And it was those bloody scrapings that had been splattered all over him.
"But why you, Doc? I know you do abortions now and then — all you guys do — but you're not an abortionist per se, if you know what I'm saying."
Cantrell nodded, not mentioning Sandy. He knew the subject of Joe's youngest daughter's pregnancy two years ago was still a touchy subject. She had only been fifteen but he had taken care of everything for Joe with the utmost discretion. He now had a devoted friend on the police force.
A thought suddenly flashed through Cantrell's mind:
They must know about the women's center! But how could they?
It was due to open tomorrow, the first of the month. He had been so careful to avoid any overt connection with it, situating it downtown and going so far as to set it up through a corporate front. Abortions might be legal, but it still didn't sit well with a lot of people to know that their neighbor ran an abortion mill.
Maybe that was it. Maybe a bunch of sicko right-to-lifers had connected him with the new center.
"What gets me," Joe was saying, "is that if this is real abortion material like you say, where'd they get it?"
"I wish I knew." The question had plagued him since he had called the police.
"Well, don't you worry, Doc," Joe said, slipping his hat over his thinning hair. "Whatever's going on, it's gonna stop. I'll cruise the neighborhood. If I see any kids, or even adults with any of these buckets, I'll ID them and find out what's up."
"Thanks, Joe," he said, meaning it. It was comforting to know a cop was looking out for him. "I appreciate that. I'd especially like to get this ugly business cleared up before the wife and I get home from dinner tonight."
"I don't blame you," he said, shaking his head. "I know I wouldn't want Marie to see any buckets of blood."
The trick-or-treaters swelled in numbers as the afternoon progressed. They flowed to the door in motley hordes of all shapes, sizes, and colors. A steady stream of Spocks, Skywalkers, Vaders, Indiana Joneses, Madonnas, Motley Crues, Twisted Sisters, and even a few ghosts, goblins, and witches.
And always among them were one or two kids with steel buckets.
Cantrell bit his lip and repressed his anger when he saw them. He said nothing, did not try to look into their buckets, gave no sign that their presence meant anything to him, pretended they were no different from the other kids as he dropped candies and coins into the steel buckets among the paper sacks and pillowcases and jack-o'-lanterns, all the while praying that Morelli would catch one of the little bastards crossing the street and find out who was behind this bullshit.
He saw the patrol car pull into the drive around 4:00. Morelli finally must have nailed one of them! About time! He had to leave for the women's center soon and wanted this thing settled and done with.
"No luck, Doc," Joe said, rolling down his window. "You must have scared them off."
"Are you crazy?" His anger exploded as he trotted down the walk to the driveway. "They've been through here all afternoon!"
"Hey, take it easy, Doc. If they're around, they must be hiding those buckets when they're on the street, because I've been by here about fifty times and I haven't seen one steel bucket."
Cantrell reined in his anger. It would do no good to alienate Joe. He wanted the police force on his side.
"Sorry. It's just that this is very upsetting."
"I can imagine. Look, Doc. Why don't I do this: Why don't I just park the car right out at the curb and watch the kids as they come in. Maybe I'll catch one in the act. At the very least, it might keep them away."
"I appreciate that, Joe, but it won't be necessary. I'm going out in a few minutes and won't be back until much later tonight. However, I do wish you'd keep an eye on the place — vandals, you know."
"Sure thing, Doc. No problem."
Cantrell watched the police car pull out of the driveway, and then he set the house alarm and hurried to the garage to make his getaway before the doorbell rang again.
The Midtown Women's Medical Center
Cantrell savored the effect of the westering sun glinting off the thick brass letters over the entrance as he walked by. Red letters on a white placard proclaimed "Grand Opening Tomorrow" from the front door. He stepped around the side of the building into the alley, unlocked the private entrance, and stepped inside.
Dark, quiet, deserted. Damn! He had hoped to catch the contractor for one last check of the trim. He wanted everything perfect for the opening.
He flipped on the lights and checked his watch. Erica would be meeting him here in about an hour, and then they would pick up the Klines and have drinks and dinner at the club. He had just enough time for a quick inspection tour.
So dean, he thought as he walked through the waiting room — the floors shiny and unscuffed, the carpet pile unmatted, the wall surfaces unmarred by chips or finger smudges. Even the air smelled new.
This center — his center — had been in the planning stages for three years. Countless hours of meetings with lawyers, bankers, planning boards, architects, and contractors had gone into it. But at last it was ready to go. He planned to work here himself in the beginning, just to keep overhead down, but once the operation got rolling, he'd hire other doctors and have them do the work while he ran the show from a distance.
He stepped into Procedure Room One and looked over the equipment. Dominating the room was the Rappaport 206, a state-of-the-art procedure table with thigh and calf supports on the stirrups, three breakaway sections, and fully motorized tilts in all planes — Trendelenburg, reverse Trendelenburg, left and right lateral.
Close by, the Zarick suction extractor — the most efficient abortion device on the market — hung gleaming on its chrome stand. He pressed the «on» button to check the power but nothing happened.
"It won't work tonight," said a child's voice behind him, making him almost scream with fright.
He spun around. Fifteen or twenty kids stood there staring at him. Most were costumed, and they all carried those goddamn steel buckets.
"All right!" he said. "This does it! I've had just about enough! I'm getting the police!"
He turned to reach for the phone but stopped after one step. More kids were coming in from the hall.
They streamed in slowly and silently, their eyes fixed on him, piercing him. They filled the room, occupying every square foot except for the small circle of space they left around him and the equipment. And behind them he could see more, filling the hall and waiting room beyond. A sea of faces, all staring at him.
He was frightened now. They were just kids, but there were so damn many of them! A few looked fifteen or so, and one looked to be in her early twenties, but by far most of them appeared to be twelve and under. Some were even toddlers! What sort of sick mind would involve such tiny children in this?
And how did they get in? All the doors were locked.
"Get out of here," he said, forcing his voice into calm, measured tones.
They said nothing, merely continued to stare back at him.
"All right, then. If you won't leave, I will! And when I return — " He tried to push by a five-year-old girl in a gypsy costume. Without warning she jabbed her open hand into his abdomen with stunning force, driving him back against the table.
"Who are you?" This time his voice was less calm, his tones less measured.
"You mean you don't recognize us?" a mocking voice said from the crowd.
"I've never seen any of you before today."
"Not true," said another voice. "After our fathers, you're the second most important man in our lives."
This was insane! "I don't know any of you!"