Shock

TEN

AFTER LUNCH HELEN MANAGED to get the two women into the golf cart despite Joanna's reservations. Once the tour began, even Joanna found it interesting. The size of the property was impressive, and most of it was covered with dense, old-growth forest. The residences of the upper-echelon personnel like Wingate, Saunders, Donaldson, and a few of the others were detached homes similar to the gatehouse in style although 'with white trim instead of black, making them significantly more appealing.

Even the average workers' housing was charming. The buildings were two-story row houses grouped together in a fashion reminiscent of a rural English village. The two-bedroom unit Helen showed the women was quite homey. Its front windows looked over a small, cobble stoned central square, while its larger rear windows faced south, affording a view over the millpond. Equally attractive was the rent: eight hundred dollars a month.

At Deborah's insistence, after leaving the apartment Helen took them on a short loop around the farm and even around the power plant before bringing them back to the main building. The only downside of the entire excursion was that Joanna and Deborah were never out of Helen's earshot and had no chance to speak privately. It wasn't until Helen deposited them back in the anteroom of Wingate and Saunders's office to wait for Dr. Wingate that they had their chance to talk.

"What was your take on those pregnant workers in the dining room?" Deborah asked in a whisper to keep Gladys, the secretary, from overhearing.

"I was blown over," Joanna said. "I can't believe they have a whole group of migrant women who are being paid to become pregnant!"

"Do you think it is some kind of experiment?"

"Heaven only knows," Joanna said with a shudder.

"The question is, What are they doing with the children?"

"I should hope the children are going back with the mothers to Nicaragua," Joanna said. "I don't even like to think of any other possibility."

"The first thing that comes to my mind is that they are selling them," Deborah said. "Surrogacy doesn't seem likely since they are all so equivalently far along. Selling them could be quite a lucrative business on the side. Being an infertility clinic they certainly have the appropriate clientele, and when we were here a year and a half ago you were impressed with the money this place was seemingly raking in."

"I was impressed with the money they have to be generating from the infertility business," Joanna said. "With the numbers they're obviously doing here, they don't have to be in the baby business to make ends meet. It doesn't make sense! Selling babies is against the law, pure and simple, and Helen Masterson was so up-front about it. If they were doing something against the law, she certainly wouldn't have been so forthright."

"I suppose you're right," Deborah said. "There has to be some reasonable explanation. Maybe they are women suffering from infertility themselves. Maybe helping them get pregnant is part of the deal to get them to come."

Joanna treated Deborah to a look of disbelief. "That's even less likely than surrogacy and for the same reason."

"Yeah, well, I can't think of any other explanation."

"Nor can I," Joanna agreed. "I'm going to be happy to learn about my eggs, and then turn my back on this organization. I felt uneasy about this place the first day we came here to donate, and today has just underlined that impression."

The door to Dr. Wingate's office opened and the doctor emerged with narrow-rimmed reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Clutched in his hand were balance sheets, which he continued to examine intently up until the moment he placed them on the secretary's desk. He didn't appear to be pleased.

"Call the accountants," he muttered to Gladys. "Tell them I want to see all four quarters of last year."

"Yes, sir," Gladys said.

Spencer gave the balance sheets a final knock with his knuckle; were still mulling over their contents before looking in the direction. He took a fortifying breath and then walked over to where they were sitting. As he approached his expression softened and a tentative smile appeared.

"Good afternoon, Miss Marks," he said, reaching out to shake hand, which he held for an extra moment as he locked eyes with her. Then turning to Joanna he said: "I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name. Georgina mentioned it, but it's slipped my mind."

"Prudence Heatherly," Joanna said. She shook Spencer's hand and stared up into his face. Deborah had been right; the man didn't look like her father, yet there was something about him that was similarly superficially appealing.

"I'm sorry to have kept you ladies waiting,' he said, switching his attention back to Deborah.

"We've been enjoying a chance to sit and relax," Deborah said. She could tell the good doctor was having trouble keeping his eyes off her crossed legs. "Miss Masterson has kept us on a busy schedule."

"I hope your visit has been successful."

"Very much so," Deborah said. "We'll be starting work tomorrow."

"Excellent," Spencer said. "Excellent indeed." He rubbed his hands restlessly and looked back and forth between the two women as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. He pulled a chair over and sat down across from them. "Well," he said. "What can we get you: coffee, tea, or a soft drink?"

"Some sparkling water would be nice," Deborah said.

