A TRUE SON OF ASMODEUS (Chapters 4 - 6)

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by

Zvi Zaks

The Next two Chapters can be found at A True Son of Asmodeus -- Chapters 7-8

Chapter Four

“Jack’s Back” screamed four-inch tabloid headlines. “Serial Killer Loose” said the Times in smaller type. Just two weeks ago, Susan and I visited the original Jack-the-Ripper’s haunts. Now Bart’s buzzed with stories about a new madman, someone who, within the space of five days, had cut open the throats of four young people and left them to bleed to death on the city streets. This modern Jack, an obvious psychotic, had tied a crucifix chain tightly around the neck of one wretch as if to strangle his corpse.

The Times article fascinated and revolted me. The victims were Susan’s age and, like her, had semi-professional jobs. The police had no leads.

This was bad. I had fallen in like with Susan, and did not want her to fall prey to some psychotic killer. I warned her to take care when alone, but she just laughed and said my concern was sweet.

Anxiety over the news subsided somewhat as days passed with no additional murders. The no-longer-pregnant hematology fellow, armed with pictures of a beautiful baby girl, returned from leave and, as promised, a laboratory became available that afternoon. One could not call it first rate, but it did have better equipment and more space than other labs I had seen. In addition, it was just down the hall from the animal room, a major convenience for me. Nothing to brag about, but it was mine. Just designing charts and drawing blood samples from cats energized me. I had finally started doing serious research.

The cats hissed when they saw the syringe, but I have a deft hand, and they got treats afterwards.

I still saw sick people. Alternating ward, clinic and lab turned out a refreshing change of pace. My first outpatient was a 21-year-old anemic woman with thin features and mousy brown hair. Wearing a hospital gown and shorts, she sat on the examining table just two feet from my chair and spoke so quietly, it was difficult to hear her. “My mother says I need The Pill.”

I looked straight at her. “Your mother? What about you? Do you want to take birth control pills?”

“No,” she said, and turned her head. “I don’t really want to, uh, you know ... do it, but my bloke keeps insisting.” She sighed. “What can I do?”

We talked, and I learned an uncle had molested her when she was twelve. Now, as a young adult, she did not know how to say no.

Heavy periods most likely caused her anemia. Birth control pills would help by reducing her menses, but giving iron would be safer and more effective. We discussed molestation and the right to refuse, and how counseling could help. I suggested she tell her mom. A few days later, the mother, full of questions, called. She had known something troubled her daughter and, obviously, was furious at the uncle, but at least now knew the source of the problem and could arrange psychotherapy.

Some people have more problems than are immediately obvious.

#

A few days later, I met Elizabeth Mackenzie. She was a thin, sixteen-year old clinic patient with leukemia that no longer responded to treatment, which meant she would be dead in a few months. She must have known this, but, according to the chart, kept asking how the leukemia would affect her “when I grow up.” Sitting on the exam table in the tiny, windowless room, with disheveled brown hair and an expression of hopelessness, she bowed her head and asked, “Why don’t they take bone marrow from my hip any more?” Her voice quavered.

The space felt claustrophobic. Her mother should have come today, the first day the daughter met a new doctor, but had a family emergency that could not wait. I checked the chart and then looked Elizabeth straight in the eye. “Sometimes the blood smear tells us enough so we don’t need to put that needle into your bone, and can spare you the pain.” Bone marrow aspirations hurt a lot, so she accepted that.

I was fudging. The full answer was that her leukemia had spread so far, we did not need to search for cancer cells because they were everywhere. Fudging is ticklish business, but this time it seemed to work.

Elizabeth suffered as much from fear as physical pain. Her suffering wrenched me. The challenge of treating her was as much emotional as medical.

#

While walking in the park the next day, I told Susan about Elizabeth and other events in the hospital.

She turned to me and touched my cheek. “Eli, you care.”

I felt my face burn.

We shared different happenings in each other’s lives and grew to know each other. We had become lovers precipitously, but the relationship stuck, even though her job often took her out of the country. Other women did not interest me. Soon, I was spending almost every night at her place when she stayed in town.

We spent one night in my room at the hospital, but between the disinfectant smell and the squeaking bedsprings, we enjoyed little lovemaking. The next morning, while walking hand in hand to the hospital cafeteria, she picked up a newspaper, and, over coffee, found an ad for a furnished two-room flat just six blocks from the hospital.

We called the agent and visited the site that evening. Three steps led from a manicured back garden into the apartment. The living room was dark, and the sofa and chairs smelled musty, but Susan just smiled. “It’s quite roomy, Eli, and that window will let in sunlight. We can do a lot for it.” She went into the bedroom, sat on the mattress, and bounced a few times. “And the bed doesn’t squeak.” She giggled.

That weekend, we bought bright pictures, curtains and a beige throw rug at a local thrift shop. The next day, the two of us in old jeans scrubbed floors, vacuumed furniture, and polished faucets, while a jazz cassette played through a tinny speaker. That evening, the mouthwatering aroma of a stew bubbling in the kitchenette mixed with the apartment's soft new lighting and created a delicious air of homeyness. After inner, we snuggled a while in front of the TV, then went to bed with the ease of people who had loved each other for years.

Choosing and fixing up that place was a new experience, almost like a game, though I felt surprised and even a little put off by how ready she was to play house.

#

Two weeks later, Mom phoned with the news that family friends had invited me to a Bar Mitzvah.

“Mom, I can arrange my own social life.”

“It’s just a party, Eli. Maybe you’ll enjoy it.”

To my surprise, she sounded depressed. When trying to fix me up, she usually exuded a forced cheeriness. Dad got on the line. His arthritis had spread to a new area, the lower back.

“Dad, maybe you should see your own doctor.”

“I know what to do without you telling me, Eli. Doctors can’t help. But I’ll tell you, if that pain doesn’t let up by the end of the year, I’ll retire.”

I did not tell Mom or Dad about Susan. I wanted to sort out my feelings without their meddling, which was how I saw this invitation.

When Susan next visited, I invited her to join me at this affair.

She looked surprised. “Are you sure I’ll be welcome?”

“Of course. The more people the better.” True, a large party can always fit in one more person, but I never did ask the host.

Susan said she would not mind going to the Bar Mitzvah services. I’ve attended more than enough of those drawn-out performances, so we went directly to the reception site, a magnificent Tudor-style house.

The Bar Mitzvah boy’s grandmother, a heavily painted and coiffured dowager, greeted us at the door. “Oh. You’re that doctor from the States.” Her voice rasped and wrinkles on her face deepened. “Come in. And who is this?” She frowned.

I squirmed. “This is a friend, Susan.”

The grandmother soon abandoned us. I got two glasses of wine, white for her and red for me, and we strolled around the huge house. Guests ate, drank and talked while wandering through the elaborately furnished rooms. Under a large, crystal chandelier in a wood-paneled study, Susan admired a Persian rug. I stood near a huge, crackling fireplace, and thought of how Netter’s lavish parties resembled this one.

Once again, I wondered if I did right by coming to Europe. Should I have given up all of that luxury? What did I really want?

Through aromas of coffee and bourbon, and over the buzz of people chatting and laughing, I heard the punch line of a joke, “And it looked so good, I ate it myself,” followed by laughter.

I chuckled. “That gag is older than I am.”

Susan smiled but looked bewildered.

