Deficiency (13 page)

"We'll have to chain him to the bed," he concluded after hearing the full report. "That man hasn't taken a day off for forty-five years. Weekends to him just mean time and a half."

Hyman nodded at Terri and held up his hand for her to wait.

"Thanks, Fred. I'll see you at two thirty."

He hung up and turned his chair around.

"One of my spies at the hospital called me ten minutes ago and told me something on the Q.T. It seems we have another very bizarre fatality in the county."

She sank into the chair in front of his desk.

"You don't know that I was the attending physician on the scene last night?"

He sat back, his mouth slightly open, his eyebrows raised.

"You're kidding."

"Believe me, I wish I was," she said and reviewed what she had discovered and what she had done. "It all happened so fast," she concluded. "You know how rapid and dramatic the response to flooding doses of thiamine hydrochloride in patients suffering with wet beriberi can be. A diuresis starts between 4 and 48 hours with visible resolution of most of the edema within four to eight hours. It's all gone in two days!" she added with frustration turning her eyes into Ping-Pong balls.

"I'm beginning to sound like a broken record, but I've never seen this serious a case of wet beriberi, even during my internship. No trace of thiamine in the blood!" He paused and considered her. "No one could possibly blame you in any way."

She shook her head.

"I'm not even thinking about that," she said. "We didn't have time to get her to the hospital for blood tests so we could start a protocol."

He nodded and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk and pressing his two forefingers into the bottom of his jaw, a habitual posture for him.

"It's a maddening sort of déjà vu."

He nodded.

"Yes, but I would even go as far as saying there are some diseases so rare in the modern world, many physicians wouldn't recognize them or consider their possibility when they confronted the symptoms," he said. She knew he was just trying to help her feel better about it.

"I really considered that diagnosis, Hyman, but I shook it out of my head. I was concentrating on an allergy," she said, hating the sound of her voice, the whining. "The policeman got me thinking about a bee sting."

"Logical. You had the hyperventilating, the racing heartbeat, edema."

"I also smelled alcohol on her breath and a whole series of other possibilities flew by."

"A-huh," Hyman said. "Well, I can't tell you any of it makes sense to me."

"The district attorney feels the same way."

"Oh? How do you know that?"

"He was my first call this morning. He wants to see me so much he's coming to the hospital to meet me in the cafeteria before I begin my rounds."

"Oh." Hyman's forehead went into folds. "Why? He has his own medical experts to call upon. No offense, but I would think he would contact an expert on nutrition, not a family physician still green around the gills."

"I agree, and I think Curt does too, although I didn't tell Curt about Kristin's beriberi. Will Dennis wants it kept as quiet as possible for now."

"Oh?"

"Dennis's request to see me confused Curt or worried him. He was upset about it and chided me for agreeing to talk to Dennis like this, but I was the attending physician on both cases, Hyman, and for some reason Will Dennis thinks I might know something or help him understand the deaths of these two women. Kristin Martin, like Paige Thorndyke, was in no condition to provide valuable details. She mouthed something, but I made no sense of it."

He stared at her for a moment and then sat back shaking his head.

"I admit Curt has me feeling a little paranoid," she confessed.

"This is all just coincidence," Hyman said. "We live in a small town. There's no reason to make any more of it."

"I hope so," she replied. "I hope that's the way the district attorney sees it, too."

"Well," he said starting to laugh, "what else could it be? You're not some sort of medical serial killer, are you?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was some mystical or fated force at work, a dark force that had decided to attach itself to her, something her grandmother would believe as strongly as she believed in the Evil Eye, but Hyman would call that a
bubbe meise,
an old-wives' tale.

He was reading it in her eyes.

"You're not going to go all funny on me now, are you, Terri?" he asked, half-jesting, "and talk about Fate and some curse or something. Are you?"

"No," she said rising. "But please, give me colds, allergies, even diabetes today and leave the bizarre outside our door."

