Mindbender

Chapter 1 - Prologue

RaffPharm Medical Institute. Bhavnagar, India

July 2006

Harendra Jayagopal’s eyelids fluttered as he awakened from a dreamy anesthetic slumber. He had dreamt of flying over rolling fields of tall grasses towards his house on the outskirts of Bhuj. His wife and five children waved as they welcomed him home for dinner.

A flurry of human activity, voices, and electronic alarms sucked Harendra back into reality. Fluorescent lights penetrated his long eyelashes. He prayed that the bright light signaled his arrival into Nirvana and that it would eliminate the nightmare of his squalid life.

Harendra’s eyes snapped open. All remnants of his dream disappeared with his return into consciousness. The activities of the RaffPharm research medical facility inundated his senses as he exhaled the last remnants of Rapithane, an experimental anesthetic gas.

Harendra squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for his return into unconsciousness. Instead, he found himself back on earth, no closer to his family or Nirvana. Back in Bhuj no family awaited him. They had all been buried alive in an earthquake that had struck India’s Gujarat province. Dinner remained an elusive meal for he had been condemned to live as one of India’s Dalits, an Untouchable, since birth.

From his gurney Harendra glanced around the research facility where he had enrolled as a research subject. Bright fluorescent lights reflected off the surrounding white walls of the modern facility. Frosted windows kept the outside world at bay. Air conditioning neutralized India’s oppressive summer heat and humidity.

For the last three hours Rapithane gas molecules had kept Harendra suspended in a coma. Rapithane had permeated every tissue in his body, leaving all organs unscathed except his brain. Deep inside his reptilian brain Rapithane had inflicted subtle and irreparable neurological changes.

Without warning or provocation Harendra panicked. His thoughts turned into rage as he jerked on the restraints that strapped him down on the gurney. Feeling like a trapped animal, he mustered every ounce of strength his scrawny brown body could produce. His spasms rattled and shook the gurney. Electronic monitors attached to his chest and head registered erratic readings.

Untie me! Get me out of here! Harendra screamed repeatedly.

An alarmed nurse yelled for help as she rushed over to Harendra’s thrashing body. Three orderlies arrived and threw themselves onto Harendra. He fought back while screaming obscenities and expending all his energy to throw off the orderlies.

Alerted by the commotion, a turbaned Doctor Suresh Kulkarni rose from his desk while steadying his Polio-afflicted legs. Kulkarni peered out of his windowed office and grimaced. Designer spectacles slid down his broad nose as he grabbed his cane, limped past three rows of anesthetized patients, and approached Harendra’s gurney. Five young doctors had gathered around awaiting further guidance from Kulkarni, the lead investigator for the experimental clinical trials.

Kulkarni glanced at Harendra’s chaotic vital signs that appeared on the monitor. One doctor handed Kulkarni Harendra’s chart. Kulkarni flipped open the chart, scanned through several pages, and made some mental notes. While the orderlies continued to pin down Harendra, a petite female doctor, Prisha Mahavira, flung open the drawer of a nearby emergency cart and pulled out a syringe of Valium. She readied herself to administer the sedative into Harendra’s intravenous line. When Harendra spotted the approaching needled syringe he managed to rip out the intravenous line running into his spastic hand. Blood splattered onto the orderlies’ white lab coats.

Kulkarni came alongside the gurney, leaned over, and stared into Harendra’s bewildered eyes. He raised his baritone voice above the clatter of the shaking gurney and Harendra’s screams.

Relax Harendra before you hurt yourself. Those restraints will come off just as soon as you calm down and hold still. Kulkarni said as he reiterated the commands several more times until he caught the attention of Harendra.

