Shock

by Robin Cook

  “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.”

  MAY 9, 2001

  10:25 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!”

  “Things are going to happen pretty quickly now,” Greg said. He positioned himself behind the animal, vainly trying to avoid stepping in the feces. The animal was on her side.

  “Not soon enough to suit me,” Paul said. He looked at Sheila. “When was the last ultrasound?”

  “Yesterday,” Sheila said. “And I didn’t like the size of the umbilical vessels I was able to visualize. You remember I told you, right?”

  “Yes, I remember,” Paul said, shaking his head dejectedly. “Sometimes the failures we have to endure in this business get to me, especially in this part of the research. If this batch is again all stillborn, I’m going to be at a loss. I don’t know what else to try.”

  “We can at least try to be optimistic,” Sheila suggested.

  A phone rang in the background. One of the animal handlers watching from the sidelines ran to get it.

  The pig squealed again. “Here we go,” Greg said. He thrust his gloved hand inside the animal. “She’s dilated now. Give me some room.”

  Paul and Sheila were more than happy to move as far out of the way as the stall would allow.

  “Dr. Saunders, I’m supposed to give you a message,” the animal handler said. He’d returned from answering the phone and had come up to Paul’s right side.

  Paul waved the man away. The first of the litter was crowning amid squeals from the mother pig. The next instant, the firstborn was out. But it did not look good, and the dusky blue creature made only feeble attempts to breathe. The umbilical vessels were huge, more than twice the normal size. Greg tied them off and then got ready for the next.

  Once the births had started, they happened in rapid succession. Within minutes the entire litter was lined up on the stall’s straw-covered floor, bloody and unmoving. Carl had made a motion to pick up the first one to try to resuscitate it, but Paul told him not to bother because there was obviously too much congenital malformation. For several minutes the group silently stared at the pitiful newborns. The sow instinctively ignored them.

  “The idea of using the human mitochondria obviously didn’t work,” Paul said breaking the silence. “It’s discouraging. I thought my idea was brilliant. It made so much sense, yet you can tell just by looking at these creatures they all have the same cardiopulmonary pathology as the last group.”

  “At least we’re getting them to go to term consistently,” Greg said. “When we started we were dealing with first-trimester miscarriages every time.”

  Paul sighed. “I want to see a normal offspring, not a stillborn. I’m long past seeing them getting to term as any sign of success.”

  “Should we autopsy them?” Sheila asked.

  “I suppose, to be complete,” Paul said without enthusiasm. “We know what the pathology is because it’s obviously the same as last time, but it should be documented for posterity. What we need to know is how to eliminate it, so it’s back to the proverbial drawing board.”

  “What about the ovaries?” Sheila asked.

  “That goes without saying,” Paul said. “That’s got to be done now, while they’re still alive. The autopsies can wait. If need be, after the ovaries are taken, you can put these creatures in the cooler and autopsy them when convenient. But once the autopsies are done, incinerate the carcasses.”

  “What about the placenta?” Sheila asked.

  “That should be photographed along with the sow,” Paul said. He gave the bloody mass a nudge with his rubber boot. “It should also be autopsied. It, too, is obviously abnormal.”

  “Dr. Saunders,” the animal handler said. “About that phone call . . .”

  “For chrissake stop pestering me about the phone!” Paul yelled. “Because if it’s about those damn feed trucks, I don’t care if they sit out there for twenty-four hours. They were supposed to have arrived yesterday, not today.”

  “It was not about the trucks,” the animal handler said. “In fact, the trucks are already here at the farm.”

  “What?” Paul cried. “I specifically said they were not to come in until I gave the okay, and I did not give the okay.”

  “They got the okay from Dr. Wingate,” the animal handler said. “That’s what the phone message was about. Dr. Wingate is here at the clinic and wants to see you over at the monstrosity.”

  For a moment the only sounds in the vast barn were the occasional distant moos of the cows, squeals of the other pigs, and
the barking of the dogs. Paul and Sheila looked at each other with surprise.

  “Did you know he was coming back?” Paul asked Sheila eventually.

  “I had no idea,” Sheila said.

  Paul looked over at Carl.

  “Don’t look at me,” Carl said. “I didn’t have any idea, either.”

