THE COPYCAT AFFAIR
By Selyndae
PROLOGUE
Monday, April 29, 1968, rural southwestern Pennsylvania
Godfrey Schlamm's pale eyes glowed with approval behind his thick glasses as he watched the dials on the huge machine move to the pre-set numbers. Examining the panel he made minute adjustments, all the while focusing on the mass contained in the center of the complicated contrivance of wires, tubes, and steel. Although a solidly built man of nearly six feet, he seemed dwarfed by the enormous equipment.
The room was immense.
Set up like an operating theater, it had a bank of observation windows placed high in the viewing gallery above. Inside this observation room were six men and one woman, their clothing ultra conservative and expensive. The woman, tall with a willowy build, wore a tasteful black sheath and necklace of perfectly matched sea-pearls. Her age was hard to determine; her face was smooth with a youthful look, but something about her eyes hinted at an older woman. The men appeared cast from the same mold—all were of average build, and somewhat overweight, between 50-60 years of age. They too, wore jewelry, the tie tacks and cufflinks obviously Tiffany's or Breen's.
Schlamm continued with his readings, seemingly oblivious to the observers in the gallery. He was, however, smugly aware of their scrutiny.
He finally moved back and stopped beside a small board of switches—the main control panel. Looking upward, Schlamm gave a short nod. "It is ready." His faint German accent lent a touch of drama and underlying expertise to the proceedings.
At his words, the seven observers rose from their seats and moved closer to the windows for a better look.
A humming sound, which had been in the background steadily, grew louder and more insistent. Lights flashed, dials glowed, tubes bubbled as viscous liquids were forced through them. For several minutes nothing else happened. To the casual observer it looked disturbingly like the set for another B horror movie.
Twin beams suddenly lit up on both sides of the inert mass and bore into it, slowly changing the material to a glowing and pulsating substance.
The observers leaned closer, completely captivated by the scene below.
Suddenly the woman and two of the men let out a gasp as the bombarded mass began to writhe!
At first it was a rather sluggish undulation, but quickly began to move faster. As the movements sped up, they appeared erratic, jerky, and ungainly. Shivering bits of the mass began to elongate forming into grim parodies of human limbs.
Schlamm made another adjustment to his dials. A third beam shot out—this time directly into the 'head' of the pulsating mass.
Completely caught up in the drama being played out below them, the observers stood frozen as the chest area began to move rhythmically in deep, panting breaths. As they stared, the mass smoothed and firmed into a definite masculine form. Blobs firmed into limbs—slimly muscled arms, strong thighs and calves. Genitals pulsed out. Shadows deepened into eyelids, an aristocratic nose, and sensual lips. The strong chin was soon hidden beneath a reddish beard as the darkened areas atop the head lengthened into sun-kissed, wheaten hair.
A man!
The beams shut off and the humming faded away. For a long moment, no one moved in the sudden silence.
Godfrey Schlamm finally walked away from his dials and over to the 'man' lying supine on the catafalque. Moving closer, he gently touched his creation.
The man's eyes popped open then slowly blinked. His blue eyes stared blankly at Schlamm, who smiled broadly.
"Rest now," he calmed his creation gently, "Everything is going to be fine." As he stroked the man's forearm, he cast a knowing smirk to the gallery overhead, "Just fine."
ACT I: A Minimalist Artist
Three weeks earlier, Thursday, April 11, 1968, New York Headquarters
"I'm at my wits end!"
"There, there, Cathy, try not to worry." Mr. Waverly's tone was consoling. He glanced up as his top two agents entered. "Ah," He absently patted her clenched hands. "These gentlemen are here to assist with your problem. This is Mr. Solo—"
"Charmed," Napoleon murmured.
"—and this is Mr. Kuryakin."
Illya inclined his head.
As they sat in their usual spots, they studied the slim woman seated next to Waverly. Lots of soft, light brown hair pulled neatly back away from her face. Her dark eyes had fine lines—indicative of humor and a life well lived. She was impeccably dressed in a neat, oyster suit and lavender silk blouse. Despite the gray shot through her hair and worry on her face, she had a classic, ageless look.