During his thirty-year career Kulkarni had used this verbal approach numerous times to calm down patients emerging from anesthesia. Kulkarni, a seasoned Professor of Anesthesiology on sabbatical leave from Miami’s Dade University, directed the RaffPharm Rapithane clinical trials for the American pharmaceutical company Gier Incorporated. Eager to engage a respected academic authority familiar with the Indian culture and traditions, Gier’s marketing department persuaded Kulkarni to sign on as the lead investigator for the Rapithane Phase I and II clinical trials. The prospect of future lucrative speaking and consultant fees plus the $ 500,000 per year salary enticed him to take a sabbatical leave from Dade University. He brought enthusiasm to his research while working late into the evening. His dedication and attention to detail earned him the respect of the young physicians, nurses, and orderlies working in the facility.

Kulkarni’s reassuring words registered with Harendra. Harendra stopped his screaming and flailing. Kulkarni ordered the orderlies to back off. A nurse applied gauze dressings to Harendra’s bleeding hand. Kulkarni shook his head at Prisha and smiled. Prisha backed away with the syringe. Kulkarni adored Prisha’s long black hair overlying the collar of her starched white lab coat. Prisha’s exotic brown skin and green eyes had mesmerized Kulkarni ever since her initial interview.

You’re doing fine. We’ll get you changed. Then you’ll have a nice lunch. Now let’s sit you up. Kulkarni said as he instructed the orderlies to escort Harendra to the patient locker room. Kulkarni made no effort to touch Harendra and dirty his hands. Even though Kulkarni had resided in the United States for twenty-five years he still abided by India’s inbreed caste rules.

Kulkarni peered over his glasses at the five doctors gathered around him. With deadlines and production pressures to amass experimental data there was little time or opportunity for him to teach. When a teaching opportunity arose, he sprang at the chance while ignoring the strict time constraints placed on him by the RaffPharm executives to complete the clinical trials during his one-year tenure.

Seems Harendra exhibited a classical case of emergence delirium. Not an unexpected finding after general anesthesia in an operating room setting. I wouldn’t have expected this behavior without some sort of surgical intervention.

During his thirty-year career Kulkarni had witnessed numerous cases of emergence delirium. Those cases occurred under clinical conditions that differed from the experimental setting at the RaffPharm facility. Along with anesthetic gases, patients undergoing painful surgical procedures are often given narcotics, hypnotics, and sedatives. In Harendra’s case, he was not given any additional medications nor was he subjected to surgery and painful stimuli.

"Other factors may be at play here. Patients who’ve taken alcohol or illicit drugs may emerge with signs of acute withdrawal. Harendra works in the Alang Shipyards as do the majority of our research subjects. Conditions there may have exposed him to numerous toxic materials. Many times it’s hard to predict how these environmental substances will interact with Rapithane." Kulkarni said as he closed Harendra’s chart and handed it to Prisha.

Scattered alarms caught the attention of the doctors gathered around Kulkarni. A nurse approached one of the doctors. She informed him of a patient with breathing difficulties. Kulkarni dismissed the group and watched them scatter to their patient stations around the ward. He limped past gurneys occupied with experimental recruits as he headed back to his office. He sat down at his laptop computer, pulled out a flash drive from his lab coat, and inserted it into the computer’s USB port. He opened a document file and keyed in extensive notes describing Harendra’s behavior. His list of differential diagnosis brought to mind the recent arrest of two research subjects by the Alang Shipyard authorities. The men, who had undergone three rounds of Rapithane clinical trials, had been arrested for attempted homicide and were no longer enrolled in the clinical trials.

Kulkarni picked up the phone and instructed the receptionist to schedule Harendra for a Functional MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) scan of the brain. He hoped the scan would provide a clue for the cause of Harendra’s behavior.

Harendra finished his second helping of the free cafeteria food provided for all research subjects and followed his cohorts to the facility’s reception area. While standing at the back of a small line leading up to the secretary’s desk, Harendra grinned as he watched several men count out their cash stipends. When he arrived at the head of the line he handed the secretary his bar coded identification badge.

The secretary, dressed in a traditional wrapped tan sari, slid the ID badge through a small scanner. The glare of the computer’s monitor reflected off her Christian Dior spectacles and brightened the red bindi located between her eyes. Mauve lipstick offset the red dot. Light make-up provided her with smooth-flowing skin.

