Shock

EIGHT

SPENCER WINGATE TOSSED aside the magazine he'd been reading and looked out at the countryside spread out below. Spring had finally arrived with its typical New England sluggishness. The patchwork of fields and meadows had assumed a deep, verdant green color although isolated patches of ice and snow were still visible in the deeper gullies and ravines. Many of the hardwoods were still without leaves, but they were covered with delicate yellow-green buds ready to burst, which gave the undulating hills a softness, as if they were upholstered in diaphanous green fleece.

"Hew much longer before we touch down at Hanscom Field?" Spencer called out, loud enough for the pilot to hear over the whine of the jet engines. Spencer was in a Lear 45; he owned a quarter share, although not of the plane he was currently in. Two years previously he'd signed on with one of the fractional-ownership companies, and the service had served his needs admirably.

"Less than twenty minutes, sir," the pilot yelled back over his shoulder. "There's no traffic so we'll be flying directly in."

Spencer nodded and stretched. He was looking forward to returning to Massachusetts, and the vista of the quaint southern New England farms fanned the fires of his anticipation. He'd wintered for the second year in a row in Naples, Florida, and this season he'd become bored, especially over the last months. Now he couldn't wait to get back, and it wasn't just because the Wingate Infertility Clinic's profits were down.

Three years previously, with the clinic purring and money pouring in faster than he'd ever deemed possible, he'd fantasized about retiring to play golf, write a novel that would become a movie, date beautiful women, and generally relax. With that goal in mind, he'd started a search for a younger man to take the day-to-day reins of his booming business. Serendipitously he'd found an eager individual fresh from an infertility fellowship at an institution where Spencer had lectured; he'd seemed heaven-sent.

With the business taken care of, Spencer turned his attention to where he'd go. On the advice of a patient who had extensive experience with Florida real estate, he found a condominium on the west coast of Florida. Once the deal had been consummated, he'd headed toward the sun.

Unfortunately, reality did not live up to his fantasy. He was able to play a lot of golf, but his competitively busy mind found it less fulfilling than he would have liked over the long haul, especially since he could never rise above an irritating level of mediocrity. Spencer considered himself a winner and found losing intolerable. Ultimately he decided there was something basically wrong with the sport.

And the idea of writing turned out to be even more of a bust. He discovered it was harder work than he'd envisioned, and it required a degree of discipline he did not have. But worse yet, there was no immediate positive feedback like he'd gotten seeing patients. Consequently and rather quickly he gave up the novel-movie idea as not suitable for his more active personality.

The social situation was the biggest disappointment. Throughout most of his life, Spencer had felt he'd had to sacrifice experiencing the kind of lifestyle his looks and talents should have provided. He'd married in medical school, mostly out of loneliness, a woman whom he came to recognize as beneath him both intellectually and socially. Once the children, which had come early, were off to college, Spencer had divorced. Luckily it had been before the Wingate Infertility Clinic had taken off. The wife had gotten the house, which had been no great shakes, and a one-time payment.

"Dr. Wingate?" the pilot called over his shoulder. "Should I radio ahead for ground transportation?"

"My car should be there," Spencer yelled back. "Have them bring it out on the tarmac."

"Aye, aye, sir!" the pilot answered.

Spencer went back to his musings. Although there'd been no dearth of beautiful women in Naples, he had trouble meeting them, and those he did meet were difficult to impress. Although Spencer thought himself rich, in Naples there was always someone a quantum leap ahead in both wealth and the trappings that came with it.

So the only part of Spencer's original retirement dream that had come to pass was the opportunity to relax. But even that had become old after the first season, and hardly fulfilling. Then came the news beginning in January that the clinic's profits were falling. At first Spencer thought it was surely an aberration or an accounting trick of writing off a major liability in one month, but unfortunately, it continued. Spencer looked into it as best he could from afar. It wasn't that revenues had dropped. Quite the contrary. It was because the research costs had skyrocketed, suggesting that Spencer's on-site leadership was sorely needed. Back when Paul Saunders had first come on board, Spencer had told him that he encouraged research, but obviously things had gotten out of hand.

"They tell me your car is already in front of the JetSmart Aviation building," the pilot called back to Spencer. "And buckle up. We're beginning our final approach."

