Robin Cook - Seizure

Continuing west, they had no trouble finding the turnoff to the Wingate Clinic. It was on the left side of the road and marked by a huge sign.

Stephanie leaned forward to get a better view out the windshield as they approached. “My word! Do you see the sign?”

“It would be hard to miss. It’s the size of a billboard.”

Daniel made the turn onto the newly paved, tree-lined drive.

“They must have a lot of land,” Stephanie said. She sat back. “I can’t see the building.”

After several turns through a dense copse of evergreens, the serpentine driveway was abruptly blocked by a gate. A formidable chain-link fence topped with razor wire disappeared into the pine forest in both directions. On Stephanie’s side of the car stood a small booth. A uniformed guard, complete with a holstered sidearm, a visored, military-style hat, and aviator sunglasses, stepped out. He was holding a clipboard. Daniel pulled to a stop while Stephanie lowered her window.

The guard leaned over to look at Daniel across Stephanie’s lap. “Can I help you, sir?” His voice was decidedly businesslike and devoid of emotion.

“It’s Dr. D’Agostino and Dr. Lowell,” Stephanie said. “We’re here to meet with Dr. Wingate.”

The guard checked his clipboard and then touched the brim of his hat before returning to the gatehouse. A moment later, the gate rolled open like a pocket door. Daniel accelerated forward.

It took another few minutes before the clinic came into view. Nestled among carefully landscaped shrubbery and flowering trees was a two-story, postmodern, U-shaped complex. It was composed of three separate buildings connected by arcaded covered walkways. Each building was clad in white limestone with white concrete tile roofs, the pediments of which were capped by fanciful, shell-themed acroteria reminiscent of an ancient Greek temple. Latticework was interspersed between multipaned windows along the sides of each structure. At the base of each lattice, young, brightly colored bougainvillea plants were beginning their climb skyward.

“Good grief,” Stephanie exclaimed. “I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s beautiful. It looks more like a spa than an infertility clinic.”

The driveway led to a parking area in front of a central building, the entrance of which was adorned by a columned portico. The columns were squat, with exaggerated entases and capped with simple Doric capitals.

“I hope they saved some money for their laboratory equipment,” Daniel commented. He pulled their rented Mercury Marquis in between several new BMW convertibles. Several spaces away were two limousines, their liveried drivers smoking and chatting while leaning up against their vehicles’ front fenders.

Daniel and Stephanie stepped out of the car and paused to gaze at the complex, which was dazzling in the bright Bahamian sun. “I’d heard that infertility was lucrative,” Daniel commented, “but I didn’t imagine it was this lucrative.”

“Nor did I,” Stephanie said. “But I wonder how much of this resulted from them being able to collect on their fire insurance following their flight from Massachusetts.” She shook her head. “No matter where the money came from, with the cost of healthcare, opulence and medicine are inappropriate bedfellows. There is something wrong with this picture, and my qualms about getting involved with these people are coming back big time.”

“Let’s not let our prejudices and self-righteousness run away with themselves,” Daniel warned. “We’re not here on a social crusade. We’re here to treat Butler, and that’s it.”

The large bronzed front door opened and a tall, deeply tanned, silver-haired man appeared. He was dressed in a long white doctor’s coat. He waved and called out “Welcome!” in a high, lilting voice.

“At least we’re getting a personalized greeting,” Daniel said. “Let’s go! And keep your opinions to yourself.”

Daniel and Stephanie met up at the front of the car and began walking toward the entrance. “I hope that’s not Spencer Wingate,” Stephanie whispered.

“Why not?” Daniel whispered back.

“Because he’s handsome enough to be a soap-opera doctor.”

“Oh, I forgot! You wanted him to be short, fat, and have a wart on his nose.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, we can still hope he’s a chain-smoker and has bad breath.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Daniel and Stephanie mounted the three steps to the portico. As they approached, Spencer extended his hand while keeping the door open with his foot. He introduced himself with a great flourish of smiles and handshaking. He then grandly motioned for them to precede him into the building.

In keeping with the exterior, the interior had a simple classical ambience, with plain pilasters, dentil moldings, and Doric columns. The floor was polished limestone, softened with Oriental scatter rugs. The walls were painted a very light lavender, which at first glance appeared to be pale gray. Even the varnished hardwood furniture had a classical aura, with dark green leather upholstery. A faint smell of fresh paint permeated the air-conditioned air, as a reminder of the clinic’s recent completion. For Daniel and Stephanie, the dry coolness was a welcome contrast to the moist tropical heat outdoors, which had been steadily climbing since sunrise.

“This is our main waiting room,” Spencer said as he gestured around the voluminous room. Two moderately elderly, well-dressed couples were sitting on separate sofas. They were nervously flipping through magazines and briefly looked up. The only other occupant was a receptionist with bright pink fingernail polish who was manning a half-circle desk just inside the door.

“This building serves as the initial check-in location for new patients,” Spencer explained. “It also houses our administration offices. We’re very proud of the clinic, and we’re eager to show you the entire complex, although we suspect you’re mainly interested in our laboratory facilities.”

“And the operating room,” Daniel said.

“Yes, of course, the operating room. But first, come up to my office for some coffee and meet the others.”

Spencer led the way over to a spacious elevator, even though they were only going up one floor. During the brief ride, Spencer questioned like a concerned host whether their incoming flight had been pleasant. Stephanie assured him it had been fine. On the second level, they passed a secretary who interrupted her word processing to smile cheerfully.

Spencer’s vast office was in the northeast corner of the building. The airport could be seen to the east and a blue line of the ocean to the north. “Help yourselves,” Spencer said, motioning to a coffee service spread out on a low marble table in front of an L-shaped sofa. “I’ll get the two department heads.”

For a moment, Daniel and Stephanie were alone.

“This looks like an office of a CEO of a Fortune Five Hundred company,” Stephanie said. “I have to say, I find all of this opulence obscene.”

“Let’s hold our value judgments until we see the lab.”

“Do you think those two couples reading magazines downstairs are patients?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, nor do I care.”

“They seemed a bit old for infertility treatment.”

“It’s not our concern.”

“Do you think the Wingate Clinic is getting older women pregnant like that maverick infertility specialist in Italy?”

Daniel flashed Stephanie an exasperated, irritated look as Spencer reappeared. The clinic founder had a man and a woman in tow, both dressed like himself in white, highly starched, long doctor’s coats. First, he introduced Paul Saunders, who was short and squat, and whose thick-necked silhouette reminded Stephanie of the columns supporting the building’s entrance portico. In keeping with his body, everything about Paul’s face was round with puffy, pasty, pale skin, all of which was in sharp contrast to Spencer’s tall, slender frame, sharply angled features, and bronzed complexion. A mat of unruly dark hair with a striking white forelock completed Paul’s eccentric image and accentuated his paleness.