When he first arrived in Massachusetts and was concerned that he might have difficulty getting licensed if the Massachusetts Medical Board heard about his Illinois problems, Paul had decided to continue his training by taking a fellowship in infertility. It had been the best decision of his life. Not only had he avoided licensing problems, but he'd gained entry into a field that had no oversight to speak of, professionally or businesswise. On top of that, it was amazingly lucrative.

For him, infertility was a perfect match, especially since by sheer luck of being at the right place at the right time he'd come in contact with Spencer Wingate, an established infertility specialist, who was eager to semi-retire, lead the good life, rest on his laurels, do fund-raisers, and lecture. By now Paul was running the show in both the research and clinical realms.

Whenever Paul thought of the irony of his being a researcher, it never failed to bring a smile to his face, because he'd never imagined himself in such a role. He'd been last in his class in medical school and had never had any research training. He'd even managed never to take a single course in statistics. But it didn't matter. In infertility the patients were desperate enough to try anything. In fact they wanted to try new things. What Paul lacked in research experience he thought he made up for in imagination. He knew he was making real progress on a lot of fronts that would eventually make him famous as well as rich.

Turning back from gazing out over what he now thought of as his domain, Paul caught a fleeting glimpse of his image in an ornately framed mirror positioned between the two gigantic windows. Returning to peer directly at his reflection, Paul ran a hand up and down both cheeks. He was surprised and concerned by the pastiness of his skin, emphasized by his almost-black hair, until he realized it was mostly due to the harsh fluorescent light coming from the banks of fixtures mounted on the high ceiling. He laughed at his momentary concern. He knew he was pale; given his schedule, his skin rarely saw the light of day, much less real sun, but he knew he didn't look as bad as the mirror suggested. In his reflection, his complexion matched his signature white forelock.

Returning to the desk, Paul vowed to get down to Florida sometime during the winter, or maybe find an ob-gyn conference someplace in the sun where he'd present some of his work. He also thought that perhaps he should find the time to get some exercise since he'd gained weight – particularly around his neck, of all places. He hadn't exercised in years. Paul wasn't much of an athlete, which had caused him serious distress in his South Side Chicago high school, where athletics played a significant social role. He'd tried out for some of the teams, but it had never worked, and his efforts had only made him the butt of jokes.

"Let them see me now," Paul said out loud as he thought of the people who'd teased him. "They're probably bagging groceries." He knew the twentieth reunion was coming up that June, and he wondered if he should go just to flaunt his success in the faces of those bastards who had given him such a hard time.

Paul picked up the phone and dialed the lab. When it was answered, he asked to speak to Dr. Donaldson. As he waited for her to come on the line, he reread the memorandum he had in his hand.

"What is it, Paul?" Sheila asked without a preamble.

"I got your memorandum,' Paul said. "These two women who are coming in. You think they are good candidates?"

"Perfect," Sheila said. "Both are healthy with normal habits; absolutely no gyn problems; they're not pregnant; both deny drugs or any medications of any kind, and both are about mid-cycle."

"Are they both really graduate students?"

"That's affirmative."

"So they must be smart."

"Without doubt."

"But what's this about one wanting local anesthesia?" Paul asked.

"She's getting a Ph.D. in biology," Sheila said. "She knows something about anesthesia. I made some suggestions, but she didn't bite. I figure Carl can have a go."

"But you tried?" Paul persisted.

"Of course I tried,' Sheila said irritably.

"All right, have Carl talk to her," Paul said. He hung up the phone without saying good-bye. Sheila could annoy him on occasion with her obvious jealousy.

"THAT MUST BE THE TOWER THE PHARMACIST WAS TALKing about," Deborah said, pointing through the windshield. They'd just made the turn onto Pierce Street from Main, and in the distance a narrow brick structure could be barely discerned poking up above its surrounding landscape.

"If that's two or three miles away, it's got to be one tall tower."

"From here its silhouette looks a little like the tower on the Uffizi Gallery in Florence," Deborah said. "How apropos."

Once they left the town behind, the trees lining the road blocked any further view of the tower or the Cabot complex itself until they'd passed a dilapidated red barn on the right. Around the next bend they came upon a sign for the Wingate Clinic on the left with an arrow pointing up a gravel road. As soon as they turned onto the unpaved road they caught sight of the two-story, gray granite gatehouse set back amongst the trees. It was a heavy, squat structure with small shuttered windows and a dark gray slate roof with elaborate finials at either end of the ridgepole. The trim was painted black. Stone gargoyles stuck out from the corners.

As they approached they could see that the road led under the house into a tunnel where it was blocked by a heavy chain-link gate. Beyond the gate they could see a recently mowed lawn, the only evidence the place was currently in use. An imposing cast-iron fence topped with razor wire was attached to both sides of the gatehouse and ran off into the trees on either side.

Deborah slowed, then stopped. "My word," she said. "That pharmacist wasn't joking when he said the inmates of the Cabot were locked up in a fortress. It almost looks like a prison."

"There's certainly nothing welcoming about it," Joanna added. "How do you suppose we get in? Do you see a buzzer, or do you think we have to call on a cell phone?"

"There must be a video monitor or something," Deborah suggested. "I'll pull up to the gate."

Deborah eased the car forward and nosed it into the tunnel. The moment she stopped again, a heavy, paneled, windowless door opened and out stepped a uniformed man clutching a clipboard. He approached the driver's side window, which Deborah lowered.

"Can I help you?" the guard asked in a pleasant but no-nonsense tone. He had on a shiny, black-visored hat similar to a policeman's.

"We're here to see Dr. Donaldson," Deborah said.

"Your names, please?" the man asked.

"Deborah Cochrane and Joanna Meissner," Deborah said.

The man consulted his clipboard, checked off the two names, then pointed with his pen through the gate. "Follow the driveway to the right. You'll see the parking area. Someone will meet you there."

"Thank you," Deborah said.

The man didn't answer but instead touched the brim of his hat. With a screeching sound, the heavy chain-link gate began slowly to swing open.

"Did you see the gun the guard is packing?" Deborah asked in a whisper when she had the window back up. The guard was still standing off to the left.

"It would be hard to miss it," Joanna said.

"I've seen armed police in inner-city hospitals," Deborah said. "But never at a rural medical clinic. Why on earth would they need so much security out here, especially at an infertility clinic?"

"It makes you wonder if they're more interested in keeping people out or keeping people in."

"Don't even joke like that," Deborah said. She started forward through the open gate. "Do you think they might be doing abortions, too? I've seen guards at abortion clinics in this state."