"Same for me," Joanna said reluctantly. She felt like the odd man out. She hadn't particularly wanted to come to Wingate's office, and now that she had, it was painfully obvious the man was unabashedly interested in Deborah. As far as Joanna was concerned, the way he was looking at Deborah bordered on disgusting.

Spencer told the secretary to get the cold drinks. While she was doing so, he made small talk about the clinic. When the secretary returned it was with only two small bottles of San Pellegrino.

"Aren't you having anything?" Deborah asked.

"No, I'm fine," Spencer said. But he didn't seem to be. He crossed and uncrossed his legs several times while the women poured their drinks. He was obviously nervous about something.

"Are we taking too much of your time?" Joanna inquired. "Perhaps we should go and let you get back to your work."

"No, don't go," Spencer said. "Timewise I'm fine. What I would like to do, Miss Marks, is have a word with you in private."

Deborah took the glass from her lips and stared at Spencer. The question was so unexpected she wasn't sure she'd heard correctly.

Spencer pointed toward his office. "If we could just step into the other room for a moment, I would be appreciative."

Deborah looked at Joanna, who shrugged, suggesting it didn't matter to her, although Deborah could tell she was not amused about the whole situation.

"All right," Deborah said, redirecting her attention back to Spencer. She put her glass down on the coffee table, and with a muffled grunt got herself to her feet. Following Spencer's lead she entered the office. Spencer came in behind her and closed the door.

"I'll come right to the point, Miss Marks," Spencer said. For the first time he avoided looking at her by directing his attention out the giant window. "I've encouraged an unspoken policy here at the clinic discouraging social liaisons between management and employees. And since you will technically not be an employee until tomorrow, I was wondering if you would consider having dinner with me tonight." The moment he got the last word out, he turned from the window and regarded her expectantly.

Deborah was rendered momentarily speechless. She'd been enjoying the part she was playing, but she hadn't anticipated attracting anything more than a second look. She hadn't expected to he asked out by the head of the clinic – a man who she'd assumed was married and who was at least twice her age.

"There's a quaint restaurant not too far out of town," Spencer said as Deborah hesitated. "I don't know if you've been there yet. It's called the Barn."

"I'm certain it's charming," Deborah managed, finding her voice. "And it's awfully nice of you to think of me, but there are some logistical problems. You see, my roommate and I don't live out here. We live in Boston."

"I see," Spencer said. "Well, perhaps I could talk you into an early dinner. I believe they open as early as five-thirty, which isn't very long from now. That way you could be on the road back to Boston as early as seven or eight o'clock."

Instinctively Deborah checked her watch. It was almost four in the afternoon.

"I certainly enjoyed our little chat this morning," Spencer added encouragingly. "I'd love to continue it and learn more about what aspect of molecular biology captures your fancy. I mean, we obviously have common interests."

"Common interests," Deborah scoffed to herself while she stared into the man's blue eyes. She sensed a touch of desperation in this successful – and reasonably attractive – physician. Deborah decided to test the water. "What would Mrs. Wingate say about this idea?"

"There is no Mrs. Wingate," Spencer responded. "Unfortunately my wife divorced me a number of years ago. It was unexpected. In retrospect I suppose I was too dedicated to my work and neglected my marriage."

"I'm sorry," Deborah said.

"It's all right," Spencer said, lowering his eyes. "It's a cross I've had to bear. The good side is that I've finally come to terms with the situation, and I'm ready to get out there and socialize to some extent."

"Well, I'm flattered that you have thought of me. But, I am out here in Bookford with my roommate, and we have only one car."

"You don't think she could entertain herself for a couple of hours?"

Deborah could not believe this guy. Did he truly believe that she'd be willing to ask her best friend to twiddle her thumbs for two hours so they could have dinner? It was so absurdly egocentric she couldn't think of an immediate reply.

"There're plenty of things she could do in town," Spencer said. "There's a nice little bar and a surprisingly good pizza place. And the local book store is a favorite hangout with an espresso bar in the back."

Deborah was about to tell the good doctor to go jump in the mill pond when she held back. A way of turning the unexpected situation to her and Joanna's benefit occurred to her like a bolt out of the blue. Instead of telling Spencer off, she said: "You know, dinner at the Barn is starting to sound very tempting!"

Spencer's face brightened. "I'm pleased, and I'm sure Penelope, or what ever her name is, will find checking out the town enjoyable. As for you, I'm sure you'll find the Barn a surprisingly good restaurant. The food is country style but tasty, and the wine list isn't so bad either."

