Vital Signs

9

Robert opened the mahogany-paneled door to his private office in the old City Hall building and stepped inside. He tossed his briefcase onto the couch and stepped over to the window. His view out onto School Street was marred by rivulets of water streaming across the outside of the window. He'd never experienced such a rainy March in Boston.

Behind him he heard his private secretary, Donna, come into the room, bringing his usual morning coffee and his usual stack of phone messages.

"Some weather!" Donna said. Her strong Boston accent made the word sound like wet hah

Robert turned. Donna had seated herself to the left of his desk to go over the phone messages, which was their usual routine.

Robert looked at her. She was a big girl, almost five-ten. In her heels, she practically looked him in the eye. Her hair was dyed blonde, the dark roots clearly visible. Her features were rounded but not unpleasant, and her body was toned from daily aerobic exercise. She was a great secretary: honest, devoted, and dependable,

She also had simple needs, and for a moment Robert wondered why he hadn't married someone like Donna. Life would have been so much more predictable.

"Would you like sugar in your coffee?" she asked pleasantly.

Coffee sounded more like caw fee

"No, I don't want coffee," Robert said sharply.

Donna looked up from her notes.

"Aren't we testy this morning," she said.

Robert rubbed his eyes, then came around and sat down at his desk.

"I'm sorry," he said to Donna.

"My wife is driving me crazy."

"Is it that infertility stuff?" Donna asked timidly.

Robert nodded.

"She began to change just about the time we admitted that we might have a problem," he said.

"Now, between this in-vitro fertilization rigmarole and all the hormones she's on, she is truly out of control."

"I'm sorry," Donna said.

"To make matters worse, she's met up with an old medical school friend who's in the same situation and who is behaving equally irrationally," Robert said.

"They seem to be feeding off each other. Now they are threatening to break into a health care clinic to get into their records. Unfortunately, I have to take her seriously in the state of mind she's in. I wouldn't put anything past her. But what can I do? And, on top of everything, this clinic has guards armed with Colt Pythons. I'm really worried about her."

"They have snakes at this clinic?" Donna asked, wide-eyed.

"Huh? No, not snakes. A Colt Python is a revolver capable of stopping a black rhino."

"I can give you some advice," Donna said.

"If you're really worried about what Marissa might do, you should hire a private investigator for a few days. He could keep her out of trouble if she is really inclined in that direction. And I happen to know someone who is very good. I used him to follow my former husband. The bum was having an affair with two women at the same time."

"What's this investigator's name?" Robert asked. The idea of having Marissa followed hadn't occurred to him, but it had some merit.

"Paul Abrums," Donna said.

"He's the best. He even got photos of my ex in bed with both girls. Separately, of course. My husband wasn't that kind of guy. And Paul's not that expensive."

"How do I get in touch with him?" Robert asked.

"I've got the number in my address book in my purse," Donna said.

"I'll get it."

Marissa peered into the otoscope to try to catch a glimpse of the eardrum of the writhing infant on the examination table. The mother was attempting to hold the baby but was doing a miserable job. Annoyed, Marissa gave up.

"I can't see anything," Marissa said.

"Can't you hold the child, Mrs. Bartlett? She's only eight months. She can't be that strong."

I'm trying," the mother said.

"Trying isn't good enough," Marissa told her. She opened the examination room door and called for one of the nurses.

"I'll send someone in as soon as I can," Muriel Samuelson, the head nurse, shouted.

"For heaven's sake," Marissa muttered to herself. She was finding work exasperating. Everything was an effort, and it was difficult to concentrate. All she could think about was the pregnancy test she'd have after the weekend.

Stepping out of the examination room to get away from the shrieking infant, Marissa massaged the back of her neck. If she was this anxious already, what would it be like on Monday when she was waiting for the result?

The other topic on her mind was what she and Wendy were going to do about the Women's Clinic. They had to get into their records. That morning she'd gone to the medical records department at the Memorial and gotten one of the women to start a search for cases of granulomatous obstruction of the fallopian tubes. There'd been no problem. If only the Women's Clinic could be so cooperative.

"Dr. Blumenthal, you have a call on line three," Muriel yelled to her over the sound of crying babies.

"What now?" Marissa muttered under her breath. She went into an empty examination cubicle and picked up the extension.

"Yes?" she snapped, expecting Mindy Valdanus to be on the other end.

"Dr. Blumenthal?" a strange woman's voice questioned. It was the operator.

"Yes?" Marissa repeated.

"Go ahead," the operator said.

"You sound harried," Dubchek said.

"Cyrill!" Marissa answered.

"You're a pleasant surprise in the middle of a bad day. This place is a zoo!"

"Can you talk for a see or do you want to ring me back?"

Dubchek asked.

"I can talk," Marissa said.

"Actually, at the moment I'm standing and waiting for a nurse before I look at a child with an ear infection. So you got me at a good time. What's up?"

"I'm finally getting back to you on those questions you raised about TB salpingitis," Dubchek said.

"Well, I have some interesting news. There have been sporadic reports of a condition that's consistent with TB salpingitis from all around the country, although mostly on the West and East coasts."

"Really!" Marissa exclaimed. She was astounded.

"Has anybody been able to culture it?"

"No," Dubchek said.

"But that's not unusual. Remember, it's hard to culture TB. In fact, no one has, to my knowledge, seen an actual organism in any of these cases."

"Now that's strange," Marissa said.

"Yes and no," Dubchek said.

"It's frequently hard to find the TB bug in tuberculosis granuloma. At least that's what my bacteriology colleagues tell me. So don't make too much of that either.

What's more important, from an epiderniologic: point of view, is that there are no areas of concentration. The cases seem to be widely scattered and unrelated."

"I now have five cases in Boston," Marissa said.

"Then Boston gets the prize," Dubchek said.

"San Fran is second with four. But no one has actually looked into it. There have been no studies launched, so these cases represent haphazard reporting. If somebody looked, he'd probably find more.

Anyway, I've got a few people checking into it here at the Center.

I'll be back to you if anything interesting turns up."

"The five cases I've come across are all at one clinic," Marissa said.

"I've started to search at the Memorial just this morning.

What I'd really like to do is get access to the clinic's records.

Unfortunately they turned me down. Could the CDC help?"

"I don't see how," Dubchek said.

