“Paying them is a type of coercion!” Joanna snapped. “These women are poor and come from a struggling Third World country!”
“Hey, calm down! We’re trying to have a discussion here.”
“I’m not going to calm down!” Joanna spat. “And what was that thought of yours that you didn’t finish about my eggs? I hate it when you leave me hanging like that.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Deborah said. “The Nicaraguan connection got me sidetracked. The only way I can imagine they got that many eggs from you is if they took your whole ovary.”
Joanna swayed as if Deborah had slapped her. She had to shake her head to refocus her mind. With a tremulous voice Joanna asked Deborah to repeat herself in case Joanna had misunderstood.
Deborah took her eyes off the road to cast a quick glance at her roommate. She could hear from Joanna’s voice that she was momentarily on thin emotional ice. “I’m just thinking out loud here,” Deborah explained. “Don’t get yourself in a dither.”
“I deserve the right to get upset if you’re suggesting they took my ovary,” Joanna said, slowly and seemingly in perfect control.
“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.
MAY 10, 2001
6:30 P.M.
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 Glock 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.
After sitting in the van for almost a half hour, Kurt decided the time was right. The level of activity in the square had diminished but was not so quiet he’d stand out as a stranger. Kurt got out of the van and locked it. After a final, casual glance around the area, Kurt set out for number one Louisburg Square.
With his van keys in his hand, Kurt went up the steps to the building’s front door. Holding the keys as if he were having unexpected trouble with the lock, Kurt went to work with the lock-picking tools. It took him longer than he’d anticipated, but the cylinder finally yielded to his efforts. Without looking back, Kurt pushed in the door and stepped inside the building.
The squeals of the children still playing in the square died away as the door closed. Without rushing, Kurt put away his tools and started up the stairs. He knew from the doorbell panel that Deborah Cochrane and Joanna Meissner occupied the fourth floor. He assumed that Joanna Meissner was Prudence Heatherly, but he intended to confirm that assumption.
With each flight, Kurt’s excitement built. He truly loved the type of action he was anticipating. In his mind’s eye he could see Georgina Marks dressed in her disgustingly provocative dress. He wanted her alive for sure, and he wanted her back in his villa on the Wingate grounds.
Cresting the third flight, Kurt pulled on a pair of the gloves. He then reached around and gripped the Glock with his right hand but kept the gun holstered. With his left hand raised, he was about to knock when he heard the front door to the building open on the first floor below. Kurt did not panic as a less-experienced man might have. He merely stepped over to the railing and looked down the stairwell. He thought it might have been the women, but it wasn’t. Instead it was a solitary man trudging up the stairs after a day at the office. Kurt couldn’t see the individual except for his arm gripping the banister.
Kurt prepared himself for whatever confrontation was going to occur. His plan was to start down as if on his way out if the individual began to climb the third flight. But the ruse wasn’t necessary. The man stopped on the second floor, keyed open a door, and disappeared. The hallway lapsed back into its sepulchral stillness.
Kurt went back to the door to the fourth-floor apartment. He knocked loud enough for the occupants to hear if they were home, but not loud enough to disturb other people in the building. He waited, but when no one responded and he could hear no sounds from within, he went back to work with his lock-picking tools. As was typically the case in Kurt’s experience, the interior apartment door was more of a challenge than the outer door, mainly because it had two locks: a regular lock and a separate deadbolt.
The regular lock was easy, but the deadbolt took patience. Finally it gave way and opened. In the next instant Kurt was within the apartment and had the door closed. With speed that belied his earlier slow and deliberate movement, Kurt dashed through the apartment to make certain it was empty. He didn’t want to give anyone a chance to make a 911 call. To be complete, he checked every room and every closet. He even peered under the beds.
Once he was satisfied he was alone in the unit, he checked the alternate exit. It was a fire escape that zigzagged its way down the back of the house. Its access was through the window of the rear bedroom. Walking back through the bedroom, Kurt caught a glimpse of a photo of a young couple. The woman looked similar enough to Prudence Heatherly despite the longer hair for Kurt to be certain the two women he was after were roommates and that Joanna Meissner was Prudence Heatherly.
Passing out of the bedroom and down the hall, Kurt entered the living room. Going over to the desk, he searched for any papers suggesting an association with the Wingate Clinic. He didn’t find any, but he did find some material relating to the two aliases the women had used. Kurt carefully folded these sheets and pocketed them.