The woman observed the two men in return. On the surface they seemed rather ordinary young men, but something intangible marked them as… professionals. The first was dark and strikingly handsome with a friendly smile and warm, brown eyes. The other was a contrast with blond hair, clear blue eyes and a rather somber expression—
Her eyes widened as she stared at Illya, almost as if she'd seen a ghost. Mr. Waverly motioned for them to have a seat. "This is Catherine Callum. Mrs. Callum is a long-time friend of mine and in need of assistance." Nodding at his friend, he applied a match to the bowl of his pipe and began the process of lighting it. "You may speak freely, my dear. My men can be trusted completely." When it began drawing sufficiently, he smiled encouragingly.
Mrs. Callum shook herself as she struggled to regain her composure. After a calming breath, her expression turned distant as she related her story.
"My husband was a pilot during the War. He was captured while on a mission over Germany and kept prisoner until Liberation. Despite this he was able to send out intelligence that helped a good deal in the War effort. Simon, my husband, also became an integral part of getting men out in his role as Escape Officer while incarcerated in Colditz," She looked over at Waverly and smiled briefly before resuming, "Alex was a tremendous help with his connections to the Ministry and such." She stared down at her twisting hands, "After the War we changed our name to Callum in order to protect our family. We were expecting our first child…" She glanced back at Waverly and receiving his encouraging nod, blurted out, "Our real name was Carter. It's a common enough name but before we'd changed it and relocated there had been several disturbing incidents… accidents that made us uneasy. Alex was a tremendous help with the necessary papers and connections…" She bit her lip, "Now, someone has discovered our identity and they're using it against us. We-we're being blackmailed! If only—!" She broke off and began sobbing quietly into an already sodden handkerchief.
Napoleon looked puzzled. "Blackmail, Sir?"
"Yes, Mr. Solo, blackmail."
Illya spoke up. "Excuse me, Sir, but isn't blackmail more the jurisdiction of the local authorities or perhaps the F.B.I.?"
Waverly calmly puffed on his pipe for a moment before answering, "Normally that would be the case. However, this blackmail is a trifle different." He smiled grimly. "This blackmail money is going to known Thrush accounts. In every instance, the circumstances and modus operandi are the same—the victim is approached within hours after some delicate issue or indiscretion has occurred. The largest amount of money the victim can pay is demanded, and when the money is paid, it gets distributed throughout the world into the various accounts. The subject for extortion is not only delicate. All of the victims—without exception—are at a loss as to how the information could have been obtained." Waverly gave the tabletop a spin sending some folders to stop in front of the agents.
As they scanned through the reports, Mr. Waverly pressed the intercom button and requested his secretary. He graciously assisted Mrs. Callum as she stood up. "Miss Rogers will see to it that you get back to your hotel." At her unasked questions, he murmured, "We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise."
Cathy gave a watery smile before touching his hand, "I know you will, Alex." When she stood up she seemed more confident. "You'll keep me informed?"
"Of course my dear, leave everything to me,"
She hesitated a moment before she walking resolutely over to Illya. "Pardon me, Mr. Kuryakin is it?" At Illya's nod she continued. "Forgive my impertinence, but you have the most uncanny resemblance to my husband. Do you perhaps have relatives in England?"
Illya shook his head regretfully. "I'm sorry madam."
"It's just that ... well, you could almost be a twin to Simon when he was your age ... perhaps a bit blonder, and no mustache—" She stopped, embarrassed as she looked at Illya more closely. "You're sure...?"
"Quite sure." In a gracious move, he took Mrs. Callum's hand and kissed it in the European manner.
Smiling faintly, cheeks slightly flushed, Mrs. Callum finally followed Miss Rogers out.
When the door slid shut again, Mr. Waverly was staring at his pipe apparently lost in thought. Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, silently sharing their surprise at this unusual behavior. They'd hardly had time to communicate the oddity before their boss sat down, immediately bringing their eyes back on him.
"Gentlemen, you've looked over the information we have thus far. Any thoughts?"
"The only point in common seems to be various art shows. But, they were all hosted by different galleries for different artists in different cities." Solo flipped through the pages as he spoke.
Kuryakin nodded as he gestured to the folders, "Precisely." He adjusted his glasses and picking up the papers, peered at the report again. "It also seems that the genre is modern art rather than the more traditional or classical art styles with a heavy leaning in the abstract ... the 'Moandrian' or 'Minimalist' styles."
"Quite so," Waverly agreed absently. He picked up his pipe and stared at it for a moment. Still studying the pipe, he said softly, "I will ask that this next information be kept between just the three of us."
The agents were stunned; this was a surprising edict.