"It would take a court order, and with the paucity of details and low danger level to society, I doubt seriously a judge would grant it."

"Let me know if you hear anything else," Marissa said.

"Will do."

Marissa hung up the phone and leaned against the wall. The idea that tuberculous granuloma of the fallopian tube had been reported from around the country made her more curious than ever. There had to be some interesting epidemiological explanation behind it. And by a quirk of fate, not only was she suffering from the illness herself, she was part of what was the largest concentration. She had to get into the clinic's records. She had to find more cases if there were more to find.

"Dr. Blumenthal," Muriel said, stepping into the room, "I don't have anybody to help you at the moment, but I can myself"

"Wonderful," Marissa said.

"Let's go to it."

The sliding glass door opened automatically as Marissa strode into the lobby level of the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Infirmary.

Despite the cool late-afternoon temperature she had on only her thin doctor's white jacket. After a quick inquiry at the information booth, she veered right into the emergency area. She asked for Dr. Wilson at the emergency desk.

"She's in the back," the secretary said. She pointed through a pair of swinging doors that were propped open.

Marissa continued her search. Beyond the propped-open swinging doors were several ophthalmologic examining rooms, each with its barber like chair and attached slit lamp. A lone patient sat in the first room Marissa went by. In the second, the room light was out and two figures were bent over a reclining patient. Allowing her eyes to adjust, Marissa recognized one of them as Wendy.

"Now press down gently and look where you are pressing," Wendy said, guiding a junior resident through a specialized exam.

"You should see the tear at the periphery of the retina."

"I see it!" the resident cried.

"Good," Wendy said. She caught sight of Marissa and waved.

Turning back to the resident, she said, "Write it up and call the senior resident."

Wendy came out of the darkened room, blinking in the raw fluorescent light of the main part of the emergency room.

"This is a surprise," she said.

"What's up?"

"I got a very interesting call from the CDC," Marissa said.

Then she lowered her voice.

"Where can we talk?"

Wendy thought for a minute, then took Marissa around the back of the emergency area into an empty laser room. She shut the heavy door behind them.

"You look positively mischievous.

What's going on?"

"You're not going to believe this," Marissa began. She then told Wendy the gist of Dubchek's call indicating that they were dealing with a problem that had national scope.

"My word! We're on the brink of some major discovery," Wendy said, catching Marissa's enthusiasm.

"I don't think there is any doubt," Marissa said.

"And there is only one minor barrier to the whole denouement."

"Wingate," Wendy said.

"Exactly!" Marissa said.

"We have to see if there are more cases. I'm sure there are. There have to be. Once we have them all, we can begin to look for areas of commonality in all the subjects in terms of lifestyle, work, health history, all that. I'm sure if we do that with enough cases we'll come up with a theory as to the source of the TB and how it is being transmitted.

Usually TB is airborne. But if no one has any lung lesions, maybe it's traveling by some other means."

"So what do you propose?" Wendy asked.

"It's Friday night. I think we should go over to the Women's Clinic and act as if we own the place. I wore my white coat over here just to try it. No one questioned me. I walked right in as if I were on the staff."

"How soon do you want to do this?" Wendy asked.

"When are you oV." Marissa asked.

"I can leave anytime now," Wendy answered.

"Get a white coat and pens and a stethoscope," Marissa said.

"The more medical paraphernalia, the better."

Half an hour later, Marissa and Wendy slowly drove beneath the overhead walkway and past the opening into the courtyard of the Women's Clinic. They had started out the drive with excited chatter, but now, within sight of the clinic, they had fallen silent.

Both felt nervous, tense, and a little fearful. Although Marissa tried not to think about it, Robert's comments concerning the felonious nature of what they were about to attempt were preying on her mind.

"The place is still hopping," Wendy said.

"You're right," Marissa agreed. People were entering and exiting.

The windows were ablaze with lights.

"I suggest we go someplace and cool our heels for a couple of hours," Wendy said.

"How about a bar?"

"I wish we could drink," Marissa said.

"A glass of wine might calm me down. That reminds me, when do you have your blood test?"

"Tomorrow," Wendy said.

You must be nervous about that too," Marissa said.

"I'm a wreck," Wendy agreed.

Paul Abrums; rummaged in his right front pocket for a dime.

It was still one of the bargains of Boston that if you could find an ATT phone, a local call was still only ten cents.

He let the coin drop into the slot and dialed Robert's office. It was before eight, and he was confident Robert would be there.

Robert had told him earlier in the day that he'd be in his office until nine. Then he'd be at home after that. He'd given Paul both numbers.

As the phone rang, Paul turned to keep his eye on the Viceroy Indian Restaurant in Central Square. Marissa had entered with her companion over an hour ago. If she happened to come out, Paul wanted to know.

"Hello," Robert answered. He was the only one in the office.

"Paul Abrums here," Paul said.

"Is there a problem?" Robert asked, somewhat alarmed.

"Not a big problem," Paul said. He spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Your wife is with a short blonde woman who must also be a doctor."

"That's Wendy Wilson," Robert said.

"They're eating at an Indian restaurant as we speak," Paul said.

"They drove past the Women's Clinic. I thought they were about to stop but they didn't."

"That's odd," Robert said.

"But there is something else," Paul added.

"Can — you think of any reason why an Asian guy in a gray suit would be following your wife?"

"Heavens no!" Robert said.

"Are you sure?"

"About ninety percent sure," Paul said.

"He's been on her tail too long for it to be coincidence. I noticed him when your wife left her pediatric clinic. He's a young guy, I think. Sometimes I can't tell with Asians. He's dressed in a good suit."

"That's very odd," Robert said, already glad he'd taken Donna's suggestion about hiring Abrums.

"I won't take any more of your time," Paul said.

"But it was curious enough for me to ask."

"Find out who that guy is," Robert said.

"And why he's following my wife. God, I'm glad you are there."

"I don't mean to upset you," Paul said.

"Everything is under control. You relax, I'll find out… Uh oh! Your wife is just coming out of the restaurant. I gotta go."

Paul hung up the phone and hurried across the street to get into his car. He had positioned it so that he could see the car that the women were in as well as the one the Asian man was driving.

As soon as Marissa and Wendy pulled away from the curb, so did the Asian.