A man with a narrow mustache told another joke. “The vampire, stalking the streets of London, had found his prey, but when he drew near, she pulled a crucifix from her blouse and held it up to his face. It didn’t stop him. ‘Maidle, das vet dir goor nisht hilfen.’”

The group laughed again.

Susan looked more puzzled. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s Yiddish. I’ll explain it later.”

A tall, broad-shouldered chap with thick, silvery hair turned to me and asked, “Excuse me. Are you Eli Rothenberg?”

“Why yes. Do I know you?”

The man smiled and stuck out a meaty palm. “Jacob Cohen. I’m the bar-mitzvah boy’s uncle. Your mother asked me to invite you tonight.”

I smiled wryly. “Thank you very much. It’s a beautiful party. This is my friend Susan.”

Jacob turned his head towards her and nodded graciously. “Delighted. Seeing you, Susan, I think that Eli’s mother shouldn’t worry about him. I hope my mother didn’t give you two a hard time for Susan’s coming.”

I hesitated. “Well, she did seem a bit surprised.”

Jacob snorted ruefully. “Would you believe it? She’s worried about the food. Look at those tables -- herring, lox, cheeses, bagels, rolls, fruit, pastries -- enough food for an army. Forget her. Enjoy yourself and please eat.”

We laughed and filled our platters, mine to overflowing. I like Jewish dairy meals and this one was delicious. I got a second glass of wine though Susan refused another drink. Feeling warm and witty, I loosened my tie and babbled on with Jacob and other guests. We told jokes and stories, generally with a Jewish flavor, and talked about Jewish life in the United States and England. Susan seemed ill at ease. I wanted to bring her into the conversation, but I felt too high. The jokes and the food and laughter made this an enjoyable Jewish evening, even more so because my parents were not around.

Then a sudden chill struck. It was so fierce, I shivered. My hands and arms shook and my chest itched, burning hot and cold at the same time. I felt dizzy and almost dropped my glass. Was I drunk? I had put down only two drinks, not nearly enough to make me sick. Yet the sensation of cold was so intense, I looked around for an open door. No one else was shivering, but a hush had settled over the room as if some miasma had smothered the conversation.

With a start, I recognized Shmuel, my seatmate on the plane to London, sitting just a few feet away. I had met him only that once, an uneasy though innocent encounter. In no way had he harmed me, but I shuddered to see him so close. Shoulders hunched, a five o’clock shadow on his jowls, he smiled at a young man sitting next to him, the corners of his lips turning up in a way that made me tremble.

This was absurd. My imagination had run wild. Shmuel had done nothing wrong, but it felt like I stood near a vicious murderer. I wanted to grab Susan’s hand and leave that house right then.

Jacob saw Shmuel and snarled. “Who the bloody hell invited him?” he muttered, then turned back to me, our chat at an end. “Eli, it’s been a pleasure. Give my regards to your mother. And Susan, if you ever get tired of this youngster, give a mature man like me a chance.” He winked and left the room.

The young man talking to Shmuel had wavy blond hair and exquisite smooth skin that made him more pretty than handsome. Shmuel looked up and saw me. “Doctor Eli,” he called out as if we were old friends. He turned back to the youth, murmured something, and squeezed his hand so sensuously, I wondered if they were gay. Then he stood and came over to Susan and me.

He took my hand in his clammy palms. I wanted to pull away. “How are you?” he asked. “I left messages at the hospital for you to call me. Didn’t you get them?”

“No, I didn’t. But I’ve been busy in the wards and with my research.”

“Fascinating. What are you studying?”

“It’s a new anticoagulant.”

He laughed. “Something to let blood pour out easier, eh?”

I grimaced at his tackiness and also at his breath, which smelled so foul I clenched my teeth. “And who’s your girlfriend here?” he asked, turning to Susan.

I introduced her.

“You’re not Jewish,” he said.

Her eyebrows rose. “I’m an unaligned neutral.”

“That’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with Christian girls, Eli. They’re good for your soul.”

I grimaced. “Thank you for your approval, Shmuel.”

He didn’t acknowledge the sarcasm. “Did you check the biblical passages I gave you?”

“No, I really have been busy.”

“Ha, I’ll bet you lost the references. No problemo.” He took a pad of paper from his jacket, grabbed a pen from my shirt, scribbled furiously and stuffed the note and pen back into my pocket.

I stared at him in amazement.. and resolved to throw away the paper at the first chance.

“Are you living at the hospital?” he asked.

"You know, Shmuel, I don't appreciate someone grabbing my pen the way you did.“

"I forgot my own pen. I’ll look you up. We have a lot to talk about.” He grinned, then left the room.

That interchange perturbed me so much, Susan and I left the party soon afterwards. We walked to the underground tube, boarded a car and sat in silence, my gaze fixed on the empty seats opposite us. When we exited the station, dense fog surrounded us. The street was empty, not a soul in sight.

Abruptly, Susan sighed, breaking my reverie. “Eli, I didn’t understand those jokes, the one where a man eats something, and that vampire joke”

Visibility extended only a few yards. It would be so easy to get lost, I thought. “In the first joke, three men visit a house of prostitution. A beautiful girl puts whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a maraschino cherry on the peckers of the first two, and licks it all off. They were delighted. But the third man emerged looking glum.

“‘What’s wrong?’ his friends asked. ‘Didn’t you get the same girl?’

“‘Yes. We got undressed. She put cream cheese, tomatoes, lox, and a Bermuda onion on me...”

Susan broke in. “‘... and it looked so good I ate it myself.’”

“Right.”

She laughed, a short, edgy sound. “He must have been a contortionist.”

I scowled. That wasn't the point. The joke concerned smoked salmon, not supple spines.

Susan looked around as if searching for someone. I looked also, hoping to find another soul, anyone. The emptiness disturbed me.

“What about the joke where the vampire is about to attack, but says something beforehand?” she asked.

“The woman is holding a cross in her hand, and the vampire says ‘Es vet dir goor nisht helfin.’ ‘That won’t help you at all.’ The vampire speaks Yiddish, so a cross won’t stop him.”

Susan laughed again, this time a little too much. She sounded nervous. “You mean he’s a Jewish vampire, giving Dracula some competition.”

“Yes.” I hesitated. “Where do you find it funny?”

“The idea that a Jew could be a vampire.”

“Well, why not? Is there a quota for Jewish vampires?”

“No. No. Jews can be vampires if you want them to. As many as you want.”

We walked on. A car approached us and passed, conspicuous by its solitude, the first we had seen since leaving the tube. We lapsed again into silence and continued our lethargic pace down the desolate street.

I shook my head. She really did not understand Jewish humor. I turned to her to explain further and saw her brow furrowed and a solitary tear on her cheek. “Susan, what’s wrong?”

We took a few more steps. Except for the echoes of our own footsteps against the building walls, the city remained utterly quiet. “Eli, I’ve never felt more out of place than at that party. You said I’d be welcome.”

“Most of the people were friendly.”

“Not the hostess. She looked like she wanted to strangle me. I felt wretchedly embarrassed.”

“Jacob was friendly.”

“It wasn’t just the hostess. Those strange jokes that I still don’t understand, and that repulsive man, Shmuel, made me so uncomfortable, I wanted to cry. Is this what Jews are like?”

I let go of her hand and stopped walking. “Am I like that? You met ten people tonight. How can you generalize from one party to all Jews?”

