She hadn’t mentioned anything about hiding. Besides, that was carrying this thing just a bit too far, dammit! There was such a thing as too much foreplay.
“Ethel?” He looked in the closet. He looked in the two adjoining offices. “Ethel?” He looked under the bed. That was it. There was no place left to hide.
She was not there. Could you believe it? After all, she was the one at whose initiative this whole thing had begun. Now she was nowhere to be found.
And that was by no means all.
His clothing was gone. All his clothing.
Whatinhell am I gonna do now? There’s nothing left. And I didn’t get to use the maneuver. In fact, I haven’t used it since I got to this rotten place. Use it or lose it.
But for the present, he had to get out of here, saving as much face as possible.
Reacting as much from panic as anything else, he stripped the bed of its brown blanket, which he wrapped around himself. Cautiously, he let himself out of the room. Step by step, he inched along the welcome shadows of the corridor. When he reached the seemingly empty lobby, he knew he would have to make a dash for it. The switchboard operator was the sole inhabitant of the brightly lit foyer. She seemed absorbed in a paperback romance.
He made a break for it, bare feet hardly making a sound as he pitterpattered over the terrazzo floor. No sooner was he outside the building than the bone-chilling cold of a January night hit his basically bare body with Arctic force. Cursing Ethel, he danced his way across the pavement and through the parking lot as if proving his faith over hot coals.
George Snell, macho man that he was, never locked his car. So it was no problem for him to hot-wire the vehicle and get the heat going. For the first time in many minutes he could now relax slightly. He would drive home, don his other uniform, and get back here to try to retrieve the missing uniform at least in time to check out.
As for Ethel, that crazy broad, he was unsure whether he never wanted to see that unmitigated pain again, or whether, to ease his dark night of the soul, he wanted just enough time with her to dissect her. Sufficient for later thoughts of revenge. Right now, he had to salvage what he could of his reputation as defender of the hospital and God’s gift to women.
* * *
Bruce Whitaker continued to make his way through the corridors as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. He had dropped the pliers only three more times. Fortunately, having eluded that guard, he was challenged by no one else.
From time to time he caught a glimpse of someone who seemed to be preceding him down the hallways. A small figure hugging the walls and courting the shadows, much as was he. Now that was puzzling. But, whatever; he had his mission, which happened to coincide with God’s holy will, and he must carry it out.
At long last, he reached the clinic. All along the way, he had wondered what had happened to the guard who had nearly discovered him. Strange. The man must have become preoccupied with whoever had made that distracting sound. Whitaker attributed it to providence. He had a tendency to attribute most of his luck to providence. Except that, in most instances, his luck was bad. This was an exception.
Which made him wonder why, with a run of good luck going for him, something was going on in the clinic. No one should be in there at this hour. Given the infamous security of St. Vincent’s, it had been relatively easy to get a duplicate key made. But now he didn’t need it. The door was unlocked. Someone was in there. He detected a wavering flashlight beam. Someone was moving about, surreptitiously.
Carefully placing the pliers inside his jacket pocket—a decidedly good move—Whitaker quietly eased his way into the clinic. He found a position from which he could see what was going on, yet be far enough removed so he would not, in turn, be seen.
Once his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see rather well. The dim glow from the streetlight glinting off the fresh snow cover added to the small illumination of the flashlight, making it possible to identify the person who had preceded him into the clinic.
Sister Rosamunda. What in the world could she be doing here? She was rummaging about in a section that contained many bottles. She seemed to know what she was looking for and where to find it. She removed two bottles from a shelf and placed them within the folds of her ample traditional habit. Then she turned out the flashlight and moved toward the door.
As she departed, she walked within ten feet of him. Seemingly, she did not notice him. He stood stockstill and made no noise. That in itself was a small miracle. Under ordinary circumstances, in a situation like this, he would have sneezed, coughed or, in his very intention not to move a muscle, knocked something off a shelf.
This time, he did not. Providence. His good luck continued.
Sister was gone. Whitaker stayed motionless for a short while, letting the peace, quiet, and emptiness of the place wash over him. Of course there were those institutional noises that old buildings make—squeaks and groans. But, in time, they took on a lulling character.
He grew quiet within himself. He felt his pulse. It seemed regular, and slow enough. He guessed that his blood pressure might be close to normal—which, in itself, was a bit abnormal.
It was time. He must carry out the mission with which his colleagues had entrusted him.
He moved forward. Carefully, he picked his way among the cabinets filled with fragile containers. He could not believe he was doing all this, especially in relative darkness, without breaking anything or causing any commotion.
His narrow penlight beam fell on it. There it was. The drawer with the label reading, “IUDs.” He opened it. There were several boxes inside. He removed the first box, put it on a nearby counter, and opened it.
So this was what it was all about. Even so he was not sure what it was all about. Not only had he never seen an IUD, he was pretty much unfamiliar with female anatomy. But, putting two and two together, he came up with what he hoped was four.
This form of contraception, according to the best lights of Bruce Whitaker, took place in the following manner:
Through intercourse, the male deposited the germ of human life in the female’s womb (as in “. . . blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus”). This germ, or seed, grew in the womb for nine months. However, if an IUD were inserted, there would not be room enough for both the device and the baby. Thus, since the device was metallic and the baby mere flesh and blood, eventually the device would push the baby out before due time. There was no danger to the woman. She just let the baby and the device fight it out.
But all that was about to be changed.
Whitaker removed the first device from the box. So this was it. This was the tool of the devil that interrupted pregnancies against the teachings of the Holy Pope of God and his bishops.
With his pliers, Whitaker twisted one end of the device slightly out of shape, then with the side cutter pinched off one blunted end, creating a cruelly sharp point.
He deeply regretted the need to do this. But it was his mission. He must do it over and over—to each of these devices. It would take him the better part of this night. But never again, in this clinic at least, would women get away with forcing their babies out of their wombs with impunity. Now they would begin to pay for their crimes as the sharp, twisted edge of the device would tear at their wombs.
Actually, he and his colleagues were certain this bloody procedure would not be repeated that frequently. It wouldn’t take many perforated wombs before the attention of the medical and police establishments would be focused on St. Vincent’s. The hospital’s immoral practice of contraception would be publicized by newspapers, TV, and radio.
The local Church authorities would not have the luxury of looking the other way. They would be forced to take action against the sins of this hospital.
Then would he and his colleagues be vindicated. Of course their identity would have to remain secret. But the important thing would be that they had served God and the true Church. That would be reward enough.
Besides, the cloak of anonymity would protect them for further work for the Church. Then would their martyrdom of imprisonment be avenged.
He found it difficult to believe he was actually carrying this off. It was a smooth operation. As he went through box after box, altering the IUDs, he found it arduous, monotonous work. But, in his hands, it was a labor of love.