He laughed and she went to set up for her first patient of the day.

He didn't do anything with the body. Just leave her in bed, he thought. Keep the door closed and the window open a little to help contain the stench and forget about her. She wasn't going anywhere. It never occurred to him that she might have relatives or friends or even that someone like him might come along and ask for a room.

Up at the first sign of light, he put on his running shoes and did what he had planned. He ran a good two and a half miles, barely feeling an ache in his legs or feet. At times he thought he was literally Mercury, off the ground, actually gliding over the macadam. His breathing was wonderfully regular and easy. Actually, he could have gone five miles, but he was hungry this morning and was looking forward to a big breakfast.

The house had a very large kitchen, which during the heyday of the Catskill resort era was probably justified and well used. Now, the old lady had turned off all but a small refrigerator. Fortunately, she, or perhaps Kristin, had gone shopping recently. There were fresh eggs, milk, coffee, bread, and a bag of oranges. He loved fresh orange juice even though all the nutrition passed through him along with the waste. He loved everything that was full of good food value. He was never fond of fast foods or greasy foods. In fact, if anyone could pose as the poster boy for good eating habits, it was he. How ironic.

But this was not a morning to waste over disappointments or problems. This was a morning full of rejoicing. He would continue his celebration by buying himself some new clothes. He never wore again what he had worn during a feeding. It wasn't some imaginative or superstitious thing either. He could smell the scent of them, especially after a feeding when his senses were so heightened and no amount of dry cleaning, no washing, no cologne, nothing could remove or disguise it.

It occurred to him in a truly vague way that there was a thin line of remorse streaming through his conscience. Only a surgical removal such as the old lady upstairs in bed didn't bother him at all, not that he was actually troubled enough to consider anything a bother. It was just something that gave him a moment's pause. He wished there was some way he could draw what he needed and not leave them so fatally depleted, but alas, in the end it was always either they or he, and frankly he wasn't in the altruism business. He always had to protect himself and never pass up an opportunity.

I have such insecurity, he thought shaking his head. That's the one thing he
had yet to overcome and conquer: this terrible sense of fear that he would find
himself on some desert or suddenly lose the ability to draw nectar from the flowers. He had that fear since it all began.

Actually, that memory, the memory of the first time, was still vivid. He liked to compare it to a woman losing her virginity. Even at the point of Alzheimer's disease, she would remember that, he thought.

It all happened purely accidentally, this entirely new existence, this grand life. Some nerd of an assistant got himself stoned and forgot to feed him through his IV. He nearly died, but fortunately Doctor Toby… yes, that was her name… Toby… stopped by after she had attended some social event. The ordinary-looking woman with her dull brown hair and pockmarked cheeks had actually gone to a beauty salon and had her hair styled and colored. What's more, she was wearing makeup. The pallid complexion was well hidden and even her pockmarks were diminished. She had a firm bosom. So many times she had pressed it to him or he had brushed across her breasts and realized that although she wasn't wearing a bra, she held her form. In the eyes of others he saw the thought that her voluptuous figure, most of the time well hidden under her lab robe, was a waste. Not only didn't she have the face it deserved, but she didn't radiate any sexual energy or interest.

This particular evening, the evening he was to break his cherry, she came flying through the special living quarters surprisingly still laughing over something funny that had been told to her or had happened to her, her eyes still full of tiny explosions, which he imagined to be the aftermath of her drinking champagne and dancing and being romanced by someone she fancied. He heard her giggle again when she entered his bedroom. She didn't check the clipboards, which was her fatal mistake. If she had, she would have corrected the error and all would have gone on as it was. Not that it was much of a life, any of a life, in fact. Her blunder was his blessing actually.

When he set eyes on her, he was lying in bed, naked, struggling to breathe actually, just like some of his recent victims. Her eyes, on the other hand, were so full of fantasy, she was blinded to his problem. He saw the way her bosom rose and fell beneath the low-cut black dress, and he felt himself aroused with such speed and intensity, he was actually frightened for a moment. Later he would compare it to accelerating in an automobile and realizing he was going far too fast to negotiate the upcoming turn. He understood that panic could disable him and he fought it back and beat it down in time to take control.

