"You wouldn't," she said, gasping.

"Oh yes," he said, "I would, and will. At that time, the decision will be yours, and theirs. I'll have done everything I can possibly do. After that, it's out of my hands."

"And you'll just forget all about me," she said, beginning to weep.

"No," he said sadly, "I won't do that."

She stumbled home in the waning light of a summer night. The sky as bronzed as the tainted patches on her flesh. She saw, with dread, how ugly people were. Snout of pig and fang of snake.

It was a city of gargoyles, their lesions plain as hers. She could almost hear the howls and moans. The city writhed. "Special problems" everywhere. She was locked in a colony of the damned, the disease in or out, but festering.

Those answers she had given to Dr. Stark's questions-they were not lies, exactly.

She was aware of everything: her weakness, nausea, vertigo, salt craving, diarrhea. But she sloughed over these things, telling herself they were temporary, of no consequence. To admit them to Dr. Stark would give them an importance, a significance she knew was unwarranted.

And when he asked about emotional and psychological stress- well, that was simply prying into matters of no concern to him. She knew what he was doing, and was determined to block him. Her adventures were hers alone, private and secret.

Still, she was saddened by his threat to turn her away. Rejection again. Just as Kenneth had rejected her. And her father. He had rejected by ignoring her, but it was all the same.

She was still musing about rejection and how men did it with a sneer or a laugh, spurning something tender and yearning they could not appreciate and did not deserve, when Ernest Mittle called her soon after she returned home.

Ernie hadn't rejected her. He phoned almost every night, and they saw each other at least once a week and sometimes twice. She thought of him as a link, her only anchor to a gentle world that promised. No gargoyles or cries of pain in that good land.

He knew she had gone to the doctor for her monthly checkup, and asked how she made out.

She said everything was fine, she had passed with flying colors, but the doctor wanted her to eat more and put on a little weight.

He said that was marvelous because he wanted her to come down to his place on Saturday night for dinner. He was going to roast a small turkey.

She said that sounded like fun, and she would bring some of those strawberry tarts he liked. Then she asked him if he had heard anything about Maddie and Harry Kurnitz.

He said he had learned nothing new, but Mr. Kurnitz was still seeing the blonde, and was very irritable lately, and had Zoe heard about the latest Hotel Ripper killing, and wasn't it horrible?

She said yes, she had heard about it, and it was horrible, and had Ernie definitely scheduled his summer vacation?

He said he'd know by next week, and he hoped Zoe could get the same vacation time, and who was she going to vote for?

So it went: a phone conversation that lasted a half-hour. Just chatter, laughs, gossip. Nothing important in the content. But the voices were there. Even in talking about the weather, the voices were there. The soft tones.

"Good night, darling," he said finally. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Good night, dear," she said. "Sleep well."

"You, too. I love you, Zoe."

"I love you, Ernie. Take care of yourself."

"You, too. I'll see you on Saturday, but I'll speak to you before that."

"Tomorrow night?"

"Oh yes, I'll call."

"Good. I love you, Ernie."

"I love you, sweetheart."

"Thank you for calling."

"Oh Zoe," he said, "be happy."

"I am," she said, "when I talk to you. When I'm with you. When I think of you."

"Think of me frequently," he said, laughing. "Promise?"

"I promise," she said, "if you'll dream of me. Will you?"

"I promise. Love you, darling."

"Love you."

She hung up, smiling. He had not rejected her, would not. Never once, not ever, had he criticized the way she looked, what she did, how she lived. He loved her for what she was and had no desire to change her.

"Mrs. Ernest Mittle." She spoke the title aloud. Then tried, "Mrs. Zoe Mittle."

He was not an exciting man, nor was he a challenge. There was no mystery to him. But he was caring and tender. She knew she was stronger than he, and loved him more for his weakness.

She would not have him different. Oh no. Never. She had her fill of male bluster and swagger. Maddie might call him "Mister Meek," but Maddie was incapable of seeing the sweet innocence of meekness, the scented fragility, as an infant is fragrant and vulnerable, shocked by hurt.

Zoe Kohler showered before she went to bed, not looking at her knobbed, discolored body. In bed, she dreamed that with Ernie at her side, always, as husband and helpmate, she might no longer have need for adventures.

Then the void would be filled, the ache dissolved. She would regain her health. She would blossom. Just blossom! They would create a world of two, and there would be no place for the cruel, the ugly, or the brutish.

July 2nd; Wednesday…

"Goddamn it!" Abner Boone shouted, and slapped a palm on the desktop. "Then you're not certain it definitely is this Addison's disease?"

Dr. Patrick Ho blinked at the sergeant's violence.

"Ah, no," he said regretfully. "Not certain. Not definite. But Addison's was first on the lists of possibilities from all computers queried. When a definite diagnosis cannot be computed because of lack of sufficient input, a list of possibilities is given with probability ratings. Addison's had the highest rating on all the lists."

"What probability?" Boone demanded. "What percentage?"

"Ah, a little above thirty percent."

"Jesus Christ!" the sergeant said disgustedly.

They were jammed into Boone's cramped office: the sergeant, Dr. Ho, Delaney, and Deputy Commissioner Thorsen.

"Let me get this straight," Thorsen said. "There's a thirty percent possibility that our killer is suffering from Addison's disease. Is that correct?"

"Ah, yes."

The Admiral looked at Delaney. "Edward?"

"Dr. Ho," the Chief said, "what is the possibility rating of the second highest ranked diagnosis?"

"Less than ten."

"So Addison's disease has three times the probability of the second diagnosis?"

"Yes."

"But still only about one chance in three of being accurate?"

"That is so."

"Mighty small odds to move on," Boone said glumly.

"Even if it was only one percent," Delaney said, "we'd have to move on it. We've got no choice. Doctor, I think you better tell us a little more about Addison's disease. I don't believe any of us knows exactly what it is."

"Ah, yes," Dr. Patrick Ho said, beaming. "Very understandable. It is quite rare. A physician might practice for fifty years and never treat a case."

"Just how rare?" Delaney said sharply. "Give us some numbers."

"Ah, I have been studying the available literature on the disease. One authority states the incidence is one case per hundred thousand population. Other estimates are slightly higher. There is, you understand, no registry of victims. I would guess, in the New York metropolitan area, possibly two hundred cases, but closer to one hundred. I am sorry I cannot be more precise, but there is simply no way of knowing."

"All right," Delaney said, "let's split the difference and say there are a hundred and fifty cases, with maybe thirty or forty in Manhattan. That's rare enough. Now, what exactly is this Addison's disease?"

Dr. Ho stood immediately and unbuttoned the jacket and vest of his natty tan poplin suit. A soft belly bulged over his knitted belt. Enthusiastically, he dug the fingers of both hands into an area below the rib cage.

"Ah, here," he said. "Approximately. Near the kidneys. Two glands called the adrenals. I will try to keep this as nontechnical as possible. These adrenal glands have a center portion called the medulla, and a covering or rind called the cortex. All right so far?"