Shock (27 page)

"There's another problem," Joanna said. "The only access I created is into the donor folder. There were other folders in the same drive, such as Research Protocols and Research Results, but I didn't give myself access to them."

"Why the hell not?" Deborah questioned. She furrowed her brows.

"Because I was too afraid to take any more time," Joanna said.

"Oh! For chrissake!" Deborah complained. "I don't believe this! You were right there with the files staring you in the face. How could you pass it up?" Deborah shook her head in irritated amazement.

"You don't understand how nervous I was," Joanna said. "I'm lucky I was able to do anything in that room."

"How much more time would it have taken?" Deborah questioned.

"Not long," Joanna admitted. "But I'm telling you I was terrified. It's been a hard lesson, but I've learned that I'm lousy at committing felonies. You understand what we are doing is a felony, don't you?"

"I suppose," Deborah said absently. She was clearly disappointed.

"If worse comes to worst, and we are caught," Joanna said, "at least if we can prove we were just after information about our own eggs, I think we'd be treated leniently. But we certainly wouldn't be if we were caught breaking into their research protocols no matter what the rationalization."

"Alright, maybe you have a point," Deborah said. "Anyway, I've another plan. Give me the Wingate blue card!"

"Why?" Joanna asked. She eyed her roommate questioningly. She knew Deborah could be impulsive.

Before Deborah could respond Joanna's food arrived. The waitress served it and left. Deborah leaned forward again and told Joanna the story of her search for the eggs' origin by investigating the dumbwaiter shaft. She told about finding the blank, highly polished, stainless-steel door, completely out of place in the decrepit, antiquated basement kitchen. When she was finished she said simply: "I want to see what's behind that door."

Joanna finished chewing her mouthful of salad and swallowed. She gazed at Deborah with exasperation. "I'm not going to give you the Wingate card!"

"What?" Deborah blurted.

Joanna shushed her before looking around to see if Deborah's outburst had attracted any undo attention. Luckily it hadn't.

"I'm not going to give you the Wingate card," Joanna repeated in almost a whisper. "We're here to find out about our eggs. That has been the goal from the beginning. No matter how compelling you believe finding out what they're doing around here is, we can't afford to put what we're here for in jeopardy. If that door down in the basement has a card swipe like the server-room door and you go in there, there's a good chance someone is going to be alerted just like with the server room. And if that happens my intuition tells me that we'll be in deep trouble."

Deborah returned Joanna's stare irritably, but as the seconds ticked by her expression softened as did her indignation. Although she didn't like to hear it, what Joanna was saying had the ring of truth. Still Deborah felt frustrated. A few minutes earlier she had thought she had two equally promising avenues of approach to what she thought was an important mystery. Her intuition was loudly proclaiming that at best, the Wingate Clinic was involved in ethically questionable research, and at worst it was breaking the law.

As a biologist who was aware of many of the biomedical issues of the day, Deborah knew that fertility clinics like the Wingate operated in a medical arena without oversight. In fact, the desperate clients of such clinics frequently begged them to try untested procedures. In such an environment no patients minded being proverbial guinea pigs, and they blithely dismissed possible negative consequences for themselves or society in general as long as there was the slightest possibility of producing a child. Such patients also tended to put their doctors on a pedestal that encouraged the doctors to believe, in a kind of intellectual conceit, that ethics and even laws did not apply to them.

"I'm sorry I didn't do more," Joanna said. "I suppose I let you down. I wish I hadn't been such a basket case in the server room. But I did the best I could under the circumstances."

"Of course you did," Deborah said. Now she felt guilty about having gotten upset at Joanna who actually had accomplished a rather heroic task. For all of Deborah's bluster, she sincerely questioned if she'd have been able to do what Joanna had done even if she had the computer know-how. Entertaining Randy had been an nuisance, not a stressful challenge.

"What we should really be discussing is where we should access the donor folder," Joanna said, taking another bite of her lunch.

"Explain!" Deborah said.

"I'd really be more comfortable doing it from home tonight via the modem," Joanna said. "It would be safer, but there are problems."

