Robin Cook - Mindbend

Jennifer was speechless. There had to be a mistake. She couldn’t believe that her body would deceive her and produce some sort of monster.

“Does that mean that the child won’t live more than a few weeks?” Mrs. Carson asked, struggling with her own memories.

“We believe that the infant wouldn’t survive,” said Dr. Vandermer. He walked over to Jennifer and put his arm on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such news. I would have waited for the final results, but it is better for you to know now. It gives you more time to make a decision. It may not seem much consolation to you, but try to remember that you are a very young woman. You can have lots of other children and, as you mentioned yourself, this is not the best time for you and Adam to have a baby.”

Jennifer listened in shocked silence. Dr. Vandermer turned and caught Mrs. Carson’s eye.

“I think you should go home and discuss the situation with your family,” Dr. Vandermer continued. “Believe me, it’s better to come to a decision now than after a lengthy and difficult labor and delivery.”

“I can vouch for that,” said Mrs. Carson. “Dr. Vandermer’s right, Jennifer. We’ll go home and talk. Everything is going to work out fine.”

Jennifer nodded and even managed a smile for Dr. Vandermer, whose face finally revealed a trace of emotion.

“Please call me whenever you want,” he said as they left.

The two women passed through the clinic, descended into the parking garage, and retrieved their car in silence. As they drove up the ramp, Jennifer said, “I want to go home to my apartment.”

“I thought we’d go right back to New Jersey,” said Mrs. Carson. “I think your father should know about this.”

“I’d like to see Adam,” said Jennifer. “He didn’t say what time he was leaving. Maybe I can catch him.”

“Maybe we should call first,” said Mrs. Carson.

“I’d prefer just to go,” said Jennifer.

Deciding this was not the time to argue, Mrs. Carson drove her daughter downtown. When they went up to the apartment, Jennifer saw that Adam’s two suitcases were still in the closet and none of his clothes seemed to be missing. She felt reasonably confident that he had not left.

“Well, what do you want to do?” asked her mother.

“Wait and talk to him,” said Jennifer in a tone that brooked no further debate.

“I’m going to have to charge you a fee if this happens again,” teased the porter at the university information booth.

Adam took the white coat and slipped it on.

“I just can’t stay away from this place. I’m homesick.” The sleeves were two inches too short and there was a big yellow stain on the pocket. “Is this the best you can do?” he joked.

Confident in his medical disguise, Adam took the elevator to Neurology, went directly to the nurses’ station, smiled at the ward clerk, and again pulled Smyth’s chart from the rack.

All he really wanted was the information on the front sheet. Turning his back to the clerk, Adam copied down all the personal information he could find on Smyth: health insurance information, social security number, wife’s name, and birth date. That was a good start.

Returning the chart to the rack, Adam took the elevator back down to the library on the main floor. A research assistant directed him to a compendium of American physicians. Looking up Stuart Smyth, Adam checked the schools the man had attended from college through residency and was interested to note that he’d done a year of surgical training in Hawaii. Adam also memorized all of Smyth’s professional associations.

His final act before leaving the medical center was to call Christine at GYN Associates under the pretext of setting up an appointment with Baumgarten and Stens the following week. He managed to learn that Smyth was an avid tennis player, a lover of classical music, and a movie buff.

Back in the Buick, Adam drove across town and tumed right on Eighth Avenue. As he approached Forty-second Street, the city changed from office buildings and warehouses to garish movie theaters with harsh neon lights and adult bookstores advertising twenty-five-cent X-rated flicks. Streetwalkers in high-heeled sandals and miniskirts beckoned to him as he parked his car.

Adam wandered east, lingering in front of magazine stands. After many offers of drugs, he was approached by a thin man wearing one of those narrow mustaches that Adam remembered from thirties films.

“You interested in a real lady?” asked the man.

Adam wondered if a real lady was the opposite of the kind that you had to inflate. He was tempted to ask but wasn’t sure if the thin man would appreciate his humor.

“I’m interested in some ID cards,” said Adam.

“What kind?” asked the man as if it were an everyday request.

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a driver’s license and a voter’s registration card.”

“A voter’s registration card?” repeated the thin man. “I never heard of somebody asking for that.”

“No?” said Adam. “Well, I’m sort of new at this. I want to go on a cruise, and I don’t want anyone to know who I really am.”

“Then you want a friggin’ passport,” said the man. “When do you need it?”

“Right now,” said Adam.

“I trust you got cash.”

“Some,” said Adam. He’d been careful to lock most of his money, plus his own identification cards, into the glove compartment of the car.

“It will cost you twenty-five for the driver’s license and fifty for the passport,” said the thin man.

“Wow,” said Adam. “I only have fifty on me.”

“Too bad,” said the man. He turned and started toward Eighth Avenue.

Adam watched him for a moment, then continued walking toward Broadway. After a few steps he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Sixty bucks for both,” said the thin man.

Adam nodded.

Without another word the man led Adam back toward Eighth Avenue and into one of the many stores that were plastered with hand-lettered signs reading “Going Out of Business! Last Three Days! Everything Reduced!” Adam noticed that the “Last Three Days!” sign was brittle with age.

The store sold the usual assortment of cameras, calculators, and videotapes and a handful of “authentic Chinese ivories.” A center table supported a line of miniature Empire State Buildings and Statues of Liberty, plus coffee mugs with “I Love New York ” on the sides.

None of the salesmen even looked up as the thin man led Adam through the length of the store and out the rear door. In the back of the building was a hall with doors on either side. Adam hoped he wasn’t getting himself into something he couldn’t handle. The thin man knocked on the first door, then opened it and motioned Adam into a small, dark room.

In one corner was a Polaroid camera on a tripod. In another was a drafting table, set under a bright fluorescent light. A man with a shiny bald head sat at the table. He was wearing one of those green visors Adam remembered seeing on cardplayers in old westerns.

The thin man spoke. “This kid wants a driver’s license and a passport for sixty bucks.”

“What name?” asked the man with the green visor.

Adam quickly gave Smyth’s name, address, birth date, and social security number.

There was no more talk. Adam was positioned behind the Polaroid camera and several pictures were taken. Next, the man with the green visor went over to the drafting table and began to work. The thin man leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

Ten minutes later Adam walked back through the store, clutching his phony IDs. He didn’t open them until he reached the car, but when he did he found they looked entirely authentic. Pleased, he turned the car toward the Village. He had only an hour or so to pack.