Continuing on, Kurt found a photo of Georgina. He preferred to relate to her as Georgina rather than Deborah. In the photo Georgina had her arm around an older woman Kurt assumed was Georgina’s mother. He was astounded how different Georgina looked in dark hair and chaste attire. Her lascivious transformation was clearly the work of the devil.
Kurt put the photo down and opened up the top drawer of the bureau. Reaching in he pulled out a silky pair of lace panties. Despite the latex gloves that dampened his sense of touch, there was something about the feel of the lingerie that excited him.
Leaving the second bedroom, Kurt walked back through the living room and into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, he was disappointed. He’d expected a cold beer, and the fact that there was none irritated him immeasurably.
Returning to the living room Kurt removed the Glock from the small of his back and placed it on the floor. Then he sat down on the couch. He checked his watch. It was well after seven, and he wondered how long he’d have to wait for Georgina and Prudence to return.
“IT’S CALLED WAARDENBURG SYNDROME,” CARLTON SAID. He nodded as if agreeing with himself, then sat back with a proud expression on his youthful face. He and the women were sitting at a Formica table in the middle of the MGH basement cafeteria where he’d brought them for a quick bite of supper since none of them had eaten. Carlton was on call that night and had warned them he could be paged for some emergency at any moment.
“What in God’s name is the Waardenburg Syndrome?” Joanna asked impatiently. Carlton’s response suggested he’d not been listening to what she’d been saying. She’d just finished describing the shock she and Deborah had had in discovering the two cloned children.
“Waardenburg Syndrome is a developmental abnormality,” Carlton said. “It’s characterized by white forelock, congenital sen-sorineural hearing loss, dystopia canthorum, and heterochromic irises.”
Joanna glanced at Deborah for a moment. Deborah rolled her eyes indicating she had the same reaction. It was as if Carlton was on another planet.
“Carlton, listen!” Joanna said, trying to be patient. “We’re not on hospital rounds like you’ve described to me in the past. We’re not grading you, so you don’t have to spout off with this medical minutia. It’s the forest that’s important, not the tree.”
“I thought you’d want to know what this doctor you’ve described has,” Carlton said. “It’s a hereditary condition involving the migration of auditory cells from the neural crest. It’s no wonder the cloned kids have it. His legitimate kids would have it, too.”
“Are you trying to suggest that these kids we’ve described aren’t clones?” Joanna questioned.
“No, they’re probably clones,” Carlton said. “With the normal genetic shuffling that would occur in a normally fertilized egg, there would be variable penetration, even of dominant genes. The kids wouldn’t look exactly the same. There’d be significant variation of the same characteristics.”
“Are you trying to be abstruse
on purpose?” Joanna demanded.
“No, I’m trying to help.”
“But you still think these children are clones, am I right?” Deborah chimed in.
“Absolutely, from how you’ve described them,” Carlton admitted.
“Doesn’t that shock you?” Joanna questioned. “We’re not talking about fruit flies or even sheep. We’re talking about cloning human beings.”
“To tell you the truth I’m not all that surprised,” Carlton admitted. He sat forward again. “As far as I’m concerned it was just a matter of time. Once Dolly was cloned, I thought human cloning would happen eventually, and it would happen in the kind of environment you’ve described: a non-university-based infertility clinic. Many of the infertility guys, particularly the mavericks have been bantering around about cloning and threatening to do it since Dolly was announced.”
“I’m shocked to hear you say that,” Joanna stated.
Before Carlton could respond, his pager went off. After looking down at the LCD display, he scraped back his chair. “Let me make this call. I’ll be right back!”
Both Joanna and Deborah watched him wend his way through the mass of empty tables toward one of the wall phones.
“Your analogy about the forest and the trees is marvelously apropos,” Deborah commented.
Joanna nodded. “By his own admission he’s so isolated in here. With his mind cluttered up with trivia like Waardenburg Syndrome, it’s no wonder he hasn’t the inclination to think about what’s going on in the world or about ethics. He’s taking this cloning in stride.”
“He wasn’t even all that incensed about what we told him concerning the Nicaraguans,” Deborah said. “Or even about you for that matter.”
Joanna nodded reluctantly. Carlton had not been particularly empathetic. When they’d first arrived, Joanna had been concerned about his feelings and had made it a point to apologize for not having called during the three days she’d been in Boston. Although Carlton had been gracious about the lack of contact, Joanna had still felt guilty about asking him for a favor, but that feeling had passed with Carlton’s lack of reaction to her fears.