
“Will you need directions?” Helen asked.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Joanna said. “We’re quite resourceful.”
“We look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” Helen said before disconnecting.
Joanna hung up the phone.
“Very smooth!” Deborah commented. “I think we’re in.”
“So do I,” Joanna said. She unplugged the phone and headed over to the computer. “Let’s log on so we can get the E-mail as soon as it comes in.”
True to her word, Helen had sent the E-mail within minutes of hanging up the phone, and it popped up on the women’s computer screen just moments after they logged on. Fifteen minutes later, Joanna and Deborah had filled in their respective employment forms directly on the screen and E-mailed them back to the Wingate Clinic.
“This almost seems too easy,” Deborah commented as she shut down the computer.
“Don’t jinx us,” Joanna said. “You can call me superstitious, but I’m not going to say anything like that until after I get into the Wingate server room. There’s too much that can still go wrong.”
“You mean like one or both Social Security numbers suddenly going bad.”
“Either that or someone like Dr. Donaldson recognizing us tomorrow morning.”
“Let me guess,” Deborah said. “You’re back to thinking about the disguise idea.”
“I’ve never stopped thinking about it,” Joanna said. “And we have the rest of the afternoon. So let’s do it. We can head over to the Galleria Mall in Cambridge and, without spending much, get ourselves some new outfits.”
“I’m game,” Deborah said. “The trendy tart ... that’s going to be me. Maybe I can find something with an exposed midriff that I can combine with a Miracle Bra. Then on the way back we can stop at CVS and get some hair coloring and extra makeup. Do you remember the receptionist when we were out at the Wingate doing the egg donations?”
“It would be hard to forget her,” Joanna said.
“I’m going to give her a run for her money,” Deborah declared.
“I don’t think we should go overboard on this,” Joanna said skeptically. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves unnecessarily.”
“Speak for yourself,” Deborah said. “You don’t want us recognized, and I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen, especially with me.”
“But we want them to give us jobs,” Joanna said.
“No need to worry,” Deborah said. “I’m not going to go that far.”
MAY 9, 2001
8:45 A.M.
SPENCER WINGATE TOSSED
aside the magazine he’d been reading and looked out at the countryside spread out below. Spring had finally arrived with its typical New England sluggishness. The patchwork of fields and meadows had assumed a deep, verdant green color although isolated patches of ice and snow were still visible in the deeper gullies and ravines. Many of the hardwoods were still without leaves, but they were covered with delicate yellow-green buds ready to burst, which gave the undulating hills a softness, as if they were upholstered in diaphanous green fleece.
“How much longer before we touch down at Hanscom Field?” Spencer called out, loud enough for the pilot to hear over the whine of the jet engines. Spencer was in a Lear 45; he owned a quarter share, although not of the plane he was currently in. Two years previously he’d signed on with one of the fractional-ownership companies, and the service had served his needs admirably.
“Less than twenty minutes, sir,” the pilot yelled back over his shoulder. “There’s no traffic so we’ll be flying directly in.”
Spencer nodded and stretched. He was looking forward to returning to Massachusetts, and the vista of the quaint southern New England farms fanned the fires of his anticipation. He’d wintered for the second year in a row in Naples, Florida, and this season he’d become bored, especially over the last months. Now he couldn’t wait to get back, and it wasn’t just because the Wingate Infertility Clinic’s profits were down.
Three years previously, with the clinic purring and money pouring in faster than he’d ever deemed possible, he’d fantasized about retiring to play golf, write a novel that would become a movie, date beautiful women, and generally relax. With that goal in mind, he’d started a search for a younger man to take the day-to-day reins of his booming business. Serendipitously he’d found an eager individual fresh from an infertility fellowship at an institution where Spencer had lectured; he’d seemed heaven-sent.
With the business taken care of, Spencer turned his attention to where he’d go. On the advice of a patient who had extensive experience with Florida real estate, he found a condominium on the west coast of Florida. Once the deal had been consummated, he’d headed toward the sun.