"Her name is Prudence," Deborah said. "The deal is that Prudence comes to the restaurant as well."

Spencer's expression clouded. He started to protest, but Deborah cut him off

"She's a great kid," Deborah said. "Don't be too quick to judge because of her style. She might look conservative, but let me tell you, she can be a hell-raiser when she gets a few drinks under her belt."

"I'm sure she's lovely," Spencer said. "But I was hoping to have some time with you alone."

"You might find this hard to believe," Deborah said. "But we often go out on dates together with the same guy, provided the guy is willing to have an open mind." Improvising in hopes of being seductively coquettish, she winked while touching her upper lip with the tip of her tongue.

"Really?" Spencer commented as his imagination took wing. He'd never been with two women before, although he'd seen such episodes in X-rated videos.

"Really!" Deborah said, trying to make her voice huskier than it really was.

Spencer gestured with his palms up, fingers spread. "Hey, I certainly have an open mind! Let's do it!"

"Wonderful," Deborah said. "We'll meet you at the Barn at five-thirty. And do me a favor."

"Certainly," Spencer said. "What?"

"Don't work too hard the rest of the afternoon. It will be better if you're not too tired."

"You have my word," Spencer said, raising his hands in surrender.

JOANNA SLAMMED THE CAR DOOR AND STUCK THE KEY IN the ignition, but she didn't start the car. Instead, she leaned her forehead against the steering wheel while Deborah got in on her side.

"Now run this by me once more," Joanna spat. "Did you tell me that you agreed for the two of us to go to dinner with this disgusting lecher who you admit has some sort of sexual fantasy in mind? Tell me that I'm just dreaming this all up!"

"No, you got it right," Deborah agreed. "But I'm surprised at your description of the good doctor. This morning you said he was distinguished."

"That was in response to his appearance, not his behavior; and that was this morning, not this afternoon."

"Well," Deborah said. "You should have let me know you felt so strongly before I was carried off into his office."

Deborah knew she was taunting Joanna, but her roommate hadn't given her a chance to explain the situation. As they left Wingate's office, Deborah had mentioned the evening's plans, and Joanna had immediately launched into an angry diatribe. Then, without allowing Deborah so much as another word, Joanna had stormed out of the Wingate Clinic.

"This car is going back to Boston straightaway," Joanna announced. "If you want to stay out here and get it on with that rake, that's your business, but personally I think you are crazy."

"Will you calm down!" Deborah said.

"I'm quite calm enough," Joanna said. "Now, are you getting out or what?"

"Shut up and listen!" Deborah ordered. "I had the same reaction as you when he first suggested dinner. But then it occurred to me he has something we want and need: something critical!"

Joanna took a deep breath to keep from lashing out again at Deborah. As usual Deborah was forcing her to ask. "Okay," Joanna said at length. "What does he have that we need?"

"His blue access card!" Deborah said triumphantly. "He's more than a department head, he's the founder! His blue card will certainly open the door to the server room and probably every other door in the entire place."

Joanna lifted her head from where she'd been leaning it against the steering wheel. What Deborah was saying was undoubtedly true, but what did it matter? She looked at her roommate. "He's not going to give us his access card because we go to dinner with him."

"Of course not," Deborah said. "We're going to take it! All we have to do is get him drunk, and while one of us is diverting him, the other snags the blue card."

At first Joanna thought Deborah was just being her blithe self and that she'd laugh and say she was just kidding. But she didn't. She returned Joanna's gaze with a look of self-satisfaction.

"I don't know," Joanna said. "Sounds easy on paper, but difficult to execute."

"You said yourself we were going to have to be creative to get into the server room," Deborah said. "This is creative."

"You're making a lot of assumptions," Joanna said. "How do you know he drinks? Maybe he's a teetotaler."

"I don't think that's a worry," Deborah said. "He mentioned that the restaurant where we're supposed to meet him has a good wine list. Wine and women are definitely on his mind."

"I don't know about this idea," Joanna said reluctantly.

"Oh, come on," Deborah said. "Admit it's a good ideal Have you come up with another plan for getting into that room?"

"No, but…"

"But nothing," Deborah interjected. "What do we have to lose?"

"Our dignity."

"Oh, please! Give me a break!"

Just then Dr. Donaldson and Cynthia Carson came out through the clinic door. Joanna suddenly scrunched down and ordered Deborah to do the same.

