by Robin Cook
Deborah winked at Joanna. She thought the evening was getting off to a good start.
“Would anyone like a cocktail in addition to the wine?” Spencer asked.
“We’re not hard liquor drinkers,” Deborah said. “But don’t let that inhibit you.”
“A martini would hit the spot,” he said. “Are you sure neither of you ladies would care to join me?”
Both women declined.
The evening progressed smoothly. The conversation was effortless since Spencer was easily encouraged to talk about Spencer. By the time dessert was served, the women had been treated to a lengthy and detailed history of the Wingate Clinic and its success. The more Spencer talked, the more liberally he drank. The only minor problem was that he showed no outward effect from the alcohol he’d imbibed.
“I have a question about the clinic,” Deborah said when Spencer finally paused in his monologue to attack the cheese cake drenched in chocolate sauce. “What’s the story about the pregnant Nicaraguans?”
“Are some of the Nicaraguan ladies pregnant?” Spencer asked.
“It seemed to us they all were pregnant,” Deborah said. “And all about the same degree, as if they’d become pregnant through some airborne infection.”
Spencer laughed. “Pregnancy as an infectious process! That’s a good one! But it’s not too far from the truth. After all, it is caused by the invasion of a few million microorganisms.” He laughed again at his attempt at humor.
“You mean to tell me you are unaware of these pregnancies?” Deborah asked.
“I know nothing about them,” Spencer assured her. “What those ladies do on their time off is their business.”
“Why I’m asking,” Deborah continued, “is because we were told becoming pregnant for them was a way to earn extra money.”
“Really?” Spencer said. “Who told you this?”
“Ms. Masterson,” Deborah said. “We asked her about them at lunch.”
“I shall have to ask her myself,” Spencer said. A short, faltering smile appeared on his face. “I’ve not been as actively involved with the clinic as I should have been over the last couple of years, so there are certain details I’m not aware of. Of course I knew about the Nicaraguan ladies being with us. It’s an arrangement Dr. Saunders has made with a doctor friend in Nicaragua to solve our chronic manpower problem.”
“What kind of research is Dr. Saunders involved in?” Deborah asked.
“A little of this and a little of that,” Spencer said vaguely. “He’s a very creative researcher. Infertility is a rapidly advancing specialty whose advances will soon be making a big impact on medicine in general. But this discussion is getting way too serious.” He laughed, and for the first time swayed a bit before steadying himself. “Let’s lighten it up. What I propose is that we go back to my house and raid my wine cellar. What do you ladies say?”
“I say the sooner the better,” Deborah responded as she covertly poked Joanna, whom she felt was being far too quiet and demure.
“I think having more wine is a terrific idea,” Joanna said.
When the bill came, the women were interested to see where Spencer kept his wallet. They were both hoping it would be in his jacket pocket. But it wasn’t. To their chagrin it was in his rear pants pocket where it returned once the credit card had been replaced.
As they reached the front of the restaurant and were about to leave, Spencer excused himself to use the rest room.
“You’re going to have to be creative to get his pants off,” Joanna whispered. They were standing near the hostess podium. Although there had been no patrons when they’d arrived, the restaurant was now almost full.
“It’s surely not going to take creativity to get him out of his pants,” Deborah whispered back. “The creativity is going to come in dealing with his expectations. I’m amazed at how much he drank and how little it’s seemed to affect him. He’s had two martinis and two bottles of wine minus the minuscule amount you and I drank.”
“He did slur his words a little during dessert,” Joanna said.
“And sway a little, too,” Deborah added. “But that’s not much effect for that much alcohol. To be that tolerant he must be more of a lush than he appears. If it had been me with that amount of alcohol, I’d be comatose for three days.”
Spencer appeared at the men’s room door, smiled when he saw the women, and then proceeded to stagger on a skewed course to collide with the hostess stand. He grabbed onto it for support. The dismayed hostess came from behind the stand to help.
“All right!” Deborah exclaimed in a triumphant whisper to Joanna. “That’s encouraging. It must have been some kind of a delayed reaction.”
“Is he all right?” the hostess asked as the women came up on both sides of Spencer and lent a hand.
“He’s going to be just fine,” Deborah said. “He’s just unwinding a bit.”
“Do you beautiful ladies know where my house is?” Spencer asked, slurring his words again.
“We certainly do,” Deborah said. “Ms. Masterson pointed it out to us today.”
“Then we’ll have a race,” Spencer announced.
Before Deborah could nix the idea, Spencer shook free and ran out of the restaurant.
Deborah and Joanna exchanged a startled glance before giving chase. When they emerged into the fading evening light, Spencer was already climbing into his Bentley. They could hear him laughing.
“Wait!” Deborah cried. They ran toward the car, but by the time they got to it, Spencer had the huge engine roaring. Deborah got her hand on the driver’s side door handle, but the door was locked. She rapped on the glass. She started to suggest that she drive, but Spencer merely laughed harder, pointed to his ear to indicate he couldn’t hear, and then accelerated out of the parking lot.
“Oh crap!” Deborah said as she and Joanna watched the red tail lights disappear into the gathering gloom.
