Shock

by Robin Cook

  Deborah wheeled around and shined her light into Joanna’s face. Joanna averted her gaze from the glare and got her hand between Deborah’s light and her face. “Don’t shine that thing in my eyes!”

  “What the devil is the matter?” Deborah demanded angrily through clenched teeth once she’d seen Joanna was in one piece.

  “A rat!” Joanna managed. “I saw an enormous rat with bright red eyes right over there behind that old desk.”

  “Jeez, Joanna!” Deborah complained. “Get ahold of yourself! This is supposed to be a clandestine exercise. We’re trying to be stealthy here!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m on edge in this junkyard dungeon. I can’t help it.”

  “Well, pull yourself together. You scared me half to death.” Deborah set out again but only managed a few more steps when Joanna reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to a stop.

  “What now?” Deborah complained.

  “I heard something behind us,” Joanna said. She shined her light back the way they’d come. Expecting to see the rat again, she saw nothing but the junk they’d just passed. For the first time she looked up into the tangled mass of pipes and ducts.

  “We’re going to be here all night unless you cooperate,” Deborah said.

  “All right!” Joanna snapped back.

  They walked for another five minutes along the twisting corridor before coming to a large, old-fashioned kitchen mixer attached to its own wheeled stand. It was covered with a layer of dust. A few assorted kitchen implements stuck out of the mixing bowl. The top of the mixer was tilted back and the beaters pointed off at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “We must be getting close,” Deborah said. “The door I’m looking for was on the other side of the kitchen, and we must be close to the kitchen now.”

  Rounding the next bend proved Deborah to be correct. Soon they were passing through the old kitchen. With the help of her flashlight Joanna gazed into the yawning, filthy ovens and the huge soapstone sinks. Overhead the light played against a line of blackened and dented pots and skillets hanging over the countertop.

  “There it is,” Deborah said. She pointed ahead. The stainless-steel door stood out in the dark, dingy environment as if it were glowing. Its polished surface reflected back most of Deborah’s flashlight beam.

  “You were certainly right when you described it as out of place down here,” Joanna said.

  The women moved over next to the door. Deborah placed her ear against it as she’d done earlier. “Same sounds as I heard before,” she said. She then told Joanna to put her hand against the door.

  “It’s warm,” Joanna said. She then handed Spencer Wingate’s access card, which she’d been carrying, to Deborah.

  “My guess is that it’s somewhere close to ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit,” Deborah said. She took the card but did not run it through the card swipe.

  “Well, are we going in or what?” Joanna asked. Deborah was just looking at the door.

  “Of course we’re going in,” Deborah said. “I’m just trying to prepare myself for what we’re going to find.” Finally, after taking a fortifying deep breath, she ran the card through the swipe. There was a slight delay followed by the sound of air escaping as if the space beyond was at a slightly higher pressure. Then the thick, heavy door began slowly to recede into the wall.

  MAY 10, 2001

  11:05 P.M.

  CURSING UNDER HIS BREATH

  from having smacked his shin against an unknown metal object, Bruno stumbled back along the corridor in the darkness using his fingers against the brick wall to guide him. He tried not to trip over any more of the trash cluttering the floor but it was impossible, and he winced every time he collided with something, more from the sound it made than from any pain it caused. As soon as his fingers detected a corner, he eased himself around it. Only then did he venture a look back the way he’d come. In the distance the stainless-steel door of the culture room suddenly snapped back into place a hundred times faster than it had opened. But in the brief interval Bruno was able to catch sight of the two women standing within the lighted space beyond.

  Quickly Bruno got out his flashlight, switched it on, and stuck it in his teeth to hold it. He directed the beam into the recess he’d eased into rather than back out into the corridor. He didn’t want the women to suddenly look back and see the light if they happened to open the door. Next he struggled to get his cell phone out of his pocket. As quickly as he could, he used the phone’s internal directory to find the culture room number. The moment it popped onto the screen, he pressed the talk button.