"Now what?" Deborah asked, mimicking Joanna and flattening herself below the level of the window.

"Dr. Donaldson and Cynthia Carson just came out of the clinic," Joanna whispered. A few minutes ticked by. The women heard car doors open and slam shut followed by the noise of the tires moving on the gravel-strewn pavement. Only then did they sit up.

"I'm getting out of here," Joanna said after making sure the coast was clear. She started the car, jammed it in gear, and backed out of the parking spot.

"So," Deborah said, "are you with me or not?"

Joanna sighed. "All right," she said. "I'll give it a try. But to get that blue card will take more than dinner. We'll have to get him to take us back to his house."

"Probably," Deborah admitted. "But we might get lucky."

"As far as the division of labor is concerned, I want to make it clear that you'll be doing the distracting and I'll be doing the extracting."

"I think we'll have to play it by ear. As I said earlier, he's expecting some kind of menage a trois."

"Good grief!" Joanna exclaimed as she nosed the car up to the gate to get it to open. "None of my old friends in Houston would believe this!"

The women drove into town and revisited the RiteSmart drugstore to ask directions to the Barn. The pharmacist had gained a few pounds but was just as cheerful as he'd been a year and a half previously.

"The Barn is about two miles north of town," he said, pointing up Main Street in the direction they'd come. "It's a good restaurant. I recommend you have the pot roast, double-baked potatoes, and the cheesecake with chocolate sauce."

"That sounds like nice, light fare," Joanna mocked as they returned to the street.

The women spent a half hour window shopping to pass some time before getting back into the car and driving out to the restaurant. It was a quaint establishment having been an actual barn in its previous life. Lots of old-fashioned farm equipment graced the grounds, and some was even attached to the side of the building. Inside, the animal stalls had been converted into eating areas with banquettes. The only windows were in the front creating a dark, cozy atmosphere in the interior.

"Miss Marks and Miss Heatherly?" the hostess asked before the women had a chance to say a word. When they answered yes, she motioned for them to follow. Clutching several menus, she led them to the rearmost stall. There in the dim, candlelit recess was Dr. Spencer Wingate decked out in a blazer with an ascot and matching pocket square. When he caught sight of Joanna and Deborah, he bounded out from behind the table, gallantly kissed each woman's hand, and then graciously gestured for them to sit down. The hostess placed menus in front of each woman, smiled, and disappeared.

"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I've taken the liberty of ordering some wine before you got here." He reached out and turned the labels of the two bottles sitting on the table toward the women. "A crisp white and a full-bodied red! I like my reds full-bodied." He laughed briefly.

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 so 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, 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 eves red. He'd changed out of his blazer and was wearing an elaborately trimmed, dark green velvet smoking jacket. With an elaborated 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…". " 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 IT 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 decolletage. "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 into 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."

"You know," Joanna suddenly suggested, "he might have passed out."

"That's a happy thought, and I suppose it's a distinct possibility. He's now had two martinis and three and a half bottles of wine over a three-hour period."

"Let's go up and look, but you first!"

"Thanks, buddy."

The women went to the bottom of the stairs. With the music thudding away even at its reduced volume there was no possibility of hearing any noise from above. Sticking close together, they mounted the stairs and then hesitated at the top. There were a number of closed doors, although at the end of a corridor one was ajar. A bit of weak light spilled out onto the hall carpet. Other than the music from below there was no sound.

Deborah motioned for Joanna to follow, and feeling like trespassers the women headed toward the open door. When they reached the threshold they had a full view of an undisturbed king-sized bed. The only light was coming through an open door to a bathroom beyond. Spencer was nowhere to be seen.

"Where the hell is he?" Deborah whispered angrily. "Could he be playing some kind of game with us?" Joanna's earlier suggestion sprang into her mind.

"Should we look in the other rooms?" Joanna asked.

"Let's check the bathroom," Deborah said.

They'd taken no more than three steps into the room when Joanna's grip on Deborah's arm tightened suddenly.

"Don't scare me like that!" Deborah complained.

Joanna pointed toward the bed. On the opposite side just visible were Spencer's feet snagged in his trousers. With some trepidation the women went around the bed and looked down. Spencer was lying prone with his shirt half off and his pants in a bundle around his ankles. He was obviously sound asleep and breathing heavily.

"It looks like he fell," Joanna said.

Deborah nodded. "I'd guess in his haste he tripped on his pants. 'Once horizontal he was out cold."

"Do you think he hurt himself?"