"That confirms it!" Paul muttered, pulling out. As he drove he jotted down the Asian's license number. Monday he'd call his friend at the motor vehicles bureau and find out who owned the car.

"You'd think we were about to rob a bank," Wendy said.

"My pulse is racing." She and Marissa got out of the car. It was a dark, windy night.

So is mine," Marissa admitted as they slammed the car doors.

"It's Robert's fault with all his talk about felonies."

They had parked in the deserted clinic employee lot at the end of the street. Clutching their collars closed and leaning into the wind, they walked back to the clinic's courtyard. There they paused. The place was significantly quieter. Except for the lobby lights, most of the windows were dark. No one was entering or exiting. There wasn't a soul in sight.

"Are you ready?" Marissa asked.

"I'm not sure," Wendy said.

"What's our plan?" Besides feeling nervous, Wendy was now shivering with cold. The temperature had dropped into the forties with a biting March wind. The thin white doctor jackets they were wearing afforded no warmth whatsoever.

"We have to find a computer terminal," Marissa said, shouting over the wind.

"Doesn't matter where, just as long as we are left alone for a while. Come on, Wendy. We're going to freeze if we stay here."

"All right," Wendy said, taking a deep breath.

"Let's go."

Without further delay, they crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps. On their way, both women nervously glanced at the rhododendron planter with its flattened bushes, an all-too vivid reminder of Rebecca Ziegler's awful fate.

Marissa tried the door only to discover it was locked. She cupped her hands and peered through the glass. Inside, a cleaning crew was busy polishing the marble floor with electric polishers.

She rapped on the glass several times, but the janitorial people didn't respond.

"Damn," Marissa said. She scanned the courtyard for another door, but there wasn't one.

"Who would have guessed they would have locked up already"

Marissa said.

"I'm freezing," said Wendy.

"Let's get back to the car and regroup."

They turned and hurried back down the steps. Crossing the

A courtyard, bent over against the swirling debris, they approached a man coming into the clinic.

"The door's locked," Wendy told him as they passed. But the man just kept walking. Then, at the mouth of the courtyard another man appeared, also heading for the clinic entrance.

"Door's locked," Wendy said again.

The women turned right and hurried toward the parking lot.

Suddenly Marissa stopped and faced back toward the courtyard opening.

"Come on," Wendy urged.

One man, then the other, appeared. Catching sight of the women watching them, they quickly walked off in separate directions.

"What's the matter?" Wendy demanded.

"Did you see that first man?" Marissa asked.

"Sort of," Wendy said.

Marissa shivered, but this time not from the cold.

"He gave me the creeps," she offered, starting to walk again.

"He reminded me of a bad trip I once had with ketamine, Weird!"

In the parking lot, Wendy fumbled with her keys. Her fingers were numb; she had trouble manipulating them. Once in the car, she reached over and opened the passenger side for Marissa. She then started the car, turning on the heater full blast.

"That was the strangest sensation I got from seeing that man," Marissa said.

"It was almost like deji vu. How can you have deji vu from a hallucination?"

"I had a bad experience with pot once," Wendy admitted.

"It was in California. Anytime I tried it after, it was the same. That was the end of pot for me."

"I had a sort of flashback recently. Robert and I were at a Chinese restaurant. It was the oddest thing."

"Well, maybe that was it," Wendy said.

"I think the first guy was Chinese. At least he was Asian."

"Now you are going to make me sound like some kind of subconscious bigot," Marissa said with a nervous laugh. Any mental phenomena outside of her control made her feel uneasy.

"What should we do now?" Wendy asked.

"I suppose we don't have a lot of choice if the doors are locked," Marissa said.

"What about going in the overnight ward on the other side of the street and crossing in the connecting walkway?" Wendy suggested.

"Great idea!" Marissa said.

"I guess it takes a genius to see the obvious. Let's do it!"

Wendy smiled, proud she had come up with a possible solution.

Marissa and Wendy again alighted from the car and ran to the overnight and emergency entrance opposite the main clinic building.

Above them loomed the darkened walkway spanning the street.

The door was not locked; Marissa and Wendy entered with ease. Once inside they made their way down a short corridor which opened to a waiting area. A few men were looking at magazines. On the right wall was a glass-fronted security office.

Directly ahead was a receptionist's desk where a nurse sat reading a paperback book.

"Uh oh!" Wendy whispered.

"Don't panic," Marissa whispered back.

"Just keep walking as if we belong here."

The two women approached the desk and started to turn right into the main corridor when the woman lowered her book.

"Can I help…" she began, but then she stopped herself, saying only, "Sorry, doctors."

Marissa and Wendy didn't answer. They merely smiled at the woman and continued down the corridor to the stairwell. After the door to the stairwell closed behind them, they nervously giggled.

"Maybe this is going to be easy after all," Wendy said.

"Let's not get cocky," Marissa warned.

"This ruse won't work if we run into anybody who recognizes us, like our own doctors."

"Thanks," Wendy said.

"As if I didn't have enough to worry about."

They started up the stairs.

"Hell!" Paul Abrums muttered as he watched the Asian enter the overnight ward of the Women's Clinic. What had started out as a simple job was rapidly becoming complicated. His first orders had been merely to tail Marissa, find out what she was up to, and, if she happened to go into the Women's Clinic, keep her from doing anything illegal. But that was before the mysterious Asian appeared. Now Robert had told him to find out who this guy was. What was more important? Paul didn't know. And now his indecision had forced his hand. Having let the women go into the clinic by themselves, he was forced to follow the Chinese fellow." Stubbing out his cigarette, Paul jogged across the street and yanked open the clinic door just in time to see the Asian make a right down a corridor.

Paul hurried ahead, taking in his surroundings. First he saw the receptionist's desk with a night nurse reading a novel. Next he spotted the waiting area with a few men sitting reading magazines.

Catching sight of some movement through a glass panel to his right, Paul slowed his steps. He found himself looking into a security office. Inside, he saw the Asian man he'd been following talking to a uniformed guard.

"Can I help you?" the woman at the desk asked. She'd lowered her book and was looking at Paul over the top of her glasses.

Paul walked over to the desk. He absently fingered a small metal tin of paper clips, trying to think of the best ruse to a opt.

"Has Mrs. Abrums come in yet?" he asked.

"I don't believe so," the woman said. She scanned the sheet on the clipboard before her.

"No, she hasn't."