She shook her head. “I suppose not, but, the entire evening, people treated me as if I were some freak or alien.” She shivered.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“I know how I felt -- unwelcome and excluded.” A second tear formed.

We resumed walking while thoughts raced through me. The tears felt manipulative and the generalization was bothersome, but in one respect, she was right. From the initial invitation to deciding when we would leave, I had ignored her feelings about this party. I took her hand. “It’s partly my fault, Susan. I should have told the hostess about you beforehand. It’s just that you were in town and I didn’t want to be away from you. I’m sorry.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. “And I don’t want to be away from you either. But sometimes it’s better that way. You should have told me what awaited me.”

I nodded. Her frown faded. She brushed a lock of hair up from my forehead and said, “I forgive you. And I'm sorry for my comment about Jewish people.”

I put my arms around her and we kissed, all warm and gooey. That had been our first disagreement. It was nothing -- not at all like the bitter fights between Karen and me. We continued walking leisurely back to her apartment, hand in hand, each absorbed in the other.

Without warning, my head started spinning. I staggered and almost fell. Could those drinks still be affecting me?

“Eli, are you a bit squiffy?” Susan asked. Squiffy. Drunk. Why did Susan use those stupid Briticisms? A cold rage settled on me, and with it, an alien thought wormed its way into my mind: I should leave Susan, walk away without discussion, and make a clean break this instant.

What an outlandish idea. Why would I suddenly want to leave her?

My chest itched where I wore the mezuzah. I would have to check if a rash had developed. More strange thoughts -- Susan didn’t laugh at Jewish jokes but she probably laughed at my mezuzah. She is a stupid shixsa who does not understand me and never will. I should turn, go the other way without another word, and leave her alone on this street.

Was that liquor talking? Those certainly were not my thoughts. I liked Susan. While she had once asked about the mezuzah, she never ridiculed it. She certainly was not stupid. Yet I felt jittery and anxious to run away.

“Are you all right?” she asked, and sounded worried. I did not care about her worry. We continued walking, each step leaving me angrier, but also puzzled. Why was I furious? Yes, we had quarreled, but had settled the spat. In no way could that cause this raging contempt urging me to abandon her on a deserted London street. As we strolled down the empty sidewalk, I clenched hands and teeth, struggling to suppress both the longing to flee and this outlandish fury.

The sound of stiff leather rhythmically clapping on hard concrete broke the silence. I glanced back. A short block away, barely visible in the mist, a figure approached. He didn’t appear big or physically dangerous, but he walked with implacable gait.

Adrenalin shot through me. I knew somehow that the foreign thoughts inciting me to abandon my lover came from that figure. The hot anger against Susan froze in the fear of the creature behind us. I forced myself to squeeze her hand, clenching my fingers as if fighting a coiled spring to hold her so we were not swallowed into the oblivion of that approaching vortex of evil. We had to get away, but, instead of itching to run, my legs now felt impossibly heavy. I fought with tremendous effort to resist the sensation of glue surrounding my feet, but could take only a few steps. I tried to warn Susan, but my mouth felt as heavy as my legs.

She shook my arm. “Eli, why did you stop? What’s wrong?”

Her words sounded far away. I tried to answer, but my mouth wouldn’t work.

“You look like you’re in pain. I’m taking you to the hospital.” She pulled my arm gently to get me to move.

I tried to take a step, but staggered. She put out a hand to keep me from falling and, in so doing, placed her palm over the mezuzah, pressing it against my skin. A fiery shock burst inside my chest and made me cry out. I had never experienced such scorching torment in my life, but the excruciating agony gave me the strength to wrench free. I shook my head, then looked back at the figure still following us. “No hospital. Just let’s get out of here. Your apartment isn’t far.” Ignoring a heavy burning still in my chest, I put my arm around her and we ran breathlessly to her flat. Why bother with her, another thought intruded, but that faded as we pulled away from the shadowy form behind us. Finally, hearts pounding, we reached her apartment building, ran up the stairs, and bolted the door.

After the panting subsided, Susan looked at me closely. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

She giggled. “We’re such sillies.”

I didn’t say anything.

Her roommate was home. The girls had an understanding about visitors, so Susan and I went to her bedroom for the rest of the night, though I fell asleep before we could do anything.

The next morning, I awoke early, went to the bathroom and examined at my chest in the mirror. After that searing misery last night, I was sure some trace of a burn would remain, but my skin was clean, not even a red mark. The mezuzah itself felt as usual, a piece of cold metal, nothing more.

I returned to the bedroom where I found her awake, her glowing face framed by hair luxuriating on the pillow. Susan was indeed pretty.

She smiled. “Are you feeling better?”

I smiled back. “I’m fine.”

“I wonder if the antihistamine you took yesterday made you dizzy. After all, two glasses of wine shouldn’t make a grown man as tiddly as you were. Ah -- this doesn’t happen often, does it?”

I shook my head with vigor. “Never. The last time I got drunk was 15 years ago when some friends dared me. You might be right about the antihistamine. That with wine could have been the problem, though the two together haven’t bothered me in the past.”

She held out her arms to me. “Come to bed. You fell asleep so quickly last night.”

I didn’t need encouragement, but it’s always nice. I climbed under the covers and kissed her gently on the lips. One question remained. “Do you remember someone following us last night?”

She rolled her eyes, clearly unhappy with the distraction. “There were footsteps behind us and you refused to move for several seconds. Then we ran away. For a moment I thought we were fleeing from the mad slasher, but it was probably just an old granny out for a stroll.” She ran her fingers down my belly.

“Did you see who it was?”

“Dr. Rothenberg, you have a damsel in distress who needs your attention. Would you please forget last night?” Her fingers went lower.

That ended the discussion, not that I had any complaints. Afterward, she fell back asleep. I did not. The strange happenings of last night disturbed me. What was that figure behind us? Logic insisted it was just as Susan said, an innocent stranger. Yet my imagination did not accept so easy an explanation.

The chest pain I felt also bothered me. It must have come from Susan’s hand pressing the mezuzah against my breastbone. Again, it had felt too hot to be simple pressure, but, damn it, I had no evidence of any burn.

But my fury puzzled me the most. Generally, Susan and I got along well. Why had I been so angry last night? I could think about nothing but walking away and leaving her.

I propped myself up on one arm and gazed at the shapely form under the sheet. Could this rage have come from her reactions to the Bar Mitzvah? Her comments awakened my conscience by reminding me how little I had kept my promise to be more observant. Except for avoiding pork and shellfish, I lived as irreligious a life as ever and now even dated another non-Jewish girl. My actions did not follow my stated intentions. Sooner or later, I had to decide what I wanted to do.

Last night had spooked me to the core, but, on thinking it over, nothing supported my misgivings. I had spoken to a weirdo at a party and then, while coming home, heard strange footsteps and over-reacted, probably because of alcohol.

Yet one detail remained unexplained. Yesterday evening, I had raged with such fury as to almost turn around and walk away, leaving Susan alone with an ominous stranger nearby. No matter how much booze had flowed, I would not abandon someone to danger. Nevertheless, I nearly deserted her last night on the streets of London where an insane throat slasher was murdering young women just like her. And I didn’t know why.

Chapter Five

I liked Bart’s. Working in both ward and lab was fun, and night call came only once a week. I usually slept through the shift, but one night the floodgates opened.

