'
That afternoon, Nurse Dyer stepped into Fletcher's office and locked the door behind her. She wore deep emerald cu-lottes beneath her lab coat. No doubt, mused Evelyn, she had a pair of matching high heels to replace the crisp white hospi-tal shoes she currently wore.
'Dr. Lawrence is asking questions.'
'Relax.' She motioned for Dyer to sit beside her at her desk. The tall woman pulled up a chair, lowered her frame into the leather folds, and tried to relax. She did not seem to be succeeding. The nurse drummed her blood- red-polished, pro-fessionally short fingernails against the brown leather arm-rest. 'The administrator could blow us out of the water if he gets suspicious at all.'
Fletcher lit up a cigarette. 'Lawrence isn't suspicious. He's just a meddlesome old bureaucrat who confuses irritating the staff with effective management. He's bothering everyone just to look busy.'
'He questioned me about the discrepancies on Chandler's reports.' Fletcher looked up. 'Such as?'
Dyer leaned forward. 'Delivering a full-term infant in just seven months.'
'Jesus.' Fletcher jabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. 'That's so simple. Just direct him to me. That man hasn't touched a scalpel in eighteen years. I'll just backdate the operation and tell him he's confused.'
'I think that maybe we tried to do too much. Maybe we should-'
'Should what?' Fletcher stood. 'Pull back now when we know it works? Go back to the status quo?
Now that we've got the technique? Don't forget why we're in this.' She stepped behind Dyer to grasp her shoulders. 'Don't forget the goal here. Don't forget the payoff we're finally seeing. Great strides are never made without the risk of stumbling.'
'But what if Mrs. Chandler should talk?'
'She won't,' Fletcher said, patting the woman's athletic shoulders. 'She's got the baby she wanted.' The doctor paused, then spoke softly. 'I think we should try another one.'
'
David Chandler prepared to run the gauntlet. The day at work-being away from his wife and daughter-had been dif-ficult. The manager of an aircraft fastener warehouse does not have much time for quiet, reflective moments. Roaring forklifts and the constant metallic racket of jostling compo-nents make for rattled nerves.
And now he had to face this.
'There's the washroom,' a stern-faced nurse said. 'Put the robe over your clothes so that it ties in the back. Put on the bonnet. Put on the face mask.' She handed him a sealed packet. 'This is a Betadine scrub brush. Get it wet so that it lathers. Lather up your hands completely, then scrub. Pay strict attention to your fingernails. Not one speck of dirt should be under-neath when you're done. Then do it again. Your hands should have a nice orange stain all over.'
'Then I can see them?'
'Of course.' She looked at him oddly for a moment, then wandered away. Chandler donned the protective garb and turned on the hot water to perform the ablution. The bright, yellow-orange suds coated his hands as the sponge side of the brush worked up a lather. The antiseptic tingled in a small cut on his ring finger that he didn't remember receiving. The Betadine smelled sharply cleansing, very much in accord with all the other hos-pital smells.
He concentrated on scrubbing his fingernails and cuticles. He plunged his hands into the stream of water to rinse, then lathered and scrubbed again. Drying his hands, he examined the fingertips-now clean and yellow-white beneath the trim nails-and looked up. In the cupboard above the sink sat an open box of scrub-brush packets. David's eyes glanced right and left. No one near to witness the crime. Deft fingers plucked one packet from the box, skillfully sliding it under the gown and into his right front pocket.
He might need one at home. Crime in the service of sanita-tion.
He slipped on his mask, then paused. He had just touched his pocket and his face. With a self-derisive snort, David Chan-dler picked up the used brush and repeated the cleansing ritual. Finally done, the masked man strode purposefully down the hallway, only to stop midway, trying to remember what room number he had been given. The iron-eyed nurse passed by, noted his confusion, and directed him to the room.
Karen Chandler lay in bed in a semiprivate room. No one occupied the other bed at the moment, and the only sounds came from the cries of other babies in the wing. Renata lay in her mother's arms, nursing happily. Tiny fingers pressed against the soft milk-filled flesh.
'Hi,' he said, standing in the doorway.