"Guess I'll have to wait then," Paul said, He glanced back toward the glass-fronted security office. The Asian and the uniformed guard were facing forward and seemed to be conferring over something below the window.

Trying not to be too obvious, Paul took a stroll around the waiting area, feigning impatience by alternately looking out the front window and then at his watch.

After the woman had gone back to reading her book, Paul wandered into the same corridor the Asian had entered. About ten feet down was the entrance to the security office. The door was ajar. Spotting a drinking fountain at the end of the corridor, Paul walked briskly to it. After a drink, he sauntered back toward the waiting area, pausing at the security office's open door on his way.

The two men had not moved from the window. Paul could see that they were watching a bank of TV monitors mounted below the sill. Paul tried to overhear what they were saying, but it was impossible; they were speaking another language. He assumed it was Chinese, but he was no expert. The other detail that caught his eye was that the guard was armed with a .357 Magnum, an unusual piece for hospital security. As a retired police officer, it all seemed odd to Paul, very odd indeed.

"Cripes! They're locked!" Wendy said after trying the fire doors barring the way to the clinic's main building. They had crossed over the street in the glass-enclosed walkway, thinking they were home free until they encountered this final barrier.

"This place is shut up like Fort Knox," Marissa said.

"Damn!"

"I don't have any other ideas," Wendy said.

"What about you?"

"I think we've given it our best shot," Marissa said.

"I guess we'll just have to try our ruse in the daytime when the clinic is open."

Turning back, the two women hurried over the walkway. They didn't want to be seen from the street. But before they got to the overnight clinic side, Wendy stopped.

"Wait a sec," she said.

"This seems to be the only connection between the two buildings."

"So what?" Marissa said.

"Where are the pipes for water and heat and electricity?"

Wendy asked.

"They can't have built separate power sources for both buildings. It would be too impractical."

"You're right!" Marissa said.

"Let's try the stairwell again."

Returning to the stairs, the women descended to the basement level and cracked the door. The corridor beyond was poorly illuminated, and as far as they could tell, deserted. They listened for a few moments but heard no noises. Entering cautiously, they began to explore.

Most of the doors off the main corridor on the side facing the main building were locked. The open ones turned out to be storage areas. Eventually, to their encouragement, the corridor itself turned in the direction of the main building.

Advancing to the corner, they cautiously peered around, then abruptly pulled back. Someone was coming toward them. Almost at the same moment they began to hear the sound of approaching footsteps as they echoed in the narrow hallway.

Panicking, Marissa and Wendy ran back toward the elevators.

There wasn't much time. The footfalls were getting louder. Frantically, they began trying the doors along the way, hoping to find one that wasn't locked.

"Here!" Wendy whispered. She had discovered a cleaning closet filled with a slop sink and mops. Marissa slid inside and Wendy followed, pulling the door closed behind her.

The two women held their breath as the footsteps bore down on them. They had no idea if they had been seen or not. When the footsteps passed their door without hesitation, Marissa and Wendy breathed a sigh of relief. They heard the elevator doors open, then close. Then silence.

"Whew," Wendy whispered.

"I don't think my nerves can take much more of this slinking around."

"It's a good thing whoever that was didn't see us," Marissa said.

"I doubt if our doctor's coats would help us down here."

"Let's get out before I have a heart attack," Wendy said.

Marissa gingerly opened the door. The corridor was clear.

Venturing out, they returned to where the corridor took a bend toward the main building. No one was in sight.

"Okay," Marissa said.

"Let's go." The corridor dipped down and then up again. Thick exposed pipes ran along the left wall and along the ceiling.

At the end of that corridor, they came to another fire door.

This one wasn't locked. Pushing through, they entered the basement of the main clinic building.

A red Exit light marked the door to the stairwell. Feeling progressively more and more nervous, Wendy and Marissa entered and hurried up two flights, passing the ground floor where the janitorial staff had been working on the marble.

At the door to the second floor, they paused and listened for sounds of activity. Thankfully the place was as quiet as a mausoleum.

"Ready?" Wendy asked, putting her shoulder to the door.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Marissa said.

Wendy cracked the door against its automatic closer. The hall beyond was dark and the fluorescent light from the stairwell spilled out onto the vinyl flooring in a bright, shiny puddle. After listening again for a moment, they quickly stepped from the stairwell and let the door close quietly behind them.

The light was extinguished with the closing of the door. They waited for their eyes to adjust; there was still a bit of light coming from the streetlights outside. Once they could see again, it didn't take them long to get their bearings. They were just beyond the main elevators, near the waiting room of the in-vitro unit. This was an area of the clinic the women knew only too well.

Edging slowly down the corridor, they advanced to the waiting room itself. There the illumination was somewhat better.

Marissa and Wendy skirted the receptionist's desk, making a beeline for the doorway to the main corridor. This gave access to the doctors' offices, examining rooms, procedure rooms, and the in-vitro laboratory.

The first door they opened was to an examination room. In the dim light spilling in from the hall, the room took on a particularly sinister aspect. The stainless-steel table gleamed in the darkness, and with its stirrups, it appeared more like a medieval torture device than a piece of medical equipment.

"This place gives me the creeps in the dark," Wendy said as they circled the room.

"My thoughts exactly," Marissa said.

"Besides, there's no terminal in here."

"Let's check the doctors' offices," Wendy suggested.

"We know there will be a terminal in each of those."

Farther down the corridor there were a few dim lights from glazed laboratory doors; otherwise the whole clinic was dark.

They moved quickly but carefully, Marissa trying the doctors' offices on the left while Wendy tried those on the right. All were locked.

"They certainly are careful," Marissa said.

"I swear this place seems more Re a bank than a clinic."

"I don't think any of the offices will be open," Wendy said, stopping halfway down the hall.

"Let's go back and try ultrasound.

I think each of the units has terminals."

"I'll try the rest of the offices," Marissa said.

"You go to ultrasound."

"Oh no!" Wendy said.

"I'm not going anyplace by myself I don't know about you, but I'm really spooked in here."

"Me too," Marissa said.

"The idea of coming in here sounded a whole lot better before we got in."

"Maybe we should go," Wendy said.

"We're not handling this well."

"Let's try ultrasound first," Marissa said.

"At least it's on the way out."

