"No, not particularly."
"Well, that's something. The menstrual cramps continue?"
She nodded.
"Better, about the same, or worse?"
"About the same," she said. "Maybe a little worse last month."
"You're due-when?"
"In a few days."
He set his cigar aside. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers across his heavy stomach. His china-blue eyes regarded her gravely. When he spoke, his voice was flat, toneless, without emphasis.
"If you were under stress," he said, "it might account for the higher blood pressure. That would be, uh, of some concern in a woman with your condition. Increased stress-even a tooth extraction-results in higher cortisol secretion in the normal individual. But your adrenal cortex is almost completely destroyed. So if you are under stress of any kind, we should increase your cortisone intake to bring your levels up to normal."
"But I'm not under stress!" she insisted.
He ignored her.
"Also, while under stress, a higher amount of sodium chloride is required so that your body does not become dehydrated. You haven't been vomiting, have you?"
"No."
"Well, we'll have to wait for the blood and urine tests to come back from the lab before we know definitely that we have a cortisol deficiency. I saw minor signs of skin discoloration, which is usually a sure tip-off. A decrease in armpit and pubic hair is another indication. And there's that weight loss…"
"But you're not sure?" she said.
"About the cortisol deficiency? No, I'm not sure. It's the high blood pressure that puzzles me. Cortisol deficiency should be accompanied by lower blood pressure. The small problem I mentioned, the slight dilemma, is this: Ordinarily, for patients with high blood pressure, a reduced- or salt-free diet is recommended. But the nature of your disease demands that you continue to supplement your diet with sodium chloride. So what do we do? For the time being, I suggest an increased cortisone dosage. What are you taking now?" He flipped down his glasses, searched through her file on his desk. "Here it is-twenty-five milligrams once a day. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"When do you take it?"
"In the morning. With breakfast."
"Any stomach upset?"
"No."
"Good. I'm going to suggest you take another dose in the late afternoon. That will give you fifty milligrams a day. You may not need it, but it won't do any harm. Try to take the second dose with milk or some antacid preparation. Sometimes the cortisone affects the stomach if it's taken without food. You understand all that?"
"Yes, doctor. But I'm running short of cortisone. I need another prescription."
He pulled a pad toward him and began scribbling.
"While you're at it," Zoe Kohler said casually, "could I have another prescription for Tuinal?"
He looked up suddenly.
"You're suffering from insomnia?"
"Yes. Almost every night."
"Try a highball just before you go to bed. Or an ounce of brandy."
"I've tried that," she said, "but it doesn't help."
"Another dilemma," he mourned. "Ordinarily, with insomnia, I'd reduce the cortisone dosage. But in view of your weight loss and the other factors, I'm going to increase it until the lab tests come in and we know where we are."
"And what about the salt pills?"
He drummed his blunt fingers on the desktop, frowning. Then…
"Continue with the salt. Two tablets a day. Zoe, I don't want to frighten you. I've explained to you a dozen times that if you take your medication faithfully-and you must take it for the rest of your days, just like a diabetic-there is no reason why you can't live a long and productive life."
"Well, I've been taking my medication faithfully," she said with some asperity, "and now you say something's wrong."
He looked at her strangely but said nothing. He completed the two prescriptions and handed them to her. He suggested she call in four days and he'd tell her the results of the blood test and urinalysis.
"Please," he said, "try not to worry. It might be hard not to, but worry will only make things worse."
"I'm not worried," she said, and he believed her.
After she had gone, he sat a moment in his swivel chair and relighted his cigar. He thought he knew the reason for the higher blood pressure. She was under stress, moderate to severe, but certainly acute enough to require an increase in corticosteroid therapy.
She had lied to him for her own good reasons. He wondered to what possible pressures this quiet, withdrawn, rather emotionless woman might be a victim. It wasn't unusual for female patients with her disorder to experience a weakening of the sex drive. But in Zoe Kohler's case, he suspected, the libido had been atrophied long before the onset of her illness.
