Robin Cook - Shock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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