The women retraced their steps toward the waiting area. The sharp cry of a siren made them both jump. The siren got louder, then faded. They realized with relief that it was only a passing police car.

"God!" Wendy exclaimed.

"We really are in bad shape."

Passing by the receptionist's desk a second time, they tried the door leading to the ultrasound area. It was unlocked. Making their way down this narrower corridor, they began trying the doors to the three ultrasound rooms. They were able to open the very first door they tried.

"A promising sign," Marissa said. Since there were no windows from which they'd be seen, they turned on the light switch.

Marissa went back and closed the door to the waiting area and then the door to the ultrasound room.

The room was about twenty feet square and had two entrances: the one they'd just entered and another that connected to the lab. The ultrasound unit dominated the back of the room along with the examination table. All the complicated electronic components were built into a console that included a computer terminal.

"Eureka!" Wendy said as she stepped over to the terminal. She sat herself down on a stool with casters and pulled herself close.

"You don't mind, do you?" Wendy asked.

"Computers was my minor in college."

"Please," Marissa said.

"I was hoping you'd take over here."

"Keep your fingers crossed," Wendy said as she turned the terminal's power switch on. The screen blinked to life as it emitted an eerie greenish glow.

"So far so good," Wendy said.

"Ahbee!" Alan Fong, the uniformed security guard, exclaimed.

"You were right. The women have entered!" He spoke excitedly in Chinese, a Cantonese dialect to be exact. He pointed to a pinpoint of light in the middle of a board below the TV monitors. The board was a schematic of the computer layout of the clinic.

"Where are they?" David Pao asked in the same dialect. He was considerably calmer than his cohort.

"They have entered the computer in one of the ultrasound rooms," Alan said. He punched up the ultrasound room monitors from his own computer terminal.

"Not that room," Alan said. He made another entry into the computer. The monitor screen remained blank.

"Trouble?" David Pao asked.

"Not that room either," Alan said. He entered the code for the third ultrasound room.

The monitor screen blinked. Then an image emerged. Wendy could be plainly seen seated in front of the computer terminal built into the ultrasound console. Marissa was standing next to her.

"Want me to record it?" Alan asked.

"Please," David said.

Alan slipped a tape into a VCR and electronically connected it to the appropriate monitor. He then pushed the Record button.

"How long?" Alan asked.

"It doesn't matter," David said.

"That's probably enough already."

Alan stopped the tape, ejected it, and then carefully labeled it.

"It is time to deal with them now," David said, taking some black leather gloves from his pocket and pulling them on.

Alan extracted his long-barreled revolver from his holster and checked the cylinder. It was loaded with soft-nosed bullets.

David's calm face showed the barest hint of a sarcastic smile.

"I hope they do not resist."

"Do not worry," Alan said with a broader smile.

"We can always make them resist."

"No trouble figuring this filing system," Wendy said.

"It's pretty straightforward. Here comes my record." Having typed up the appropriate commands, Wendy entered her social security number via the terminal's keyboard. As soon as she pressed the Execute button, the information-page of her Women's Clinic file filled the screen.

"What did I tell you!" Wendy said, obviously pleased. As she was about to advance to the next page, Marissa restrained her and pointed to the category of occupation.

"What's this 'health care worker'?" Marissa asked.

"A mild deception," Wendy explained.

"I didn't want them to know I was a physician. I was afraid it would get back to the General and my private life wouldn't be so private anymore."

Marissa laughed.

"I did the same sort of thing for the same reason.

"It's uncanny how we think alike," Wendy said.

"Now that we can call up individual records, what do you think is the best way to proceed?" Marissa asked.

"It's simple in theory," Wendy said.

"What we need is that diagnostic code the woman up in medical records said they had for granulornatous blockage of the fallopian tubes. We just have to find it. I'm hoping we'll come across it in my chart or yours.

It will appear as some kind of alphanumeric designator."

"We can use Rebecca Ziegler's record as well," Marissa said.

She got out the dead woman's social security number.

They scanned Wendy's entire record, paying particular attention to the page containing the pathology of her fallopian tube biopsy. By the time they'd reached the final page, they'd come across a number of possible candidates for the code designator.

Marissa jotted them down.

"Content-wise, there's nothing in here that I didn't already know," Wendy said.

"At least nothing that would tempt me to jump out the window. Let's go on to yours."

"Try Rebecca's first," Marissa suggested. She handed Wendy the social security number.

Wendy entered the number and executed. Instantly the computer responded by flashing "no file found."

"I was afraid of that," Marissa said.

"All right, go to mine."

She recited her social security number and Wendy entered it.

Soon Marissa's record was on the screen.

Wendy scrolled directly to the pathology page. Reading carefully, they spotted several notations they had also taken from Wendy's records.

"That's curious," Wendy said.

"Check out the microscopic."

Marissa began to read it again.

"Do you notice anything strange?"

"I don't think so," Marissa said.

"What caught your eye?"

"Let's see if you see it," Wendy said. Quickly she went back into her own record and called up her pathology page.

"Read the microscopic!"

Marissa did as she was told.

"Okay," she said when she'd finished.

"What's on your mind?"

"Still don't see it?" Wendy questioned.

"Just a second." She cleared her record and went back to Marissa's pathology page.

"Read again," she suggested.

When Marissa was finished, she looked at her friend.

"I get it now," she said.

"They're exactly the same. Word for word, verbatim."

"Exactly," Wendy said, "Do you think that's weird?"

Marissa thought for a moment.

"No, I guess I don't," she said.

"These reports were undoubtedly dictated. Doctors frequently dictate from rote when they are dictating similar cases. I'm sure you've heard surgeons dictating. Unless there's a complication, their dictations; come out verbatim all the time. I did it myself when I was on surgery. All it suggests to me is that there are more cases here at the Women's Clinic: something we've suspected all along."

Wendy shrugged.

"Maybe you're right," she said.

"It just seemed odd at first. Anyway, let's get back to what we were doing. I'll try running a search using some of these possible code designators that we've found in both our charts."

Going back to a system utility menu, Wendy began trying the various letter and number combinations Marissa had written down. The third one resulted in a list of eighteen numbers that appeared to be social security numbers.

"This looks very promising," Wendy said as she prepared to print out the list.

The only sound in the ultrasound room had been the barely audible click of the keyboard keys, but just as Wendy was about to push the Print key, Marissa heard the sound of a door opemng not too far away.