So if it wasn't sexual frustration, or an emotional problem, it had to be some form of psychic stress that was demanding a higher cortisol level, burning up calories, and setting her blood pounding through her arteries. He felt like a detective searching for a motive when he should be acting like a physician seeking the proper therapy for a disorder that, untreated, was invariably fatal.
Sighing, he dug through Zoe Kohler's file for the photocopies he had made at the New York Academy of Medicine when Zoe had first consulted him. She had just come to New York and had brought along her medical file from her family doctor in Winona.
Stark thought that Minnesota sawbones had done a hell of a job in diagnosing the rare disease before it had reached crisis proportions. It was a bitch of an illness to recognize because many of the early symptoms were characteristic of other, milder ailments. But the Minnesota GP had hit it right on the nose and prescribed the treatment that saved Zoe Kohler's life.
Dr. Oscar Stark found the photocopies he sought. The main heading was "Diseases of the Endocrine System." He turned to the section dealing with "Hypofunction of Adrenal Cortex."
He began to read, to make certain he had forgotten nothing about the incidence, pathogenesis, symptoms, diagnosis, and treatment of Addison's disease.
Her menstrual cramps began on the evening of May 7th, twenty-four hours after her visit to Dr. Stark. In addition to the low-back twinges and the deep, internal ache, there was now an abdominal pain that came and went.
She felt so wretched on the evening of May 8th, a Thursday, that she took a cab home from work, although the night was clear and unseasonably warm. After she undressed, she probed her lower abdomen gingerly. It felt hard and swollen.
She took her usual dosage of vitamins and minerals. And she gulped down a Darvon and a Valium. She wondered what physiological effect this combination of painkiller and tranquilizer might have.
She soon discovered. Soaking in a hot tub, sipping a glass of chilled white wine, she felt the cramps ease, the abdominal pain diminish. She felt up, daring and resolute.
She had been watching the hotel trade magazine for notices of conventions, sales meetings, political gatherings. It appeared to her that the activities of the Hotel Ripper had not yet seriously affected the tourist trade in New York. Occupancy rates were still high; desirable hotel rooms were hard to find.
The Cameron Arms Hotel on Central Park South looked good to her. During the week of May 4-10, it was hosting two conventions and a week-long exhibition and sale of rare postage stamps. When she had looked up the Cameron Arms in the hotel directory, she found it had 600 rooms, banquet and dining rooms, coffee shop, and two cocktail lounges, one with a disco.
Lolling in the hot tub, she decided on the Cameron Arms Hotel, and pondered which dress she should wear.
But when she stepped from the tub, she felt again that familiar weakness, a vertigo. Her knees sagged; she grabbed the sink for support. It lasted almost a minute this time. Then the faintness passed. She took a deep breath and began to perfume her body.
It took her more than an hour to dress and apply makeup. It seemed to her she was moving in a lazy glow; she could not bring her thoughts to a hard focus. When she tri
ed to plan what she was about to do, her concentration slid away and dissolved.
An odd thought occurred to her in this drifting haze: she wondered if her adventures were habit-forming. Perhaps she was venturing out this night simply because it was. something she always did just prior to her period. It was not dictated by desire or need.
She drank two cups of black decaf coffee, but no more wine and no more pills. By the time she was ready to leave, close to 9:00 p.m., her mindless euphoria had dissipated; she felt alert, sharp, and determined.
She wore a sheath of plummy wool jersey with a wide industrial zipper down the front from low neckline to high hem. Attached to the tab of the zipper was a miniature police whistle.
She transferred belongings to the patent leather shoulder bag, making certain she had her knife and the small aerosol can of Chemical Mace. As usual, she removed all identification from her wallet.
She was wearing her strawberry blond wig. Around her left wrist was the gold chain with the legend: why not?
An hour later she strode briskly into the crowded lobby of the Cameron Arms Hotel, smoking a cigarette and carrying her trenchcoat over her arm. She noticed men turning to gawk, and knew she was desired. She felt serenely indifferent and in control.
She looked in at the cocktail lounge featuring the disco, but it was too noisy and jammed. She walked down the lobby corridor to the Queen Anne Room. It appeared crowded, but dim and reasonably quiet. She went in there.