The evening started quietly in the doctor’s lounge, a warm and cozy, if musty little room with well-used furniture and an old television. I hoped for a quiet stint because I already felt tired and didn’t want to exhaust myself for the following day, my birthday. Someone turned on the TV. I fell into an overstuffed brown chair in front of the screen and dozed. I don’t remember how long I sat there or what was playing –- maybe a horror movie. Suddenly my pager emitted a sharp loud beep and jolted me awake. Another code was in progress on pediatrics.

I sprinted through the hallway and took the steps two at a time down to the ward. A six-year-old boy with leukemia had developed an overwhelming blood infection -- sepsis -- two days ago and was dying. The resident had already intubated the child when I arrived. The attending physician, a thin, nervous woman, had by chance been making evening rounds then and so had directed the code. She commented, “He’s all right,” meaning the boy had a pulse and blood pressure. Poor kid, almost dead from leukemia and his doctor was saying, “He’s all right.”

He was another one who never should have been resuscitated, but, since I wasn't involved with the case, I just clenched my jaw and forced myself to shut up.

Before going to bed, I stopped by the oncology ward to visit Barbara Lewis. Barbara, a 32-year-old woman with an unusually fast-growing leukemia, had been ill for eighteen months. Comparatively speaking, she was lucky still to be alive. She had a pretty face, but her cheeks were puffy, a side effect of steroids. Thick, curly bright red hair covered her scalp. She wore a wig; chemotherapy had made her bald. I walked to the side of her metal bed and opened the chart. “Hello Barbara.”

She clapped her hands. “Oh, Dr. Rothenberg, I’m told I get to go home tomorrow.” She resembled a girl the night before her birthday -- except for huge black and blue marks, the result of too many needle sticks into arms where blood did not clot well.

I reviewed her lab tests. She had 600 white cells and 20,000 platelets, just ten percent of normal, which made her a setup for infection or bleeding. We could not prevent bleeding anyway, and an infection from outside the hospital would more likely respond to antibiotics than bacteria within the hospital, so why not send her home? I gave her my most reassuring smile. “Sure thing. Tomorrow you go.”

Her face lit up when she talked about her twin babies, girls who had been born a year ago. She had been four months pregnant when this tragedy had struck her and her husband. I could imagine the discussions between the family and their doctors about terminating the pregnancy. Barbara and her husband had decided against abortion, not for religious reasons, but because this had been their only chance to have a child together. They delayed leukemia treatment until after the babies were born. This probably cost her some months of life, but the glow in her face showed she had no regrets. Now she wanted to see them growing up at least another year or two.

Barbara Lewis did not seem sorry for herself, but everyone else, including me, felt sorry for her. Detachment is an essential part of a doctor’s sanity, but sometimes it wears thin. Thankfully, Elizabeth, the teenager with leukemia, was not in the hospital. Coping with both of them together would have overwhelmed me.

I went to the on-call room and slept for a half-hour before the pager called me again, this time to the cardiac unit. The patient, a fat cigarette addict with a wild, irregular heartbeat, wheezed loudly. In a way, his indulgence in smoking and overeating had dragged me from my bed to the ICU, but thinking that made me feel guilty. I worked with the man until his heartbeat normalized and he could breathe easier. Though exhausted when I finally returned to my cot, I lay there, eyes open, tossing and turning, waiting for the hideous sound of the phone calling me to another crisis.

I finally did doze, only to hear another ring almost immediately, this time for a cancer patient in shock. I dragged myself out of bed and down to the ward. The patient, a 72-year-old woman, smelled of stale urine and mumbled in protest when I tried to sit her up. Her x-rays were just black-and-white shapes hovering in front of my eyes. I picked up a pen. My hands felt like lead. The nurses offered me black coffee, stale and bitter. It took an hour before I got back to my room.

This time I fell into the bed without even undressing and slept as if paralyzed. I lay in such an insentient state that when the phone rang, I jerked awake in a cold sweat, not knowing where I was. I poked around in the dark to find the source of the clamor. When I picked up the receiver, the operator said a patient with uncontrollable bleeding was en route to the accident and emergency department, and I was specifically requested.

“I’m not covering the ER,” I said.

“I know, but Dr. Cooper in A&E told me to alert you. He said your specialty is needed.”

Though still exhausted, my eyes shot open. I staggered downstairs to the emergency department. The fluorescent lights, too bright for five A.M., made me squint, while a Sinatra melody drifted from a tinny radio in the nurses’ station. Most of the gurneys lay empty in their stalls, but five people hovered over one of the cots.

A middle-aged man in whites and a brown sweater left the group and approached me. “Excuse me, I’m Mr. Williams, the night supervisor. Are you Dr. Rothenberg?” he asked.

“Yeah. Is that my patient over there?” I asked and shook my head, trying to wake myself.

“Your patient is still in transit. The paramedics say he’s exsanguinating, that blood is literally pouring from his mouth. No one knows why. It’s strange.” The supervisor’s sallow face looked grim. “The ambulance with your man should….”

The raucous cry of a klaxon, far more obtrusive than the wail of an American ambulance, ended the conversation. I hurried to the ER entrance where attendants were pushing a gurney holding the bloodiest man I’ve ever seen.

The moment I saw the man’s face, my sleepiness vanished. I knew him. At least I recognized him -- the pretty young man at the Bar Mitzvah party a few weeks ago. He sat propped up on the gurney, his face and clothes dripping red. A gauze bandage taped to his neck was bloodstained, but not sopping. Panic filled his face as he pleaded for help, his speech garbled by the blood in his gullet. Coughing and retching spells convulsed his body, each spasm spraying crimson globules onto his shirt, the ER equipment, and us.

God, let him not have AIDS, I thought.

Energized by adrenalin, I grabbed a pair of gloves, pulled up his shirt and listened to his heart --- faint and rapid –- and the sounds of his lungs, harsh with the crackling of aspirated blood. “Get this clothing off him,” I ordered. A nurse grabbed a pair of scissors and cut loose his garments. Blood oozed from the tip of his penis and his rectum.

His skin cold and clammy, and shivering intensely, he tried to talk, but could make only unintelligible shushing noises. I ordered blood tests -- coagulation factors, drug assays, anything that might help -- and, because I was doing coagulation research, also ordered three vials saved in the lab for later study. Then I injected clotting medications -- vitamin K, fresh frozen plasma and everything else I could think of. Nothing helped; the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

I grabbed a towel to wipe my face, bloody from the spray of his coughing, and kept inserting IVs, giving fluids and other medications, potentially dangerous medications like clotting factors. The automatic blood pressure meter whirred, pumping air into the cuff on his arm, each measurement flashing a lower red number on the dial -- 95, 93, 89, as the bleeding continued.

The patient lost consciousness and stopped breathing. At least this stopped the gory spume onto all of us. The blood now welled out of his mouth like an overflowing basin. A nurse put a suction nozzle into his mouth and noisily pulled out thick red liquid while the ER doctor managed by some miracle to insert a respirator tube into the windpipe so we could force air in and out of his lungs. But that was all we could do. We couldn’t revive him because the damn blood loss wouldn’t stop or even slow down. This was absurd. He was dying, right in front of our eyes. Young men shouldn’t hemorrhage out in a modern emergency room with the best available care.

“The mad throat-slasher did it.” a nurse said.