"Wendy!" she whispered.

"Did you hear that?"

Wendy responded by turning off both the computer terminal and the light. They were plunged into utter darkness.

For several minutes both terrified women strained their ears to pick up the slightest sound. All their previous fears had congealed into one moment. They held their breath. In the far distance they heard the muffled sound of a refrigerant compressor switching on in a lab. As intently as they were listening, they even heard a bus go by on Mt. Auburn Street, almost a block away.

Groping soundlessly, they found each other's hands for a modicum of comfort and held on. Five minutes crawled by.

Finally Wendy spoke in a barely audible whisper: "Are you sure you heard a door?"

"I think so," Marissa answered.

"Then I think we'd better get out of here," Wendy said.

"AD of a sudden I have a terrible feeling."

"All right," Marissa agreed.

"Try to stay calm." She didn't feel too calm herself.

"Let's head over to the door."

Still holding on to each other and fearful of turning on the light, they blindly inched across the room with their free hands out in front of them. They moved a half step at a time until they touched the wall. Advancing along the wall, they came to the door to the narrow hall.

As quietly as she could manage, Marissa opened the door, first a crack, then wider. At the end of the short hallway they could see weak light coming from the waiting room windows.

"My God!" Marissa said.

"The door to the waiting room is open. I know I closed it."

"What should we do?" Wendy pleaded.

"I don't know," Marissa said.

"We have to get to the stairwell," Wendy said.

For the next few moments, the two were paralyzed with indecision.

They let another few minutes go by. Neither heard another sound.

"I want out of here," Wendy said at last.

"Okay," Marissa answered. She was equally as eager. Together they edged down the corridor to the lip of the waiting room. Slowly they leaned out and scanned the shadows. Beyond the waiting area and down another short hall they could see the red glowing Exit sign indicating the stairwell.

"Ready?" Marissa asked.

"Let's go," Wendy said.

The two women hurried across the waiting area, moving toward the hall that would lead to the stairwell. But they didn't make it. They stopped dead in their tracks as Marissa let out a stifled cry of surprise. Directly in front of them, a figure had stepped out from the recess of one of the elevators. His face was obscured by shadows.

Wendy and Marissa spun around in hopes of making it back to the ultrasound room. But they stopped again. In front of them the door to the ultrasound area swung shut with a slam. To their horror another dark figure stepped from behind the door.

The two threatening figures began to advance. Cornered from ahead and behind, they were trapped.

"What is going on here?" Marissa asked. She tried vainly to make her tone sound authoritative.

"I'm Dr. Blumenthal and this is Dr. — " But she didn't finish her sentence. A blow flashed out of the darkness and caught her on the side of the head, hurling her to the floor with her ears ringing.

"Don't hit her!" Wendy shouted. She tried to go to Marissa's aid, but was met by a similar blow. The next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the carpet.

Then the lights went on.

Marissa blinked in the sudden glare. Her head was throbbing from the blow. She pushed herself up to a sitting position. She rubbed the spot where she'd been hit just over her left ear. Then she looked at her palm, half expecting to see blood. But her hand was clean. She glanced up at the man standing over her. He was a security guard dressed in a well-pressed, dark-green uniform with epaulets. Marissa saw that he was an Asian. He smiled down at her, his black eyes shining like onyx.

"Why did you hit me?" Marissa demanded. She had never expected such violence.

"Thieves!" the guard snarled in heavily accented English. His 7 hand shot out again and slapped Marissa in the same spot he'd hit her the first time.

A burning pain went through Marissa's face as she again fell to the carpet.

"Stop!" Wendy called as she tried to get to her feet. But the man in the gray suit kicked her feet out from under her. She fen back to the floor, knocking the wind from her lungs. Helplessly, she struggled to get a breath.

"Why are you doing this?" Marissa wailed. She pushed herself up to her hands and knees, then struggled to her feet. She was beginning to think she was dealing with two lunatics. She tried to 4 speak again, but before she could say a word, her ketamineinspired nightmare came back as vividly as it had at the restaurant, adding to her panic.

"Thieves!" the guard repeated. Mercilessly he stepped up to Marissa and slapped her a third time, knocking her back against the receptionist's desk.

The desk broke Marissa's fall. She sent a few dispensers and a metal stapler crashing to the floor.

Survival instinct told her to make a run for it, but she could hardly leave Wendy. Marissa glared at her assailant.

"We're not thieves!" she shouted.

"Are you crazy?"

The guard's smile broadened into a hideous grin, exposing decaying teeth. The next second, his expression was stern.

"You call me crazy?" he snarled. He reached for his revolver.

Wide-eyed with terror, Marissa watched as the man raised the gun and aimed its barrel directly at her. She heard the horrifying mechanical click as the guard cocked the gun's hammer back. He was going to shoot her.

"No!" Wendy shouted. She'd regained her breath and was sitting up.

Marissa couldn't speak. She thought of uttering some plea, but the words wouldn't come. She was paralyzed with fear. She couldn't take her eyes away from the blank hole of the barrel as she braced for the shattering blast.

"Hold it!" a voice cried out.

Marissa winced, then opened her eyes. The gun hadn't fired. She sucked in a lungful of air as the gun in front of her face lowered. She hadn't even been aware she'd been holding her breath.

Marissa allowed her eyes to leave the gun and rise to the guard's face. He was staring in disbelief toward the short hallway to the elevators and stairwell. Marissa's eyes followed his line of sight. Standing there, holding a gun of his own in both hands, was a rumpled figure. The gun was trained steadily on the guard.

"Aren't you guys overreacting?" the stranger asked.

"Now I want you to put that gun on the desk and move over to the wall.

No fast moves. I've shot a lot of people in my day. One more wouldn't make much difference."

For a moment no one moved or spoke. The security guard's gaze shifted from the newly arrived intruder to the Chinese man in the gray suit. He seemed to be contemplating whether or not to comply.

"The gun on the desk!" the stranger repeated. Turning to the man in the gray suit, he added: "Don't you move!" The man had started to circle the room.

"Who are you?" the guard asked.

"Paul Abrums," the man said.

"Just a workaday, retired cop trying to earn a few dollars to supplement my pension. Certainly is lucky I was in the neighborhood to keep things from getting out of hand here. Now, I'm not going to tell you again: put the gun on the desk!"