"Such as?"

"If our download of a secure file is detected, they could trace it back to our computer through our Internet provider."

"Not good," Deborah said.

"There's also the chance that if we wait, my access could be discovered and eliminated before we take advantage of it."

"Now you tell me," Deborah complained. "This I wasn't aware of. What are the chances of it happening?"

"Probably not terribly high," Joanna admitted. "Randy would have to have some reason to look for it."

"Sounds like we have to do it here," Deborah said.

"I agree," Joanna said. "Sometime later this afternoon. But I think we should plan on leaving immediately afterward. If Randy detects the download and figures out it is coming from within the network, he'll find the pathway. Then it wouldn't take him long to trace it to Prudence Heatherly's workstation."

"Which means we have to be long gone," Deborah said. "All right, I get the picture! Now, are you finished eating?"

Joanna looked down at her half-eaten soup and salad. "Are you in a rush?"

"I can't say I'm in a rush," Deborah said, "but the entire time I've been here, including the half an hour or so with my new friend Randy, the security chief has been staring at me."

Joanna started to turn around but Deborah quickly reached out and gripped her wrist. "Don't look!"

"Why not?"

"I don't know exactly" Deborah admitted. "But he gives me the creeps, and I'd rather not even acknowledge that I've noticed he's been looking at me. For all I know it's this damned dress again. What was a lark initially has become a pain in the ass."

"How do you know it is the security chief?"

"I don't know for certain," Deborah admitted. "But it stands to reason. Remember yesterday when we were trying to get in and the trucks were in the way? It wasn't until he came out and ordered the uniformed guy to let them in that the Mexican standoff was resolved. When we drove in he was standing next to Spencer. Do you remember him?"

"Not really," Joanna admitted. "Remember, my attention was taken by Spencer at the moment, when I had the distorted idea he reminded me of my father."

Deborah chuckled. "Distorted is right! But we're getting away from the issue. What about your food? You haven't taken a bite for the last five minutes."

Joanna tossed her napkin onto the table and stood up. "I'm ready! Let's go."

EXCEPT FOR FREQUENTING THE DINING ROOM, KURT HERMANN seldom went into the Wingate Clinic proper. He preferred to remain in the gatehouse, or on the extensive grounds, or in his apartment in the staff village. The problem was, he knew some things went on in the clinic that he did not countenance, but thanks to his military training he could compartmentalize his thinking. By not going into the clinic, it was like out of sight out of mind, and he just didn't think about it.

But there were occasions when entering the main part of the clinic was required, and his current preoccupation with Georgina Marks was one of them. Using his contacts and the few facts from her employment application form plus the registration of the car she drove, he'd put out requests for information about her. What had come back so far was confusing if not intriguing. He had originally intended to approach her in the dining room during lunch, but he had changed his mind. It had been obvious that she'd set her talons on the adolescent computer fellow with whom she'd arrived, and the last thing Kurt wanted to weather was a rejection from the kind of person she was.

Then the situation had abruptly changed. Georgina's girlfriend had shown up, and from afar it appeared as if the computer whiz had been summarily canned. Kurt needed to know why.

"He's not in his cubicle?" Christine Parham, the office manager, asked.

Kurt looked away for a moment to keep from lashing out in response to such an inane question. He'd just finished telling the woman that Randy Porter was not at his desk. Slowly Kurt returned his glaring eyes to Christine's. He didn't have to respond.

"Would you like me to page him?" Christine asked.

Kurt merely nodded. For him, the less said the better. He had a counterproductive penchant for telling people what he thought of them when irritated and Georgina Marks had him irritated.

Christine put in the call. While she waited for a response, she asked Kurt if security was having computer problems. Kurt shook his head and checked his watch. He'd give this mission another five minutes. If Randy Porter had not been found by then, he'd leave instructions for the twerp to come to the gatehouse. Kurt didn't want to be away from his office for too long. With the number of feelers he had out about Georgina Marks and the calls he expected in return, he wanted to be available to take them in person.