  Although cell-phone reception in the Wingate’s basement was not good, he could hear the phone ringing through static. “Come on, answer!” he urged out loud.

  Finally a voice came on the line: “Culture room, Cindy Drexler speaking.”

  “This is Bruno Debianco. Can you hear me?”

  “Just barely,” Cindy answered.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course,” Cindy said. “You’re the security supervisor.”

  “Then listen up!” Bruno said, talking as loudly as he dared. “Two women have just come into the culture room. How they got an access card I have no idea. Do you see them?”

  There was a pause. “Not yet,” Cindy said coming back on the line. “But I’m nowhere near the entrance.”

  “This is important,” Bruno continued. “Keep them occupied for fifteen or twenty minutes. Be creative! Tell them whatever they want to know, but keep them there. Do you understand?”

  “I guess,” Cindy said. “Tell them everything?”

  “Anything and everything; it doesn’t matter,” Bruno said. “Just don’t alarm them. Kurt Hermann is on his way, and he’ll personally be taking them into custody. They are unauthorized intruders.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Cindy said.

  “That’s all I ask,” Bruno said. “We’ll be in there as soon as he gets here.”

  Bruno disconnected from Cindy, then speed-dialed Kurt’s number. There was even more static when Kurt answered than when Bruno had spoken with the culture-room technician.

  “Can you hear me?” Bruno asked.

  “Well enough,” Kurt answered. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m outside the culture room in the Wingate basement,” Bruno said. “The women had a card to get them inside. I called the technician and told her to keep them in the room. You’ll be able to nab them with ease.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No, they’re unsuspecting.”

  “Perfect! I’m just entering Bookford. I’ll be there in ten minutes, fifteen tops. Do you have handcuffs with you?”

  “That’s a negative,” Bruno said.

  “Get some from the gatehouse!” Kurt ordered. “And meet me at the gate! We’ll grab the women together.”

  “Ten-four,” Bruno said.

  FOR SEVERAL MINUTES THE WOMEN STOOD STILL, ABSORBING the surroundings. In keeping with the starkly modern door they’d just passed through, both had expected a futuristic netherworld. Instead they were in a maze of rooms with the same general decor as the rest of the basement, separated from one another by the same brick archways. The difference was the bright light coming from banks of newly installed fluorescent fixtures, the ambient temperature, and the contents. Instead of discarded hospital and kitchen material, the room they were in and the others they could see were filled with modern-appearing laboratory equipment, mostly in the form of large incubators brimming with tissue culture dishes. Most of the incubators were on wheels.

  “I expected something a bit more dramatic,” Joanna said.

  “Me too,” Deborah said. “It’s not even as impressive as the lab upstairs.”

  “It feels like the tropics. What do you think the temperature is?”

  “Close to body temperature,” Deborah said. She turned back to the stainless-steel door. A laminate box was mounted on the wall just to the right of the door. The box had a central protrudi
ng red panel. On the panel in block letters were the words OPEN/CLOSE.

  “Before we take a tour I want to make sure we can get out of here,” Deborah said. “The way this door snapped shut, I want to reassure myself it’s going to open again.” She pushed the red panel.

  The door slid open just as it had a few moments before. Then when Deborah pushed the panel again, the heavy, insulated door closed in the blink of an eye, and its silence was as impressive as its closing speed.

  Deborah was about to comment about the door when Joanna frantically grabbed her arm and blurted out in a whisper, “We have company!”

  Deborah’s head snapped around in the direction Joanna was looking. In one of the archways stood a smiling, middle-aged woman with a narrow, deeply tanned face displaying prominent crow’s feet and smile creases. She was dressed in a super-lightweight white cotton outfit. Her hair was contained in a hood of the same material. A surgical mask was tied around her neck and hung down over her chest.

  “Welcome to the culture room!” the woman said. “My name is Cindy Drexler. And what might your names be?”

  Joanna and Deborah exchanged a brief, confused, and panicky glance.

  “We’re new employees,” Deborah managed to say after a few false starts.