Marissa stepped aside as the guard moved to the receptionist's desk and laid his revolver down. Wendy got up from the floor and joined Marissa.

"Now," Paul said.

"If you two gentlemen would kindly step over to that wall and put your hands on it, I'd feel a lot better."

The two Asians looked at each other, then complied. Paul went to the desk and picked up the revolver. He stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Turning his attention back to the men, he went up behind the guard and frisked him for additional weapons.

Satisfied, he turned to the man in the gray suit.

In a flash, the man in the gray suit spun around with a guttural yell, kicking the gun from Paul's hand and sending it flying across the room. It clattered to the floor near the windows. Without missing a beat, the man assumed a crouched posture.

With another yell, he aimed a second kick at Paul's head.

Having been caught off-guard by the first kick, Paul was prepared for the second. An experienced street fighter, he ducked the kick and grabbed a chair and slammed it into his attacker's midsection. The chair and the man ended up in a tangle on' the floor.

Next, the security guard assumed a crouched position suggesting martial arts training. He came at Paul from the side as Paul vainly tried to extract the long-barreled Colt from his trouser pocket. Abandoning the gun for the moment, Paul grabbed a lamp from an end table and used it to parry the guard's lightning thrusts.

As more chairs began to fly, Marissa and Wendy dashed back through the door to the ultrasound area. They had one goal in mind: to get back to the safety of the overnight ward.

Tearing open the door to the ultrasound room they had been in only minutes before, they hastily turned on the light and ran through to the door to the lab. Once in the lab, Wendy found the light switch and flipped it on. Marissa closed the door. Noticing it had a lock, she locked it behind her.

Continuing on, they sprinted between lab benches and incubators to the door that led to the main corridor. Before they made it, they heard the ultrasound room's door being rattled behind them, then its glass panel being shattered with a smash.

Arriving in a panic at the door to the main corridor, Wendy tried to open it, but it was locked. As she struggled with the bolt, Marissa turned into the room to see the security guard coming after them. Picking up some laboratory glassware, she began throwing it at the approaching figure. The smashing glass slowed the guard but didn't stop him.

At last, Wendy managed to yank the door open. The two women dashed out into the darkened main corridor. Hoping to avoid the waiting area, they turned right. In a full panic, they ran headlong down the hall, hoping to wind up at another stairwell.

Sliding to a partial stop and almost falling in their haste, the women had to negotiate a ninety-degree right-hand turn in the darkened corridor. As they ran now they could see a window at the end with lights from the city diffusing in. Unfortunately there were no red Exit signs. Behind them they heard the laboratory door bang open. The guard was not far behind.

Skidding to an abrupt stop as the hall terminated at the window,

Marissa and Wendy frantically tried the doors on either side. Both were locked. Glancing up the corridor, they could see the guard had reached the bend. He started down toward them, slowing his steps. He had them cornered. s

On the right wall, Marissa noticed a glass cabinet. She yanked it open and grabbed the heavy brass nozzle of a canvas fire hose.

Its coils fell out onto the floor in a serpentine mass.

"Turn on the faucet," Marissa yelled to Wendy.

Wendy reached into the cabinet and tried to turn the knob. It wouldn't budge. She put both hands on it. With all her strength, she pushed. Suddenly, the valve began to move. Wendy spun it wide open.

Mafissa held the heavy nozzle with both hands. She pointed it down the corridor at the approaching guard. Although she had braced herself, Marissa was not prepared for the force of the jet that finally burst forth. The power was enough to knock her backward, tearing the hose from her grip. The nozzle flailed wildly under the force of the uncontrolled jet.

Marissa scrambled out of the way of the hose as it sent a pressurized stream of water in every direction. Spotting a fire alarm next to the cabinet, Wendy pulled down the lever, activating both an alarm and the sprinkler system. With the same stroke, an alarm in the Cambridge fire station was set off, interrupting a highly contested game of poker.

Both Marissa and Wendy had been sobbing for some time. As embarrassed as they were about their emotions, they couldn't help it. Their feelings had run the gamut from terror to relief to humiliation. Then the weeping had taken over. It had been an experience neither would forget. Both agreed it had been the worst of their life.

Marissa and Wendy were sitting on scarred wooden chairs whose varnish was coming off in flakes like a peel after a bad sunburn. The chairs were in the center of a blank, dingy room that was mildly littered with trash and smelled of alcohol and dried vomit. The only picture on the wall was the humorless face of Michael Dukakis.

Robert and Gustave were sitting across from them. George Freeborn, Robert's personal attorney, was in a chair by the window balancing an alligator briefcase on his lap. It was 2:33 in the morning. They were at the district courthouse.

Just as she finally began to gain control of herself, Marissa's eyes welled.

"Try to pull yourself together," Robert told her.

Marissa glanced at Wendy, who had her head down, her face pressed into a tissue. Every so often her shoulders would shake.

Gustave, who was sitting next to her, put a hand on his wife's shoulder.

At the conference table in the center of the room sat a no nonsense woman of about forty-five years of age. She wasn't happy to be there, as she'd let everyone know. She'd been pulled from her bed in the middle of the night. On the table in front of her was one of the many forms that had been filled out that night.

She was completing it with exaggerated strokes of her pen.

Glancing at her watch, the woman raised her head.

"So where's the bail bondsman?" she asked.

"He has been called, Madam Magistrate," Mr. Freeborn assured her.

"I'm certain he will be here momentarily."

"If not, these ladies are going back into the lockup," the magistrate threatened.

"Just because they can afford a high-priced lawyer doesn't mean they should be treated any differently by the law."

"Absolutely," Mr. Freeborn agreed.

"I spoke with the baifll bondsman myself. He will be here immediately, I assure you."

Marissa shuddered. She'd never been in jail before, and she didn't want to go. The experience that evening had been overwhelming.

She'd even been handcuffed and strip-searched.

When the fire department had arrived at the Women's Clinic, she and Wendy had been ecstatic. The flailing hose had kept the security guard at bay. But along with the firefighters had come the police, and the police had listened to the guard. In the end, Marissa and Wendy had been arrested and led away in handcuffs.

First they'd been taken to the Cambridge police station where they had been read their rights a second time, booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. After they'd been allowed to call their husbands, they were put into the police station lockup.

