“Here,” he said, “it’s all here. And now I’m done with it. There’ll be no more.”
Maggie called to Agnes to get Adam a cup of coffee and waited until she returned with a steaming mug before saying anything. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?” She gestured for Agnes to sit in the corner and take notes. “Do you mind?” she said to Adam.
Adam shrugged. Agnes sat down quietly and picked up a notepad.
“Tell us what happened,” Maggie said.
“I don’t know, exactly. He caught me rifling his files. Dr. Emerson knows what I’ve been doing. I think he’s suspected for some time, but today…today he caught me.”
“Then what happened, after he caught you?”
Adam walked her through the entire scenario with Thor.
“So he thinks you’re spying for Second Chance?”
“Yes, and I’m out of it now. I want nothing more to do with this. Did you know my hair is falling out? Nerves. It’s from nerves. My hair’s all over the bathroom sink, in the shower, on the floor, everywhere. Even my wife noticed it. I can’t take it anymore. I want out. My wife and I talked it over this weekend. I’m leaving Second Chance. I’m resigning as soon as I’m finished here. If Dr. Emerson ever finds out that I wasn’t copying those papers for Second Chance, I don’t know what he’d do. But I know this, I’m not taking any more chances. I have a family to think about. So this is it. Okay? I don’t care what you do with this stuff as long as you don’t involve me.”
Maggie reached over the desk and took the papers from Adam’s hand. She glanced at the top page and began reading:
Confidential protocol, Dr. Jack Vancouver, tissue use: HIV pathogenesis in scid-hu mice. To study the in-vivio role of various genes of HIV-1 pathogenesis and to determine the molecular basis of differences in the pathogenic properties of various stains. Tissue requested: liver, thymus, brain, lymph 16-24 week gest., note sex if possible. Fresh, buffered media to be provided (RPMI w/10% fes, 5 units/ml superoxide dismutase and pen/strep/glutamine). Ship on wet ice.
Maggie noticed that the ship- to address was a major university in California. She tossed the page on her desk and began reading the next one:
Confidential protocol, Dr. R. Bersero. Tissue requested: liver 17-23 week gest. (whole). Specifications: fresh, UW’s soln.
The ship- to address was a major Boston hospital, directed to the attention of Surgical Oncology. She tossed that page, then started reading the next:
Protocol, placenta & membranes (cord is wanted, if possible, but not necessary). Tissue use: human collagens. Protocol, prenatal cartilage of leg and hip. Tissue use: study of biochemical characterization of human type-X collagen. Dr. Beverly Blake, cut whole placentas into two- to four-inch-square uniform sections and place sections in individual Ziplock bags directly on dry ice. Whole intact leg, include entire hip joint, 22-24 weeks gest. Age of fetus must be determined and noted. Indicate footpad measurement. Four to five specimens per shipment in special media provided. Wet ice. Dorianna Gray—division of Galaxy Cosmetics.
She flipped through the rest of the papers. There had to be at least thirty purchase orders in her hand, split almost evenly between Second Chance Foundation (on behalf of various universities, hospitals, and pharmaceutical companies) and Dorianna Gray/Galaxy Cosmetics. She tossed the entire batch onto her desk. Her body trembled. She hoped it didn’t show.
“You can’t walk away from this. You must come forward. Without you, the story won’t have the same credibility.”
Adam shook his head. “Like I said, I have a family. My daughter’s only two. She needs a father. A thing like this can cause a lot of trouble. We’re talking big money here. Nobody wants to see their gravy train derailed.”
“Maybe if you discussed it with your wife again and—”
“I told you from the beginning I didn’t want to get involved. These people are dangerous. I’ve been in this business long enough to see and hear what happens when someone tries to monkey with the system. You have to understand how serious this is. I’m talking about people getting killed. It’s happened before. In this business, threats are often backed up with action.”
Maggie nodded. “I know that and I appreciate all you’ve done. I’m sorry for pressing so hard, but this is so big, so…horrendous. It has to be made public. But I understand your position. I’ll use this information in a way that will do the most good—without compromising you. You have my word. You won’t be linked with any of this.”
“I trust you, otherwise I wouldn’t have come here in the first place. And about that other matter, the clinic massacre. Just forget I ever said anything. Okay?”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know what made me say anything—what I was thinking.” Adam rose to his feet. “But I don’t want to get involved with any of it. I have a family…”
“You still haven’t changed your mind about that? You still think Thor Emerson had something to do with those killings in his own clinic?”
“I’d stake my life on it.”
“Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression, the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?” Maggie had been staring at the Scripture for over an hour. Since coming home from the Life Center, she had been sitting on her bed with her Bible open to this passage. Every time she tried to turn the page, to get on to something else, her eyes, her mind, her heart returned to Micah 6:7. She could not afford to be at odds with God. Too much was happening. But how could she go forward with God unless she dealt with this? Even as she stared at the Scripture, she knew there could be no shortcuts. Was she ready for that?
