Dr. Simpson showed Sara to a chair and then went to a window where she handed a test tube filled with Sara's blood to a nurse.

"Take this to the lab. Have them run a beta HCG stat."

"Yes, Doctor." "A beta HCG?" Sara asked.

" "Fancy talk for a pregnancy test," Carol Simpson explained.

"Doctors like to use code words no one else understands. Makes us sound more intelligent, don't you think?"

Sara liked Carol Simpson. Unlike so many others in her profession, there was nothing stuffy or intimidating about her.

Her relaxed attitude put Sara at ease.

"If you say so," Sara replied.

"Well, we have to do something to justify all the years of schooling and internship and residency besides having the M.D.

license plate so we can park illegally in front of Macy's."

"You do that?"

"Only during a sale."

At least forty other patients sat biding their time in the waiting room, sneaking glances from their magazines and wishing their doctor would call their name.

"Give me a ring this afternoon," Carol said.

"The results should be in by then." "Great," Sara said.

"And try not to worry. I know you're anxious, but try not to think about it too much. Do what I do when I need to distract yself: shop till you drop.

Urn; "Well, hello there, ladies."

Sara and Carol turned and saw Harvey coming toward them.

His entire person emanated exhaustion, Sara thought. His head tilted slightly to the side as though he were dozing; his back had curved into a slump.

"Hello, Harvey," Dr. Simpson said.

"Hello, Carol. How's my favorite patient doing, Doc?"

"Very nicely. We should know the test results in a few hours."

Dr. Simpson turned her head toward the people in the waiting room.

"Mrs. Golden?"

A massive-bellied woman looked up.

"Over here."

"Come on down. You're the next contestant." Harvey and Sara said good-bye and headed for the elevator.

"You're in good hands," Harvey said.

"Carol Simpson may be young, but she's already considered one of the top obstetricians in the country."

"I like her."

"Listen, Sara, about what I said last night..."

"Yes?"

"Well, in the light of day, my conspiracy theories always seem a little more whacko. Don't have me committed, okay?"

"Not yet anyway. Has the clinic really found a cure?"

"In some cases maybe most cases, yes. Like I said last night, it's still in the developmental stage and it hasn't worked on everyone but "

Harvey's beeper went off. He looked at the LCD digits coming onto the screen.

"Oh shit."

"What is it?"

But he was already sprinting toward the nurse's desk and picking up the phone.

"That number means it's an emergency."

He dialed and the phone was picked up on the first ring.

"Dr. Riker here." Pause.

"What? When?" Another pause.

"I'll be right there." He replaced the receiver.

"It's Michael. They just rushed him into the emergency room."

The corpse was in the trunk.

George drove onward. Last night the body in the trunk had been filled with life. He had hopes, dreams, goals, desires. Like most people, he probably just wanted to be happy, to find his niche in this world. He was probably a person struggling through life, trying to do his best, grasping at the few joys life offered and trying to dodge the many hardships. Now he was dead.

Dead. Gone. Nothing.

He was no more than decaying tissue, useful only to medical students and worshipped by only the grieving family. Why, George wondered, did people care so much about the empty shell of a man, the facade? Why did they treat the worthless flesh as something invaluable? Was it man's innate inclination to see only the outward mask of the human being and not acknowledge the soul? Or was George being too harsh on his fellow man? Maybe man just needed to take hold of something tangible when he was faced with the ultimate intangible.

Heavy stuff, George. Very deep.

He chuckled and lit a cigarette.

After Dr. Lowell's gala last night, George had followed the limousine until the long, silver automobile dropped the victim off at his apartment in the city.

p" Perfect.

A true professional, George had already cased the building and surrounding area. He knew his victim lived in apartment 3A. He knew there was no doorman. George parked the car across the street and moved into the apartment building. Taking the stairs it her than the elevator, he stopped in front of a door with a faded nailed to it.

George wondered why, with all his money, his ictim chose to live in this quasi-dump. He could live anywhere 7ifth Avenue, Central Park West, the San Remo Building, the )akota, anywhere. George shrugged, dismissing the thought, was none of his concern.

His fingers searched his pocket and removed a small tool.

Ie jimmied the lock twice, just as he had done at the Days Inn rith Dr. Bruce Grey. This time, however, he did not allow the mnd of the lock being disengaged to be audible. Surprise in combat, George had learned long ago, always gave you the upper hand. Bruce Grey had been suspicious so a simple knock on the door would not have brought him in front of the wooden portal unaware. For Bruce Grey had been prepared for an attack and was on his guard. But having the door smashed against him during a brief moment when he felt safe, when he thought the door was secure and no one was in front of it, that had been all George needed.

This victim, however, would not be suspicious. Unlike Grey, he had no idea that death had crept down his hallway. A knock was all George would need.

With the lock made useless, George put the small device back in his pocket and knocked.

A voice called out.

"One moment."

George heard the victim coming to the door. He wondered whether the man was so stupid he would open the door without asking who it was. But the voice called out again.

"Who's there?"

George knew that the man was standing right behind the door now, probably leaning forward to look through the peephole. l Without hesitation, George threw his full weight into the door.| The wooden planks crashed against the man standing behinc them, knocking him to the floor on the other side of the room. l George moved quickly. He closed the door and pounced upon his prey. His hand gripped the man's neck and he began to squeeze. There was a quick, choking noise and then silence. The man struggled, lashing out with his hands and kicking, but his blows were wild and imprecise. They did not bother George.

Maintaining his grip on the man's throat, George lowered his face to within inches of his victim's.

"There is only one way I will allow you to live," George said, his voice chillingly monotonous, as though he were reading a prepared text.

"And that is if you do everything I tell you. Deviate from what I say and you will die. Do you understand?"

The man's eyes bulged out from lack of oxygen and a surplus of fear. He managed a nod.

"Good. I will let you go. Call out or try to escape and you will know a pain very few have ever experienced."

He let go. The man rolled back and forth, retching uncontrollably.

George stood and watched the man's agony with something approaching boredom.

"We are going down to my car now," he said, when he thought his victim could understand, "just like a couple of buddies cruising the town. Do as I say without question and you won't be hurt."

The man nodded. His immediate obedience made things so much easier. If George had been forced to kill the man here, he would have to clean up the blood, get rid of any possible clues, and worst of all, drag a body to his car without anybody seeing.

Much more difficult.

They crossed the street together and George opened the trunk.

"Get in."