It was as if a shaft of glass had flown up from her face and pierced Natalie’s heart.
Standing below was Hattie Scranton. There was no mistaking that visage. What was she doing here? Of all people, Hattie Scranton!
Natalie watched her drive off and saw Mrs. Jerome turn back to the building. Once again, all was quiet and very deserted below. What did this mean? Her throat was screaming in pain. She could barely swallow. She took a deep breath and continued toward the bathroom. When she got there, she flipped on the light and gazed at herself in the mirror over the sink. She looked like a madwoman, her hair disheveled, her face flushed. As quickly as she could, she splashed cold water on her face and poured a glass of it to drink. She had what seemed to be an unquenchable thirst. It took another full glass of water to satisfy her, and now that she had gulped it so quickly, she felt very nauseated. The dizziness was returning, too.
She started back toward the bed, moaning and calling as she worked her way across the room, practically falling over the bed when she reached it. For a while, she lay there on her stomach and then turned herself onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. She felt so different. This lightness in her head, these aches in her body, told her something very serious was wrong with her. Why hadn’t they noticed? They were supposed to be so attentive, so concerned.
Gathering her strength again, she got to her feet and went to the closet. She wanted to dress and go downstairs. She needed to have answers. Why was Hattie Scranton here? Had she found out about her and tracked her to this place? Did they deny her access or tell Hattie she wasn’t here? What was going on?
More important, why did she feel this way? Why hadn’t anyone come to see what she needed? Where was her watch?
The sight of an empty closet revived the panic that had just swirled within her chest and stomach. Spinning about, she searched the room for signs of any of her things. There was none. All she had to wear was this ridiculous hospital gown, and she didn’t even have any slippers.
She went to the door and turned the knob. Nothing happened. The door looked cemented shut. The idea that she would be locked in a room was so alien and ridiculous to her that she actually had a small laugh over it. It couldn’t be so. Why would they lock her in the room? That made no sense, no sense at all. She turned the handle again and pulled as hard as she could, but the door did not budge. Yes, it was indeed locked.
She stood back a moment and contemplated it, and then, with all the might she could muster, she attacked it, pounding with her small fists until her wrists stung. She shouted at the top of her lungs at the same time. The drain of energy was instantaneous as soon as she stepped back again. The room spun, and she felt herself go so soft she thought she might be melting, sinking into a pool of herself as she floated downward. In her mind, it took a very long time, but in truth, she hit the floor in a split second, and then all went dark.
Ryan pulled to the curb about a thousand yards from the Rosses’ driveway. He punched up the Rosses’ phone number on his cell phone and waited. It rang and rang, and then the answering machine came on. It was good no one was at home, but he was confident he could get done what he wanted to get done undetected, anyway.
He stepped out of his vehicle, his VFR in hand, and closed the door softly. Then, under the cover of some deep shadows cast by an amazingly full and bright moon, he hurried along the embankment onto the Rosses’ property and made his way to the garage door, reached into his pocket for a key, opened it, and entered. He didn’t have to put on any light. The window on the west end was practically on fire with the moonlight. He knew where the phone was located, anyway, and went directly to it, quickly removing the brain cover and inserting the VFR. He read the numbers of the last dozen outgoing and incoming calls with their dates, quickly replaced the brain cover, and left the garage.
He drove some distance away before he pulled over to trace the phone numbers and get names and addresses. Only one interested him, because it was the only one made to a location out of the area, and it had a protective shield. He had to go through the central office tracing mechanisms to break through. The call had been made to a property located just outside Rochester and owned by a foundation simply called the Rescue Foundation. What did they rescue? Why did they have an unlisted number with a high-security block?
He went to his pocket computer and ran a search but came up with zilch. There wasn’t even a nonprofit filing for the organization. He checked his watch. He had to be at the airport in less than an hour now. It made him feel like someone watching a time bomb tick away. What to do?
Sometimes the simplest and most obvious things serve best, he thought, and punched out the telephone number on his cellular. It rang twice before a female voice answered with a simple “Hello” and not “This is the Rescue Foundation” or anything like it.
“I’d like to speak with Mrs. Ross, please,” he said.
There was a very long pause.
“Hello?” he said.
“Who is this?”
“It is very important that I speak with Mrs. Ross immediately. It could be a life-or-death matter,” he said, testing to see what over-the-top dramatics would bring. It was already interesting that the woman hadn’t immediately said that there was no one there by that name.
“Who is this?” she repeated.
“This is the New York State Criminal Investigative Division, Officer Lee. To whom am I speaking?” he fired back.
There was a click.
“Hello?”
He hit redial, and the phone rang and rang. This time, after five rings, an answering machine picked up.
“This is the Rescue Foundation. At the sound of the beep, please leave your name and number and the time of your call. Thank you.”
He heard the beep and hung up, satisfied that he had reached the necessary conclusion to keep him on the case.
* * *
Natalie woke on the bed, the blanket drawn up to the base of her chin. The lights were on brightly, and she could see the door to her room was now wide open. Mrs. Jerome was taking her pulse. She smiled down at her.