“Shall I offer my firstborn for my transgression?” Maggie had put the sin of her abortion under the blood of Jesus years ago. So why was God bringing it up now? The Scripture had come to her on the ride home. Maggie knew it wouldn’t leave her until God was finished. She closed her eyes and leaned into the pillows propped against the headboard. She would not fight Him. She would give Him His way, let Him touch that spot she had kept protected under a shield of denial—yes, this time she would let Him touch it.
“But I have forgiven!” Maggie screamed into her bedroom. “I have forgiven.” And even as she said it she knew it was only partially true. She began to cry. It had been part of her for so long—this hate, this anger—and whenever she felt it she always confessed it to God. She had forgiven the abortionist for destroying her child, for lying to her and telling her it was only a blob she was carrying, for brutalizing her body, but she had never, never forgiven him for making it impossible for her to ever get pregnant again, for ever being able to deliver a beautiful baby, to hold her baby in her arms, to smell fresh baby powder on its little body, to hug and kiss it, to weep and laugh and dream with her child. She had never forgiven the abortionist for taking away her promise.
She thought of Kirt’s words: “Satan has stolen so much from you.” Then, as clear as any voice she had ever heard, she heard the Lord speak to her mind. Will you let him steal more?
Maggie threw herself face down on the bed. She felt so wretched, so deeply miserable. This was not the full life God had called her to.
She felt a presence in her room and looked up, but saw no one. It was as if God was there, waiting patiently for her answer. Will you let him steal more? And this time she heard her own voice answer, “No, Lord. No more.”
11
DR. THOR EMERSON PACED back and forth in front of his desk. Even though it was Sunday and no one was in the office, he wore a gray pin-striped suit and white shirt. The only concession he had made was that he wore no tie and his shirt was open at the collar. He had spent years building his image as a consummate businessman, and it was hard to break the habit even when he was alone. He had not been in his “command center” for a week. His abortions at the Brockston Clinic kept him too busy.
He was grateful to Clara for her tenacity in getting someone to replace Dr. Newly. After weeding through several undesirables, she began calling abortion clinics wit
hin a fifty-mile radius, polling doctors to see if they were satisfied in their present service and, if not, what it would take to change employer. In one day she had found her new recruit, a doctor with a good reputation who was unhappy over certain slipshod practices at his clinic. She assured him that the Brockston Clinic observed the highest standards, then promised him a substantial increase in salary.
Thor wished the new doctor could start tomorrow, but it would be at least four more weeks before he joined the team, two-weeks’ notice and two weeks for an extended and, according to the new doctor, much-needed vacation.
Thor watched his adult Clowns, a swirl of yellow, white, and black, dart behind the staghorn coral. He loved it here, away from the sights and smells of the clinic, away from the constant whining of the suction machines. He had begun hearing them in his sleep.
He walked over to his desk and sat down. It irritated him that the only time he had now was on Sundays, his golf days. But he needed the day to see what his other clinics had been doing that week and put out any fires that inevitably sprang up in this business. Fires. He really had one this time. His stomach turned at the thought of having to call Louie. He had put it off, had saved it until all his other business was finished. Now, only one white card, pulled from his Rolodex, remained on his highly polished mahogany desk. He fingered it briefly, then placed it back on his desk and began pacing again.
Thor found himself standing by the tank, tapping the glass to force the half-dozen young Clowns from their hiding places among the seaweed. He had missed the long-awaited event. And even though it was an occurrence preceded by both great excitement and expense, his interest in the Clowns had ebbed. It was only with the mildest curiosity that he watched them now.
He looked with envy as the parent Clowns emerged from behind the coral only to dart into the hollow ceramic pirate’s vessel. It was easy for them to hide from the outside world. If only his life could be that simple. His envy dissipated when he noted the symbolism of the sunken ship. No, he wasn’t going to get morbid and entertain thoughts like that. His ship was not about to sink, and certainly not by the hand of Adam Bender.
Thor headed back to his desk, sat down, and dialed the phone. Within seconds, he heard the familiar baritone voice. He pictured the hand, with two fingers missing, holding the phone at the other end.
“Hello?”
“It’s Thor, Louie. We might have a problem.”
“No ‘hello—how are you’? Just ‘Louie, we have a problem’? What am I? A quasi-cleanup/problem-solving service? Why is it that you college types have the most despicable manners?”
“Sorry, Louie. It’s Sunday and I didn’t want to take up your time with small talk. I figured you had better things to do.”
“I suppose I do. So what’s the problem?”
“I’m not sure. I said we might have a problem.”
“Enough with the semantics. Just come out with it, Thor.”
“Well…you know how you asked me to make the Dorianna Gray POs top priority? And I did, but that meant I had to bump another large wholesaler to second position and—”
“You’re not usually this long-winded.”
“Well, unlike Dorianna Gray, where my in-house tech takes care of things, Second Chance Foundation has its own tech in place. And this tech, Adam Bender, helped himself to my files and probably made copies.”
“Probably?”
“More than likely. At first I thought I could handle things because I assumed he was just doing some industrial espionage for Second Chance.”
“What changed that?”