  “How nice,” Cindy said. She came forward, hand outstretched, and shook hands with each of the women. “And your names?” she repeated, looking directly at Joanna, whose hand she’d just shaken.

  Joanna stuttered for a moment, desperately searching for some rational way to decide whether to use her real name or her alias. “Prudence,” she blurted out, remembering they were trespassing.

  “Georgina,” Deborah quickly mimicked.

  “Nice to meet you two,” Cindy said. “I suppose you’ve come for a tour?”

  Joanna and Deborah exchanged yet another rapid glance although now out of auspicious surprise rather than panic.

  “We’d love a tour,” Deborah said. “We were so mesmerized by the door, we had to see what was in here.” Deborah gestured selfconsciously at the stainless-steel door.

  “I’m not accustomed to giving tours,” Cindy said with a self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ll give it my best shot. Here, in this room, which, by the way, was the old pantry for the kitchen back in the Cabot days, we have the eggs ready for nuclear transfer tomorrow. They will be going up to the lab in the dumbwaiter which is just around the corner. They’re in the incubators with the red tags. We use a color-coding system down here. The incubators with the blue tags are the fused cells which will be going back into the embryo room.”

  “What kind of eggs are they?” Deborah asked. “I mean, what species.”

  “Human eggs, of course,” Cindy said.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, the animal eggs are handled in the animal culture room down at the farm.”

  “Where do so many human eggs come from?” Deborah asked.

  “They come from what we call the organ room,” Cindy said.

  “Can we see?” Deborah asked.

  “Of course,” Cindy said. “Just follow me!”

  Cindy gestured toward the archway through which she’d arrived and motioned for the women to follow. Joanna and Deborah fell in behind her. “What luck to run into her,” Deborah whispered, leaning her head close to Joanna’s. “This is almost too easy.”

  “You’re right!” Joanna whispered back. “It is too easy. She’s being too gracious. I don’t like it. If it were up to me, we’d leave now!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Deborah complained. “Always the cynic! Let’s enjoy our good fortune, find out what we can, and then split.”

  After passing through several rooms of proportions and contents similar to the first room, they came to a room considerably larger. Behind a row of incubators was a bank of more than fifty aged wooden doors, each about three feet square with heavy latches like meat refrigerators. Deborah hesitated. “Excuse me, Cindy.” She pointed toward the timeworn doors. “Are these what they look like?”

  Cindy stopped on her way into an even larger room beyond. She followed Deborah’s pointing finger. “Are you asking about those old ice compartments?”

  “Was this area the morgue in the building’s former life?” Deborah asked.

  “It was indeed,” Cindy said. She walked back and with a bit of effort rolled one of the large incubators to the side to expose the doors. She opened one and slid out the wheeled, stained wooden tray. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? They had to load the ice in the other side. I wouldn’t have wanted to be down here if they ever ran out of ice. Can you imagine?” She laughed uneasily.

  Deborah and Joanna looked at each other. Joanna shuddered. “Let’s get this visit over with.”

  “Would you like to see the rest of the morgue?” Cindy asked. “The old autopsy theater with a grandstand is still intact. Back in the nineteenth century it must have substituted for entertainment out here in the sticks.” She laughed again, this time more hollowly than anxiously. “In those days it took a whole day to get to Boston by carriage, and there wasn’t much for the staff to do when off duty. Let me show you.”

  Cindy took off in a direction opposite to the way she’d originally been heading. Deborah followed after her vainly trying to get her attention. Joanna took up the rear, not wanting to be left behind.

  “Cindy!” Deborah called, quickening her pace. “We’d really rather see the organ room!”

  Undeterred, either not hearing or just ignoring Deborah, Cindy continued on to a set of leather-covered double doors with small oval windows. Pushing one open, she leaned into the darkness and snapped on a light switch. The sound was a low-pitched thud and large, old-fashioned kettle drum-shaped lights came on. They were high in the ceiling and acted like spotlights to illuminate an old metal autopsy table.