“How are you, dear?”
“What happened to me?”
“You had a fainting spell. Not unusual for someone in your condition. Right, Dr. Stanley?” she asked someone standing at the foot of Natalie’s bed.
“Right,” she heard, and then saw a rather short man, no more than five feet four, with bushy, reddish brown hair, strands brushed hastily to one side. He stepped up to the bed. He was wearing a dark brown suit and a cream-colored tie. He had a sickly, pale complexion with watery, dull, dark brown eyes and a long nose that thickened around the nostrils. He seemed to smear a smile over his face, his lips widening and flattening with his effort to bring them back in the corners. “Disorientation, memory loss, a crisis of identity, even, all characteristic,” he recited.
“Of what?” Natalie practically screamed. Or at least she thought she had. She didn’t seem to have the strength to raise her voice loudly. Her chest actually ached with her effort to speak.
“I’m Dr. Stanley,” he said, instead of replying to her question. Maybe she hadn’t actually voiced it but only thought it.
“Where are my clothes? Why was the door locked?”
“Your door wasn’t locked, dear,” Mrs. Jerome said. “And your things are right here,” she added, stepping toward the closet and indicating her garments. They were all hanging there.
“They weren’t there before,” Natalie insisted.
“Of course they were,” Mrs. Jerome said. She smiled at Dr. Stanley. “Why wouldn’t they be? We don’t play musical chairs with clothing here.”
Dr. Stanley laughed.
They’re making me feel foolish, Natalie thought angrily.
“Where’s my watch?” she demanded more forcefully.
“Your watch? Why, you’re wearing it, my dear.”
Natalie looked at her wrist. She was right. It was there.
“But…”
�
��The mind plays tricks,” Dr. Stanley told Mrs. Jerome, who nodded and smiled.
They were both smiling at her now, making her feel so ridiculous.
“I saw Hattie Scranton,” Natalie insisted, this time with real intensity. She started to lift herself from the pillow. This they couldn’t deny. She wasn’t confused about this. “I looked out my window and saw her with you below, on the steps. And I’m not mistaken. I know her well.”
“Who?”
“Hattie Scranton. From my hometown. The leader of the baby squad. Hattie Scranton!”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Jerome said. “Doctor?”
“Not unusual,” he said, nodding with that same calmness. “Paranoia is a sister to it all, and hallucinations are common, especially at this stage.”
“I saw her,” Natalie insisted.
“Yes, you did,” Dr. Stanley said. “You certainly did. No one is going to deny it. But what you have to do is think of it as you would think of a psychosomatic pain. You actually feel the pain even though there is no physical reason for the pain. In fact, you can be treated for the pain.”
“What? What are you saying?” she asked, grimacing.
“Dr. Stanley is an expert in your condition, dear,” Mrs. Jerome said.
Natalie glanced at her and then at him. “Where is my other doctor, Dr. Prudential?”
“He’s no longer needed, my dear,” Mrs. Jerome said. “Dr. Stanley is the doctor who is needed. He will help you. He’s an expert when it comes to your condition.”
“You keep saying that. What is my condition?”
“Doctor?” Mrs. Jerome said, stepping back as if she had introduced a performer who would now take the stage.
“Well, Mrs. Ross, we call it false or imaginary pregnancy.”
“What?”
Dr. Stanley sat on the bed and reached for Natalie’s hand. She watched him take it as if it weren’t her hand, as if she were observing him holding hands with someone else. He smiled at her.
“Not many people know, but it’s more common now than it ever was,” he said. “You know, what’s interesting…there are some dogs that are not bred but develop behavior related to giving birth, especially after they’ve had intercourse with a neutered male dog. It’s as if their bodies are telling them, ‘This is what you’re programmed by nature to do, and so do it.’ I’ve known rabbits to build nests for their imaginary offspring to come.”
He widened his smile. His teeth were rather small, Natalie thought, almost as small as a child’s.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do, Mrs. Ross. Even you would be most unlikely to hear about such things.”
He leaned toward her.
“It’s considered very unwise to let the general population know that women experience this. Some women, I should say. Not all, not all, by no means.”
“Experience what? What are you saying?” she demanded in a more frantic tone.
“Why, a false pregnancy, Mrs. Ross. That’s what we’ve been talking about. That’s why I’m here.”
Natalie stared at him and then looked at Mrs. Jerome, who was staring at her and smiling.
“Dr. Stanley is an expert,” she said. “Listen carefully to what he’s telling you, my dear.”
Natalie shook her head. “I don’t care about his expertise. This isn’t a false pregnancy. I’m not imagining it. I’ve had all the symptoms. I’ve missed my period, and I haven’t had another. I’ve had morning sickness. I’ve had and still have sensitive breasts, and I’ve had food cravings. No,” she said, “this isn’t imaginary.” She smiled. “I don’t understand why you are talking like this to me. Where’s my other doctor? What’s going on here?”
“Dr. Prudential examined you, my dear. Remember?”
“Yes, yes, I remember. I remember him saying I was farther along than I had thought and the baby was in good position. And don’t say I imagined that!”