“He shouldn’t be driving,” Joanna said.
“Yeah, well, he didn’t give us a lot of choice,” Deborah responded. “I hope he makes it. If he doesn’t, let’s be the first on the scene—not that that’s how I planned on getting that blasted card!”
The women ran back to the Chevy Malibu. Joanna got it out on the road as fast as she could. After every curve they half expected to come across the Bentley off in one of the stubbled corn fields. When they got to the traffic light at the corner of Pierce and Main streets they began to relax, realizing that in all probability if Spencer had gotten that far, he was going to make it.
“What did you think of Spencer’s response about the Nicaraguan ladies?” Deborah asked as they turned onto Pierce and headed east.
“He seemed truly surprised about them being pregnant,” Joanna said.
“That was my take as well,” Deborah said. “I’m getting the impression that things are happening at the Wingate Clinic that the founder doesn’t know much about.”
“I’d have to agree,” Joanna said. “Of course he admitted he’d not been as involved with the clinic as he should have been over the last couple of years.”
They turned off the main road onto gravel and approached the Wingate Clinic gatehouse. It was dark except for a barely discernible glow of light behind one of the small, shuttered windows. As they entered the tunnel beneath the structure, the car’s headlights illuminated the heavy gate and the card-swipe pylon.
“Do you think the guard will come out?” Joanna asked as she slowed the car almost to a stop.
Deborah shrugged. “My guess would be no, since it’s after hours. So let’s just pull up to the card swipe and try one of our new cards.”
Deborah got the card out of her shoulder bag and handed it to Joanna. Joanna lowered the window, leaned out, and swiped the card. The gate responded immediately and began to swing open.
“Voila,” Deborah said. She took the card back and put it away.
Joanna followed the drive as it curved around the clump of evergreens. The main building came into
view. There were only a few lights visible in the first two stories of the southern wing. The rest of the building was a black, crenelated hulk rearing up against the deepening purple sky.
“The place looks even more sinister at night,” Joanna commented.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Deborah said. “It looks like a place Count Dracula could find inviting.”
Joanna passed the parking area and entered the woods beyond. A few moments later in the deepening darkness they began to see lights among the trees, emanating from the homes of the Wingate Clinic’s hierarchy. They were able to pick out a house they believed to be Spencer’s and drove up its driveway. The Bentley’s rear end jutting askew out of the garage told them they were right. Joanna turned off the Malibu’s engine.
“Any ideas of how we should proceed from this point?” Joanna asked.
“Not really,” Deborah admitted. “Except to push the alcohol. Maybe we’d better try to find his car keys while we’re at it and hide them.”
“Good thought!” Joanna said as she alighted from the car.
As the women made their way up the darkened front walk, they could hear rock music playing. The closer they got, the louder it became, yet despite the noise of the music Spencer heard the bell and threw the door wide open. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes red. He’d changed out of his blazer and was wearing an elaborately trimmed, dark green velvet smoking jacket. With an exaggerated flourish requiring him to grab onto the doorjamb to maintain his balance, he invited them in.
“Could we turn the music down a tad?” Deborah yelled.
With an unsteady gait, Spencer went to the entertainment console. The women used the opportunity to survey the interior. It was decorated like a English manor house, with oversized, dark brown leather furniture, red oriental carpets, and dark green paint. Oil paintings of horses and fox hunts lined the walls, each one individually illuminated. The knickknacks were mostly riding paraphernalia.
“Well,” Spencer said, returning from lowering the stereo. “What can I get for you ladies before we get down to business?”
Joanna rolled her eyes for Deborah’s benefit.
“Let’s explore that wine cellar you mentioned,” Deborah said.
“Good idea,” Spencer said barely pronouncing the d’s.
The basement looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the mid-nineteenth century, save for the addition of several bare low-wattage electric lights. The exposed granite blocks that formed the foundation were dark with mold. The partitions were made of rough-hewn oak planks held together with huge, primitive iron nails. The floor was dirt. The air was clammy because of a number of muddy puddles.
“Maybe I’ll wait here on the steps,” Joanna said as she looked around the dimly illuminated dungeon, but Deborah forged on despite her high heels.
Deborah was fearful that Spencer would not make it in his inebriated state. On several occasions she did have to give him support to keep him from falling.
The wine cellar turned out to be just one of the many partitioned-off cubicles whose crude doors were secured with huge old padlocks. Spencer produced a key the size of his thumb from his jacket pocket and got the hasp open. Inside the compartment were a half-dozen cases of wine placed haphazardly on makeshift shelves. Spencer did not hesitate. He opened the first case and pulled out three bottles. “These’ll do,” he said. Without bothering to replace the padlock, he staggered back to the stairs, clutching the bottles under his arm.
“My Fayva shoes are ruined,” Deborah mockingly moaned to Joanna as they climbed the cellar stairs.
In the kitchen Spencer produced a corkscrew and opened up the three bottles, all California cabernets. Spenser selected three wide-mouthed wineglasses from the cupboard, and Deborah volunteered to carry them. Spencer led the way back to the living room. He sat in the center of the couch and motioned for the women to sit on either side. Then he poured the wine and handed out the glasses.