The secretary grabbed a pen from a cup filled with pencils, pens, and a letter opener. With the tap on the keyboard, the secretary updated Harendra’s file. She printed out a form, jotted down several notes, and placed the form in an outgoing file tray.

You need to have a brain scan Dr. Kulkarni ordered before I can pay you your stipend. You have an appoint for next week. The secretary said without looking up at Harendra.

The doctor never told me about any brain scan. I’ve finished the five tests. You’ve paid everyone else. Now pay me. Harendra said as he placed both hands on the desk and stared down at the secretary.

Puzzled by Harendra’s indignation and behavior, the secretary looked over at the computer, avoiding direct eye contact. She did not expect such a response from a Dalit. You might recall that you signed consent papers for the study. Those papers outlined the conditions for your payment. Either you comply with all of the conditions or you don’t get paid.

Harendra’s astonished colleagues watched on as a heated discussion ensued.

Irritated by Harendra’s unexpected behavior the secretary reached for the phone. I’ll have Dr. Kulkarni come and talk to about this matter. The secretary said as she dialed Kulkarni’s number and spoke to the doctor. Dr. Kulkarni will be out to talk to you shortly. Please have a seat.

Harendra watched as the secretary processed several more patients. He become more irritated and agitated as he watched each man pocketed a stipend. Fifteen minutes later, Harendra stepped back over to the secretary’s desk and cut in front of another man.

I’m tired of waiting. Just pay me my money so I can get back on the bus leaving for Alang. Harendra shouted and held out his hand.

Doctor Kulkarni is on his way. If you don’t sit down I’ll have to call security. The secretary said with widened eyes.

The secretary ignored Harendra and turned her attention to the next man standing in line. Harendra glared at the secretary as she began processing the next man. An avalanche of thoughts ignited inside his brain. Anger contorted his face into a wrinkled mask. He focused his fury on the secretary. She became the lifetime target of Harendra’s contempt for India’s middle and upper caste. He felt a sudden urge to hurt the young lady by choking her with her town sari.

Without warning Harendra pushed the man aside. He stepped in front of the secretary and pounded his fists on the desk. Give me my money.

The astonished secretary looked up from her computer screen. Harendra stared at the bindi on her forehead. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the secretary’s hand creep toward the telephone sitting next to the pencil holder.

It was then that Harendra spotted the letter opener, cast in the form of a miniature sword, sitting in the pencil holder. With one swift move he grabbed the letter opener and thrust the letter opener straight through the secretary's bindi.

Chapter 2

Rhine Falls. Schaffhausen, Switzerland.

January 1940

Herman Schmitz stood atop the Schloss Laufen castle terrace and peered through the blowing snow flurries. Below him the Rhine River cascaded into a wintry panorama. In the distance Schmitz spotted a lone figure trudging through the snow. He recognized the distinctive gait of his American lawyer passing near his Mercedes limousine.

Before making his way down to the icy stone bridge spanning the waterfalls, Schmitz scanned the snowy horizon for signs of the ever-watchful eyes of the Gestapo. He inched his way across to the observation platform overlooking the Rhine Fall and steadied himself on icicled railings. The Rhine Fall’s thunderous maelstrom provoked trepidation in Allen Dulles as he approached Schmitz from the opposite side.

Both men had made their clandestine trip to the Rhine Fall with the orchestrated help from the Holy See. Schmitz, the chairman of Germany’s industrial giant IG Farben, had arrived earlier that day from his chalet located on the shores of Lake Constance. Schmitz and his Fraeulein mistress raised little suspicion while shopping for watches at Schaffhausen's Internationale Uhrenfabrik. Dulles, an American intelligence officer assigned to the Office of Strategic Services in Bern, made his stealthy journey via train.

The two men shook hands. Puffs of steam spewed from Schmitz’s mouth as he bellowed out over the waterfall’s deafening roar. Quite uncharacteristic for you to be ten minutes late. Schmitz said.

"One can never be cautious enough these days. It wouldn’t look good if someone in Washington found out that I was meeting the Fuehrer’s favorite industrialist." Dulles said as he adjusted his black felt hat that concealed his receding hairline and graying hair.

