Robin Cook - Shock

Claire Harlow was a soft-spoken, gentle, accommodating woman who seemed pleased to take Deborah up a floor and show her the main lab. As Dr. Donaldson had suggested, it was huge, extending along the back of the building for almost the entire wing occupied by the Wingate.

Deborah was duly impressed. Having spent many hours in biology labs, she knew, for the most part, what she was looking at. The equipment was the newest and best available and included surprising things like automated DNA sequencers. The other surprise was how few people were in the mammoth room.

"Where is everybody?" Deborah asked.

"The doctors are all doing various clinical procedures at the moment," Claire answered.

Deborah strolled along a long countertop supporting more dissecting microscopes than she'd seen in any one place before. They were also more powerful than the microscopes Deborah had had the pleasure of using.

"An army could work in here," Deborah said…

"We're always looking for qualified people," Claire said.

Deborah came to the end of the lab bench and glanced out the window. It faced out the back of the building and offered an impressive view. It was particularly expansive because the building sat on the spine of a hill, with lawn sloping away in both the front and the back. Northward through a tangle of orange oaks and red maples Deborah could make out stone buildings similar to the gatehouse but with white trim.

"Are those buildings part of the farm?" Deborah asked.

"No, those are some of the living quarters," Claire explained. Pointing off to the right in a southeastern direction to where the property sloped down even more dramatically than elsewhere, she directed Deborah's attention to a shimmering of light just visible through old-growth pines. "That sparkle is sun reflecting off the surface of the mill pond. The farm buildings are grouped around it."

"What's the story with the brick chimney spewing smoke?"

Deborah questioned, gesturing toward a smokestack rearing up above the trees even farther to the right. "Is that part of Wingate complex as well?" The smoke was white as it left the chimney but faded to a dark purplish-gray as it trailed off in the distance toward the east.

"It certainly is," Claire said. "That's the old power plant for heat and hot water. It's a rather interesting structure. It was also the crematorium for the Cabot Institution."

"Crematorium?" Deborah sputtered. "Why on earth did they have a crematorium out here?"

"Out of necessity, I guess," Claire said. "Back in the olden days I think a lot of the patients were essentially abandoned by their families."

Deborah cringed at the thought of an isolated mental hospital with its own crematorium, but before she could ask another question, Claire's pager went off. The woman checked the LCD window. "That's for you, Miss Cochrane. They're ready for your procedure."

Deborah was pleased. She was eager to get it over with so she and Joanna could be on their way.

THERE WAS NO TRANSITION period. One minute Joanna was fast asleep, and the next she was fully awake. She found herself staring up at a high, unfamiliar, embossed-tin ceiling.

"Well, well, the sleeping beauty has awakened," a voice said.

Joanna turned in the direction of the voice and found herself looking up into an equally unfamiliar face. At the exact instant she was going to ask where she was, her momentary confusion was replaced by full comprehension of her situation.

"Let's get your blood pressure," the nurse said as he took his stethoscope from around his neck and put the earpieces into his ears. He was an impeccably groomed individual, close to Joanna's age, dressed in surgical scrubs. His name tag said MYRON HANNA. He began inflating a blood pressure cuff already present around Joanna's left upper arm.

Joanna watched the man's face. His eyes were glued to the pressure gauge while he pressed the stethoscope's bell against the crook of her elbow. As the cuff deflated she felt her pulse surge through her arm. The man smiled and removed the apparatus.

"Your blood pressure is fine," he said. He then reached for her wrist to time her pulse.

Joanna waited until he was through. "What about my procedure?" she asked.

"Your procedure is all done," Myron said as he recorded his findings on a clipboard.

"You're joking," Joanna said. She had no appreciation of the passage of time.

"Nope, you're all done," Myron repeated. "And it was successful, I assume. Dr. Saunders must be pleased."

"I can't believe it," Joanna said. "My roommate told me when you wake up from anesthesia, you're sick to your stomach."

"That's rare nowadays," Myron said. "Not with propofol. Isn't it great stuff?"

"Is that what I had?"

"Yup!"

"What time is it?"

"A little after nine."

"Do you know if my roommate, Deborah Cochrane, has had her procedure?"

"She's having it as we speak," Myron said. "How about sitting up for me on the side of the bed?"

Joanna did as she was told. Her mobility was limited by the IV still attached to her right arm.

"How do you feel?" Myron asked. "Any dizziness? Any discomfort?"

"I feel fine," Joanna said. "Perfectly normal." She was surprised, especially by the lack of pain.

"Why don't you sit there for a few minutes," Myron suggested. "Then, if you are okay, we'll yank the IV and send you downstairs to change back into your street clothes."

"Fine by me," Joanna said. As Myron recorded her blood pressure and pulse, she glanced around at her surroundings. There were three other beds besides hers. None was occupied. The room was antiquated; it had clearly missed whatever facelift other parts of the Institute had received. Old tile lined the walls and floors, the windows looked old, and the sinks were made of soapstone.

The ersatz recovery room reminded her of the archaic operating theater where she'd had her procedure, and the thought gave her a shudder. It was the kind of OR in which she could imagine lobotomies being performed against vulnerable patients' wishes. When she'd first been wheeled in, the setting had reminded her of a gruesome, several-hundred-year-old painting she'd seen once of an anatomy lesson. In the painting the tiers of seats disappearing up into the darkness were occupied by leering men gazing down at a skinned, ghastly pale corpse.

The door to the recovery room opened. Joanna turned and spotted a short man with a shock of dark hair. His pale complexion made her think again of the old anatomy lesson painting. She saw he'd stopped short, and his surprised expression quickly changed to irritation. He was attired in a long doctor's white coat over green surgical scrubs.

"Hello, Dr. Saunders," Myron said, looking up from the desk.

"Mr. Hanna, I thought you told me the patient was still asleep," Dr. Paul Saunders snapped. His eyes stayed glued to Joanna's.

"She was, sir, when we spoke," Myron said. "She just woke up, and everything is fine."

Joanna felt acutely uncomfortable under the man's unblinking gaze. Joanna had reflexive, visceral reaction to authority figures thanks in part to her emotionally distant, staunchly disciplinarian, oil-company-CEO father.

"Blood pressure and pulse are all normal," Myron said. He stood up and started forward but stopped when Dr. Saunders held up his hand.

The doctor advanced toward Joanna with his mouth set. His nose had a wide base that gave the false impression of closely spaced eyes. But by far his most distinguishing characteristics were irises of slightly different colors and a minute widow's peak of white hair that quickly lost itself in the rest of his mildly unruly coiffure.

"How do you feel, Miss Meissner?" Paul asked.

Joanna noticed his tone was devoid of emotion, similar to the tone her father had used to ask her how her day had been back when she was in elementary school. "Okay," she answered, unsure if the man cared particularly or even wanted her to respond. Marshaling her courage, she asked: "Are you the doctor who did my egg retrieval?" She'd been put to sleep before Paul's arrival into the operating room.