by Lee Goldberg
As he said this, two men came out of an adjoining room wheeling a movie projector while another man brought out a screen, which he began erecting behind Dr. Whittington.
"It's only a matter of time before the Soviets drop a hydrogen bomb, and it could be right here in Los Angeles," Dr. Whittington said. "That's why it's essential that every family have their own bomb shelter, one designed to protect you from the devastating effects of nuclear fallout."
For the next ten minutes, Dr. Whittington lectured us about the likelihood of an imminent, full-scale nuclear at tack. Even if the bomb wasn't dropped on our heads, he assured us, the fallout from an explosion nearby would decimate us unless we sought refuge in a reinforced concrete bunker and slammed a half-inch-thick steel door shut behind us.
He then introduced us to Carl Stokes, a man with eyes that sparkled so intensely and teeth that were so blindingly white, I wondered if he wasn't radioactive already. Carl was a sales representative from Safe Haven, Incorporated, the leading builder of suburban bomb shelters.
At least now I understood why I'd been invited to Dr. Whittington's home. It wasn't because he wanted to socialize with me. It was because he wanted to sell me something. But it was too late to leave now, even though I felt Katherine gently nudging me in the direction of the door. If I fled now, I'd only incur Dr. Whittington's wrath later, and there was no bunker I could hide in to protect me from that.
Carl told us that a bomb shelter would become as common and essential a feature in the home as the kitchen. And it wouldn't be saved just for nuclear attacks.
"Think of it as an extension of your family room," Carl suggested. "With colorful wallpaper, comfortable chairs, board games, toys, a record player, and a battery-powered radio. A welcome refuge not only from radiation but from the stress of everyday life."
The refuge should also contain portable toilets, candles, bunk beds, books, magazines, and enough cigarettes, canned food, powdered milk, liquor, and water to last a family of four for two weeks.
We were then shown a twenty-minute movie that began with mushroom clouds, footage of devastated cities, and depictions of hordes of decaying people, staggering through the streets, tripping over corpses. The movie then dramatized what might happen if the bomb was dropped on a typical American suburb. The families with bomb shelters in their basements or in their backyards survived, casually playing board games and joyfully eating canned foods, while their foolish neighbors who didn't have shelters fought one another for scraps of irradiated garbage and died horrible, drooling deaths.
"Oh, how they wish they'd recognized the importance of building a bomb shelter," the narrator, who was also Carl, intoned gravely.
The movie discussed the need of hiding your bomb shelter from your neighbors, lest they want to take refuge in it during a nuclear attack.
"Tell them it's a wine cellar," Carl suggested, "or a new rumpus room for the kids!"
But if neighbors did discover your shelter, it was your moral obligation in the event of a nuclear attack to keep them out, with lethal force if necessary, so they wouldn't imperil your family's safety by using your provisions. The moral thing, we were told, was not to let a neighbor into your shelter but to encourage him, before the bomb was dropped, to build his own.
Following the movie, colorful brochures were handed out inviting us to arrange an appointment to visit the model home and shelter in a valley housing tract. Bomb shelters weren't just good for our lives, they were also good for our money. Carl told us the bomb shelter industry itself was a great investment opportunity. The industry could gross as much as twenty billion dollars in the next five years, assuming a nuclear war didn't break out first.
That explained why Dr. Whittington had invited us all there. He wasn't concerned about our survival. He was an investor.
When Carl was finished with his presentation, cake and tea were served. Somehow nobody seemed to be in much of a party mood, though.
We didn't stay for dessert. We thanked Dr. Whittington for a lovely evening of convivial company and nuclear holocaust and left as fast as we could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We rarely had a free night and a babysitter, so we were determined take advantage of the opportunity. We went to a steakhouse on Wilshire Boulevard for a late dinner with the Spicers and the Arnolds.
Naturally, the big topic of conversation was Dr. Whittington's disastrous party. We were all living in apartments. What made him think we were in the market for bomb shelters?
"Carl made the bomb shelter sound so homey and attractive, who needs a house?" Katherine said. "We could build a bomb shelter for one third of the price."
We laughed about that for a while, then we started talking about the difficulties of saving up for a house, sharing anecdotes about our kids, and complaining about our hours at the hospital.
Once we got on the subject of Community General, the three of us doctors at the table all remembered we had long shifts the next morning and that it was probably best to get home.
It was pouring rain when we parked in front of the Armacost Sands to drop off the Spicers and pick up Steve. The children were asleep in Tina's playpen and the baby sitter, Joanna, was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over some open textbooks, taking notes and studying. One of the books was very familiar to me. It was the tenth edition of the Merck Manual of Diagnosis and Therapy, the bible of medical professionals and students.
I asked Bart how much I could contribute towards paying the babysitter, but he wouldn't take any money from me. Instead, since his car was in the shop, he asked me to drive Joanna home so she wouldn't have to take the bus. I was glad to. I wasn't going to leave the poor girl out alone in the rain, waiting for the bus to show up.
Steve didn't even stir as Katherine lifted him out of the playpen and dressed him in his raincoat. He was deep asleep.
