Robin Cook - Shock

"We can only do the best we can," Deborah said.

Joanna nodded. She loathed patronizing comments like that, and she knew Deborah knew it, but she didn't say anything. She didn't want to give Deborah the satisfaction. Instead she drummed the steering wheel.

Minutes ticked by. Joanna's drumming picked up its pace. She sighed and glanced up into the rearview mirror with the intention of checking how her hair had weathered the trip. Before she could adjust the mirror she caught sight of a car turning off Pierce Street onto the gravel road. While she watched, the car drove toward them, slowed, and stopped immediately behind.

"Do you remember that Bentley convertible we saw in the clinic's parking lot the last time we were here?" Joanna asked.

"Vaguely," Deborah said. Cars had never interested her other than to get from point A to point B and she could not distinguish between a Chevy and a Ford or between a BMW and a Mercedes.

"It just drove up behind us," Joanna reported.

"Oh," Deborah commented. She turned and looked out the back of the car. "Oh yeah, I remember it."

"I wonder if it's one of the doctors?" Joanna said while continuing to eye the burgundy vehicle in the rearview mirror. With the glare on the windshield, she could not see the interior.

Deborah checked her watch again. "Gosh, it's after ten. What's the deal? That stupid guard is still talking with that truck driver. What on earth could they be talking about?"

"I guess they're careful who they let on the grounds."

"That might be the case, but we have an appointment," Deborah said. She unlatched the door and slid out.

"Where are you going?" Joanna asked.

"I'm going to find out what's going on," Deborah said. "This is ridiculous." She slammed the door, then rounded the front of the car. Teetering on her toes to keep her narrow heels from penetrating into the gravel, she started forward toward the gatehouse.

Despite her earlier irritation, Joanna had to laugh at her roommate's gait until she noticed that Deborah's short skirt was hiked up on her backside thanks to static cling with her panty hose. Letting down the window, she leaned out.

"Hey! Marilyn Monroe! Your rear end is hanging out!"

USING THE KNUCKLES OF BOTH INDEX FINGERS, SPENCER rubbed his eyes briefly to bring them into better focus. He'd pulled up behind the nondescript Chevy Malibu, feeling irritated that now that he was finally here, his way was blocked by a mini traffic jam. He'd seen the two heads in the car in front but had thought nothing of them until one of them had gotten out.

For Spencer it was like seeing a mirage. The woman appeared like the person he'd been searching for and not finding the entire time he'd been in Naples. Not only was she attractive with a slim, athletic body, but she was dressed in an alluring style the likes of which he'd not seen except on rare visits to Miami's South Beach. To make the unexpected situation even more provocative, the woman's dress was pulled up in the back exposing a near-naked, panty-hose-clad derriere.

Emboldened by a sense of being on home turf, Spencer did not hesitate like he would have had he still been in Naples. He opened his door and got out. He'd heard the yell from the woman's companion, and now the skirt was down where it was supposed to be, yet it still hovered above mid-thigh, and being made of a synthetic, clingy fabric, it undulated sensuously as the woman unsteadily walked over the gravel drive.

Launching himself forward in a jog, Spencer headed toward the gatehouse in hot pursuit. As he passed the women's Malibu he caught a fleeting glimpse of the companion, which was enough to tell him she was of a totally different ilk. Slowing to a walk, he passed the first truck and approached the woman whose back was to him. She was arguing, arms akimbo, with the guard.

"Well, have them back up the damn trucks and let us go by," Deborah was saying. "We have an appointment with Ms. Masterson, head of personnel, and we're already late."

The guard with his clipboard was unintimidated. His eyebrows were raised and he had a smirk on his face as he peered down at Deborah through his aviator sunglasses. He started to respond to her suggestion, but Spencer interrupted him.

"What seems to be the problem here?" Spencer questioned in the most authoritarian tone he could muster. Unconsciously mimicking Deborah's stance, he put his hands on his hips.

The guard glanced at Spencer and told him in no uncertain terms it was none of his business and that he should get back in his vehicle. He used the words please and sir but obviously intended them as mere formalities.

"These feed trucks are not on his list," Deborah explained contemptuously. "They're acting like this is Fort Knox, for crying out loud."

"Perhaps a call down to the farm will clear things up," Spencer suggested.

"Listen, sir!" the guard said, pronouncing sir as if it were an epithet. He pointed toward Spencer's Bentley with the clipboard with one hand while resting the other on the top of his bolstered automatic. "I want you back in that car ASAP."

"Don't you dare threaten me," Spencer growled. "For your information, I'm Dr. Spencer Wingate."

The guard's menacing expression quavered as he stared Spencer in the eye. It appeared as if he were having an internal debate as to how to proceed. Deborah's attention switched from the guard to Spencer with his surprising announcement. She found herself looking up into the face of the stereotypic soap-opera doctor: tall, slender, angled face, tanned skin, and silver-gray hair.

Before anyone could verbally respond, the heavy windowless black door opened. A muscular man emerged, dressed in a black knit shirt, black pants, and black cross-trainer shoes. His dirty-blond hair was cropped short. He moved as if in slow motion, closing the door behind him. "Dr. Wingate,' he said calmly. "You should have warned us you were coming."

"What's with these trucks sitting here, Kurt?" Spencer demanded.

"We're waiting for Dr. Saunders's okay" Kurt responded. "They were not on the manifest, and Dr. Saunders likes to be informed of irregularities."

"They're feed trucks, for chrissake," Spencer pronounced. "You have my okay. Send them down to the farm so we can get in here."

"As you wish," Kurt said. He took a plastic card from a pocket and swiped it through a card swipe mounted on a pole near the first truck's cab. Immediately the heavy chain-link fence began to squeak open.

In response to the gate's movement, the driver of the lead truck started his diesel engine. In the confined space within the gate-ruse tunnel the noise was considerable as were the fumes. Deborah quickly moved outside as did Spencer.

"Thank you for solving that problem,' Deborah said. She noticed that the doctor's eyes, which were darting up and down her frame, were almost the same blue as those of the security man in black.

"My pleasure," Spencer said. To his despair his voice cracked as he tried to camouflage a surge of nervousness talking with Deborah directly. Up close, with the amount of cleavage visible, he could tell that her dark olive skin wasn't tan as he'd originally assumed. It was her normal coloring. He also noticed her eyebrows were dark, as were her eyes. Combining it all with the blond hair gave him the impression she was a wild and sensual free spirit.

"Well, see you around, doctor," Deborah said. She smiled and started back toward the car.

"Just a moment," Spencer called out.

Deborah stopped and turned.

"What is your name, if I may ask?"

"Georgina Marks," Deborah responded. She felt her pulse quicken. It was the first time she'd used the alias.

"Is it true you have an appointment with Helen Masterson?"

"At ten o'clock," Deborah answered. "Unfortunately we're late, thanks to that security fellow."