I snapped my head toward her. “Ridiculous! That bandage on his Adam’s apple is dry around the edges.”

Two nurses glanced at each other, then at the patient’s bandaged neck.

“He can’t be a throat-slashing victim. He’s bleeding everywhere except his neck.”

The cardiac monitor pinged at an ever slower rate. I transfused him, trying to keep up with the blood streaming out of him. I even ordered fresh blood, more dangerous because it hasn’t been tested for AIDS or hepatitis, but maybe more effective. It didn’t help. We set up a pump to force the transfusions in at a quicker rate. Still no result; the pressure fell and the pulse slowed every second. Finally the heart stopped. A ghastly, waxen rictus contorted his face. We couldn’t bring him back.

I turned to leave, but the ER doctor grabbed my arm and spun me around to see the body. “Bloody hell, look at that. Have you ever seen anything like it?” she said, her voice tense.

I stared wide-eyed and shook my head, unable to speak. Though the poor man’s heart was quiet and his circulation had stopped, somehow blood still poured out of his mouth and dripped steadily down onto the gurney.

Why had the nurse mentioned a throat-slasher? What lay under that three-inch square of gauze? I ripped the bandage from his neck and examined the wound. It was bizarre. I glanced up to ask the ER doctor what she thought, but she had gone. I inspected the neck wound again, staring and rubbing my eyes. It could not be.

At that moment two burly plainclothesmen stomped into the ER and ordered me away from the body.

My face turned red and I raised my voice. “I’m the doctor. I’m treating him.”

One cop strong-armed me aside. “No longer. Now he’s dead. Slasher victims are police business,” he said as the two of them covered the dead man.

They sped the corpse away while I shouted to their backs, “But his throat wasn’t slashed, damn it.”

I sat down and tried to clear my head from fatigue and excitement. I had seen the victim's neck clearly. It was not slit. It bore only two marks, two small, red, swollen sores containing a glob of scarlet jelly, small holes inches apart and directly over the jugular vein. These were punctures, not wounds from a knife wielding lunatic. No animal could pierce the skin with such precision. Nothing could have made those wounds.

At least, nothing natural could have made them.

#

It was almost time for morning rounds. I stumbled to the on-call room and stared at the mirror. Disheveled, face and clothes smeared with blood, I looked like a monster. I showered, changed into fresh whites, and, feeling a little better, shuffled down the hall to the wards. An electric floor cleaner in front of the elevator whined.

Near the radiology suite, a gurney held a cadaverous patient with sunken eyes, yellow skin, and a half opened mouth exposing rotted teeth. I couldn’t tell if the person was male or female. An IV dripped clear liquid into the arm as he or she lay motionless, scarcely breathing, just waiting -- either for an X-ray or for death.

Dawning sunlight streamed in through a dirty window and mixed with the fluorescent lights, leaving a gray pallor on walls and heightening the dreariness within the hospital. I love the sunrise, but with only two hours’ sleep and so much death, it depressed me.

The agitation of an hour ago had died. Staggering like a zombie I visited Barbara Lewis and other patients. Usually I acted upbeat with my charges, most of whom had lethal illnesses, but this morning I felt too exhausted to chat.

After rounds, I went to the animal room to check my cats. The ammonia stench of urine and the high-pitched cries of the caged animals jangled my nerves. A cat had died, the second one in two days. Its limbs wre rigid and its usually soft fur felt hard against its cold body. Its death did not bode well for my project.

I called the laboratory. The dead boy’s HIV test had come out negative. I thanked God for at least that mercy and left the hospital for home.

Too nervous to wait for the bus, I walked back the narrow streets to my apartment house, went to the yard and let myself in. I wished Susan waited there to hug me, but her job had taken her out of the country. In my restlessness, I paced back and forth between bedroom and living room, searching for something to keep busy. The silence oppressed me. I turned on the ancient black-and-white TV. The smarmy sounds of a talk show host filled the room. The wastebaskets were full. I emptied them. The jacket I had worn to the Bar Mitzvah was stained. I made a note to remind myself to take it to the dry-cleaner.

Hopeless. I couldn’t put my mind at ease. The image of blood gushing from that man’s mouth gnawed me. Today was my birthday, but I couldn’t celebrate. The young man's death had been horrible enough by itself, but, an instinct screamed, what it portended was even worse. A new chapter of my life had begun, one that I would not like.

#

I napped off and on that day. When I went to bed at 6:00 P.M., I slept as if evil had left the world and no one would ever again need to worry. The next morning, I felt refreshed and a lot more cheerful.

The phone rang while I was eating breakfast. Mom was on the line, calling to wish me a happy birthday, and, more to the point, to talk about Dad. His weight loss and stomach pain had finally pushed him to his doctor, who said that a colon cancer, supposedly cured four years ago, might have returned and spread to the liver. A CAT scan and blood tests were pending. Mom was almost crying, saying the situation was like a nightmare.

This was bad news. I talked to Dad for a few minutes. His voice caught and he breathed heavily as if in pain.

“Dad, are you hurting?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. But one thing for sure, if that cancer does come back I will definitely retire at the end of the season.”

That phone call scared me. I tried to call dad’s doctor, but got no answer.

The following morning, a detective Fred Ashley called me at the hospital. He was polite, but insisted over all my excuses that I come downtown to discuss the slasher victim.

“He wasn’t a slasher victim,” I said.

“Come down anyway, Doctor. We’ll talk.”

Another unwelcome call. That this Ashley insisted on labeling the death a throat slashing bothered me. In general, I don't like to talk to cops, but at least I'd have the chance to complain about how the plainclothesmen treated me in the ER.

At the police station late that afternoon, I fidgeted on a hard wooden bench. The clicking from a secretary’s keyboard broke a tense silence. My jacket was the same one I had worn to the Bar Mitzvah. It still needed dry cleaning. A doctor’s office may have out-of-date magazines, but a police station has none at all. I sighed and tried to relax.

Suddenly the front door flew open and hit the wall with a loud smack. A paunchy bobby with a large mustache pulled a thin young man into the room. The officer filled out papers while his charge gesticulated wildly with a bible and shouted, “I saw it, I tell you. It was a vampire. It couldn’t have been anything else. He kept staring at the woman until she came to him. He sank his teeth into her neck and I heard this horrible sucking sound until she collapsed and he left her lying on the street.”

The man’s grimy brown jacket hung loosely over his shoulders. His pants sagged. His eyes bulged and delicate light brown hair stood straight out as if he had been electrocuted. He had a distinct swelling in his neck just below the Adam’s apple -- where the thyroid was. At his mention of vampires, I jumped and remembered the neck puncture wounds of the murder victim last night. Still, I stood and took the man’s bony wrist in my hand. His skin felt dry and warm, and his pulse raced. This man was sick with a physical illness, a dangerously overactive thyroid.

The man grabbed my arm, digging his fingernails into my skin. I winced.

“The bible saved me,” he cried, “Do you read your bible? I keep mine with me all of the time. That’s what saved me. It put a protective shield around me so the evil beast couldn’t see me. I hid behind the car and the vampire didn’t even know I was there.”

The constable turned towards me. “Don’t touch the prisoner, gov.”

“I’m a doctor. This man needs treatment.”

At that moment a tall, thin balding man threw open a door at the end of the hall and shouted, “Rutherford, get that nutter out of here.” He glowered at the bobby. “He belongs in a psychiatric ward, not a police station.”

