The wife answered: "Hello?" she said in that snobbish accent she had perfected. "Mrs. Tegg, this is Pamela calling for Dr. Tegg."
"Oh, hello, dear," she said, now in a patronizing tone that implied a warmth between them that didn't exist. It came out of the fact that this woman was friends with Pamela's parents and felt obliged to a pretense of a certain degree of amiability. Resentment was more like it-the two of them had squared off on several occasions. "He's not here, I'm afraid." "We've had an emergency call at the clinic nothing too bad-and Dr. Tegg isn't answering his pager," she lied in her most appropriate voice: concern without alarm. "He's out at the farm, dear. Working. Incommunicado, I'm afraid. That's what he loves about being out there, you know? You'll just have to refer this emergency elsewhere," she said in a not-so-subtle tone of disbelief, Damn her, Pamela thought, it's getting so I can't fool her. The farm! Working? Without me? "Right," she managed to squeak out, strained though it was. She thanked the woman-she hated thanking her for anything-and hung up.
It was a long drive out to the farm, tonight even longer because her mind wouldn't rest, filled as it was with the force of her substantial insecurity driven to discover what he was up to without her. Once off the Interstate, one road blurred into another. Trees. Darkness. The ceaseless rain hung in front of her like a curtain. Headlights flashed her windshield with silver. Taillights like animal eyes.
The farm was located far off the beaten track in a section of national forest that had been given over to timber lease some years before, the only access a series of unmarked, twisting, hard-pack roads.
She negotiated her way over these unmarked roads, across the narrow bridges, and finally pulled into the rutted lane that led to the property.
To look at it, you might guess the place abandoned, except for the barking that emanated from the Quonset hut-the kennel situated fifty yards down a sloping grade to the right of the old cabin and driveway. A light was on in the cabin. He was here!
She parked and hurried through the rain. Her wet blouse glued to her chest. Her jeans absurdly tight-were soaked from just below her crotch to her knees. Her hair was matted and a mess. She twisted the handle-it was locked. She crossed around to the cellar entrance and in doing so passed two glowing basement windows that had been painted over from the inside. She didn't need to see through these windows to know he was working inside. Now drenched, she approached the thick wooden door and pounded on it loudly. A moment later, he called out, "Who's there?" When she answered, he opened the door, The hall was dark, though to his left the impromptu operating room glowed brightly beneath the surgical lamps. He stood in shadow, his face partially hidden. She slicked back her hair and shook the water off her, Behind her, the loud barking continued inside the kennel. She glanced into the operating room where a sedated woman lay stretched out on the operating table, green surgical cloth covering her. Pamela experienced the horror of exclusion. He was prepared to do a harvest without her! Unthinkable! "So," he said in that grating voice of his, "you've come."
The fear of abandonment penetrated so deeply that she felt paralyzed, unable to move or speak.
But he touched her elbow and steered her into the cabin's basement room-his operating theater and shut the door. The ceiling of exposed floor joists hung low over their heads, woven with a network of old pipes and electrical wiring. He had created a false ceiling by stapling a thick clear plastic to the underside of the joists. He had done nearly the same thing to the stone walls-had placed a series of two-by-fours around the perimeter of the room and had fixed the transparent sheeting to them, creating plastic walls. This room was kept immaculately clean even the plastic was wiped down with disinfectant following every surgery. He was a cleanliness fanatic-you only had to look at his hands and nails to see that. And although in terms of equipment they got by with only the bare necessities-anesthesia, lights, autoclave, and various monitoring devices-it was all state of the art. There was even a backup generator in case the power failed. Tegg was overly cautious with every aspect of his surgery. obsessive. She considered him a great teacher. The overhead lights burst with enough candlepower to light a small stadium.
Only his eyes were visible above the surgical mask as he studied her. He glanced quickly from her to his patient on the table. He seemed briefly confused. She couldn't remember ever having seen him with this particular expression-as if he had been caught in some wrong. Perhaps he knew how much such a discovery would hurt her. Perhaps he could sense even that.
Her eyes welled with the tears of rejection. He didn't need her.
He had deliberately excluded her. just like her parents! just like everyone! But then he raised and dropped the green cloth as if it meant nothing to him, as if discarding his patient, and stepped toward her with a renewed confidence, strong, even mesmerizing. "My pager must be broken," she said to him in a dispirited voice, looking for some excuse. She knew it wasn't broken, but she wanted to offer him a way out. Even now, she felt obliged to protect him.
He replied, "No, your pager is not broken. I didn't call you." Only now did she notice that he held a scalpel in his gloved hand. Devilishly sharp. Dangerous. "I didn't want to ... bother you." These were the words he spoke, but it was not the message carried in his voice. This contradiction confused her. "Bother me? You never bother me. I'm always available for you. For any reason. Anything at all."
She strained again to see the patient on the table, but he stepped into her line of sight and placed the scalpel flatly against her cheek. He clearly didn't want her looking.
She glanced into his familiar eyes and saw something new there.
Her legs trembled. She felt herself flush a crimson red as sexual excitement rushed through her. Here? Now?
He stepped closer to her and ran the scalpel down her neck to between her breasts. "Elden?" she asked, her heart racing furiously.
One by one, he cut free the buttons. "Is this all right?" he asked.
She nodded. "I guess so." Keeping his mask on, he kissed her then for the first time. He took her pouty lips between his masked teeth and bit down hard in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. She felt powerless next to him. "Is it all right?" he asked again. "Hmm?
She hesitated. "You want this, don't you, Pamela? I know you do. Tell me you do."
Her shirt fell open. He pulled it back and studied the long scar below her rib cage. He touched it and hummed softly. "Tell me," he repeated. She thought she might faint. He used the scalpel to cut her bra. it too fell open, exposing her. He didn't look. He held her eyes. He said, "This is what you want, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Good." He ran the flat of the blade over her breasts. A penetrating, exhilarating chill raced through her. The danger that blade represented ... He then held out his empty hand and offered it to her. She kissed his gloved fingers then, one by one. She drew each of his fingers into her mouth, suckling them and curling her warm tongue around them, ignoring the odd odor of the latex. All the I while, Tegg continued to stare into her eyes. What did he see? What was he after? He withdrew his fingers from her mouth, glanced once quickly nervously?-over his shoulder at his patient, then quickly back at her and said, "You won't need these." He tugged her jeans away from her soft middle and drew the scalpel all the way down one pant leg, then the other. Her jeans came off like a pair of chaps. Her head swam, feeling his hand touch her there.
All at once she could smell her own excitement, and it embarrassed her. It mixed with the musty and medicinal odors of the cellar. "You'll like it," he said, reading her thoughts. He pulled the severed blouse from her and left it on the floor. He led her-underwear, running shoes and peds-to the end of the operating table.