It was a somewhat gloomy room, with heavy upholstery, fake marquetry, and vaguely Oriental decoration and drapes. All the tables and banquettes were occupied by couples and foursomes. But there were vacant stools at the bar.
Zoe Kohler went into her act. She looked about as if expecting to be met. She asked the hatcheck girl the time as she handed over her trenchcoat. She made her way slowly to the bar, still peering about in the semidarkness.
She ordered a glass of white wine from a bartender dressed like an English publican of an indeterminate period: knickers, high wool hose, a wide leather belt, a shirt with bell sleeves, a leather jerkin. The cocktail waitresses were costumed as milkmaids.
She sat erect at the bar, sipping her wine slowly, looking straight ahead. On her left was a couple arguing in furious whispers. The barstool on her right was empty. She waited patiently, supremely confident.
She had just ordered a second glass of wine when a man slid onto the empty stool. She risked a quick glance in the mirror behind the bar. About 45, she guessed. Medium height, thick at the shoulders, florid complexion. Well-dressed. Blondish hair that had obviously been styled and spray-set.
His features were heavy, almost gross. She thought he looked like an ex-athlete going to fat. When he picked up his double Scotch (he had specified the brand), she saw his diamond pinkie ring and a loose chain of gold links about his hairy wrist.
The Queen Anne Room began to fill up. A party of three raucous men pushed in for drinks on the other side of the single man. He hitched his barstool closer to Zoe to give them room. His shoulder brushed hers. He said, "Pardon me, ma'am," giving her a flash of white teeth too perfect to be natural.
"Getting crowded in here," he offered a moment later.
She turned to look at him. He had very small, hard eyes.
"The conventions, I suppose," she said. "The hotel must be full."
"Right," he said, nodding. "I made my reservation months ago, or I never would have gotten in."
"Which convention are you with?"
"I'm not with any," he said, "exactly. But I came up for the meeting of the Association of Regional Airline Owners and Operators. Here…"
He dug into his jacket pocket, brought out a business card. He handed it to Zoe, then flicked a gold cigarette lighter so she could read it.
"Leonard T. Bergdorfer," he said. "From Atlanta, Georgia. I'm a broker. Mostly in sales of regional airlines, feeder lines, freight forwarders, charter outfits-like that. I bring buyers and sellers together. That's why I'm at this shindig. Pick up the gossip: who wants to sell, who wants to buy."
"And have a little fun with the boys?" she asked archly.
"You're so right," he said with a thin smile. "That's the name of the game."
"From Atlanta, Georgia," she said, handing back his card. "You don't talk like a southerner."
He laughed harshly.
"Hell, no, I'm no rebel. But Atlanta is where the money is. I'm from Buffalo. Originally. But I've lived all over the U.S. and A. Where you from, honey?"
"Right here in little old New York."
"No kidding? Not often I meet a native New Yorker. What's your name?"
"Irene," she said.
He had a suite on the eighth floor: living room, bedroom, bath. There was a completely equipped bar on wheels, with covered tubs of ice cubes. Liquor, wine, and beer. Bags of potato chips, boxes of pretzels, jars of salted peanuts.
"Welcome to the Leonard T. Bergdorfer Hospitality Suite," he said. "Your home away from home."
She looked around, wondering if anyone in the Queen Anne Room or on the crowded elevator would remember them. She thought not.
"All the booze hounds are at a banquet right now," he said. "Listening to a fat-ass politician give a speech on the deregulation of airfares. Who needs that bullshit?"
This last was said with some bitterness. Zoe suspected he had not been invited.
"But it'll break up in an hour or so," he went on, "and then you'll see more freeloaders up here than you can count. Stick around, Irene; you'll make a lot of friends."
She was uneasy. It wasn't going the way she had planned.
"I better not," she said. "You boys will want to talk business. I'll have a drink and be on my way."
"You don't want to be like that, honey," he said with his thin smile, "or poppa will spank. Be friendly. I'll make it worth your while. Now then… let me have your coat. We'll have a drink and a little fun before the thundering herd arrives."