Schmitz’s hauteur posture drew attention away from his thinning gray hair. Black curvy eyebrows, offset against a curved nose, adorned his blue baggy eyes. Schmitz’s business suit added a layer of warmth beneath his overcoat.

The two men exchanged pleasantries and caught up on the news surrounding their old business affiliates in the United States.

Dulles looked at his wristwatch through his frozen spectacles. Let’s talk. I’ve got a two o’clock train to catch. I need to be back in Bern to make my seven o’clock meeting with the ambassador.

"The board has directed me to implement a strategy to secure Farben’s future. The past has taught us some bitter lessons. IG Farben must never again face the dire consequences of another Versailles Treaty. Schmitz said recalling the financial consequences of reparations that affected his company during the Weimar Republic of the 1920’s. Lessons formulated with your help of course."

I won’t take that personally. Dulles said as he mouthed his pipe and remembered the role he played as a young lawyer in drafting the Versailles Treaty. Sounds to me like Hitler may be repeating Germany’s past mistakes.

Hitler has long reached the point of no return. Farben is bound to his destiny.

Then take the high road and refuse to enable his war efforts.

Schmitz chuckled as he looked down at the raging waterfall. That is not an option. Farben has no choice but to be a innocent participant.

Not so innocent when you consider the profits you’ll reap while he wreaks havoc and destruction.

Schmitz reached inside his overcoat, pulled out a key, and handed it to Dulles. "This key will unlock a safety deposit box located inside the main branch of the UBS Bank in Geneva. It’s a bearer key. No signature is required to access the box. The box number is 0810. Inside that box you will find documents I have drafted giving you Power of Attorney to handle all of the necessary legal formalities and banking transactions." Schmitz said as he described the key points of his strategic plans.

"Farben’s interests benefit all of mankind. We possess the knowledge and rights to too many vital chemicals, pharmaceuticals, and manufacturing processes. No one can match our ingenuity or technical know-how. My long-term strategy calls for Farben’s adaptation to any political environment.

These days nothing escapes the prying eyes of the SS. Hitler’s insatiable need for capital has already led to excessive taxes on corporate profits. Now he’s threatening to invade Switzerland so that he can plunder the Swiss bank accounts of German businesses. At this point in time, America appears to be the safest place to transfer our Swiss assets. You must expedite this transfer before the Nazi’s discover the extent of our cash holdings."

Just be mindful that any transfers needs to account for transparency. Your transfers will be subject to confiscation should our countries go to war. Any transfer of Farben’s funds is going to raise suspicions with the American Alien Property Custodian. You’ve been there before. Dulles said referring to the prior confiscation of Farben's assets including patents, production plants, trade secrets, and revenues by the victors of World War I.

"Don’t underestimate me. My plans account for any kind of contingency. My plan calls for building strategic networks among influential American politicians and businessmen. Financial incentives and ownership interests will help nurture these relationships into perpetuity. The individuals chosen will be my Vertrauensmaenner." Schmitz said as he recited the names of American businessmen, bankers, and politicians whom he’d chosen to advance and cloak IG Farben's future plans.

Dulles bit down hard on his unlit pipe when he did not hear his name. "Sounds like a recitation of Who’s Who of the Eastern Establishment."

"My Vertrauensmaenner will have the authority to handle any contingencies. One of the corporations you’re going to establish will serve as a trust fund. It’s prime objective is to invest Farben’s transferred assets. Schmitz said as he exhaled puffs of smoke. He detailed the circuitous transfer of Farben's Swiss assets into several New York banks. My Vertrauensmaenner will have has the authority to invest assets with the investment firm of Brown Brothers Harriman. I have included detailed formulas that determine how quarterly dividends will be distributed to my Vertrauensmaenner. The formulas are based on portfolio performance and the amount of bearer stocks each man is given.

For the time being the second corporation will be set up as a shell company. In the event of Hitler’s demise the corporation will become Farben’s successor. We need to move quickly on this matter. Time is running out. I shall have your usual retainer deposited in your UBS account in Bern." Schmitz said.