I shook my head. “He needs a medical unit, not a psychiatric ward. He has a physical illness. He could die without proper treatment.”

The bald man stared at me. “Who the hell are you?”

I raised my voice. “I’m Doctor Eli Rothenberg, a specialist in internal medicine. I’m telling you this man is hyperthyroid. That’s a dangerous condition.”

The detective furrowed his brows and focused on me. “Ah yes,” he said, now quieter. “Dr. Rothenberg, I’m Detective Ashley. I asked you to come down here today. Tell me, doctor,” he said with a trace of sarcastic emphasis, “could this illness make that man so agitated?”

“Absolutely. He’s burning himself up.”

“And even hallucinate?”

I hesitated a second. “That’s possible, but less likely.”

“But it’s possible,” Ashley bellowed.

I didn’t answer.

“Dr. Rothenberg, you may have done me a favor. Rutherford, take that loony to the infirmary and tell them to check him for thyroid disease.” The door slammed shut.

“Yes sir, Inspector Ashley.” The bobby sneered, saluted the closed door, and then pulled the man’s arm so violently he cried out and dropped the bible.

“Be careful with him. He’s ill,” I shouted, but the two of them disappeared down the hall without answering me or even turning back.

I sat down, my breathing heavy. I don’t like to confront police, but the result was worth it since the man would be tested for hyperthyroidism. I forced a weak smile.

The bible lay on the floor. The worn brown leather cover and dog-eared pages indicated a well-read book. I wondered if the man’s religious intensity would subside when his thyroid cooled down. Then I thought about Shmuel and his religious intensity. On impulse, I checked my jacket pocket; it still had the scrap of paper Shmuel had given me at the party, or perhaps on the plane. At any rate, the paper cited two biblical verses, one from the prophet Jeremiah, and the other from the prophet Isaiah.

Though I had decided months ago to live as a more observant Jew, I didn’t even have a bible. I opened this bible to the verses Shmuel had mentioned. The first passage spoke of a new covenant with God The second verse came from Handel’s “Messiah”, “for behold a virgin shall conceive and bear a son and shall call his name Emanuel, God with us.”

This puzzled me. I understood what Shmuel wanted to say with these quotations: that there was some new covenant with God that involved Jesus Christ. Shmuel must be one of those Jewish Christian types. Remembering now some of the comments he had made, that was not a surprise.

But why should the bible, my bible, the Jewish Old Testament, have those passages?

At that moment, detective Ashley opened the door again and invited me into his office, a small room with two plain wood bookshelves, an old desk, and a file cabinet. A fluorescent lamp flickered and buzzed like a mosquito. A black-and-white picture of several uniformed young men hung on the wall, and a color photograph of a dowdy middle-aged woman stood on the desk amidst a clutter of papers and files.

“Do you want coffee?” he asked, still standing, and poured dingy brown liquid into a Styrofoam cup. His hand shook.

I shook my head. “No thank you.”

He nodded, sipped at his own cup, and frowned. A thin fringe of unruly dark hair wandered around the back of his head. “Sorry about that distraction a few minutes ago,” he said, not sounding sorry.

We sat down and he questioned me about the young man in the emergency room, particularly about the sounds the victim made just before death. Ashley pressed me for several minutes to think of a name that the poor man might have been trying to pronounce.

“All I can remember is this shushing sound, like telling someone to shut up,” I said.

“No words?” Ashley asked for about the fourth time.

“None. I’m sorry, but I can’t make anything else out of it.”

“That’s all right,” he said and sighed. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Good.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “But I want to tell you that the officers’ conduct in the ER didn’t make me want to help.”

He looked up. “Why? What happened?”

“When I tried to examine the body one of them physically pushed me away. And this was my patient. Also, they were loud and rude.”

“I am sorry about that. We’re all under a bit of a strain with this mad killer on the loose, but that’s no excuse. After all, you’re not a suspect. I’ll talk to the officers and remind them of their obligations, even to Americans,” this last said with a half smile.

“Thank you, though as I said yesterday, I don’t think the mad slasher had anything to do with this victim.”

“Really?” He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a deep drag. I tried to ignore the smoke. “Why do you say that? Did you examine the body?”

“Yes. It looked bizarre.” I pursed my lips. “Instead of a laceration, there were two small puncture wounds a couple of inches apart over the jugular.”

“Hm, did anyone else see the wound?”

I thought briefly and shook my head.

“Only you, then. Only you saw these so-called puncture wounds.”

“Yes. I saw them. And that is what they looked like.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Please, Dr. Rothenberg. This is not a joking matter.”

“I’m not joking. That’s what I saw.”

“First that crazy man in the hallway screaming about vampires and now you. You’ve been reading too much Bram Stoker.”

I stared at the detective.

He tapped an ash into the tray. “He’s the author of ‘Dracula’.”

“I know who he is.” For a moment words failed me. “And I know this sounds crazy, but that’s what the wound looked like ... something out of a Dracula story. I’ve been afraid to admit it even to myself, but you’re right. No knife cut made that wound. It resembled,” I hesitated, not wanting to say the words, “…some kind of fanged bite.”

Ashley lurched forward as if about to spring out of his chair. “That’s ridiculous. The wound didn’t look like that at all. Read the autopsy report yourself.” He reached down, pulled a file from his desk and opened it. “‘There is a four-and-a-half inch transverse laceration, above the thyroid cartilage, from one half inch to the left of the midline and extending laterally rightwards. The right external jugular vein, several cervical strap muscles, and the right vagus and recurrent laryngeal nerves are severed. The larynx is ninety percent divided and the esophagus is lacerated. The right internal carotid artery is nicked.’ Do you want to see a picture?” he asked, handing me a three-by-five print showing the laceration he described on a neck covered with blood.

I stared at the photograph, my eyes wide open. “But I examined the body. That’s not what I saw.”

His harsh voice smoothed into a syrupy sympathy. “You had been on-call the night before, hadn’t you?”

“Yes. It had been a crazy shift. I had worked all night and was exhausted.”

The detective sat back in his seat, hands clasped behind his head. “It sounds like you were sleep deprived.”

“No doubt about it. I could barely stagger across the room.”

“Come on doctor.” he said, cigarette between his lips, voice soft, eyes fixed on my face. “You know what sleep deprivation does to a man just as you know what thyroid disease does. Are you going to say there is a vampire stalking London because of what you thought you saw when you were half asleep?”

“I didn’t say there was an actual vampire. I just said the wound looked like it could have been made by a vampire.”

“Actually, you remember something that you thought in your fatigue could have been made by a vampire. That is quite different. Has your memory never played tricks on you, especially when you’ve been too tired?”

“No. I mean yes. Of course it has. I make mistakes.”

“Well, you made one this time. Here, read the autopsy report yourself, and look at that picture again. Pictures don’t lie. I don’t know why you people work such long shifts anyway. I hate to think of how many patients have died because an intern was too sleepy.”

He took another drag on the cigarette. The tip glowed dull red as acrid fumes assailed my nose. “If I haven’t convinced you, at least promise me that you won’t talk to anyone about this. No one. This city is nervous enough worrying about a human throat slasher. If you or that thyroid nutter start spreading vampire rumors people will riot in the streets, and Lord only knows how many will be injured. I’d hate for that to happen because of his glandular problem or your fatigue. I’m sure you wouldn’t like it either.” His eyes remained fixated on mine. “I’m sure your supervisor wouldn’t like it either.”

