She handed the light to Joanna before giving the door a push.
It scraped on its granite threshold. Instead of just pushing, Deborah tried lifting the door first. It then opened with minimal sound. Deborah took the light back, and after giving it a shake, shined the faltering beam into the basement beyond. The dim light revealed the wine cellar door with its lock still hanging unclasped.
"This is it," Deborah said. "Let's do it!"
The women navigated the muddy floor to reach the basement steps. Up they climbed with Deborah in the lead. At the top of the stairs they hesitated. A crack of light showed under the door.
"I'm thinking we have to play this by ear," Deborah whispered.
"We don't have any choice," Joanna said. "We don't know whether he's even awake. Do you have any idea of the time?"
"Not really," Deborah said. "I suppose around one."
"Well, a light is on. I suppose that suggests he's still awake. Let's just try not to scare him too much. He might have an alarm that he could push."
"Good point," Deborah said.
Deborah listened through the door before turning the door handle slowly, and cracking it open. When there was no untoward response, she slowly pushed it open, revealing progressively more of the kitchen.
"I hear classical music," Joanna said.
"Me, too," Deborah said.
The women ventured out into the darkened kitchen. The light they'd seen beneath the cellar door was coming from the chandelier in the dining room. As quietly as they could they moved down the hallway toward the living room and the music. With a view of the foyer directly ahead, they 'could see that the corps of toy cavalry soldiers Spencer had knocked off the console table the evening before in his drunkenness had been carefully replaced.
Deborah was in the lead with Joanna directly at her heels. Both women were intent on the living room, which opened up to the left off the hall and where they expected Spencer to be. By happenstance Joanna glanced to the right as they passed a dark, intersecting corridor leading to a study. There in the distance was Spencer Wingate, sitting at his desk in a puddle of light from a library lamp. He was facing away from the women, studying blueprints.
Joanna tapped on Deborah's shoulder. When Deborah turned, Joanna frantically pointed toward Spencer's hunched figure.
Deborah looked at Joanna and silently mouthed the question, "What should we do?"
Joanna shrugged her shoulders. She had no idea, but then thought it best if they called out to the man. She gestured by touching her mouth and then pointing toward Spencer.
Deborah nodded. She cleared her throat. "Dr. Wingate!" she called, but her voice was tentative, and it blended seamlessly with the chorus of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony emanating from the living room.
"Dr. Wingate!" Joanna called more decisively and loud enough to compete with the music.
Spencer's head popped up and shot around. For a moment his tanned face blanched, and he stood up so quickly his desk chair tipped over with a crash.
"We don't mean to frighten you," Deborah called out quickly. "We were hoping we could have a word with you."
Spencer recovered rapidly. He smiled with relief when he recognized the women, then waved for them to join him as he bent down to right his desk chair.
The women started for the room. Both were acutely sensitive to Spencer's reaction to their presence, which so far was auspicious. His initial fear had changed to surprise with a hint of reassuring delight. As they approached, he slicked back his silvered hair and adjusted his velvet smoking jacket. But as the women came into the light his expression changed to puzzlement.
"What happened to you two?" Before the women could respond he asked: "How did you get in here?"
Joanna started to explain about coming in through the basement while Deborah launched into a capsule of their evening.
Spencer raised his hands. "Hold up! One at a time. But first, do either of you need anything? You look terrible."
For the first time since the ordeal started, the women looked at themselves and at each other. Their appearance brought expressions of embarrassment to their faces. Deborah had fared the worst with her minidress torn and tattered and abrasions on her thighs and shins from the lip of the iron lung. One of her dangling earrings was gone and her tiny heart necklace had lost all its rhinestones. Her hands were black from the elevator cable grease, and her hair was a tangled mess.
Joanna still had on the doctor's coat, which had protected her clothes to a large degree. But the coat itself was a soiled mess, particularly from crawling prostrate on the barn floor. A few stalks of hay protruded from the pockets.
Deborah and Joanna then exchanged one of their knowing glances. The combination of their appearances and anxieties brought forth a fit of laughter which took them by surprise and a moment to recover. Even Spencer found himself smiling.
"I wish I knew exactly what you women are laughing at," Spencer said.
"It's a combination," Deborah managed. "But probably mostly tension."
"I think it's mostly relief," Joanna said. "We were hoping you'd be here and unsure if you'd mind if we dropped by."
"I'm pleased you came by," Spencer said. "What can I get you?"
"Now that you ask, I could use a blanket," Deborah said. "I'm freezing."
"How about some hot coffee?" Spencer said. "I could make it for you in a moment. Even something stronger if you'd like. I could also get you a sweater or a sweatshirt."
"Actually we'd like to talk right away,' Joanna said. "There's some urgency involved here." She laughed nervously again.
"This blanket right here will do," Deborah said. She picked up a tartan throw from a velvet couch and tossed it around her shoulders.
"Well, sit down," Spencer said. He gestured toward the couch.
The women sat. Spencer grabbed his desk chair and pulled it over. He sat across from them.
"What's the urgency?" Spencer asked. He leaned forward, glancing from one woman to the other.
The women looked at each other.
"Do you want to talk, or do you want me to?" Deborah said.
"I don't care," Joanna responded. "It doesn't really matter."
"I don't care either," Deborah said.
"Of course you know the biology better than I," Joanna said.
"True, but you can explain about the computer files better."
"Wait, wait, wait]" Spencer said, holding up his hands. "It doesn't matter who does the talking. Someone start."
Deborah pointed to herself, and Joanna nodded.
"Okay," Deborah said. She looked Spencer in the eye. "Do you remember last night when I asked you about the pregnant Nicaraguan ladies?"
"I do," Spencer said. Then he laughed self-consciously. "I might not remember too much else about last night, but I remember that."
"Well, we think we know why they are pregnant," Deborah said. "We think it's to produce eggs."
Spencer's face clouded. "They're pregnant to produce eggs? I think you have to explain."
Deborah took in a lungful of air and gave her explanation. Following that explanation which she admitted was supposition, she went on to say that the Wingate Clinic was definitely obtaining eggs by an even more unethical and even unlawful manner. She explained that the clinic was removing, without consent, the entire ovaries of unsuspecting women who thought they were only donating a few eggs. Finally Deborah said that at least two women had been murdered because both ovaries had been obtained, and the women had never been seen again.
Spencer's mouth had slowly dropped open during Deborah’s monologue. When she finished, he sat back, clearly horrified by what he'd heard.
"How did you learn all this?" he asked with a raspy voice. His throat had gone dry. Before either woman could respond, he added: "I have to get a drink. Can I get anything for anyone else?"