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, falling into blackness . . . .

February 27, 1988

“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 award-winning 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.