Dulles chewed his pipe. "I hate to disappoint you. The usual retainer won’t cover my legal fees in this case. The risks are too great. What you’re asking me to do could be misconstrued as treason by some back in Washington. My fee will have to be a little more pragmatic. I'll need to be one of your Vertrauensmaenner." Dulles said realizing that the future earnings potential from being a shareholder in Schmitz’s companies would far outweigh any legal fees.

Schmitz, taken aback by Dulles request, looked Dulles straight in the eye. That’s absurd. You’re just a lawyer. These positions are reserved for men of influence and power.

You need to understand the big picture. I’m the only one whose going to bring this whole deal together. Take it or leave it. Dulles said as he handed the key back to Schmitz and began his trek back across the icy bridge.

With few options remaining and no viable contacts left to trust, Schmitz yelled out to Dulles. Seems that I really don’t have very much choice in the matter.

Dulles stopped and turned. He puffed away on his pipe as he watched Schmitz approach.

"For making you one of my Vertrauensmaenner I’ll expect that you’ll give this matter your immediate and full attention."

"Your plans will be inside my diplomatic pouch when I report back to the Joint Chiefs of Staff in Washington next week. John and I will have the details worked out in no time." Dulles said referring to his brother John Foster Dulles.

An angered Schmitz watched Dulles disappear into the direction of Schaffhausen. He sucked in the frigid air while watching the force of Rhine River throw itself over the ledge of the Rhine Fall. He never considered the intricate connection between IG Farben and the 1,320-kilometer Rhine River that coursed toward the North Sea. Along the way, the river flowed past romantic German vineyards, castle-lined hills, and numerous industrial epicenters. River barges carrying loads of coal, iron ore, petroleum, iron and steel delivered their goods to many of IG Farben’s plants along the Rhine River. Output from these plants helped IG Farben become the fourth largest corporation in the world, surpassed only by General Motors, US Steel, and Standard Oil. With the advance of Hitler’s war machine, IG Farben could eclipse these other three giants. The demand for its core business products, including Zyklon B, had already dramatically increased.

Chapter 3

Fort Myers, Florida

May 10th -Present

Shelly Crofton cruised behind the Smelleton’s lead cyclists turning into a South Fort Myers parking lot. While dismounting Shelly snapped the shoe clip off his bike pedal and braced himself on his kickstand leg. He sucked down the last ounce of his bottled Gatorade and mingled with the group of middle-aged professionals nibbling on the remnants of their energy bars. Dressed in flashy tight spandex tops and biking shorts the cyclists pretended to be offshoots of the Tour de France. They all congratulated each other on another 100 kilometer Saturday morning ride that took them through the flatlands of Southwest Florida.

Shelly walked his cycle over to his car while his cohorts headed into Starbucks. A sharp pain shot through Shelly’s ankle as he lifted his Trek road bike onto his Mini Cooper’s bike rack. He rubbed his ankle and felt the buried surgical hardware holding together his ankle fracture.

Three months earlier Shelly flew into a ditch after being sideswiped by an SUV’s outstretched side view mirror. A shoe clip failed to break lose from the bike pedal and his ankle snapped as the bike tumbled down a ditch. Stranded on a long stretch of country highway without his iPhone, Shelly braced himself on his bike and hobbled to Suburban Hospital. In the emergency room Maurice Sadler, an orthopedic surgeon and Shelly’s cycling companion, took one look at his x-ray and scheduled urgent surgery to stabilize the bi-malleolar fracture.

I told you not to push yourself. You’re not eighteen anymore. Maurice Sadler said as he walked over to Shelly, his shoes’ metal clips clanging on the concrete. Sadler’s red, white, and blue colors screamed of commercialized patriotism.

"Nothing that a couple of Aleve won’t take care of." Shelly said as he flexed his ankle and looked down at Sadler.