"I doubt it," Deborah said. "He wasn't close enough to anything to hit his head, and this broadloom is two inches thick."

"Do we dare?"

"Are you kidding?" Deborah said. "Of course we dare. He's not going to wake up." She bent down, and after a brief search and a tug, she extracted Spencer's wallet. Spencer did not move.

The wallet was inordinately thick. Deborah opened it and began rifling through it. The blue access card was not immediately apparent, but she found it in one of the compartments behind the credit cards. "I like the fact that it was hidden away," she said. She landed it to Joanna, bent back down, and slid the wallet back into the pocket she'd found it in.

'Why do you care where he had it in his wallet?" Joanna asked.

'Because it means he doesn't use it often," Deborah said. "We don't want him to miss it until after we've had a chance to use it. Come on! Let's find those car keys, hide them, and get the hell out of here."

"Getting out of here is the best suggestion you've made all day,' Joanna said. "As far as the car keys are concerned, why bother? He's not going to wake up for at least twelve hours, and when he does, he's not going to feel much like driving."

KURT HERMANN STARED AT THE POLAROID PHOTO OF THE new employee, Georgina Marks. He was holding it in his rock steady hand beneath the green-glass-shaded desk lamp. As he studied her face he recalled the appearance of her full body, with her breasts ready to spill out over the front of her dress, and her skirt barely able to cover her behind. To him she was an abomination, a direct affront to his fundamentalist mentality.

In his slow, deliberate style, Kurt laid the photo down on the desktop next to the photo of the other new employee, Prudence Heatherly. She was different – obviously a Bible-fearing female.

Kurt was sitting in his office in the deserted gatehouse where he frequently spent his evenings. Adjoining the office was a makeshift gym where he could hone his muscular, finely tuned frame. As a determined loner he avoided socialization. And living on the Wingate premises made it easy, especially since the institution was sited in a small town which had nothing to offer as far as he was concerned.

Kurt had been working for the Wingate Clinic for a little more than three years. The job was perfect for him, with just enough intrigue and challenge to make it interesting and yet not so busy that he had to work too hard. His military experience made him uniquely qualified for security. He'd joined the army directly after high school and had made it into the Special Forces, where he'd been trained for covert operations. He'd learned to kill with his bare hands as well as with any number of weapons, and he'd never been troubled by it.

Joining the army had not been the beginning of his association with the military. Having grown up as an army brat, Kurt had never known a different lifestyle. His father had been in the Special Forces and had been a strict disciplinarian who'd demanded utter obedience and perfection from his wife and child. There'd been a few ugly scenes in Kurt's early adolescence, but he'd fallen into line quickly enough. Then his father had been killed in the waning days of Vietnam in a Cambodian operation which to this day was still classified. To his horror, after his father's death his mother embarked on a series of love affairs before she wound up marrying a prissy insurance salesman.

The army had been good to Kurt. Appreciating his abilities and attitude, it had always been there to smooth over the minor brushes with the law that Kurt's aggressive behavior sometimes brought on. There were a number of things Kurt could not tolerate, but prostitution and homosexuality in any form were at the top of the list, and Kurt was not one to shy away from acting on his principles.

Things had gone well in Kurt's life until he'd been posted to Okinawa. On that rugged island, he admitted, things had gotten out of hand.

Slowly Kurt leaned over and stared again into Georgina's eyes. On Okinawa he'd met a number of women just like her. So many, in fact, he'd felt a religious calling to reduce their numbers. It was as if God had spoken to him directly. Getting rid of them was easy. He'd have sex with them in an isolated environment, and then, when they had the moral depravity to demand money, he'd kill them.

He was never caught or charged, but eventually he was implicated by circumstantial evidence. The army solved the problem by discharging him under President Clinton's government employee reduction plan, which turned out to be mostly from the military and not from the bureaucracy. A few months later Kurt answered an ad placed by the Wingate Clinic and was hired on the spot.

Kurt heard the gate creak open followed by the sound of a car accelerating through the tunnel. Pushing back from his desk, he went to the window and opened the shutters. He could make out the taillights of a late-model Chevrolet as it disappeared down the gravel road. He looked at his watch.

After closing the shutters, Kurt returned to the desk. He looked down at the woman's now-familiar face. He'd seen that car come in soon after Wingate's and he'd followed it up to Wingate's house. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know what was going on behind closed doors. The appropriate Biblical passages immediately sprang to mind, and as he recited them his hands balled into tight fists. God was talking to him again.