“Not bad. Not bad at all,” he said after taking a sip. “Now! How do we get started?” He laughed. “I’m new at this threesome stuff.”
“I think we better have some wine first,” Deborah said. “The night is young.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Joanna said. She held up her wine glass, and everyone else did the same.
Once again the women were able to get Spencer talking by merely asking about his childhood. That simple question unleashed a long monologue with shades of Horatio Alger. While he talked, Spencer plied himself liberally with wine. As in the restaurant he seemed oblivious to the fact that the women hardly drank at all.
When one-and-a-half bottles of wine had been consumed and the story of Spencer’s early life got to the college stage, Deborah interrupted to ask Joanna if she could speak to her for a moment. Joanna agreed, and the women drew to the side. Spencer’s blue eyes followed them with great interest and anticipation.
“Do you have any suggestions?” Deborah said sotto voce. With the rock music in the background, she was confident there was zero chance Spencer could hear. “The man’s a sponge for alcohol. Other than his eyes and cheeks, this extra wine has had little effect.”
“I don’t have any suggestions except . . .”
“Except what?” Deborah asked. She was getting desperate. It was almost nine o’clock, and she wanted to get home to bed. She was exhausted, and tomorrow was going to be a big day.
“Ask him to slip into something more comfortable like silk pajamas or whatever he has. That’s a stock cliché that might work, and if he bites, it will mean his pants and wallet will stay in his bedroom where I can get at them.”
“Meaning I’ll have to deal with him without pants,” Deborah groaned.
“Do I have to remind you this was all your idea?” Joanna blurted.
“All right, all right,” Deborah said. “Keep it down! But if I scream, you better get your ass down here in a hurry.”
The women returned and Spencer looked up at them expectantly. Deborah tried the line that Joanna had suggested. Spencer responded with a crooked smile. He nodded and struggled to get to his feet. The women immediately came to his assistance.
“I’m all right,” he protested. He got up by himself and swayed briefly. Then he took a deep breath, set his sights on the stairs, and started off. The women watched him bob and weave on his way across the living room as if he had little comprehension where the various parts of his body were at any given moment.
“I take back what I said a moment ago,” Deborah announced. “The wine is having an appropriate effect after all.”
Both women winced as Spencer ricocheted off a console table and sent a group of painted toy cavalry soldiers to the floor. Despite the collision he maintained his footing and made it to the stairs. With his hands on both banisters, he managed better on the stairs than he’d done on the open floor. He disappeared above.
“Let’s talk about what we are going to do when he comes down,” Deborah said anxiously. “Depending on what he’s wearing or not wearing, he might be too preoccupied to talk about his favorite subject any longer.”
“As soon as he comes down I’ll excuse myself to use the bathroom,” Joanna said. “You keep him occupied.”
“There is a back stair in the kitchen,” Deborah said. “That should get you up to the bedroom.”
“I saw it,” Joanna said. “I’ll just make it as fast as I can.”
“You’d better,” Deborah warned. Instinctively she tried to pull her miniskirt down to cover more of her thigh, but that only succeeded in exposing more décolletage. “As you can well imagine, I’m feeling rather vulnerable in this outfit.”
“You’re not going to get any sympathy from me.”
“Thanks,” Deborah said. “Let’s sit down, my feet are killing me.”
The women sat and discussed Spencer’s life story. When they exhausted that, they talked about how they would manage the following day if they got Spencer’s blue access card.
“Our goal will be to get me in
to that server room as soon as possible so I can give us access to their restricted files,” Joanna said. “David said it would only take fifteen minutes or so. Once it’s done we can get the information about our eggs from a workstation or even from our computer at home.”
“We’ll bring our cell phones,” Deborah said. “That way I can stand guard when you’re in the server room and let you know if anybody is coming.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Joanna agreed.
Deborah looked at her watch. “How long has Casanova been upstairs changing into something more comfortable?”
Joanna shrugged. “I don’t know. Five or ten minutes.”
“I wish he’d hurry,” Deborah said. “I’m so tired I could lie down on this couch and be asleep in two seconds.”
“I feel the same way,” Joanna said. “It’s the jet lag. Our bodies are still on Italian time.”
“It’s also because we’ve been up since six.”
“True,” Joanna said. “Tell me! What are you going to do tomorrow in the clinic’s lab while you’re waiting for me to get into the server room?”
“I’m interested in finding out exactly what they are doing with all that fancy equipment,” Deborah said. “I’d like to find out the specifics about their research, which includes finding out what the real story is behind the Nicaraguans.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?” Joanna warned. “Whatever you do, don’t jeopardize our cover until we’ve got the information that we’re really after.”
“I’ll be careful,” Deborah said. She looked at her watch again. “My good God! What’s he putting on up there, Superman tights?”
“It is a little long,” Joanna agreed.
“What should we do?”
Joanna shrugged again. “Do we dare go up and look? What if he’s stark naked and lying in wait for us?”
“Good grief! What an imagination,” Deborah said. “Are you really worried? What is he going to do, jump out and say boo? The man walked out of the room with legs that resembled wet spaghetti.”