He was cordial, quiet, and hard as a rock. Rodger would be happy for an excuse to fire me, so I had nothing to argue with. He thanked me again for my cooperation, and told me to call him if anything else surfaced.

His words sounded reasonable, but I am familiar with sleep deprivation, more so than I like. It is miserable. You think only of how much you want to lie down and close your eyes. Cranky and depressed, you rush through work and become careless. Ashley was right: patients have died because an exhausted doctor omitted crucial treatments while suffering sleep deprivation.

Still, bad as it is -- and I am an expert -- sleep deprivation does not affect people the way drugs do. Overwhelming fatigue leads to oversights and carelessness, but it does not make people hallucinate spiders, little green men, or bloody puncture wounds over the jugular vein.

Chapter Six

That night I dreamed of a huge bat chasing me through gloomy tunnels, forcing me into a huge laboratory where I cowered in a corner, arms raised against the fluttering terror. But instead of attacking me, the bat swooped down on a young man drinking wine at one of the lab benches, bit his neck, and drank his blood. Then the bat became a bald, pudgy man who grinned, exposing long fangs. He held a syringe with the young man’s blood, squirted it into his mouth and laughed. At that point, Dr. Rodger, my boss, came in and shook her head, saying, “It’s not enough for a publishable paper, though you might get a letter into one of the scientific journals.”

The alarm clock jolted me awake. When my bare feet hit the icy floor, my first thought was of the dead man and his wounds. I dragged myself up out of bed and staggered over to the stove to put the percolator on the burner. Sitting at the kitchen table in my underwear and robe, I listened to fresh coffee dripping into the pot and tried to shake off sleep. A thought trickled to the surface of my mind: vampires do not exist. Flying, shape-changing bloodsuckers are myths with no basis in reality.

What caused that young man’s puncture wounds?

A warm coffee smell drifted through the room as my mind wandered. Could a bat bite like the one in my dream have made the youth bleed to death? Vampire bats are real and enough bat anticoagulant could cause hemorrhage, but bats do not inject blood thinner into the victim’s body and they do not suck blood. They bite some wretched cow and lap up oozing blood while the venom from their glands -- the same one I was studying -- keeps the blood from clotting on the cow's skin. Also, they’re too small to drink enough to hurt a human being. In any event, they could not bother people in England because they live in Central and South America, not Europe. To think a flying bat killed that young man was absurd.

The wind whistled outside the kitchen window. I chewed and swallowed spoonfuls of cold cereal, too absorbed in my ruminations to taste my food. Why had the thyroid patient at the police station hallucinated, of all things, a vampire attack? Another question wormed its way to the surface: I had already checked for all the standard causes of bleeding, but what if the murdered man’s blood had traces of bat anticoagulant? Could last night’s dream of a Dracula monster be providing some clue? My mouth grew dry, but I could not suppress the thought.

Heavy gray clouds covered the sky, and a sharp, chill gust blew as I walked from my apartment to the hospital. My thoughts were churning with such intensity, I scarcely felt the cold. If the technicians had followed my orders, three vials of the victim’s blood were now stored in the laboratory refrigerator. I pushed open the tall metal doors to the hospital and started climbing the stairs to the third floor where the chief resident awaited me for rounds. Halfway up the first flight I stopped. She could make her own rounds this morning. I turned around and walked straight to the laboratory. Amidst shelves of analytical equipment, rows of glass test tubes with blood, and smells of acetone I found the technician in charge, a stooped, gray-haired woman. The lab had kept the three specimens, but she would not give them to me. “I need a release,” she said, putting a tube with yellow fluid into a centrifuge.

“The patient is dead. Why do you need a release?”

She turned on the centrifuge, which buzzed and then hummed. “Doctor, in this hospital, we do things properly,” she said and turned away.

That settled that. Half relieved at her intransigence, I went to join the resident on rounds. But instead of listening to her reports, I stared into space, nodding while actually obsessing on the image of the bleeding young man. Ten minutes later, I excused myself and returned to the lab, ready to battle the tech's bureaucracy. She had moved to another room so no combat was needed. I looked around, snatched the vials from the refrigerator and left.

My own lab stood ready to test the serum. I added antibody against bat venom -- the antigen -- to the dead man’s serum, put the tube into the incubator, and waited. The reaction took fifteen minutes -- a quarter-hour that lasted forever. I tried to organize my notes, check the lab animals, anything to pass the time, but every few seconds my anxiety forced me back to the timer to check its progress. Finally, the bell rang. I took the vial out of the incubator and, with trembling fingers, held it up to the light. A quarter-inch of grayish sand lay at the bottom of the test tube. That meant the antibody had found bat anticoagulant. It showed a positive result -- strongly positive.

This could not be. I shook the vial, trying to make the sand go away, but the sludge just swirled before resettling at the bottom of the tube. I could not deny my eyes. The boy’s blood had vampire bat venom.

Healthy people do not react to this reagent. Dr. Rodger had checked literally hundreds of college students and all of them had tested negative. The substance -- this antigen -- was found only in South America. How did it get into this slasher victim’s blood?

The puncture wounds in the neck sent out eerie vibes, but they could have a rational basis. Some soul with pathologically long canine teeth might think he was in fact a vampire, and might bite someone on the neck leading to fatal bleeding. But what could explain bat venom in someone's bloodstream?

Hands shaking, I called Fred Ashley at the police station and told him about the test. An uncomfortable silence followed. How crazy this must sound, I thought. Then the detective’s harsh voice told me to come to the police station the next day.

I slept little that night and by morning had convinced myself that the positive test result must have come from some mistake, perhaps in preparing the chemicals. Once more leaving the resident to her own resources, I hurried to my laboratory and repeated the test. Preparing the reaction took over an hour this time because I kept adding the wrong chemicals to the mixture, forcing me to start over. Finally, I put the test tube in the incubator and set the timer. The fifteen minutes stretched out even longer. When the bell chimed, I jumped.

More sand in the test tube. Again, the test came out strongly positive.

What I saw was impossible, pure and simple. Maybe the chemicals had gone bad. I asked the phlebotomist to draw my own blood, and winced as the needle stuck my arm. My test came out negative, so the reagents were not at fault.

At the police station that afternoon, Ashley ushered me into his office without delay. My voice shook as I described my research. He listened patiently until I mentioned testing the serum of the dead man. Then he broke in.

“And it came out positive,” he stated flatly. He reached into his shirt pocket and lit one of his ever-present cigarettes. “Is there any chance you made a mistake?”

“I ran it twice. The results were the same. Then I tested my own serum as a control.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “That one came out negative, I hope.” The ‘I hope,’ with its momentary hesitation and upraised eyebrows, made me shiver. I nodded.

“I was well rested when I did the test.”

“Come again?”

“Sleep deprivation. You can’t explain this away by saying I was sleep deprived.”

He laughed sardonically and took a drag on his cigarette. “I guess I can’t.” We stared at each other. He frowned and, looking like a schoolboy caught in a lie, set his cigarette in an ashtray and turned away. “No, you weren’t imagining things. You saw puncture wounds. And the ravings of that loony with thyroid disease were not completely crazy.”

I had not expected him to admit it that readily. “Those really were puncture wounds?”

“Yes.”