“I found out that Adam quit Second Chance. And when I spoke to Carl Langley, the president, no mention was made about me bumping him for you, so I’m sure he doesn’t know. Which means—”
“Which means that Adam Bender is working for someone else.”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“More than likely.”
“Why is it you never say what you mean, Thor?”
Thor jammed the file card back into the Rolodex. “I thought you should know, that’s all.”
“I’ve always believed that self-preservation was a marvelous incentive for communication. So, what did he pilfer? What did he get that could hurt us?”
“He got POs for collagen.”
“Why is that a problem? It’s not illegal. So Dorianna Gray acquires placentas for their wrinkle creams, so what?”
“He may also have gotten copies of POs for type-X collagen.”
Louie rattled off a string of four-letter words. “How could you be so stupid! You know how much money my friends have invested?”
“Don’t get excited, it may—”
“Thor, for a college guy, you can be pretty obtuse. These investors want to keep low profiles. Any ripple, no matter how small, will be unwelcome.”
“We may be lucky if ripples are all we get.”
“For your sake, I hope you’re wrong.”
Thor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I think the question right now should be, what are our options?”
“Are you utterly stupid? You think I’m going to discuss options over my home phone? You let me handle things. I’ll discuss this with pertinent parties and take it from here.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Maybe you should go back to college.”
Becky Taylor brushed her long hair over and over. She could hear the static crackle between the bristles of her brush, could feel the strands of hair rise around her head. But she couldn’t see it because she avoided mirrors. She just couldn’t stand looking at herself.
Her mother had bought her a white oxford shirt for the occasion, but she didn’t wear oxfords anymore, especially not white. The new shirt was on the closet floor, buried under shoes and an assortment of wrinkled clothes. Instead, she had chosen a gray cotton pique polo, which belonged to Paula and hung loosely over her jeans. Paula’s shirts had always been a little big on her, but lately they drooped. She didn’t tuck it in. Her ribs might show and then she’d have to listen to her mother complain about how thin she looked. Who could eat?
She continued brushing her hair, thinking about whether she really wanted to go. Her stomach felt queasy. What would they talk about? Will I have to share, give my story like one of those people at Alcoholics Anonymous? She didn’t think she could do that. But if she could just sit and listen…if she could do that, then maybe she’d go.
Maggie Singer had given her hope. But since that meeting at the Life Center, her hope had been slowly leaking away, leaving her flat and more depressed than ever. And her insomnia had gotten worse. She was afraid to sleep, afraid she would dream and hear that suction noise, hear that baby crying. The only improvement at all was that she no longer felt like an oddity. She knew she was not alone. Other girls felt as she did. Other girls cried in their sleep, if they slept at all, and other girls also wished they could undo what they had done, would give just about anything to undo what they had done.
She heard footsteps down the hall and hoped they were not coming her way. When there was a light tap on the door, Becky sighed. Almost hourly her parents found some excuse to come to her room and check up on her. What do they think I’m going to do? Slit my wrists? She opened the door and stared into her mother’s face. Her mother seemed to have aged ten years, her father fifteen. They both looked so old. She had done that. She had broken the hearts of the two people she loved most in the world.
“Are you ready?” her mother asked almost inaudibly. Becky noticed that both her parents had started speaking softly. The words in their house had become too painful. “Are you ready?” her mother repeated when Becky didn’t answer.
Becky shrugged.
“You are going? You haven’t changed your mind?”
Becky looked into her mother’s pleading face and nodded. When Becky did, she felt an inexplicable excitement that surprised her, and she realized for the first time how much she really wanted to go, how much s
he need to go.
Becky watched a smile break out on her mother’s face. It wasn’t a real smile though. Just a shift in her mother’s face that said she didn’t hurt so badly, for this one split second the pain had subsided. The next minute it was back.
Becky reached over and gave her mother a hug. She could hear a sob tumble from her mother’s lips.
“Now remember, if it gets too weird, or if they say anything to upset you, you can walk out. You don’t have to stay. But I’m glad you’re going. Maybe…maybe they can help. I only wish I could go with you. I don’t know why mothers aren’t allowed. I don’t understand—”
“It’s better this way, Mom. I need to do this myself. Maybe later I’ll ask if you can come. We’ll see.”
Nancy Taylor dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry, Becky. I’m so sorry. I never thought it would be like this. I never meant for you to get hurt. If we had only known, we would’ve tried…tried to find another way. I’m…so…sorry.”
Becky put her arms around her mother again. “I know, Mom. So am I.”
Becky sat at the same kitchen table where she had sat the first time she came to the Life Center. The large twelve-cup Krups machine was busy brewing coffee, and the aroma of Colombian decaf filled the room. She looked at the scratched pine cabinets, the faded green floral wallpaper, the clean but slightly cracked beige vinyl floor that was supposed to look like ceramic tiles. It was an eighties kitchen, so like her own. It could almost fool one into thinking she was at a friend’s, except that no one spoke. All eight of the girls, many older than Becky, sat quietly around the table, nervously fingering their empty coffee cups, waiting for someone or something to break the tension.
“Hello!” Maggie Singer said, almost bouncing into the room, joy written all over her face.
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