Unfortunately, reality did not live up to his fantasy. He was able to play a lot of golf, but his competitively busy mind found it less fulfilling than he would have liked over the long haul, especially since he could never rise above an irritating level of mediocrity. Spencer considered himself a winner and found losing intolerable. Ultimately he decided there was something basically wrong with the sport.
And the idea of writing turned out to be even more of a bust. He discovered it was harder work than he’d envisioned, and it required a degree of discipline he did not have. But worse yet, there was no immediate positive feedback like he’d gotten seeing patients. Consequently and rather quickly he gave up the novel-movie idea as not suitable for his more active personality.
The social situation was the biggest disappointment. Throughout most of his life, Spencer had felt he’d had to sacrifice experiencing the kind of lifestyle his looks and talents should have provided. He’d married in medical school, mostly out of loneliness, a woman whom he came to recognize as beneath him both intellectually and socially. Once the children, which had come early, were off to college, Spencer had divorced. Luckily it had been before the Wingate Infertility Clinic had taken off. The wife had gotten the house, which had been no great shakes, and a one-time payment.
“Dr. Wingate?” the pilot called over his shoulder. “Should I radio ahead for ground transportation?”
“My car should be there,” Spencer yelled back. “Have them bring it out on the tarmac.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” the pilot answered.
Spencer went back to his musings. Although there’d been no dearth of beautiful women in Naples, he had trouble meeting them, and those he did meet were difficult to impress. Although Spencer thought himself rich, in Naples there was always someone a quantum leap ahead in both wealth and the trappings that came with it.
So the only part of Spencer’s original retirement dream that had come to pass was the opportunity to relax. But even that had become old after the first season, and hardly fulfilling. Then came the news beg
inning in January that the clinic’s profits were falling. At first Spencer thought it was surely an aberration or an accounting trick of writing off a major liability in one month, but unfortunately, it continued. Spencer looked into it as best he could from afar. It wasn’t that revenues had dropped. Quite the contrary. It was because the research costs had skyrocketed, suggesting that Spencer’s on-site leadership was sorely needed. Back when Paul Saunders had first come on board, Spencer had told him that he encouraged research, but obviously things had gotten out of hand.
“They tell me your car is already in front of the JetSmart Aviation building,” the pilot called back to Spencer. “And buckle up. We’re beginning our final approach.”
Spencer flashed the pilot a thumbs-up sign. His seat belt was already fastened. Glancing out the window as they came in for the touchdown, he saw his burgundy Bentley convertible gleaming in the morning sun. He loved the car. Vaguely he wondered if he shouldn’t have taken it to Naples. Perhaps with it he would have had better luck with the ladies.
SPRING WAS A SEASON WHICH JOANNA HAD ALWAYS LOVED with its flowers and with its promise of warm, soft summer evenings to come. Spring had always arrived early in Houston with an avalanche of color that overnight transformed the dull, flat landscape into a fairyland of azaleas, tulips, and dogwoods. As she drove northwest out of Boston on the way to Bookford she tried to concentrate on such happy remembrances and the euphoria they engendered, but it wasn’t easy.
First of all there were few flowers in evidence and hence not much color save for the green grass and the light green of the budding trees. Second of all she was irritated at Deborah, who was sitting next to her and happily singing along with the radio tuned to soft rock. Although her roommate had promised I’m not going to go that far with her disguise, in Joanna’s estimation she’d gone beyond the pale. Her hair was now strawberry blond, her lips and augmented nails a bright crimson, and she was attired in a décolleté, miniskirted dress combined with a padded Miracle Bra and high-heeled shoes. The final touches were dangling earrings and a tiny rhinestone-studded heart necklace. In sharp contrast, Joanna had on a dark blue mid-calf-length skirt, a buttoned high-necked white blouse, a pale pink, cardigan sweater also buttoned up to the top, and clear-plastic-rimmed glasses. Her hair was dyed a mousy brown.
