Again she tried to open her eyes but quickly gave up. It was like a nightmare from which she could not awaken. Then there was yet another cramp, sharp enough to bring her head off the examining table.
The room was a drug-induced blur. She could just make out the top of Dr. Carpenter’s head as he worked between her draped knees. The colposcope was pushed to the side on his right.
The sounds of the room still came to her as if from a great distance, although now they had a peculiar, echoing quality.
People in the room were moving in slow motion. Dr. Carpenter raised his head as if he could sense her eyes on him.
A hand grasped Marissa’s shoulder and eased her back. But as she lay down, her numbed mind replayed the blurred image of Dr. Carpenter’s masked face and, despite her drugged state, a shiver of terror coursed through her veins. It was as if her doctor had metamorphosed into a demon. Instead of his eyes being crystal blue, they had become distorted. They appeared to be made of black onyx as dense as stone.
Marissa started to scream but she held herself in check. Some part of her brain was rational enough to remind her that all her perceptions were being altered by the medication. She tried to sit up again to take another look for reassurance, but hands restrained her. She fought against the hands, and once again her mind took her back to the hotel room in San Francisco when she’d had to fight with the killer. She remembered hitting the man with the telephone receiver. She remembered all the blood.
Unable to contain herself any longer, Marissa screamed. But no sound came out. She was on the edge of a precipice and slipping. She tried to hold on but she slowly lost her grip, failing into blackness…. February 27,1M “Damn!” Marissa said as her eyes rapidly roamed her office. She could not imagine where she could have put her keys. For the tenth time she pulled open her central desk drawer, the place where she always put them. They weren’t there. Irritated, she shuffled through the contents of the drawer, then slammed it.
“Holy Toledo!” she said as she looked at her watch. She had less than thirty minutes to get from her office over to the Sheraton Hotel where she was scheduled to receive an award. Nothing seemed to be cooperating. First she had an emergency: six-year-old
Cindy Markham with a severe asthma attack. Now she could not find her keys.
Marissa pursed her lips with frustration and tried to retrace her steps. Suddenly she remembered. She’d taken home a bunch of charts the night before. Stepping over to the file cabinet, she saw the keys immediately. She snatched them up and headed for the door.
She got as far as her hand on the doorknob when the phone rang. At first she was tempted to ignore it, but her conscience quickly intervened. There was always a chance it involved Cindy Markham.
With a sigh, Marissa went to her desk and leaned over to pick up the receiver.
“What is it?” she asked with uncharacteristic curtness.
“Is this Dr. Blumenthal?” the caller queried.
“This is she,” Marissa said. She didn’t recognize the voice. She had expected her secretary, who was aware of her time constraint.
“This is Dr. Carpenter,” said the caller.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Yes,” Marissa lied. She felt a rush of anxiety, having expected his call over the last few days. She held her breath.
“First I’d like to congratulate you on your award today,” Dr.
Carpenter said.
“I didn’t even know you were a physician, much less an awardwinning researcher. It’s kind of embarrassing to find out about your patients in the morning paper.”
“Sorry,” said Marissa.
“I guess I could have said.” She looked at her watch.
“How on earth did a pediatrician get involved doing research on Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever?” Dr. Carpenter asked.
“It sounds pretty esoteric. Let me see, I have the newspaper right here.
“The Peabody Research Award goes to Dr. Marissa Blumenthal for the elucidation of the variables associated with the transmission of Ebola virus from primary to secondary contacts.” Wow!”