by Tim LaHaye
“Tell me, Gus, have you ever been deep-sea diving?”
Chapter 24 Thursday, 8:57 a.m.
Nothing but a patchwork of off-white clouds, accented with the occasional thread of gray, blanketed the morning sky. While it looked like a storm was brewing, no rain was mentioned in the forecast. In a way, Jodi was thankful for the overcast sky. It felt appropriate. Like Stan, she felt she, too, was going over to the dark side.
At the crack of dawn, Jodi had hit the floor running. For starters, she figured she needed to dress the part. She wanted to look like a pregnant, worried, teen girl. She was both a teen and a girl, so that much was easily covered. And she felt sure she had the worried part down pat.
After all, she had spent much of the night stressing out about her decision to go. What if they saw through her act? Would they throw her out? Would they call the police? What if they hauled her off and tossed her in some prison cell at the South Pole for the rest of her life?
Okay, so that was an overreaction. Still, she didn’t think it would be difficult to look worried.
As for being pregnant, she had settled on loose jeans, a simple, oversize black top, plain earrings, sneakers—didn’t pregnant women always seem to wear sneakers?—and dark sunglasses, which, she figured, suggested anonymity. She wore a hint of makeup and pulled her hair back, bunching it up at the back of her head, holding it in place with a hook and pin.
She had opted for a saddlebag-style purse, which had plenty of room for Stan’s urine sample and her dad’s voice-activated, microcassette player with fresh batteries.
Jodi turned her car onto the street where the clinic was located.
According to the map, the Total Choice Medi-Center was situated on the border between Philadelphia and an aff luent suburb. She checked the street numbers. Stan had said it was a two-story building adjacent to a small, professional center with plenty of parking.
Her heart was pounding, her hands moist on the steering wheel. She was really doing this. She was about to enter another world. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she felt like saying, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
As the building came into view, two things struck her. The building wasn’t the sleaze joint she had envisioned. It was a well-maintained facility with manicured landscaping. She also saw a small parade of people with placards and handmade signs strolling up and down the sidewalk in front of it. A picket line? Great.
She pulled into the parking lot, parked and locked the car, slipped on her sunglasses, draped her purse over her shoulder, and headed for the sidewalk. Although nobody was blocking the sidewalk, she noticed the only way to the front door was to walk past the two dozen or so protesters.
Her heart leaped. These pro-life advocates were going to think she was there to get an abortion. Now what? How could she explain what she was really doing without blowing her cover? If she remained silent, for all she knew someone from her church might be milling about in the crowd.
She could imagine the rumors in youth group on Sunday.
Suddenly, her coming to this place wasn’t such a simple matter of doing background research for her story. At the same time, it was too late to turn back. She planted a smile on her face and then started down the sidewalk, which ran parallel to the street.
The goose bumps popping up all over her body didn’t help. She blew out a breath to control her anxiety.
As she approached, a nun on her right was praying the rosary. Just beyond her, a couple wore matching T-shirts with the words “Life: What a beautiful choice.” A mother with two kids in a stroller held up a poster that read, “Children are a gift from the Lord.”
A sign mounted on a stick, bobbing up and down, caught her attention: “Thank God your mother was pro-life.” Someone else held a sign saying, “God loves you . . . and your unborn baby, too.”
Moving past the first few people was easy enough. Their smiles were warm and inviting. The faces of the little ones were the most irresistible. A toddler with round, red cheeks waved. Jodi, unsure how to respond, smiled, cupped her hand, and gave a half-wave back. She walked on. As she did, she overheard several people whispering prayers.
“May she change her mind . . .”
“Give her courage to love her baby even now . . .”
“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
How she wished she could assure these dear ones that she wasn’t here for the reason most women came to this building. She admired their efforts and wanted to say, “I’m on your side . . . I’m not even pregnant . . .”
Instead, she ducked her head. Not in shame, but to keep from engaging the protesters. She didn’t want to compromise the whole point of her being there. Several steps more and she’d be through what felt like a minefield filled with hidden explosives.