Waverly appeared to be lost in thought. When he finally spoke, it was with barely suppressed anger. "As Cathy explained, her husband was a prisoner of war in Germany. They were newlyweds at the time. Naturally she was devastated. She received word he was alive but imprisoned at one of the, ah, harsher camps without possibility of release or escape. They were permitted letters though, and soon incorporated a personal code which got past the censors.
"You will recall she mentioned her husband was Escape Officer. This meant he would help the others get free, but by necessity, would himself remain incarcerated. As a result, she involved herself in the resistance movement by helping the escapees connect with the European underground." He harrumphed, "Cathy and I met on one such clandestine mission in France and became friends. My wife took her under her wing, so to speak.
"She was compromised by a traitor within our group and had to be spirited back into England in '44. Then as she explained, following the War a series of disquieting accidents occurred—too many to be coincidence. She got word to me and after looking into it they were persuaded to take on a new identity. With no immediate family left, this was the best solution." His heavy brows came down as he added, "Cathy and her husband are heroes—it is completely unacceptable for blackmail or compromises to be made on their safety!"
"So the blackmail is centered on something which happened during the War?"
Waverly hesitated. Staring at his pipe he spoke quietly, "It is certainly connected. When Cathy was betrayed in France, the priority was to get everyone to safety, which included smuggling her back to England as quickly as possible. We rerouted communications and dissolved that particular cell." His voice became distant as he relived the events from over twenty years prior. "The suspicion was that her husband was somehow involved as a double agent. I had connections and was able to use my influence to stop those rumors. It was because of my, er, unquestionable ties that a more thorough investigation was initiated.
"This eventually proved to be the case," he paused for a moment before saying carefully, "The traitor overplayed his hand and let slip a piece of information which ultimately led to his exposure to the Heads of State. It was a damning piece of information which could just as easily have been the proof required to brand Carter as the traitor…" Waverly fell silent.
Finally Solo prompted, "What happened? Was he incarcerated?"
"What—? Oh, the traitor… not exactly, er, no. What they did was use him to draw out even more information about the German machine until the end of the War…"
Illumination dawned on the agents simultaneously. "He was never revealed at all."
Waverly glared. "No. He was not. Fortunately, the Carters... er...Callums were never accused publicly. The entire incident and suspicions were kept quiet which makes this blackmailing scheme even more disturbing."
Napoleon gave a short nod. "What do you have in mind for us, Sir?"
Waverly tapped his pipe gently against his knuckle. After a moment, holding the pipe bowl, he pointed the stem at Kuryakin. "You will go undercover as a beatnik artist." His piercing eyes appraised the agent's neatly-bohemian appearance, his hair just brushing his collar. "Don't shave, mess up your hair—I'm sure you can effect a credible disguise. An appropriate flat will be made ready by next week." He picked up a card and pointed it at Illya, who instantly stood up to retrieve it. "Tomorrow you have an appointment with a," he glanced at the card, "Ms. Rice. She will instruct you in the current styles of modern art."
"What about me, Sir?"
Waverly fixed Solo with a stern eye. "Your assignment, Mr. Solo will be Mrs. Callum's safety. Her family has been sent away on holiday and is under our protection. Cathy, meanwhile, has agreed to further open herself to this 'blackmail' so she will need a bodyguard. I would suggest, in keeping with the scheme of blackmail, perhaps you could allow your persona to be, shall we say, less than salubrious?"
One week later
"A nice look for you, Tovarisch," commented Napoleon brightly as he turned Illya's head side to side in order to view the reddish growth of beard from all angles.
"It itches," muttered Illya grumpily, absently rubbing along his jaw.
"All part of the cover." Napoleon's eyes twinkled with a gleam of mischief.
"Yes, yes I know…" his voice trailed off.
Napoleon looked sharply at his partner before asking quietly, "Problem?"
Silence as the Russian waged an internal battle within himself. "It's probably nothing," he said slowly.
"But…?" he made it a gentle question as he leaned back in his chair. With insight, he probed further, "It's something to do with Mrs. Callum herself isn't it?"
Shooting his partner a rueful glance. "I will admit that it's somewhat disconcerting to learn of yet another person whom I resemble so strongly."
A quick flash of Nexor and the uncanny resemblance to his partner sped through Napoleon's mind. Before he could offer any kind of reassurance though, Illya walked back over to the door.