“No. They were said, but we decided to say those things so as not to upset you, my dear. Once Dr. Prudential realized what was happening, we wanted you to hear everything from Dr. Stanley instead. He’s the expert.”
“What kind of expert? I’m pregnant! I need an old-fashioned obstetrician!”
“Now, now, dear. Please try to stay calm. Dr. Stanley is here to help.”
She shook her head, trying to deny everything she heard. Dr. Stanley continued to smile warmly at her.
“You see, Mrs. Ross, you did go through all the motions. Just like the rabbit, you mated and you believed you conceived. Your body reacted to the power of your positive thinking. The mind has so much more control over the body than people think. Did you know that it has been shown with empirical certainty that people have the mental capacity to heal themselves?”
Natalie continued to shake her head.
“As I understand it, you reinforced your thinking with prenatal vitamins, a strict diet regimen that a pregnant woman should follow, all giving support to your own false conclusions about yourself.”
“No,” Natalie said, tears coming to her eyes. “It’s not so. It’s not false. It’s not!”
“Did you ever have an examination by a real doctor before this, Mrs. Ross?” he asked her, his smile lifting off his face quickly.
She stared at him.
“Well?”
“A woman doesn’t need a real examination to know she’s pregnant,” she insisted.
“Yes, yes, there was a time when that was somewhat so, but not now, Mrs. Ross. You’re not aware of it, perhaps, but there are additives put in our food that reinforce NL1.”
“People get pregnant. Women still get pregnant,” Natalie said.
“Yes, some do slip through, but not you, Mrs. Ross.”
“I took a pregnancy test,” Natalie said, even though she hadn’t. “At home.”
“You mean, you acquired one of those primitive self-tests from some underground source?”
“Yes.”
“Very unreliable, Mrs. Ross. There are too many factors today that could produce a false positive, anyway. Some of those additives I just mentioned, for example.”
“No,” Natalie said, shaking her head. “I’m pregnant.”
“You’re not pregnant, Mrs. Ross. You need to rest. We’ll help you. It should take only a few days. I’ll spend as much time with you as necessary to get you to see what’s happened.”
“My body,” Natalie said, losing some confidence. She pressed her breasts. “Sensitive, bloated…”
“You won’t believe this, I know, Mrs. Ross, but I’ve seen women who are so convinced they are pregnant, so convinced, that their abdomens actually become swollen to the point of an eighth-month gestation. Really. Why, they even experience labor pains, pains that are very real to them. Some even go through the exquisite agony of birthing, convinced a fetus has emerged. It’s quite bizarre, I assure you, but nevertheless a psychological phenomenon. Fortunately for you, we have caught your condition early enough to help you. You’ll be fine in a few days.”
The tears that were streaming down Natalie’s cheeks felt as if they had been boiled inside her first.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. “It’s not my imagination. I want my husband. I want to speak with him.”
“Of course. As a matter of fact,” Dr. Stanley said, rising, “I have asked him to come here. I believe he will be here soon.”
“I want to get dressed,” Natalie said, trying to sit up. Her head felt so heavy. The room took a spin. Both Dr. Stanley and Mrs. Jerome stood next to each other, watching her struggle and then fall back to her pillow. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Emotional exhaustion,” Dr. Stanley said. “Very common, very characteristic.”
“Dr. Stanley is an expert when it comes to treating women in your condition,” Mrs. Jerome said. It was as if something he did or something Natalie did triggered an automatic recitation in her.
“I want to get dressed,” she emphasized. “I w
ant to get dressed.”
“Just rest for a while,” Dr. Stanley said. He seized her shoulders gently but forced her back.
“Take it easy.”
“I want my husband,” Natalie said, but with her eyes closed, her lips barely moving. “I need my husband. Please. Let me get dressed.”
Her words began to slip over her lips, her tongue barely moving.
“He’s on his way, dear. I’ll send him right up as soon as he arrives. Rest,” she said, fixing the blanket.
“I’m pregnant,” Natalie managed to mutter firmly once more.
It was the last thing she said before drifting off again. She didn’t hear them leave. The sound of someone crying rode over it.
Who’s crying? she wondered.
She was terrified the sobs she heard might be her own.
Fifteen
Ryan reached the airport only minutes before the agency plane touched down and taxied to the gate. He wasn’t surprised to see McCalester already there talking to a flight attendant at the desk.
“Where you been? I called you as soon as they called me, but you had already left the hotel,” McCalester said as soon as Ryan approached.
“I had an errand to run,” Ryan replied.
“I don’t understand. They’re replacing you just as you’re about to wrap this up? What’s going on?” the local policeman asked.
“What do you think?” Ryan asked as if he were really confused himself.
McCalester shook his head and then shrugged. “Well, I told you about knocking on the wrong doors, going at it head-on like that. I guess someone made a call,” he replied with an unexpected frankness.
Ryan stared coldly and nodded. “Yes, someone.”
“Hey, you don’t think it was me, do you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ryan replied.
“It matters to me,” McCalester said. “I’m a cooperative member of my community, but I don’t compromise my police work.”
The Baby Squad Page 21