Robin Cook - Shock

"Then you come up with an alternate explanation for all the eggs," Deborah challenged. "This is a brainstorming session to try to make up for not having much information."

Joanna got a grip on herself and tried to think up another explanation as Deborah had suggested. With only high-school biology and girls' locker room chatter as her reproductive technology sources, she couldn't think of a thing.

"The most eggs I've ever heard of being harvested in an ovarian hyperstimulation was around twenty,' Deborah said. "Retrieving hundreds suggests to me some kind of ovarian tissue culture."

"Is it possible to culture ovarian tissue?" Joanna asked.

Deborah shrugged. "You know, I haven't the slightest idea. I'm a molecular biologist, not a cellular biologist. But it sounds reasonable."

"If they took one of my ovaries," Joanna asked, "how would it affect me?"

"Let's see," Deborah said, screwing up her face as if thinking deeply. "With half your usual ovarian production of estrogen, your adrenal testosterone level would be relatively doubled. That means you'll probably grow a beard, lose your breasts, and go bald."

Joanna looked at her roommate with renewed horror.

"I'm just kidding!" Deborah cried. "You're supposed to laugh."

"I'm afraid I don't find any of this funny."

"The truth is, there'd probably be very little effect, if any," Deborah said. "Maybe there could be a slight statistical drop in your fertility since you'd be reduced to ovulating from one ovary, but I'm not even sure of that."

"Still, having your ovary ripped out is an awful thought," Joanna said, hardly mollified. "It's like rape but maybe even worse."

"I totally agree,' Deborah said.

"Why just me and not you?"

"That's another good question,' Deborah said. "My guess would be because I refused to have general anesthesia. To take an ovary they'd have to use a laparoscopic approach as a minimum, and certainly not just an ultrasound guided needle."

Joanna closed her eyes for a moment. She found herself wishing she'd not been such a coward about medical procedures when she'd donated. She should have followed Deborah's advice.

"I just thought of something," Deborah said.

Joanna stayed still. She vowed to herself she wasn't going to ask.

They drove in silence for almost two minutes. "Aren't you interested?" Deborah asked.

"Only if you tell me," Joanna said.

"If we can prove they took your ovary, then we might have something. I'm not saying they did take it, but if they did, we might have some legal recourse. I mean, taking your ovary without consent is technically assault and battery, which is a felony."

"Yeah, well, how could it be proved?" Joanna said without enthusiasm. "What would they have to do, open me up and look? Thanks, but no thanks!"

"I don't think they'd have to open you up," Deborah said. "I think they could tell by ultrasound. What I suggest is that you call Carlton, explain as little or as much as you want, and tell him you need to find out if you are missing an ovary."

"It's a bit ironic for you to be suggesting I call Carlton," Joanna said.

"I'm not advocating you marry him, for goodness' sakes," Deborah said. "Just take advantage of the fact that he's a medical resident. Residents know other residents. It's like a fraternity. I'm sure he could arrange for an ultrasound."

"I've been home for three days and haven't called him once,"

Joanna said. "I feel guilty about calling him up out of the blue and asking for a favor."

"Oh, please!" Deborah groaned. "Your Houstonian upbringing is reasserting itself. How many times do I have to remind you that men can be used just like men use women? This time instead of using him for entertainment, you're using him to get an ultrasound. Big deal!"

In her mind Joanna went over what she thought the conversation with Carlton would be like. From her perspective it wouldn't be as easy as Deborah suggested. At the same time Joanna wanted to know whether she'd been internally violated or not. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she had to know.

"All right!" Joanna said. She reached for her cell phone. "I'll give him a call."

"Good girl," Deborah said.

LOUISBURG SQUARE WAS UP on the slope of Beacon Hill reached by heading up Mount Vernon Street and turning left either into the square's upper roadway or lower roadway. Technically it wasn't a square but rather a long rectangle bordered by a collection of mostly bow-fronted, brick town houses with multi-paned, shuttered windows. The center of the square was a patch of anemic, trampled grass ringed by a tall, threatening cast-iron fence and covered by a canopy of old-growth elms which had somehow survived the ravages of Dutch elm disease. At either end were modest copses of shrubbery with a single weathered piece of garden statuary.

Kurt had found the square without difficulty despite his unfamiliarity with Boston in general and the profusion of one-way streets on Beacon Hill in particular. But parking was another matter. The square's parking was discreetly labeled PRIVATE with the admonition that whoever tested the ban would be towed. Kurt did not want to be towed. He was driving one of the Wingate Clinic's unmarked, black security vans with a lockable compartment in the back. In the compartment were the various and sundry things he might need, as well as ample room for uncooperative passengers.

Kurt's plan had been sketchy from the start other than knowing he'd be bringing the women back to the Wingate. He thought he'd first locate the women and then improvise, and at present he was still reconnoitering the area. It was his third pass through the square. On the first pass he'd located the building. It was the first on the upper right. He'd paused long enough to note that it was five stories tall with the top dormered and another story partially below grade. Whether there was a basement below that, he did not know. It had one entrance in the front at the top of five steps. He assumed there was another door in the back, but the first story in the back was obscured by a brick wall.

On the second pass he'd noted the degree of activity in the area. A lot of renovating was going on, so there were a number of workmen and construction vehicles. Within the square there were several children ranging in age from four or five up to eleven and twelve. A few nannies were either chatting with each other or absorbed with their charges.

Now on the third pass, Kurt was trying to decide where to put the van. Most of the construction workers had now departed, so that had freed up spaces. He decided the best was at the Mount Vernon end despite the PRIVATE PARKING sign – after all, the construction vehicles hadn't been towed – and rounding the block again, he pulled up to the fence. Turning his head to the right gave him an unencumbered view of the building in question.

By that time Kurt's only concern was that he had not yet sighted the Chevy Malibu. He'd memorized the license number when he'd run the trace, so he was not worried he'd confuse it with a similar vehicle. He'd assumed he'd come across it either as he drove around the square or in the nearby streets. But it hadn't happened.

Despite the adrenaline flowing in his veins, Kurt maintained his calm exterior. He knew from experience that it was dangerous to give in to the excitement of such a mission. It was important to be slow and methodical to avoid making mistakes. At the same time he had to maintain his vigilance like a coiled snake, ready to strike when the opportunity presented itself.

Reaching round to the small of his back, Kurt pulled out the Clock and again checked its magazine. Satisfied he reholstered it. He then checked his knife strapped to his calf. In his right pants pocket he had several pairs of latex gloves, in his left a ski mask. In his right jacket pocket he had his collection of lock-picking tools with which he'd practiced until he'd become adept; in his left pocket he had several automatic injection devices containing a powerful tranquilizer.