  Paul shrugged. “Just one more challenge, I suppose.”

  “WELL, THERE YOU HAVE IT, MISS HEATHERLY AND MISS Marks,” Helen Masterson said, concluding her canned preemployment monologue. She leaned back in her desk chair with her palms and fingers pressed together as if praying. She was a husky woman with a ruddy, fleshy face, dimpled chin, and a short no-nonsense hairstyle. When she smiled her eyes were reduced to mere slits. Both Joanna and Deborah were seated in front of her on the other side of the woman’s cluttered desk. “If the conditions, rules, and salary that I’ve laid out are acceptable, we here at the Wingate Clinic are pleased to offer you women employment.”

  Joanna and Deborah briefly looked at each other and nodded.

  “Sounds good to me,” Deborah said.

  “To me too,” Joanna agreed.

  “Wonderful,” Helen said with a smile, making her eyes all but disappear. “Now do you have any questions for me?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “We’d like to start as soon as possible. In fact, we were hoping tomorrow could be our first day. Is that possible?”

  “That’s rather difficult,” Helen said. “It doesn’t give us time to process your applications.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing: “But, I suppose, that shouldn’t necessarily restrict us, and frankly we’re expanding so quickly we can use the help. So, if we can get you to be seen today by Dr. Paul Saunders, who insists on meeting all new employees, and get you processed by security, why not?”

  “What does it mean to be processed by security?” Joanna asked. She exchanged glances with Deborah.

  “That’s really just to get you an access card,” Helen said. “It gets you in the front gate and allows you to log on to the computer at your workstation. It can do more than that, of course, depending on how it’s programmed.”

  Joanna’s eyebrows raised at Helen’s mention of the computer. It was a gesture unnoticed by the personnel director but seen by Deborah.

  “I’m curious about your computer setup,” Joanna said. “Since I assume I’ll be doing a lot of word processing, I’d like to learn more about it. For example, I assume your system has multi-layered authorization levels.”

  “I’m no expert in the computer arena,” Helen said with a nervous laugh. “I’ll have to refer you to our network administrator, Randy Porter, for definitive answers. But if I understand your question, the answer is certainly yes. Our local area network is set up to recognize various groups of users, each with distinct access privileges. But don’t worry, both of you will certainly have appropriate privileges for your designated work if that’s your concern.”

  Joanna nodded. “It is my concern, especially since the system sounds sophisticated. Would it be possible for me to see the hardware itself? I imagine that would give me a good idea about what to expect.”

  “I don’t see any reason why not,” Helen said. “Any other questions?”

  “I have a question,” Deborah said. “We ran into Dr. Wingate at the front gate. He said he was going to get in touch with you about us? Did he?”

  “Yes, he did,” Helen said. “Which was a bit of a surprise. And I’m to take you to his office when you are finished with me. Any other questions?”

  Joanna and Deborah looked at each other before shaking their heads.

  “Then I have some questions of my own,” Helen said. “I know you are planning on commuting back and forth to Boston, but I’d like you to think about the very nice accommodations we have here on the premises, which we encourage our staff to utilize, since we prefer our employees to live here. Would you be willing to see the units? It would only take a few minutes. We have a golf cart out back to take us over there.”

  Joanna started to decline, but Deborah overrode her by saying it might be interesting to see the apartments if they had time.

  “Well, that leads me to one final question,” Helen said. She looked at Deborah. “I don’t know how to word this, Miss Marks, but do you always dress so . . . so flamboyantly?”

  Joanna suppressed a giggle as Deborah stumbled over an explanation for her style of dress.

  “Well, perhaps you could tone it down a tad,” Helen said, trying to be diplomatic. “We’re health-care professionals, after all.” Without waiting for a response from Deborah, Helen picked up her phone and dialed an extension. The ensuing conversation was short. She merely asked if “Napoleon” was in, listened for a moment nodding her head, and then said she’d be over straightaway with two new recruits.

  Helen stood up and the women followed suit. As they did they could see over the tops of the dividers that separated the large, high-ceilinged former ward into individual work spaces. They were in the administration area located on the second floor and where Joanna was slotted to work. The windows of those cubicles which had them looked out over the front of the building, affording a commanding view to the west. Few heads were visible in the maze of work spaces. It was as if most everyone were on a coffee break.