She walked on, and the posters bounced with urgency.
It wasn’t hot, but Jodi felt herself breaking out in a cold sweat. She seemed to move in slow motion, as if in a dreamlike state. Each step felt more difficult than the one before it, as if the sidewalk were suddenly rising uphill beneath her.
Another ten steps or so and she’d be able to turn left toward the building. She heard, and then saw, a man in his mid-thirties break away from the others. His face was puckered as if he had sucked on a lemon. He wagged a finger at Jodi. He chanted, “Baby killer . . . baby killer . . . baby killer.”
Jodi stopped in her tracks; her heart ran wild.
Unlike the others, who protested in relative silence, this man actually scared her. His eyes narrowed; his face reddened. One of the others tried to pull him back in line. He yanked his arm free and stepped closer to Jodi.
Jodi gripped her purse in front of her as if it would keep the angry man at a safe distance. Shaken, Jodi started to walk again. Just get me there. She found herself longing to reach the safety of the clinic’s front door.
How ironic, she thought. Before she had arrived, she’d viewed the clinic as some sort of dragon to be slain. Now, with this monster in her face, the clinic seemed almost like a place of refuge. Gosh, do I ever sound like that?
The man continued his chant: “Baby hater . . . baby killer . . . baby murderer . . .”
Jodi couldn’t contain herself anymore. She marched five steps over to the man and, bracing herself, said, “Listen, buddy, whatever happened to ‘They’ll know we are Christians by our love’? Or, did you forget that part?” She thought she heard the nun behind her say, “Amen.”
The man’s beet-red face looked as if it would explode. Jodi felt a hand squeeze her arm. The hand tugged gently at her as a voice said, “Come with me, sweetheart. I’m with the women’s center. I’m sorry about that.”
Jodi threw one last laser blast at the man with her eyes over the top of her sunglasses before turning to follow the clinic worker.
At the front door, Jodi noticed a security camera. The worker rang the bell. An instant later and with a buzz, the security lock yielded. Jodi was ushered through the front door. It closed behind her with a soft thud.
“I’m sorry about that. Don’t worry; we’ve already called the cops. Now, how can we be of service?”
Jodi removed her glasses. She was inside. She was also ready to leave. An inner voice was screaming, “Run!” As she struggled to silence her fears, she realized she hadn’t prayed before coming. She whispered, “Jesus, be with me . . . now!”
“Miss?”
Jodi wrung her hands as she said, “Oh, sorry. I’m here to see . . . Delores. We talked yesterday.”
“If you’ll have a seat, I’ll get Delores.”
Jodi moved to a row of chairs but remained standing. She reminded herself she was here as a reporter and needed to gather as many details as possible. The sparsely decorated space was clean, comfortable, and devoid of any medical licenses hanging on the wall. She made a mental note.
A black woman in a f loral dress, Jodi guessed in her late thirties, came to the counter. “I’m Delores . . . you must be Jodi.”
Jodi clung to her purse and offered a weak smile. “That’s me.” She reached inside her purse and, with a f lick of a switch, carefully clicked on her recorder.
“Very good. I’m so glad you came,” Delores said. “If you’ll come with me and have a seat over here.” With the wave of a hand, she motioned Jodi around the corner of the reception counter to what looked like a consultation area. The walls were painted a relaxing beige, the trim and doors a warm burgundy with navy blue accents. Very classy.
Jodi did as instructed. As she sat, she placed her purse on the desk and then folded her hands in her lap. She heard a door open behind her. She looked over her shoulder, hoping to see Stan with his big, beaming smile walk through the door. The thought was comforting. Instead, a nervous-looking girl was escorted to an adjacent consultation booth.
Jodi had never felt so alone.
Chapter 25 Thursday, 10:03 a.m.
On the second floor of the Total Choice Medi-Center, Dr. Graham paced behind his desk like a caged tiger. With a phone glued to his ear, he had stopped counting after ten rings. Through a clenched jaw, he muttered, “Where is she? Why isn’t she answering?”