Shelly’s tall lean frame often triggered questions about his basketball career. His long slender fingers produced a firm handshake and his tawny skin tone highlighted a set of hazel eyes and dark wavy hair. He was often mistaken for being Hispanic, Polynesian, Mediterranean, or even Egyptian. When asked about his ethnic background, Shelly made the assertion that he was a person of color. He marked the Other ethnic selection on application forms.

Just be sure you don’t re-injury yourself. A second surgical procedure for a nonunion will put you out of commission for at least a year.

No more surgery for me. I’d rather walk around in a cast. Shelly said as he unlocked the car door.

Just stab me with a knife. Sadler said.

Sadler’s average height betrayed his adept surgical skills. He was a busy orthopedic surgeon whose strawberry blond hair blended with his scattered facial freckles. A straight line ran down from his pointed nose to his gapped upper front teeth.

I have no complaints about the surgery. Shelly said as he unlocked his driver’s door and pulled on his flip-flops. It was the pain in the back of my throat that did me in.

I’d complain to your anesthesiologist about the sore throat.

That would be my brother-in-law? Doctor Dickhead. That wouldn’t go over very well with Kathy. She requested him to do my anesthesia. It’s the keep it in the family notion she grew up with. Shelly said referring to his wife’s Catholic Italian upbringing.

Now I remember. Quay did do your anesthesia. He complained the whole case about having to come in on his day off to do his sister-in-law a favor. Word to the wise. Next time choose a different anesthesiologist.

Like I had a choice. Next time you should pick someone that your felt comfortable with. Not someone who’s incompetent. Shelly said as he exchanged his bike shoes for the flip-flops.

I’m not saying Quay’s incompetent. Sadler said averting Shelly’s gaze. He manages to put his patients to sleep and wake them up at the end of surgery. Over the years I’ve worked with a lot of anesthesiologists and nurse anesthetists. He still hasn’t gotten the hang of it especially when he gets distracted. There’s something about Quay I just can’t put my finger on.

Great time to tell me this.

Doctors are no different from the general population. There are those of us who graduated in the top ten percent of our class. Then there are those in who finished in the bottom ten percent.

Shelly shook his head as he sat down in the driver’s seat and started up his Mini-Cooper. With all the malpractice problems in Florida you’d think that doctors and hospitals would police the medical profession. There’s got to be a way of letting the public know about incompetent doctors.

Sadler smirked and rubbed his forehead. There’s no mechanism in place to access that information unless something really serious happens. Patients have to rely on the goodwill of the hospital and referring physicians.

Ill will is more like it. Shelly said as cranked on his car's motor. Hot air began blowing out of the air conditioner vents.

Usually the best time to keep an impaired or incompetent physician off the hospital staff is when they first apply for hospital privileges. Once they’re on staff, physicians are essentially tenured. It’s nearly impossible to kick them off staff.

Fits right in with what Kathy tells me about hospitals. After all, the hospital’s still got a business to run. Maybe JD Powers should start rating hospitals and their doctors?

That’ll never happen. Hospitals and doctors are not going to leave themselves open to lawsuits.

But you’re dealing with people’s lives here.

Sadler shrugged his shoulders. Let’s go inside and join the others. I’m hot as hell. I need something cold to drink.

Sorry. I've got to run. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment to go to. Shelly said as he fanned his breathable T-Mobile shirt that was drenched in sweat. Sweat ran down Shelly’s light brown face. Man it’s hot.

Think it's hot now. Wait till summer gets here. Makes you wish you were back up north. Sadler said as he ripped open the Velcro from his cycling shoes. Speaking of doctors. Who are you seeing on a Saturday morning?

James Douglas. The infertility specialist.

Sadler smirked. For your sake I hope you’re not shooting blanks.

Good-bye. Shelly said as he rolled down the car window and adjusted himself in the driver’s seat.

Tell Kathy I said hello. We miss her in the OR. Hope the new job is working out for her. Sadler said as he turned to join the Smelleton for their usual post-ride discussions about cycling, politics, and current events.

It’s working out great. She wouldn’t dream of going back to being a circulating nurse in an operating room. Shelly said as he pulled out of his parking spot and waved good-bye.