"I suppose I will have to treat this… no differently," he decided firmly shrugging on his fleece-lined jacket.
"Going somewhere?"
Illya smirked. "I'm off to my artist's studio."
"Just don't get too comfortable with it O Minimal Artist," he grinned back. "You'll have to return to the clean-shaven, suit and tie look when this is over!"
"That's Minimalist, and hmmm, I don't know…"
"You know you're without backup, so be careful."
"I will if you will," Kuryakin teased, allowing a tiny grin to appear.
Once the door closed his grin faded as Napoleon reviewed his upcoming role. Finally he got up and made his way down to wardrobe.
"Letitia my love," he greeted as he spotted the short, matronly woman who was currently leafing through a Modern Teen magazine. He looked over her shoulder admiring the mini-skirted models and grinned, "Shopping?"
Her dark eyes twinkled through her outsize glasses, "But of course." Closing the magazine she got up and walked over to a garment cart. "I imagine you're here to pick up your cover outfits." Deftly sorting through, she pulled a large bag from the middle and handed it to him. "You should try these on so I can check the fit."
Unzipping the bag Napoleon grimaced but when he touched the suit he actually shuddered. "Letitia!" he wailed.
Arms akimbo, the head of wardrobe gave an evil grin, "Sorry, Napoleon, Waverly's orders."
Sighing dramatically, he gingerly picked up the bag and took it into one of the changing rooms. Once inside, he sighed again. One cheap, off-the-rack suit in a rather loud royal blue, a hound's-tooth black and white sports coat made from polyester… oh great—a burgundy sports coat. After all the teasing I've put Illya through! There were also a few cheap shirts in slippery polyester—pale green, yellow and pink! The things I do for UNCLE he grimaced as he tried on the offending garments.
In a tiny attic on the edge of Greenwich Village
Checking the markers he'd left earlier to alert him of any intruders, Illya locked the door of his cover flat. He carried nothing overt in the way of weapons, feeling strangely undressed without his Special, but this would pass as he immersed himself into the role. Dropping his painting supplies on a rough table, he carelessly hung his jacket on the battered hall tree.
His stomach rumbled.
He debated about going back out and getting something to eat. He sighed. The long trudge through the village searching for bargains on his paints and canvases (keeping in character) not to mention the long haul up to the fifth floor had been exhausting. Another sigh. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gone without a meal and would help maintain the 'lean, hungry' look.
He finally made up his mind to go to bed (an old double hidden discretely behind a screen) when he heard the tinkle of a bell. He could hear his landlady shout up to him through the pre-war tube saying he had a phone call.
"I'll be right down," he shouted back. As he started out it occurred to him that since he was going downstairs anyway, he may as well bring back dinner. Something simple—perhaps a loaf or two of bread, some cheese… Satisfied, he checked his wallet, locked the door, and hurried downstairs to take the call. While undercover he'd opted against using his communicator to keep in touch, and had to rely on the single payphone located in the first floor hallway.
He was reaching for the dangling receiver when one of the apartment doors opened. An elderly man, bundled in blankets, was in a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse. Illya gave him and the pretty nurse a quick nod before picking up the phone.
"Hello—" Suddenly he was grabbed around the neck in a chokehold by the 'old' man! Two more men came out of the flat and in seconds, Illya was completely subdued. Falling unconscious, he was bundled into the wheelchair and taken outside.
Illya drifted awake. A hospital...? A tentative flex of his wrist revealed an I.V. line. Various monitors were beeping at intervals from leads attached to his body; heartbeat, respiration. I didn't think I was hurt badly enough to warrant all this. What happened…?
"You're awake. Splendid." The slightly-accented voice was almost a whisper.
"Where…?" Throat dry, a low rasp was all he could manage.
"All in good time."
There was a faint movement of air as the unknown person left the room, closing the door behind him.
Alone, still dazed, Illya tried to sit up. A careful check showed him the restraints had a little give. Now, if he could only sit up. Alarmingly dizzy and weak from whatever he'd been given, his strength finally deserted him, and he fell back in a heap as the blackness once more closed in.
Later that night at a cocktail party at the Kennings Art Gallery
Cathy Callum nervously twisted her ring. Dressed simply in an elegant deep claret satin and chiffon tea-length gown, her only jewelry diamond drop earrings and a magnificent 3-caret diamond ring in a platinum setting worn on her left hand. The multi-colored scarf draped over a slender shoulder and waist, faintly reminiscent of an Indian sari, made her stand out as both elegant and new-age.