They'd even had to endure the indignities of using exposed toilets.

Later on, Marissa and Wendy had been taken from the police station cells, re-handcuffed, and driven to the Middlesex County Courthouse, where they had been reincarcerated in a more serious appearing jail. There they'd been given dry prison garb to replace the wet clothes they'd had on.

The magistrate was kept waiting another ten minutes before the bail bondsman arrived. He was an overweight, balding man.

He entered carrying a vinyl briefcase.

The bondsman strode directly to the conference table, placing his briefcase on it with a resounding thud.

"Hello, Gertrude," he said, addressing the magistrate. He released the latch on his case.

"Did you walk here, Harold?" asked the magistrate.

"What are you talking about?" said the bondsman.

"I live out near Somerville Hospital. How could I walk here?"

"I was being sarcastic," the magistrate said with a disgusted expression.

"Forget it. Here are the bail and bond orders for these two ladies. They are for ten thousand each."

The bondsman took the papers. He was impressed and pleased.

"Wow, ten thousand!" he said.

"What did they do, hit the Bay Bank in Harvard Square?"

"Just about," said the magistrate.

"They're to be arraigned by Judge Burano on Monday morning for breaking and entering, trespass, malicious destruction of property, larceny through unauthorized computer entry and theft of private files, and…" The magistrate consulted the form in front of her.

"Oh, yes! Assault and battery. Apparently they beat up on a security guard."

"That's not true," Marissa yelled, unable to contain herself.

Her sudden outburst brought fresh tears. She blurted out that it had been the other way around: the guards had attacked them.

"And Paul Abrums, a retired policeman, will testify to it," she added.

"Marissa, shut up!" Robert said. He still couldn't believe his wife's escapade.

The magistrate glared at Marissa.

"You are perhaps forgetting that Mr. Abrums is also a defendant in this action and will be facing the same charges when he gets out of the hospital."

"Mrs. Buchanan is very upset," Mr. Freeborn said.

"That's obvious," the magistrate said.

"Which one's Buchanan and which is Anderson?" the bondsman asked, coming over to the men.

"I'll take care of this," Mr. Freeborn said.

"Mr. Buchanan's banker is waiting for your call to arrange collateral for both suspects. Here is the number."

The bondsman took the number.

"You can use this phone," the magistrate said, pointing to the phone on the conference table with her pen.

As soon as the bondsman made his call, the rest of the paperwork went swiftly.

"That's that," the magistrate announced.

Marissa stood up.

"Thank you," she said.

"Sorry you didn't like our accommodations here at the courthouse," the magistrate told her, still miffed at what she thought was the special attention Marissa and Wendy had been able to arrange through Mr. Freeborn.

Mr. Freeborn accompanied both couples as they left the deserted courthouse. Their heels echoed loudly against the marble floor.

Marissa and Wendy were chilled by the time they got to their respective cars. They climbed in in silence. No one had spoken since leaving the conference room.

"Thanks for coming out, George," Robert called to the lawyer.

"Yes, thanks," Gustave called.

"See you all Monday morning," George called back. He waved as he climbed into his sleek black Mercedes.

Robert and Gustave exchanged glances. They shook their heads in mutual sympathy.

Robert got into his car and slammed the door. He glanced at Marissa, but she was staring straight ahead, her jaw set. Robert started the car and pulled out into the street.

"I'm not going to say I told you so," he said finally as they crossed over the old Charles River Dam.

"Good. Don't say anything." After her ordeal, Marissa felt she needed comforting, not a lecture.

"I think you owe me an explanation," Robert said.

"And I don't think I owe you anything," Marissa said, glaring at Robert.

"And let me tell you something: those guards were crazy back in the clinic. I was almost shot in the face at pointblank range. The man you hired told you so. They even beat us!"

"It all sounds a little hard to believe," Robert said.

"Are you suggesting we're lying to you?" Marissa asked, incredulous.

"I believe that's what you believe happened," Robert said evasively.

Marissa faced forward. Once again her emotions were caroming around like a squash ball. She didn't know whether to cry more or pound the dashboard. Undecided, she just clenched her fists and gritted her teeth.

They drove in hostile silence along Storrow Drive. After they got on the Mass Pike, Marissa turned to him.

"Why did you have me followed?" she demanded.

"Apparently it was a damn good thing I did."

"That's not the point," Marissa said.

"Why did you have me followed?" she repeated.

"I don't like it."

"I had you followed to try to keep you out of trouble," Robert said.

"Obviously it didn't work."

"Someone has to try to follow up on these TB cases," Marissa said.

"Occasionally risks have to be taken."

"Not to the point of doing something plainly illegal," Robert said.

"You are obsessed with this thing, and irrational. It's become a crusade, and it's driving me crazy. I can't believe you.

You're still trying to justify unjustifiable behavior."

"What if I told you we discovered eighteen cases of TB salpingitis in the Women's Clinic alone?" Marissa asked.

"Do you think that might bear out my suspicions? And that eighteen probably isn't even counting Rebecca Ziegler. Her record was already erased from the computer. What do you think about that?"

Robert shrugged irritably.

"I'll tell you what I think. I think they have something to hide," Marissa said.

"I think there was something in Rebecca's record that they didn't want anyone to see."

"Come on, Marissa!" Robert snapped.

"Now you're getting melodramatic and paranoid. This is all conjecture. In the meantime, we'll he footing some all-too palpable legal fees to try to keep you out of jail."

"So it all comes down to money," Marissa shot back.

"That's your biggest concern, isn't it?"

Marissa closed her eyes. Sometimes she wondered what had ever possessed her to marry this man. And now she had the threat of a jail sentence looming in her immediate future. Things seemed to be going from bad to worse to worse still, like the unraveling of a Greek tragedy.

Marissa opened her eyes and stared at the onrushing road. Her mind jumped from one anxiety to another. She wondered what effect the guard's blows might have had on her embryo transfer.

Monday was to be her day of reckoning in more ways than one.

Not only was she to be arraigned on an array of criminal charges, she was scheduled for her pregnancy blood test.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. The way things were going, it wasn't hard to predict how that blood test would turn out. All of a sudden it wasn't so surprising that Rebecca Ziegler had jumped to her death. Maybe she'd been under similar stress.

But, then again, maybe she hadn't jumped. Maybe she'd been pushed….