Spencer flashed the pilot a thumbs-up sign. His seat belt was already fastened. Glancing out the window as they came in for the touchdown, he saw his burgundy Bentley convertible gleaming in the morning sun. He loved the car. Vaguely he wondered if he shouldn't have taken it to Naples. Perhaps with it he would have had better luck with the ladies.

SPRING WAS A SEASON WHICH JOANNA HAD ALWAYS LOVED with its flowers and with its promise of warm, soft summer evenings to come. Spring had always arrived early in Houston with an avalanche of color that overnight transformed the dull, flat landscape into a fairyland of azaleas, tulips, and dogwoods. As she drove northwest out of Boston on the way to Bookford she tried to concentrate on such happy remembrances and the euphoria they engendered, but it wasn't easy.

First of all there were few flowers in evidence and hence not much color save for the green grass and the light green of the budding trees. Second of all she was irritated at Deborah, who was sitting next to her and happily singing along with the radio tuned to soft rock. Although her roommate had promised I'm not going to go that far with her disguise, in Joanna's estimation she'd gone beyond the pale. Her hair was now strawberry blond, her lips and augmented nails a bright crimson, and she was attired in a decollete, miniskirted dress combined with a padded Miracle Bra and high-heeled shoes. The final touches were dangling earrings and a tiny rhinestone-studded heart necklace. In sharp contrast, Joanna had on a dark blue mid-calf-length skirt, a buttoned high-necked white blouse, a pale pink, cardigan sweater also buttoned up to the top, and clear-plastic-rimmed glasses. Her hair was dyed a mousy brown.

"I seriously doubt you are going to get a job,' Joanna said suddenly, breaking a long silence. "And maybe I won't either because of you."

Deborah switched her attention from staring out the windshield to her roommate's profile. Although she didn't say anything immediately, she leaned forward and switched off the radio.

Joanna's eyes diverted briefly to Deborah's, then back to the road ahead.

"Is that why you're so quiet?" Deborah asked. "You've not said boo practically since we left this morning."

"You promised me you wouldn't turn this into a joke," Joanna said.

Deborah looked down at her panty-hose-covered knees for a moment. "This is no joke," she said. "This is called taking advantage of an opportunity and having a bit of fun."

"You call it fun, and I call it a study in bad taste."

"That's your taste," Deborah said. "And, ironically, mine too. But not everybody would agree with you, particularly not the male population."

"You don't seriously think men are going to be turned on by your appearance, do you?"

"Actually, I think they will be," Deborah said. "Not all men, mind you, but a lot. I've watched men react to women dressed like this. There's always a reaction, perhaps not for reasons I care about, but nonetheless a reaction, and for once in my life I'm going to experience it."

"I think it's a myth," Joanna said. "I think it's a female distortion similar to men's idea that women are turned on by brawn and big muscles."

"Nah! I don't think it's the same at all," Deborah said with a wave of her hand. "Besides, you're speaking from your old traditional female upbringing with dating serving as a prelude to marriage. Let me remind you yet again that men can look at women and dating as being a game or even a sport. They see it as entertainment, just as, I'd also like to remind you, the modern twenty-first-century woman can."

"I don't want to get into an argument about this issue," Joanna said. "The problem is, we've an appointment with a woman, and I doubt that she is going to be amused with your appearance. The bottom line is that I don't think you will get a job, pure and simple."

"I disagree on that regard as well," Deborah said. "The personnel director is a woman, I grant you that. But she's got to be a realist about recruitment. I'm applying for a job in a laboratory, not out in the front meeting patients. Besides, they saw fit to hire that redhead receptionist who was almost as provocatively dressed as I am."

"But why even take the chance?" Joanna complained.

"The worry was, as you voiced it yourself, whether or not we'd be recognized," Deborah said. "Trust me1. We're not going to be recognized. On top of that we're having a little fun. I'm not going to give up trying to loosen you up and keep you from having a social relapse."

"Oh, sure!" Joanna said. "Now you're going to try to convince me that your dressing up like a tart is for my benefit. Give me a break!"

"All right, mostly for me, but a little for you too."