"Nice weather we're having," Christine commented. Kurt didn't respond, but she was saved from having to come up with any more small talk by her phone's insistent jangle. It was Randy, who reported that he was working on someone's computer in accounting but could come by immediately if needed. Christine told him the chief of security was there to see him so he'd better come right over.

"I'll meet him at his desk," Kurt said before Christine had hung up. She relayed the message.

Kurt wended his way to the network administrator's cubbyhole. He sat in the second chair and gazed around contemptuously at the science fiction artwork gracing the cubicle's walls. He took in the joystick foolishly pushed behind the monitor as if to hide it.

Kurt thought the kid could use a few months of boot camp, which is what he thought of all young people who'd not experienced it.

"Hello there, Mr. Hermann," Randy said breezily as he swooped into the room. His insouciant attitude around people like Kurt belied a wariness like a dog around an unpredictably cruel master. "Is something amiss with one of the security computers?" He threw himself into his desk chair as if it were a skateboard, requiring him to grab onto the edge of the desk to keep from rolling into the wall.

"The computers are fine," Kurt said. "I'm here to talk to you about your lunch date."

"Georgina Marks?"

Kurt looked away for a moment, like he'd done recently with Christine. He ruminated why everybody had to answer his questions with essentially the same question. It was maddening.

"What do you want to know about her?" Randy asked brightly.

"Did she come on to you strong?"

Randy wagged his head. "So so," he said. "More so in the beginning. I mean, she initiated the conversation."

"Did she proposition you?"

"What do you mean?"

Kurt looked away again briefly. It was trying talking to most of the staff, particularly Randy Porter, who looked and acted like he was still in high school." 'Did she proposition you' means: Did she offer sex for money or services?"

Randy had had the distinct impression that the security chief was a weird dude, but this question out of the blue took the cake. He didn't know what to say since he sensed the man was angry and wound up tight like a piano wire tuned to high C.

"Would you mind answering the question!" Kurt growled.

"Why would she be offering me sex?" Randy managed.

Kurt looked away yet again. Another question generating a question, which unhappily reminded him of the compulsory chats with a psychiatrist he'd been ordered to have prior to leaving the army. Taking a breath, he then repeated his question slowly and threateningly.

"No!" Randy barked. Then he lowered his voice. "Sex didn't come up. We were talking about computer games. Why would she bring up sex?"

"Because sex is what that type of woman does."

"She's a biologist," Randy said defensively.

"It is a strange way for a biologist to dress," Kurt said mockingly. "Do any of the other biologists look like her?" At this point in his investigation Kurt wasn't sure Georgina was a biologist or that her name was Georgina, but he did not mention his suspicions. He didn't want them getting back to the woman and alerting her until he'd finished his inquiries. It was his current belief that she was at the Wingate for some ulterior motive, and dressed as provocatively as she was, prostitution was high on his list. After all, it had been his original assessment, and she'd already apparently scored with Spencer Wingate the same day she'd met him at the gate.

"I liked the way she was dressed," Randy said.

"Yes, I bet you did," Kurt snapped. "But why did you leave so abruptly this afternoon? Were you turned off for some reason? Is that when she asked you if you were interested in a trick?"

"No!" Randy protested. "I'm telling you, sex wasn't involved. We'd had a nice conversation, but she wanted me to leave. Her friend had appeared, and they wanted to talk, so I left."

Kurt stared at the skinny computer kid. From Kurt's interrogation experience, he sensed the fellow was telling him the truth. The problem was that what Randy was saying didn't jibe with any of Kurt's current beliefs about this new employee. She was becoming more of a mystery rather than less of one.

"There is something I'd like to talk to you about," Randy said, eager to get the conversation away from Georgina Marks. He went on to tell Kurt about the strange episode involving Dr. Wingate and the server room.

Kurt nodded as he absorbed the information. He didn't know what to make of it nor what to do about it. For the last several years he'd answered to Paul Saunders, not Spencer Wingate. As a military man, he loathed situations with a blurred hierarchy.