Jenna hadn’t shown on the boat for dinner last night. He was infuriated. He could understand how a last-minute conflict might prevent her from coming, but there was no excuse—none whatsoever—for not calling. She had all his numbers, including the number for the phone on the boat.
Granted, the evening hadn’t been a complete waste. He was confident he had Joey Stephano sufficiently tucked away in his back pocket. And he had Gus tucked away in one of the boat’s lower storage compartments. Dr. Graham knew he had to somehow put his hands on Gus’s video. Once the tape was safely in hand, he’d be free to send Gus swimming in the ocean.
Naturally, he would hire a couple of hoodlums to do the dirty work. But not yet. Dr. Graham had no choice but to keep Gus alive just in case the old fool lied about where he had mailed the video. Besides, at the moment, he was preoccupied with the fact that Jenna hadn’t come to work and hadn’t called in sick.
“Answer your phone, Jenna.”
After a dozen rings, he banged down the phone, poured a drink, and then dialed another number, this time to his lawyer in Maryland. He answered on the first ring.
“Hello?”
Dr. Graham barked, “I’ve got a situation.”
“Yes?”
“My ex-partner did a stupid thing. A very stupid thing.”
“What now?”
“A video. He has—or had—a videotape made without me knowing about it . . . until now.”
“Of what? A romp with an employee?”
“No. Worse. Remember the Casey situation?”
The lawyer whistled. “He has that on film?”
“So he says.” Dr. Graham swore. “He gave me a letter and claimed he filmed everything.”
Just before Gus had resigned from his partnership with Vic, Dr. Graham had accidentally delivered a live, late-term baby. His first mistake was to have improperly assessed the age of the unborn baby. The couple said it was twenty-six weeks, but upon delivery, the fetus turned out to be closer to thirty-four weeks.
It wasn’t supposed to live, but it did.
The baby’s cry had been unmistakable. Dr. Graham had been paid handsomely by the wealthy couple to terminate, and failure wasn’t an option. He dismissed his two assistants and, with nobody watching—or so he thought—he finished what he had been paid to do.
But it didn’t end there. Having heard the cry of the baby silenced, the patient filed a lawsuit citing infanticide and asked for ten million dollars in emotional damages. The case had been dismissed on grounds of insufficient evidence.
It was a case of his word against hers.
The prospect of this videotape falling into the wrong hands sent a chill down his spine.
After a minute, his lawyer asked, “Blackmail?”
“More like revenge. He’s mad at me for sicking the IRS dogs onto his trail. So now he’s played his trump card.”
“I see. Where is he?”
Dr. Graham took a sip from his glass tumbler. “Let’s just say he’s . . . contained.”
A silence passed between them.
“What about the tape?”
Dr. Graham swore again. “He mailed it to the local newspaper.” He took another drink. “What are my options? Can you throw an injunction against them . . . I don’t know, something that keeps them from opening the stolen property?”
“Look, Vic, I’ll try anything, you know that, but . . .”
“But what?”
“I don’t think we have time . . . and if we did, good luck trying to enforce it.”
Dr. Graham’s intercom buzzed. “Hold on,” he said to the lawyer. He punched a button. “Yes?”
“We’re ready for you—”
He snapped. “Where’s Jenna? Has she called?”
“No, sir.”
Dr. Graham squeezed the base of his neck as he considered the options. “Send that new kid in here—what’s his name?”
“Stan Taylor.”
“Yes. Do it. And I’ll come down when I’m good and ready.” He punched the blinking line on hold. “I’m back.”
“Look, Vic, just an idea, but do you know anybody over at the newspaper you could approach?”
Dr. Graham massaged his temples. “Just had dinner with the owner last night.”
“Perfect. Call him—”
“And tell him what? Tell him he’s likely to be receiving evidence of a murder but that he should ignore it?” He hit the top of his desk with a fist. “You’re dumber than I thought.”