By the time they got to Bookford and drove through town, Joanna had reconciled herself to Deborah's appearance. She imagined that the worst-case scenario would be for Deborah not to get a job, but there was little reason that Deborah's difficulties would affect her chances. Deborah's not getting a job would hardly be a disaster. After all, Joanna had originally planned to go to the Wingate Clinic by herself. It was Deborah who'd insisted on coming along.

"Do you remember where the turnoff is?" Joanna asked. On the previous visit she'd not been driving, and whenever she was the passenger she had difficulty remembering landmarks.

"It will be on the left just after this upcoming curve," Deborah said. "I remember it was just beyond this barn on the right."

"You're right; I see the sign," Joanna said as she straightened the car after the turn. She slowed and pulled off onto the gravel road. Ahead they could see the stone gatehouse. Nosing into the tunnel beneath the house and barring their way was a line of trucks. The uniformed guard could be seen, clipboard in hand, apparently conversing with the driver inside the cab of the first truck.

"Looks like delivery time for the farm," Deborah said. The back of the last truck said WEBSTER ANIMAL FEED.

"What time is it?" Joanna asked. She was concerned about the time since they'd ended up leaving the apartment twenty minutes later than intended, having had to wait for Deborah's nails to dry.

"It's five before ten," Deborah said.

"Oh great!" Joanna commented despairingly. "I hate to be late for appointments, especially if I'm applying for a job."

"We can only do the best we can," Deborah said.

Joanna nodded. She loathed patronizing comments like that, and she knew Deborah knew it, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want to give Deborah the satisfaction. Instead she drummed the steering wheel.

Minutes ticked by. Joanna's drumming picked up its pace. She sighed and glanced up into the rearview mirror with the intention of checking how her hair had weathered the trip. Before she could adjust the mirror she caught sight of a car turning off Pierce Street onto the gravel road. While she watched, the car drove toward them, slowed, and stopped immediately behind.

"Do you remember that Bentley convertible we saw in the clinic's parking lot the last time we were here?" Joanna asked.

"Vaguely," Deborah said. Cars had never interested her other than to get from point A to point B and she could not distinguish between a Chevy and a Ford or between a BMW and a Mercedes.

"It just drove up behind us," Joanna reported.

"Oh," Deborah commented. She turned and looked out the back of the car. "Oh yeah, I remember it."

"I wonder if it's one of the doctors?" Joanna said while continuing to eye the burgundy vehicle in the rearview mirror. With the glare on the windshield, she could not see the interior.

Deborah checked her watch again. "Gosh, it's after ten. What's the deal? That stupid guard is still talking with that truck driver. What on earth could they be talking about?"

"I guess they're careful who they let on the grounds."

"That might be the case, but we have an appointment," Deborah said. She unlatched the door and slid out.

"Where are you going?" Joanna asked.

"I'm going to find out what's going on," Deborah said. "This is ridiculous." She slammed the door, then rounded the front of the car. Teetering on her toes to keep her narrow heels from penetrating into the gravel, she started forward toward the gatehouse.

Despite her earlier irritation, Joanna had to laugh at her roommate's gait until she noticed that Deborah's short skirt was hiked up on her backside thanks to static cling with her panty hose. Letting down the window, she leaned out.

"Hey! Marilyn Monroe! Your rear end is hanging out!"

USING THE KNUCKLES OF BOTH INDEX FINGERS, SPENCER rubbed his eyes briefly to bring them into better focus. He'd pulled up behind the nondescript Chevy Malibu, feeling irritated that now that he was finally here, his way was blocked by a mini traffic jam. He'd seen the two heads in the car in front but had thought nothing of them until one of them had gotten out.

For Spencer it was like seeing a mirage. The woman appeared like the person he'd been searching for and not finding the entire time he'd been in Naples. Not only was she attractive with a slim, athletic body, but she was dressed in an alluring style the likes of which he'd not seen except on rare visits to Miami's South Beach. To make the unexpected situation even more provocative, the woman's dress was pulled up in the back exposing a near-naked, panty-hose-clad derriere.

Emboldened by a sense of being on home turf, Spencer did not hesitate like he would have had he still been in Naples. He opened his door and got out. He'd heard the yell from the woman's companion, and now the skirt was down where it was supposed to be, yet it still hovered above mid-thigh, and being made of a synthetic, clingy fabric, it undulated sensuously as the woman unsteadily walked over the gravel drive.