  Joanna, who’d come up behind Deborah, took in the scene and caught her breath. The setting with the rows of spectator seats rising up into the gloom was even more like the gruesome anatomy-lesson painting than the operating room upstairs where she’d had her procedure.

  “This is very interesting,” Deborah said with a sarcastic overtone after taking a quick gander into the room. “But, if you don’t mind, we much prefer to see the organ room.”

  “How about checking out the old autopsy tools?” Cindy questioned. “Myself and a couple of the other techs were joking the other day about sending them out to Hollywood for a horror movie.”

  “Let’s see the organ room,” Joanna stated flatly.

  “Fine by me,” Cindy said. She turned out the light and started along the hall again. She glanced at her watch, a gesture Joanna noted but Deborah didn’t. It was the third time Joanna had seen the woman do it. Deborah was busy, looking back the way they’d come.

  “Isn’t the organ room the other way?” Deborah called out to Cindy who was a dozen paces ahead.

  “We can get to it either way,” Cindy said over her shoulder. “But this route is shorter.”

  As Deborah caught up to the others she saw ahead a pair of horizontally oriented doors like dumbwaiter doors in an opening the size of a small garage. As the group walked past, Deborah asked about them.

  “That’s the old freight elevator,” Cindy said coming to a stop. “The dead bodies used to come down in it from the upper floors.”

  “That’s a cheery thought,” Joanna commented. “Let’s keep moving!”

  “It’s actually been handy for us,” Cindy said. She tapped the doors appreciatively with her knuckle. “We’ve used it to get most of the equipment down here. Would you like to see how it works?”

  “We’d prefer to see the organ room,” Joanna said. “I think we know how a freight elevator works.”

  “Fine by me,” Cindy said again.

  After passing through a twenty-foot-long, narrow vaulted passageway which, Cindy explained, penetrated the foundation support for the building’s Italianate tower, the women found themselves on the threshold of the largest room they’d seen in
the subterranean complex. It was at least one hundred feet long and fifty wide. In it were row upon row of voluminous Plexiglas aquarium-like containers approximately six feet long, three deep, and two wide. Each contained multiple glass spheres approximately a foot in diameter that were submerged in fluid. From the top of each sphere sprouted a tangle of tubes and electric leads. On the surface of the fluid floated a continuous layer of tiny glass spheres.

  For a moment the women just took in the spectacle. Although the walls of the room were still exposed brick, the scene was more like what they had expected when they’d first passed through the stainless-steel door. Even the ceiling was higher in this space than in the other rooms due to an absence of the overhead piping and ductwork. The lighting was also less harsh, but with the addition of an apparent ultraviolet component.

  While Deborah was transfixed by the vista, Joanna caught Cindy again checking her watch. What made the repeated gesture remarkable to Joanna was the woman’s otherwise apparent hospitality. If she were so concerned about the time, as suggested by her constantly looking at her watch, why was she spending so much of it with them? It was a question for which Joanna had no immediate answer, but it progressively bothered her.

  “What exactly are we looking at here?” Deborah asked.

  “This is the organ room,” Cindy explained. “These tanks are constant-temperature water baths. The small floating spheres are to keep the bath water from evaporating. The larger spheres hold the ovaries.”

  “So,” Deborah commented, “you’re able to keep entire ovaries alive by, I assume, perfusing them etcetera.”

  “That’s pretty much the story,” Cindy said. “We’ve mimicked their accustomed internal environment with oxygen, nutrients, and endocrine stimulation. Of course removing waste products is also important. At any rate, when we do it right, the ovaries are constantly ovulating mature oocytes.”

  “Can we see closer?” Deborah asked.

  Cindy gestured ahead. “By all means.”

  Deborah walked down an aisle between two rows of the tanks and stopped to gaze within one of the spheres. The contained ovary was about the size of a flattened walnut with a ragged, pock-marked surface reminiscent of the moon. Tiny perfusion cannulas were connected to the major ovarian vessels. Various sensing wires were attached at other points on the small organ.