Prior to joining the Smelleton, Shelly approached cycling as a solitary sport. It was a sport that allowed him to mull over computer-programming problems while he pedaled down long stretches of highway. Earlier in the year, when Kathy still worked in Suburban Hospital’s operating room, Sadler’s casual remarks about his expensive new road bike perked Kathy’s interest. Her questions about Sadler’s cycling interests ended in an invitation for Shelly to join the Smelleton. Even though Shelly still rode solo three times a week, he always looked forward to the Saturday Smelleton ride and camaraderie.

Fifty minutes later Shelly and Kathy Crofton sat inside the Dr. James R. Douglas Infertility Center waiting room. Expensive silk plants filled the corners. Plush cloth seats, plastered with tropical motifs, lined two walls. Mahogany end tables matched the mahogany doors. A repetitive news channel projected images from a wall-mounted flat screen television.

Shelly, still dressed in his cycling attire, tapped away at his iPhone in an effort to distract himself. Ever since his early childhood he hated sitting in doctors’ waiting rooms. The wait lasted sometimes for hours on end until the door to the inner sanctum opened. He was never a sickly child while growing up in Germany. It was his grandfather who needed constant doctoring. His mother, Hannelore Crofton, dragged him along as she shuttled her aging father to various doctors.

Kathy glanced over at Shelly as he cocked his iPhone to his ear. Calling Josh again? You’d think the two of you were married. Can’t it wait till we’re done with our appointment? Kathy said as she picked up a recent copy of National Geographic from an end table.

It’s business. Shelly said as he shrugged his shoulders.

Kathy’s apprehension over the appointment escalated as she read the magazine’s headline, pronouncing the unusual mating habits of Harp Seals. She threw the magazine back on the end table and picked up an issue of People’s Magazine.

Just touching base. Shelly said as he began a lengthy discussion with his business partner.

Both men had worked for Net Horizons, an Internet startup company, in the Philadelphia suburb of Valley Forge. The two friends decided to take career matters into their own hands when the Internet implosion hit Net Horizons. Their ephemeral stock options vanished along with their jobs. The two joined forces and started their own software development and consulting firm, SC LLC. After a slow start, Shelly and Josh Stern landed outsourced contracts to develop correlational databases for the United States Intelligence Community. With guaranteed government work in the pipeline, both men decided to move their families away from Philadelphia. Both men worked from home. They needed no office and commuting no longer played a role in their daily work routine. They only needed their computing skills and Internet access. Shelly and Kathy moved close to Kathy’s parents who lived in Fort Myers. Josh moved his family to Silver Spring, Maryland.

Shelly interjected computer jargon throughout the conversation. That shouldn’t be a problem to cross-link the Social Security field with the NSA’s primary database. We’ll just need to reconfigure our links to the static IP addresses. I’ll touch base with you Monday morning. We’ll be way ahead of schedule before Thursday’s meeting. Shelly said as he tapped his iPhone to end the conversation

Glad no one else is listening in on your cloak and dagger conversation. Kathy said while the television’s newscast looped through another thirty-minute segment.

It’s just computer talk. Shelly said as he tapped an iPhone application. Shelly was bound by a strict code of silence that pertained to the computer programming work he performed for the Agency for the Integration of Digital Systems (AFIDS).

AFIDS was established to help coordinate the collection and analysis of digital data secured by numerous government intelligence agencies including the NSA, CIA and the Departments of Defense, Energy, Homeland Security, Justice, State, and Treasury. AFIDS focused in on all digital data transmitted through numerous modalities including landline and cellular telephone transmissions, Internet traffic, and all electromagnetic transmissions.

Kathy’s Italian temperament materialized as she glanced at her Seiko wristwatch. It had been fifteen minutes since they filled out the patient questionnaire and financial forms. She possessed a natural beauty that required no makeup. She brushed on a touch of lipstick throughout the day just to brighten her face. A set of long legs supported Kathy’s statuesque figure. In the five months since the Croftons had moved to Florida, the sun had begun streaking her brunette hair. A rim of neatly curved plucked eyebrows outlined a contrasting set of colored eyes, one brown and one blue.