Launching himself forward in a jog, Spencer headed toward the gatehouse in hot pursuit. As he passed the women's Malibu he caught a fleeting glimpse of the companion, which was enough to tell him she was of a totally different ilk. Slowing to a walk, he passed the first truck and approached the woman whose back was to him. She was arguing, arms akimbo, with the guard.

"Well, have them back up the damn trucks and let us go by," Deborah was saying. "We have an appointment with Ms. Masterson, head of personnel, and we're already late."

The guard with his clipboard was unintimidated. His eyebrows were raised and he had a smirk on his face as he peered down at Deborah through his aviator sunglasses. He started to respond to her suggestion, but Spencer interrupted him.

"What seems to be the problem here?" Spencer questioned in the most authoritarian tone he could muster. Unconsciously mimicking Deborah's stance, he put his hands on his hips.

The guard glanced at Spencer and told him in no uncertain terms it was none of his business and that he should get back in his vehicle. He used the words please and sir but obviously intended them as mere formalities.

"These feed trucks are not on his list," Deborah explained contemptuously. "They're acting like this is Fort Knox, for crying out loud."

"Perhaps a call down to the farm will clear things up," Spencer suggested.

"Listen, sir!" the guard said, pronouncing sir as if it were an epithet. He pointed toward Spencer's Bentley with the clipboard with one hand while resting the other on the top of his bolstered automatic. "I want you back in that car ASAP."

"Don't you dare threaten me," Spencer growled. "For your information, I'm Dr. Spencer Wingate."

The guard's menacing expression quavered as he stared Spencer in the eye. It appeared as if he were having an internal debate as to how to proceed. Deborah's attention switched from the guard to Spencer with his surprising announcement. She found herself looking up into the face of the stereotypic soap-opera doctor: tall, slender, angled face, tanned skin, and silver-gray hair.

Before anyone could verbally respond, the heavy windowless black door opened. A muscular man emerged, dressed in a black knit shirt, black pants, and black cross-trainer shoes. His dirty-blond hair was cropped short. He moved as if in slow motion, closing the door behind him. "Dr. Wingate,' he said calmly. "You should have warned us you were coming."

"What's with these trucks sitting here, Kurt?" Spencer demanded.

"We're waiting for Dr. Saunders's okay" Kurt responded. "They were not on the manifest, and Dr. Saunders likes to be informed of irregularities."

"They're feed trucks, for chrissake," Spencer pronounced. "You have my okay. Send them down to the farm so we can get in here."

"As you wish," Kurt said. He took a plastic card from a pocket and swiped it through a card swipe mounted on a pole near the first truck's cab. Immediately the heavy chain-link fence began to squeak open.

In response to the gate's movement, the driver of the lead truck started his diesel engine. In the confined space within the gate-ruse tunnel the noise was considerable as were the fumes. Deborah quickly moved outside as did Spencer.

"Thank you for solving that problem,' Deborah said. She noticed that the doctor's eyes, which were darting up and down her frame, were almost the same blue as those of the security man in black.

"My pleasure," Spencer said. To his despair his voice cracked as he tried to camouflage a surge of nervousness talking with Deborah directly. Up close, with the amount of cleavage visible, he could tell that her dark olive skin wasn't tan as he'd originally assumed. It was her normal coloring. He also noticed her eyebrows were dark, as were her eyes. Combining it all with the blond hair gave him the impression she was a wild and sensual free spirit.

"Well, see you around, doctor," Deborah said. She smiled and started back toward the car.

"Just a moment," Spencer called out.

Deborah stopped and turned.

"What is your name, if I may ask?"

"Georgina Marks," Deborah responded. She felt her pulse quicken. It was the first time she'd used the alias.

"Is it true you have an appointment with Helen Masterson?"

"At ten o'clock," Deborah answered. "Unfortunately we're late, thanks to that security fellow."

"I will give her a call and let her know it was not your fault."

"Thank you. That's very kind of you."

"So you are looking for work here at the clinic?"

"Yes," Deborah said. "My roommate and I are both interested. We plan to commute together."