"They played hard," Joanna explained. "He may sleep until Tuesday."
"I wish," Katherine said, then whispered to me, "Be sure to get her number, Mark. We could use a good babysitter."
Joanna Pate told me that she shared an apartment in Santa Monica with another nineteen-year-old girl she'd met during her senior year at Fairfax High School. Her friend wanted to be a stewardess but was waiting tables now at Norm's.
Ordinarily, it wouldn't have taken me more than a few minutes to drive Joanna home. But it was a dark, foggy night and the rain was coming down hard. I drove very slowly. I didn't want to become a patient in my own ER.
She sat beside me in the front seat, her book bag at her feet. "How was the party?"
"It wasn't quite what we expected," I said.
"I'm not surprised," she said. "Dr. Whittington doesn't strike me as a real festive guy."
"You know Dr. Whittington?"
"Sure. He runs the nursing school at Community General and controls admissions," she said. "I'm studying to be a nurse. I babysit to help pay for my tuition."
I felt a chill go down my back and it wasn't because I was cold. Sally Pruitt was also babysitting to earn money for nursing school. Could they have known each other? I wanted to ask right away, but instead I forced myself to relax, to take it slowly.
"How did you meet Dr. Spicer?" I asked, trying hard to sound casual.
"Almost all the doctors at Community General are married and work long hours," she said. "Their wives are stuck at home all day with the kids. They're both tired and irritable and need a break. So we got this idea. A few of us girls got together and started approaching anyone with a wedding ring and asking them if they needed a babysitter. And they all did. We had more work than we ever imagined."
"Doctors are paying you to go to nursing school," I said.
"I never thought of it that way," she said. "I like it."
"Are you sure you don't want to go to business school instead? It sounds to me like you have a natural talent for marketing and sales."
"My dad is a salesman," she said. "I guess a little of it rubbed off on me."
"I know some
body else who babysits to make money for nursing school," I said. "Have you ever met Sally Pruitt?"
"Yes, I knew Sally," Joanna said softly. "I have some bad news. She's—"
"Dead," I said. "I know."
"Were you a friend of the family?"
"I didn't actually know her. It was a poor choice of words." I shifted uneasily in my seat. "I was on call in the ER when she was brought in."
"You missed knowing a really special person," Joanna said, beginning to cry. "She was so sweet, so kind. All she wanted was to be a nurse."
Her shoulders started to heave. I felt guilty for making her so sad, and yet at the same time I wanted to ask her more.
I pulled the car over to the curb in front of her building and let the motor run.
"I just can't believe she's gone," she said, turning herself against me and pressing her face to my chest. I patted her head and felt her tears moisten my shirt. "It was such a horrible accident. This damn storm is a nightmare."
"Did you know her well?" I asked.
"No." Her voice was muffled, her face against me, her shoulders shaking. "But now I wish I had. I just saw her around. She wasn't a student yet. She was hoping Dr. Whittington would admit her next term. One of the girls met her at the admissions office, got to know her, and put her name on the list."
"What list?"
"Of students willing to babysit," Joanna said. "Why do you want to know these things about her?"
"I suppose it's because of the way I met her," I said. "I only knew Sally as a corpse. I'd prefer to know her as a person."
If Joanna didn't know that Sally was murdered in a bathtub, I wasn't going to be the one to tell her. I certainly wasn't going to admit I was bumbling around trying to find her killer.
"It's just so sad," she said, sniffling. I patted her back reassuringly.
"Do you remember who the girl was who met Sally and put her on the list? I'd like to talk with her."
Joanna started to shake again and held me tight, crying even harder. I stroked her hair, trying to calm her down, rocking her the way I would Steve. What did I say? What had I done?
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"She's dead," Joanna said.
"Who is?"
"Muriel Thayer," she sobbed. "She died, too. In a car accident."
Another dead girl. Another dead babysitter. Another dead aspiring nurse.
I felt my heart start to race and hoped that Joanna, her head against my chest, couldn't feel it, too.
"When did this happen?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even and not betray the excitement I was feeling.
"Last week, when the rains started," Joanna said. "She drove her car off a cliff along Mulholland Highway."
Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make Sally Pruitt's murder look like a storm-related accident. What if Muriel Thayer's death wasn't an accident either?
It meant there was a killer on the loose murdering young women and using the storm to cover his crimes.
Then again, perhaps Muriel Thayer's death really was an accident. The fact that Muriel was a nursing student and a babysitter and died the same week that Sally Pruitt was murdered could simply be a coincidence.
But I knew it wasn't.
I could feel it.
Proving what I felt was another matter altogether, and I had no idea where to begin.
"It hurts so much," Joanna said, lifting her head and looking at me with wide, wet eyes. I wiped a tear from her cheek.
"I know," I said.
"Make it go away," she said huskily, and then she kissed me. It wasn't the gentle, affectionate kiss of a child. There was a hunger, an adult need. She put her whole body into it, reaching a hand behind my neck to draw me to her. I responded instinctively, kissing her back, until I felt the tip of her tongue brushing my lips.