Accepting a glass of white wine from one of the mingling waiters, she walked around the gallery trying to relax as she gazed unseeingly at the various modern art displays. A couple she knew casually through charity events joined her and they began chatting about the fête, their children, and the unseasonable cold until a disturbance at the vestibule suddenly broke through the conversation.
"Sir, you can't—"
The man, dark hair slicked back with a heavy-handed application of hair oil, wearing a garishly-loud royal blue suit and a pale pink shirt gave a decidedly oily smirk. His wide tie was black and white check with a single bright red circle at the end. "My good man, I happen to have an invite," the nasal tones and Bronx accent were accompanied by an imperious wave of the hand.
"Sir—" the butler's tone was pained, "This is a formal event."
"Yeah, what of it?" the man looked down at himself, "I'm wearin' a tie, fer cryin' out loud!"
Conversation throughout the gallery came to a complete halt except for disapproving murmurs as the various patrons stared at the 'crasher' with the cheap suit and loud voice. Mrs. Callum suddenly realized with a start, that she recognized the man—he was one of the agents Alex had assigned to her.
"Mildred, if you'll excuse me?" Glancing back, she added, "We'll do lunch sometime," before she left the couple. She hesitated, not exactly sure what she should do, before slowly walking toward the entrance. There was always the powder room excuse.
The man—Solo, she remembered—turned toward her and grinned toothily.
"Hey, Missus Cal...uh, Callum!"
Cathy stared, at a loss for words.
The garishly-clad Napoleon Solo gave her a broad wink. "It's okay; I'm Nathaniel Stone, your new bodyguard."
"Oh!" she blinked in surprise, "I didn't..."
"It's okay, doll," leered Stone/Solo.
"Mr. Stone, I will not be addressed as 'doll'!" Cathy was indignant. She didn't care what role she was expected to play—she drew the line at being called 'doll' or 'baby' or some other ridiculous appellation.
Stone/Solo looked contrite... a little. With a shrug he said nasally, "Whatever you say, Missus, it's your buck." Looking back at the butler, he tugged at his tie, loosening it before looking down his nose (somewhat difficult since said butler was well over six feet tall). "I don't need a formal invite since I'm here pertectin' Missus Callum."
Ignoring him, the butler inclined his head obsequiously to Mrs. Callum and asked, "Is this...'gentleman' with you, Madam?"
"Yes he is, Jenkins."
Lowering his voice he whispered, "Would you like me to call the authorities?" obviously concerned that this manhad some kind of hold over the lady.
Cathy looked blank for a moment before laughing softly, "Oh no! Truly, it's all right." Unable to resist, she impishly added in a singularly dry tone, "I'll see to it Mr. Stone behaves."
Stone/Solo took her arm and gently guided them out to the terrace. Snagging a couple of drinks on the way, he offered one of them to Cathy.
She took the drink automatically, "What—?"
Napoleon placed a finger over her lips and drew her arm through his. Placing his lips by her ear, he whispered, "Have you been approached by anyone...unusual?"
In the dim light, he could just make out the gleam in her eye, "Other than yourself, I presume?" she answered sardonically. Suddenly serious she added, "No one in particular. I've spoken with some acquaintances of mine… Mildred and Chester Martin."
"How well do you know them?"
"About as well as anyone who attends these things...you know, functions we've attended, boasting a bit about our children, recent acquisitions...that sort of thing."
"Who approached whom?"
"Oh. It was Chester..."
Looking keenly at his charge, Napoleon pressed further, "Tell me what happened."
Biting her lower lip, she concentrated. "I was mingling around like you said. Jenkins greeted me—he's been at a number of these events. I took a glass of wine from one of the waiters when Chester came over. Mildred joined him and we just started talking—you know, casual chit-chat, catching up. Then Chester asked about any 'leads' on new investments," she made a face remembering, "and began boasting about a new painting he'd just sponsored."
"Is that his usual behavior?"
"He would like it to be. Friendlier, I mean. Frankly, I find him a boor. His wife is a darling, though, which is why I put up with him." Frowning she added slowly, "Now that I think of it, no, he's actually on the...um, cheap side." She shivered suddenly.
"Cold?"
"Not really...it just feels as though someone walked over my grave."
Solo's instincts aroused. Something was off… Drawing Cathy nearer, he whispered, "We're leaving."