That was what he had done this time. She drew closer, intending to give him a quick examination. What happened was beyond his own expectations and far beyond his control. His arms, his hands, and his legs — every part of him moved as if it had its own mind. Whatever he wanted back in the command center made absolutely no difference.

When she reached out to touch his forehead, finally becoming concerned at his pallor, he seized her wrist and drew her down to him. She tried to resist, but he was driven now by a force hitherto undiscovered deep within him, so asleep not even he had ever realized its existence.

She cried out and tried to pull away, but he was all over her, tearing away her dress, twisting and turning her so he could get on top of her and suck on her mouth, drawing the very air out of her lungs. He could actually see them in his mind's eye, both of them like balloons collapsing. Her eyes had become neon bulbs brightening with such fear they were close to bursting. He wondered if she could feel or even see the life being drawn out of her. His prick was more like a beak, drawing the nectar. Every part of his body had become a portal ingesting, a sponge soaking her up. He was illuminated with the power of it. She was literally being absorbed into him.

Her final cries were so thin and low, only someone or something with his acute sense of hearing could know she had uttered any sound at all. Her eyes, once full of light, began to dim and then grow dark and icy. Once he was satiated, her body looked nauseating, like the rotting skin of a banana. Even flies would avoid it.

He stepped away and then dressed himself. What he realized was he was stronger, more full of energy than he had ever been. Not the shots, not the pills, not the IVs, nothing made him feel as good as this had, and like some lion cub that had been given its first taste of meat, he lunged forward on the unsuspecting world that to him had suddenly become a grand feast, a table of delectable delights.

How could he ever forget that? Even now, reliving it in his thoughts, he felt himself aroused. Eat a good breakfast, go get some exciting new clothes, and go forth to seek a new sexual encounter, if not to feed, than to enjoy, for every sense in his body needed to be satiated. He wanted to hear wonderful music, eat delicious foods, smell the aroma from a beautiful woman's skin and hair and feel the softness of her breasts and the promise between her thighs and especially see the enjoyment in her face, too, for when he was like this, he was capable of giving them so much pleasure it even made him jealous and wonder if he was getting as much as he was giving.

Whoever the lucky woman was today, she would never forget him, he thought and laughed.

He started to prepare his eggs when the phone rang. He stared at it on the kitchen wall while it rang and then he decided he had better answer it.

"May I speak with Mrs. Martin, please," he was asked by a very official, dry-sounding man.

"She is unable to come to the phone," he replied. "She can't talk to anyone."

It was all true, he thought smiling.

"Oh, well, of course. This is Dr. Anderson. I wanted to let her know she could have Kristin's body moved to the funeral parlor today."

"Right, right. I'm her nephew," he said. He always thought well and quickly on his feet after a feed. "I'll see to that immediately."

"Thank you. I'm sorry," the doctor added.

"Aren't we all?" he replied. It was something the doctor obviously hadn't been prepared to hear. He was silent a moment and then said good-bye.

Now what to do? he thought gazing around the kitchen. He really would like to remain here a while longer. It was so convenient and comfortable. He started to rifle through drawers until he found the phone book and flipped to the Yellow Pages. Thanks to the GPS system in his car, he had a very good concept of the area and its surrounding hamlets. He located a funeral parlor in a place nearby called Woodbourne and phoned. When the gentleman who took such great care to make his consonants crisp and his vowels full answered, he introduced himself to the man as Stanley Martin, a nephew and only mature and living close relative of the deceased Kristin Martin. Not surprisingly, the undertaker already knew of the death. Next to the deceased, he was probably the first to know. After all, it was his business to know death, to tap in on its calls like some FBI agent plugged into a suspect's phone lines.