Kathy’s rare condition, heterochromia, provided the iris of each eye with a different color. It was the one trait that set Kathy apart from her twin sister Stephanie. Even though Shelly and Kathy’s marriage had passed the decade mark earlier in the year, her eyes still distracted Shelly. Early on in their relationship Kathy had dismissed Shelly’s suggestion of wearing colored contact lens to balance the color of both eyes.

Without warning, the door to the inner sanctum opened and a nurse led them down a hallway. Kathy and Shelly took a seat inside an exam room. When the nurse had finished recording Kathy’s vital signs, she asked Kathy to change into a patient gown.

Kathy looked at the exam table with its beckoning stirrups. Not looking forward to getting up there. Kathy said nodding at the exam table with its white paper sheet. You need to lie up there sometime and have some doctor probe you with his fingers and a cold speculum.

No thank you. Shelly said as he recalled Kathy being examined under a half sheet on previous visits to two other specialists.

Dr. Douglas was the third reproductive endocrinologist the Croftons had consulted in as many years. Two previous treatment cycles in Philadelphia proved futile. Kathy wanted to call it quits and adopt a child. The two decided to give it one last shot for Shelly’s sake. Kathy wanted to give him a little daughter to make up for the sister he never had.

While waiting for the doctor to arrive, Shelly tried focusing his attention of the sunny day outside. The cumulus clouds, pasted against an azure sky, failed to distract him from his fears that this round of testing and procedures would again end in failure.

The exam room door opened and Dr. James R. Douglas stepped inside, medical records nestled in his hand. Douglas’s white lab coat bore the embroidered insignia of his self-proclaimed clinic. Cursive writing spelled out his full name along with the self-anointed title, Clinical Director.

Hi. I’m Dr. Douglas. Douglas said as he shook hands. Sorry I’m late. Been busy all morning. Nothing but good news. One more pregnant patient to add to my wall of success.

Douglas sat down on a rolling chair, pulled up to a small makeshift desk, and adjusted his reading glasses. He pulled out a stack of voluminous medical records from a thick manila envelope mailed to him by Kathy’s previous doctors. He flipped through the paperwork, scanned Kathy’s new office chart, and voiced several murmurs.

Kathy and Shelly sat in silence. Shelly reached over and held Kathy's hand.

Douglas turned to couple and stared at them over the top rim of his glasses. Appears that you’ve had quite the work-up in the past. Pretty much covered a lot of the same work-ups I use in my treatment plans. Hysteroscopy. Laparoscopy. Ultrasound. Your anatomy appears intact. Plumbing’s wide open. No endometriosis or fibroids. Douglas said referring to the slew of previous diagnostic tests and procedures Kathy underwent.

Douglas paused and started writing down notes with his Mont Blanc pen. It’s my opinion that you’ve got a hormonal problem either related to your ovary or hypothalamus. To date it looks like you’ve gone through two IVF cycles. Douglas said referring to a series of hormone injections aimed at harvesting eggs from Kathy’s ovaries.

Yes. Kathy said. One was with Dr. Collati. The other with Dr. Hughes.

Douglas furrowed his forehead, bringing his bushy eyebrows down toward the top edge of his glasses. Remember how many eggs they were able to harvest?

Five on the first go round. Three on the second.

You were thirty-one, thirty-two at the time. Douglas said as he looked at Kathy’s recorded birth date. I would have expected more eggs than that.

The Croftons shook their heads as they recalled the paltry sum.

Douglas looked at Kathy. I could go ahead and run you through another series of tests, surgeries, and IVF treatments. We’d end up with the same results.

Shelly leaned forward, gripping Kathy’s hand tight, and said. There’s got to be something you can do. I'm sure it's not rocket science. We’re not sending someone to Mars and back.

It may not be rocket science but it is science. I understand your frustration with this whole process. If you’re not happy with what I’m telling you then you’ll have to find someone else to take over Kathy’s care. Douglas said.

Kathy turned to Shelly. "Shelton. Please pretend