"Interesting," Spencer said. "What kind of work are you looking for?"

"I've a degree in molecular biology," Deborah said, being purposefully vague about the level. "I'd like to work in the lab."

"Molecular biology! I'm impressed," Spencer said sincerely. "From what school may I ask?"

"Harvard," Deborah said. She and Joanna had discussed this issue when they'd filled out the E-mailed employment applications. Since they were concerned about being recognized from the Harvard association, they'd considered naming a different school. But they'd decided to be truthful to be able to field any specific questions about their college training.

"Harvard!" Spencer responded. He was momentarily nonplussed. Molecular biology had been enough of a surprise. Harvard only made it worse, suggesting that Deborah might not be quite as much the free spirit he'd originally taken her to be and perhaps not so easily impressible. "What about your roommate?" he asked to change the subject. "Is she looking for lab work as well?"

"No, Prudence – Prudence Heatherly – would like to work in the office," Deborah said. "She's skilled in word processing and computers in general."

"Well, I'm sure we can use both of you," Spencer said. "And let me make a suggestion: Why don't you and your roommate come to my office after you see Helen?"

Deborah tilted her head to the side and squinted her eyes as if she were assessing Spencer's motives.

"Maybe we could have a coffee or something," Spencer suggested.

"How would I find you?" Deborah asked.

"Just ask Helen,' Spencer said. "As I said, I'll be giving her a call about you, and I'll mention we'll be getting together."

"I'll do that," Deborah said. She smiled, then turned around and headed back toward the car.

Spencer watched her go. He couldn't help but notice the voluptuous way her buttocks moved beneath the silky synthetic fabric of her skirt. Although he could tell it was an inexpensive garment, he thought it was erotically flattering. “Harvard," he marveled to himself. He would have thought his old high school alma mater, Sommerville High, more likely and ultimately more promising:

"HOW CAN ANYONE WALK AROUND IN SHOES LIKE THIS ALL day?" Deborah questioned as she climbed back into the car. "You should see yourself," Joanna laughed. "It's hilarious!" "Careful!" Deborah warned. "You're going to undermine my self-esteem."

Joanna restarted the car as the truck in front began to move. "I noticed you were talking with that gentleman with the Bentley."

"You'll never guess who he is," Deborah said coyly.

Joanna put the car in gear and began to move forward slowly. To her chagrin Deborah, as usual, was making her ask. Joanna resisted for several beats, but her curiosity prevailed. "All right, who is he?" she questioned.

"Dr. Wingate himself! And contrary to your concerns, he was titillated by my outfit."

"Titillated or contemptuous? There's a big difference, although it might not be apparent."

"Without doubt, the former," Deborah said. "I have proof: We're invited for coffee after we see the personnel director."

"Are you joking?"

"Absolutely not," Deborah said triumphantly.

Joanna nosed the car into the tunnel. Spencer was still there between the man in black and the uniformed guard. Although the gate was open, it started to close with the distance Joanna had allowed to develop between herself and the truck. Spencer motioned to Joanna to stop. She did and rolled down the window.

"I'll be looking forward to seeing you ladies later," he said. "Enjoy your interviews." From his wallet he pulled a blue plastic card similar to the one the man in black had used earlier, and ran it through the card swipe. The gate stopped, lurched, and then began swinging open again. Spencer motioned for them to drive on with a gracious welcoming gesture.

"He's rather distinguished-looking," Joanna said as she motored out of the tunnel.

"I should say," Deborah agreed.

"Strangely enough, he bears a strong resemblance to my father."

"Now you're the one joking," Deborah said. She looked over at Joanna. "I don't think he looks like your father in the slightest. To me he looks like a doctor on a soap opera."

"I'm serious," Joanna said. "He has the same build and the same coloring. Even the same cold aloofness."

"You have to be reading the aloofness into him," Deborah said. "With me he was anything but aloof. You should have seen the gymnastics his eyeballs were doing thanks to the cleavage my Miracle Bra has created."

"You don't think he looks a little like my father?"

"Nope!"

Joanna shrugged. "That's strange, because I do. Maybe it's something subliminal."

The car cleared the stand of evergreens just beyond the gatehouse, affording the women the first full view of the old Cabot building.

"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."