I took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her away. She looked into my eyes, searching them for some thing. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
"No, it isn't," I said.
"But you were l me," she said. "Caressing me."
"I only wanted to comfort you," I said.
"That's all! want to do," she said softly.
"Not in the same way."
Joanna shook her head. "I felt your heart." She placed her hand on my chest. "I still can."
She took my hand and held it between her breasts. "Feel mine."
I could feel it, pounding urgently, her breathing hard.
I took my hand from her. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that my heart wasn't racing over her. But now I wasn't sure. I couldn't deny that I was attracted to her. Any man would be. She was warm and soft and beautiful. But I loved my wife, and the thought of making love to Joanna had never entered my mind.
Until she kissed me.
For an instant, when her body was against mine, when I could feel her warmth and her aching need, the temptation was there. It would have been so easy to give in to it, to lose myself in her. But just as quickly the temptation was gone, replaced by shock and embarrassment.
"I'm sorry if you misunderstood," I said.
"Did I?" she asked.
If I'd offended or embarrassed her with my rejection, she wasn't showing it.
"It's getting late," I said. "I need to get home to my family, to my wife."
I underscored those last three words, hoping they'd make an impression on her.
"Will you walk me to the door?" she asked.
Ordinarily, I would have without thinking twice about it, but not now. Not after her kiss.
"I'll watch you from here," I said.
She gathered up her bag, studied my face for a long moment, then kissed me on the cheek and got out into the rain.
When I got home, Katherine was sitting up in bed in her nightgown, reading Life magazine, the same issue Bart had been looking at the other day in the cafeteria. I could still feel the moisture from Joanna's tears on my chest.
During the short drive back, I had debated whether or not to tell Katherine what had happened. I still hadn't decided.
"How would you like to drive a brand-new Chrysler Imperial?" Katherine said.
"Is Dr. Whittington looking for a driver?"
"You can have one of your own," she said. "For free. Chrysler is going to be calling you."
"They will?" I asked. "Why?"
"Because you're a handsome young doctor." She opened the magazine up and held it in front of her for me to see. I sat on the edge of the bed beside her and took a look.
It was a full-page advertisement featuring a square-jawed doctor in a suit, holding his medical bag and admiring a gleaming black 1962 Imperial Crown Four-Door Southampton.
Below the photo, the advertising copy read:
To America's Doctors: We're inviting you to enjoy the personal use of a new Imperial for three days. Soon you will receive a phone call to schedule the delivery of a brand-new car to your door with absolutely no obligation. All we want is for you to make a thorough diagnosis of the Imperial's superior handling, astounding road performance, faultless smoothness, and breathtaking elegance.
"I'll go wait by the phone," I said. "You can take over for me in the morning."
I started to get up but she pulled me back onto the bed, crawled on top of me and pinned me down playfully.
"It's a beautiful car. I think it's going to look great parked outside of our new bomb shelter," Katherine said. "When they call, tell them to deliver it right away. We can drive around Beverly Hills and pretend we're rich."
"Would you like that?"
"I'd love that. It will be fun," she said. "Speaking of calls, did you ask the babysitter for her number?"
"I forgot," I said, which was true. "Sorry."
"Not good enough," Katherine said with a wicked smile.
I suppose I could have told her at that moment about Joanna, but then my wife started to kiss me, and I decided that perhaps it wasn't the best time to talk about necking with another woman.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I m
anaged to beat Dr. Whittington to the hospital, which disappointed me, because I'd never looked better. My socks matched, my tie was tightly knotted, and I wasn't late.
I'd made it to the hospital with time to spare because I woke up long before my alarm rang. I'd slept fitfully, tormented by guilt about what had happened with Joanna Pate.
I didn't kiss her, she kissed me. What bothered me was that I liked it. I felt as if I'd cheated on Katherine. Some how, not telling Katherine about it made it seem even more wrong.
When I wasn't replaying the encounter with Joanna over and over in my mind, I thought about what she'd told me before the kiss and what it might mean.
A week ago, the dark clouds moved over the city, bringing rain and thunder, lightning and death. Two nursing students had died. One of them was murdered.
Was Sally Pruitt actually the second victim? If so, were there others we didn't know about?
As long as the storm lasted, I knew, there would be more mudslides and flooding, more fallen trees and car accidents.
And more murders.
I was still worrying about that as I walked into the ER, which was in chaos. The roof of an apartment building had collapsed in the rain, injuring dozens of people. The victims and their families filled the ER. I set aside my worries and concentrated on treating my patients.
I was just finishing up with the last of my roof-collapse victims several hours later when ambulances started rolling in with people injured in a three-car pileup on Sunset Boulevard that sent one vehicle hurling out of control into a crowded bus stop.
Nurse Alice Blevins quickly assessed the patients as they were wheeled in, deciding who was in the most urgent need of medical attention.
There were so many patients that doctors were called in from elsewhere in the hospital to assist. Dan Marlowe, Bart Spicer, Chet Arnold, and I hurried between exam rooms, treating patients and sending those needing more than emergency care on to specialists in orthopedics, cardiology, and neurology.