Nodding, she drew the colorful scarf closer around her shoulders as Napoleon cupped her elbow, leading her back inside. Jenkins stepped in front of them as they reached the door.
"Is there a problem, Madam?"
"Oh no," Cathy managed a prim smile, "I, ah, have a headache."
"Shall I call a taxi?"
"Nah, Missus Callum is gettin' a ride from me, seein' as how I got my car," interjected Stone/Solo in his nasal tone.
"Very good, Madam," Jenkins opened the door for the pair.
Inside the underground parking garage, Solo's agent reflexes keyed up even more. Grasping Mrs. Callum's hand securely in his left one caused her to look at him sharply with frightened but steady eyes. Aside from the initial intake of breath, she remained silent. Giving a reassuring squeeze, he drew his Special from his shoulder holster.
They walked cautiously through the all-but-deserted garage. It was eerily silent except for their footfalls on the echoing concrete. Stopping, Solo glanced around again. Something was definitely wrong. Cathy, aware that she could be a liability quickly slipped off her pumps, preparatory for action.
A shot rang out, chipping a small piece off the concrete pylon—just missing Napoleon's ear! Pulling her down sharply, they crouched behind the pillar. A rapid barrage of gunfire rang out, hitting the side of the car in front of them, leaving a row of large bullet holes.
In a crouching run, Solo pulled his charge along the length of the car. Reaching the rear, he checked for cover. A few parking spaces over a late model Cadillac was parked next to the stairwell. On the other side of the stairs were three other cars. One-handedly pulling out his communicator, he twisted it and whispered, "Open Channel D."
Nothing—not even static.
Twisting again, he whispered urgently, "Open Channel D!"
Frustrated, he twisted it closed and shoved it into his jacket.
"Mrs. Callum, were you involved in the war effort enough to become proficient with a gun?" Solo asked in a near soundless whisper.
"I learned shoot as a girl, and yes, I honed those skills during the war."
Napoleon reached down, pulled out his spare gun from his ankle holster, and handed it over. Reassured as she confidently took the small gun, hefted it, and checked the clip for ammunition, he whispered, "I'll draw them off; you'll need to get to that stairwell and call for backup. We can't get a signal down here." He ran through the steps on using the communicator.
Pale, she nodded again as she flattened herself down against the Cadillac.
Solo quickly crept along the car until he reached the front. In a sudden move he dove for the other vehicles, eliciting more gunfire.
Illya felt as though he was wading through something thick and unyielding as he swam back to consciousness. Struggling to open his eyes against gummed eyelids he realized he was still in restraints. No surprise there. He squeezed open his eyes... Alone! Moving his head caused a sudden wave of nausea bringing bile to his throat.
Forcing that down he did a quick self-inventory. Lying naked on a gurney he noted with relief that he seemed to be intact. There was quite bit of bandaging though—on his inner arm just below the elbow, on his hip and torso. He also had a fiercely punishing headache. It didn't seem to be localized in any particular area such as from a blow to the head… so, drugs. He dismissed it.
The change in air pressure told him a door had opened.
"So pleased to see you're awake again." The same voice as before.
Kuryakin said nothing.
"I am Godfry Schlamm. Until now I have worked in the background, but now that Thrush has seen my preliminary results, they are eager to finance my research."
Illya remained silent.
Another door clicked open. Low whispering before Schlamm announced, "I have some… unfinished business. We will continue this later."
Alone again, Illya studied his surroundings. Definitely a laboratory and a well-equipped one at that, but what were they up to and what did they want with him? Deciding escape was his first priority, he tested his restraints again.
The strap holding his legs had a little give to it. Wriggling around in earnest, Illya managed to slip first one leg and then the other free. Scooting down and exhaling got him out from under the chest restraints. Now all that remained were his wrists. Idly noting the almost uncomfortably warm temperature, he took advantage by utilizing the sweat trickling down his body.
A small cupboard held a stack of scrubs that he quickly donned. Shrugging on the lab coat from a nearby hook, he spotted another drawer that had been hidden by the coat. Curious he glanced inside. It looked like a cache of personal belongings; a bag of peppermints, sunglasses, and a small canvas duffle bag with a pair of sneakers inside. There was also a pair of thick, clean socks rolled neatly in a ball. Rapidly pulling on the socks and shoes, he listened intently for sounds of the doctor's return.
To be continued...
8