He hung her coat in a closet, returned to the bar. He busied himself with bottles and glasses, his back to her.
I could take him now, she thought suddenly. But it wouldn't be-wouldn't be complete.
"You married, sweetie?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Divorced. What about you, Lenny?"
"Still a bachelor," he said, coming toward her with the drinks. "Why buy a cow when milk is so cheap-right?"
She took the wine from him. When she sipped, she made certain she implanted lipstick on the rim so she could identify the glass later.
"What's this for?" he asked, fingering the small whistle hanging from the tab of her zipper.
"In case I need help," she said, smiling nervously.
"You don't look like a woman who needs help," he said with a coarse laugh. "Me, maybe. Not you, babe."
He pulled the zipper down to her waist. The dress opened.
"Hey-hey," he said, eyes glittering. "Look at the goodies. Not big, but choice." He caught up her wrist, read the legend on her bracelet. "Well… why not? Let's you and me go in the bedroom and get acquainted before anyone else shows up."
He grabbed her upper arm in a tight grip. He half-led, half-pulled her into the bedroom. He released her, shut the bedroo door. He set his drink and hers on the bedside table. He began to take off jacket and vest.
"Wait, Lenny, wait," Zoe said. "What's the rush? Can't we have a drink first?"
"No time," he said, pulling off his tie. "This will have to be a quickie. You can drink all you like later."
He stripped to his waist rapidly. His torso was thick, muscular. None of the fat she had imagined. His chest, shoulders, arms were furred. He sat down on the bed and beckoned, making flipping motions with his hands.
"Come on, come on," he said. "Get with it."
When she hesitated, he stood again, took one stride to her. He ripped her zipper down its full length. The front of her dress fell apart. He embraced her, hands and arms inside the opened dress, around her naked waist. He pressed close, grinding against
her.
"Oh yeah," he breathed. "Oh yeah. This is something like."
His face dug into her neck and shoulder. She felt his tongue, his teeth.
"Wait," she gasped. "Wait just a minute, Lenny. Give a girl a chance. I've got to get my purse."
He pulled away, looked at her suspiciously.
"What for?" he demanded.
"You know," she said. "Female stuff. You get undressed. I'll just be a sec."
"Well, hurry it up," he growled. "I'm getting a hardon like the Washington Monument. All for you, baby."
She ran into the living room. She saw at once that she could easily escape. Grab up shoulder bag and coat, duck out the corridor door. He was half-undressed; he wouldn't follow. She could be long gone before he was able to come after her.
But she wanted to stay, to finish what she had to do. He deserved it. It was the timing that bothered her, the risk. He was expecting guests. Could she complete her job and be out of the suite before the others arrived?
Softly, she locked and chained the corridor door. She went back to the bedroom with her shoulder bag. He was pulling down his trousers and undershorts. His penis was stiffening, empurpled. It was rising, nodding at her. A live club. Ugly. It threatened.
"Be right with you," she said and went into the bathroom. Closed and locked the door. Leaned back against it, breathing rapidly. Zipped up her dress, tried to decide what to do next.
"Come on, come on," he shouted, trying the locked door, then pounding on it. "What the hell's taking you so long?"
She would never be able to lull him, get behind him. Unless she submitted to him first. But that wasn't the way it was supposed to be. That would spoil everything.
She opened the knife, placed it on the edge of the sink. Took the can of Mace from her purse. Gripped it tightly in her right hand.
"All set, Lenny!" she cried gaily.
She unlocked the door with her left hand. He slammed it open. He was close, glowering. He reached for her.
She sprayed the gas directly into his face. She kept the button depressed and, as he staggered back, followed him. She held the hissing container close to his eyes, nose, mouth.
He coughed, sneezed, choked. He bent over. His hands came up to his face. He stumbled, fell, went down on his back. He tried to suck in air, breathing in great, hacking sobs. His fingers clawed at his weeping eyes.
The third Deadly Sin exd-3 Page 19