  “Come with me,” Helen said, stepping out of her cubicle. She started off down the central aisle while talking over her thick shoulder. “We’ll have you meet Dr. Saunders. It’s a pro forma exercise, but we should have his imprimatur before proceeding any further.”

  “You remember who he is, don’t you?” Joanna whispered to Deborah as they followed a few steps behind the personnel director. Helen wended her way out into the corridor which separated the administration area from the laboratory located on the east side of the wing.

  “Of course I remember,” Deborah said. “It will be the first test if we’re going to get away with this.”

  “I’m not concerned about him,” Joanna said. “It’s Dr. Donaldson that I’m worried about. Dr. Saunders didn’t look at my face long enough to remember me, at least not while I was awake.”

  “He looked at me long enough,” Deborah said, “and he was not a happy camper, as I told you.”

  Helen suddenly stopped by a door that had a NO ADMITTANCE sign posted on it. “Why not?” she said after a beat and without explanation. She opened the door, which was unlocked, and passed through. The women followed. The twenty-foot-long corridor beyond dead-ended at a blank second door. Helen tried the door, but it was locked. She took out her wallet and extracted a blue swipe card similar to the one Spencer had used to open the outside gate. Careful to keep the magnetic strip properly oriented, she passed the card rapidly through a card swipe attached to the wall next to the door. There was a click. When she retried the door, it opened.

  Helen pushed the door wide open and stepped to the side. She looked back at Joanna. “This is our computer server room. There’s our equipment. Beyond that I can’t tell you very much.”

  Joanna’s eyes swept the windowless room whose floor had been raised eight inches to conceal the wiring. There were four large vertically oriented electronic units and a small bookcase filled with manuals. More importantly, there was a server console with a keyboard, a mouse, and a monitor displaying an active screen saver. Golden sting rays and blue-gray sharks endlessly swam to and fro. A single empty ergonomic chair sat in front of the console.

  “Very impressive,” Joanna said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Helen admitted. “Have you seen enough?”

  Joanna nodded. “Will I have access to this room with my card?” she asked.

  Helen regarded her as if she’d said something inordinately stupid. “Of course not! Clearance for spaces such as this is reserved to department heads only. Why would you want to come in here anyway?”

  Joanna shrugged. “Only if I were having a problem I couldn’t rectify from my workstation keyboard.”

  “For that kind of a problem, you’l
l have to see Randy Porter, if you can find him. I have to admit, he’s fairly elusive if he’s not in his cubicle.” Helen closed to the door, and it locked with a resounding click.

  “On to see our fearless leader,” Helen said. She retraced her steps back to the main corridor and set out again. Acting as if the slight detour to see the server room had caused them to be late, she upped her pace. Joanna and Deborah had to hurry to keep up. Deborah’s heels striking against the terrazzo floor made loud cracking noises like automatic-rifle fire. The vaulted ceiling magnified the sounds by producing multiple echoes.

  “What do you think?” Deborah whispered between breaths.

  “If we don’t luck out and get the access we need to our files, then I’ll have to get into that room for about ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “Which means we’ll need a blue card that will open the door. Apparently ours won’t. How are we going to manage that?”

  “We’ll have to be creative,” Joanna said.

  “I’m sorry to have to hurry you like this,” Helen called back to the women from where she was holding open a heavy fire door leading from the building’s south wing into the central tower. “Dr. Saunders can be hard to corner. If he leaves his office before we arrive, we could have trouble finding him, and if you don’t get to see him, you will not be starting work tomorrow.”

  Joanna and Deborah passed through the fire door which Helen let close behind her. The women found themselves in a dramatically different environment. Instead of terrazzo the floor was oak, and instead of tile, plaster, or exposed brick, the walls were paneled mahogany. There was even a threadbare oriental runner extending down the long hallway.

  “Come on!” Helen urged. She led the women down the corridor and through a doorway into an outer office. A secretary sat at a desk behind which were two doors: one closed, the other ajar. There were several couches and a coffee table.

  “Don’t tell me we missed Dr. Saunders?” Helen inquired of the secretary.

  “He’s still here,” the woman said as she gestured over her shoulder at the closed door. “But he’s engaged at the moment.”