“Vic, shut up and listen—”
Dr. Graham ground his teeth. “No, you listen to me, you overpaid, good-for-nothing idiot. You find a way—a legally binding remedy—to impound that tape. And do it this instant.”
He slammed down the phone, his lungs laboring beneath his chest. His right hand shook as he reached for his glass. Running his left hand through his hair, he sipped his drink and then, using the speakerphone, dialed Jenna’s number.
Two rings. Three rings. Five rings. No answer.
He heard a knock at the door.
“What is it?” Dr. Graham asked, ending the call.
“It’s Stan. You wanted to see me?”
Dr. Graham searched his face. To be sure, the kid was wet behind the ears. But he appeared to be smarter than most. Surely he could follow simple instructions.
“You got a car, kid?”
“Sure do.”
“Then do this,” Dr. Graham said. He scribbled a note on a piece of paper. “That’s Jenna’s apartment address. You met her yesterday,” he said without looking up.
“Uh-huh.”
“Look, I want you to drive over there. She’s at the Village Manor Apartments,” Dr. Graham said, handing Stan the paper. “You know where that is, right?”
Stan looked at the directions. “Sure thing.”
“Tell her . . . tell her she’s needed at work.”
“Now?” Stan said, pointing toward the door.
“Yes, now.”
“Sir, should I call first? Maybe—”
Dr. Graham snarled. “Don’t be stupid. Her phone isn’t working. That’s why you’re going over there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re short-handed and I’ve got a building full of patients.”
Chapter 26 Thursday, 10:13 a.m.
Jodi’s nervous system was on maximum spin. Everything had gone pretty much as she’d expected. The pregnancy test was “inconclusive,” so Delores requested a urine sample. Jodi had carefully poured Stan’s sample into the cup and then tried to avoid looking as guilty as she felt when she handed the specimen to Delores.
The in-house lab results came back in a brisk fifteen minutes indicating that, yes, Jodi was most likely eight to ten weeks pregnant. Delores had explained that, in these iffy situations, a final confirmation would be made by the doctor during a pelvic exam.
All included in the pr
ice.
Jodi lay on the examination table in room 1, as immobile as her pounding heart would permit. She had changed into a tentlike, faded green hospital gown. Her purse, shoes, pants, and personal effects were bundled together and rested on the stainless steel counter at her side.
The anticipation of meeting Dr. Graham, and of just lying on the table where so many lost their chance at life, was almost unbearable. Worse, the idea of this man giving her a pelvic exam was beyond humiliating. She wished she could close her eyes, tap her heels together three times, and wake up in the safety of her bedroom.
She knew to get to the truth, she needed to swallow her pride and, at least for several seconds, surrender her modesty while the doctor probed. She folded her hands across her stomach and started to pray, “Lord, I can’t do this . . .” She had barely begun to pray when Dr. Graham zoomed into the room, two medical assistants following in his wake.
All three wore white surgical masks and skullcaps.
An odd sensation resonated in the back of her mind. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of her impression. But it struck Jodi that they wore their masks for the same reason the Lone Ranger wore his—to conceal his true identity.
Bingo.
Stan mentioned he was never to call Dr. Graham by name.
She studied their appearance. No name tags. Not that she expected Dr. Graham to wear a peel’n’stick label that read, “Hi. My name is Dr. Death.” Still, as far as she could remember, even Delores never called Dr. Graham by name. She thought, Let’s see if he at least introduces himself.
Dr. Graham snapped his fingers with impatience. The assistant produced Jodi’s paperwork attached to a clipboard. He snatched it, scanned it, and handed it back.
“Let’s see what we’ve got, sweetie.”
Sweetie?
Dr. Graham approached the table, pulling on a pair of surgical gloves. She thought she caught a whiff of alcohol hiding behind a heavy dose of mouthwash. He placed a hand on her stomach and pressed down. Jodi stiffened, as if confronted by a rattlesnake.