“Why did the autopsy report and pictures show a gash?”

“It came from a different case. We took the data and pictures from a murder four years ago.”

I fell back in my chair, arms limp. “But how? Why?”

“To mislead you,” he said quietly. He lit another cigarette, saw the first still smoldering in the ashtray, and then angrily ground out the one in his hand. “We don’t want anyone outside the department to know the real nature of these murders. Why the hell did they call you to the ER that night anyway?”

“The man was bleeding to death and no one knew why. The ER doc hoped I could stop the blood loss.”

“Damned bad luck. What’s done is done.” He thumped his fist on the desk. “I need your cooperation. Give me those blood samples.”

“I can’t. That’s hospital property.”

His face hardened. “Don’t play games, damn it. I need those samples, and I'll lock you up if that's what it takes to get them.”

I startled. Without warning, the interview had become a threatening confrontation. “All right. The blood samples are in my lab, and you'll explain, not me, if the hospital administration wants them...”

He snorted. “I’ll send a bobby to pick them up. More important, you shut up about this. Don’t tell anyone, not anyone. You’ve blundered onto the best-kept secret in London for two hundred years. Only a guy like you could have discovered that a vampire stalks the streets of the city.”

My mouth hung open. “Are you saying it’s real?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You saw the puncture wounds. Bram Stoker described it all too well in that damn book he published 1897. ‘Dracula’ was not a fictional story, at least not all of it. Some of his descriptions were lifted verbatim from police reports of a decade earlier.”

That tickled my memory. “So the police reports came from 1887?”

“1888, to be precise. The year saw a wave of ten killings, all with similar puncture wounds. The next year they stopped, and we haven’t seen any more since the current murders. Why? Does the exact date matter?”

My head started spinning. “Adolph Hitler was born the year after, in 1889.” For some reason, that fact was crucial, though I had no idea why.

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re a history fan.”

“I once did a school paper on the subject.” It had been assigned for Hebrew school.

“The year before Hitler’s birth, eh? Interesting, though I don’t think it has any relevance. Stoker’s book, had relevance. I can imagine the commissioner trying to suppress the novel without drawing attention to it.”

I shook my head. I was having a serious discussion with a police officer about vampires. What happened to my faith in Galileo? “But why keep it such a secret?”

He took another deep drag on his cigarette and let out a long stream of smoke. “Think how much unrest a human serial killer stirs up. If people suspected a supernatural murderer, London would panic.”

This man was not kidding. My head hurt. “But at least they could protect themselves, avoid the vampire.”

“We’ve already warned people to stay off the streets at night and not travel alone. What more could we do?”

I thought of Bela Lugosi as Dracula advancing on Professor van Helsing. “They could carry garlic or crucifixes or something to keep the vampire away.”

He smiled wryly. “At least parts of Stoker’s story were made up. The vampire does seem to avoid mirrors, but garlic probably doesn’t help. The crucifix certainly doesn’t. We found one victim clutching the chain in her hand with the icon itself shoved all the way down her throat. That detail didn’t get into the papers.”

“But everyone says that vampires are afraid of crosses. It’s a constant factor in the stories.”

He shook his head. “Bram Stoker’s Dracula was Christian and even worried about Christian salvation. For him, the cross would be important. But that’s just Stoker’s Count. There could be a dozen reasons why our vampire might not care about a cross. He could be an immigrant from a Moslem country like Pakistan. He could be an atheist.” He shrugged his shoulders. “He could even be Jewish.”

The joke I had told Susan about a Yiddish speaking vampire was no longer funny. My stomach quivered. “Vampire-monsters are impossible. No creatures like that can live.”

He looked at me through half lidded, amused eyes. “And why not?”

“Humans can’t change into bats or wolves. The physiology doesn’t exist.”

“Maybe these vampires can’t alter their shapes, but I assure you they can puncture a neck vein and drink blood.”

“Then check dental records for someone with abnormally long canine teeth.”

He chuckled. “We’ve done that. In fact, there are a couple of blokes in London with fangs long enough to kill, but trust me, none of them committed these murders.”

I shivered. “It has to be one of them. Normal teeth can't make puncture wounds like those I saw.”

“These vampires can lengthen their canine teeth.”

I banged the table. “And that is absurd. No animal can extend its teeth.”

“Snakes can.” He leaned forward, his lips turned up in a faint smile as if he knew I had no answer. “Tell me, doctor, when a fact contradicts a theory, do you ignore the fact? Because I am telling you, vampires terrorize London. This is the third series of their killings, and we haven’t caught any of the perpetrators.”

#

In the lab that afternoon, fog hung over my brain. I used the wrong reagents, and in trying to draw blood from one of the cats, I stuck the poor animal’s bone. His high-pitched yowl jangled my nerves further.

That cop spoke foolishness. Even if the puncture wounds were real and not a product of my fatigue-clouded mind, to assume a supernatural vampire had bit the victims was to leap into fantasy. Far more likely, some psychotic had bought metal costume-fangs at a theatrical shop and had used them to murder the victims. Either that or Ashley’s cops had not found all the people in London with abnormal teeth.

To believe in inexplicable supernatural beings led to madness. I learned what faith in the occult could do when my family thought I had ESP. I would not walk that path again. The scientific method of Darwin and Galileo offered predictable rationality. For me, it worked.

The lab tests remained a puzzle. Even there, it would be more reasonable to admit I did not understand why the murdered man showed bat venom than explain the test with vampires as the cause. Belief in the paranormal offered a simpleminded way to create the appearance of order when the facts did not fit. The appearance was misleading.

That evening at home, I was eating a lonely hamburger in front of the TV when the telephone’s ring broke the silence. I ran to the kitchenette and grabbed the receiver, hoping it was Susan. She had been away for a week and I missed her.

It was Mom, sounding upbeat. “Eli, we just heard that the tests, the scan and everything came out normal, so Dad doesn’t have cancer. Thank God.”

My heart fell. She did not understand. “Uh, Mom, that’s not what it means.”

“What do you mean, that’s not what it means? What else could it mean?”

The next few minutes were agonizing as I explained that negative tests don’t always mean someone is free of cancer because the test are too often wrong -- “false negative” is the term we use. Mom wanted to believe Dad was safe and I had to tell her differently. “Then why did they do those damn tests, Eli, if they wouldn’t show anything?” she screamed.

“If they were positive they could stop testing because they’d know he has cancer,” I screamed back. There was silence. “I’m sorry to tell you like that, Ma.” My stomach churned.

Her voice was quiet, but quavered. “That’s all right, Eli. I have to know what’s happening. But I still don’t believe it.”

Head in a whirl, I called Dad’s doctor, an oncologist named Ed Birnbaum. We talked for about a half-hour. His approach to medicine was similar to mine, which felt comforting. He wanted to biopsy an area of Dad’s liver that looked suspicious on the CAT scan. Dad wouldn’t like that.

Birnbaum mentioned that if Dad did have widespread cancer, he would give as much morphine as my father needed to kill pain, even if the dose were a lethal one. That shocked me. I don’t hesitate to give terminal patients that much morphine to stop pain. But this wasn’t one of my patients. This was my dad.

What a dreary, miserable day. I stayed up late reading and channel surfing, but the novel bored me and the television had only soap operas and third-run movies. Susan never did phone. Finally I went to sleep, where weird dreams assailed me -- Bela Lugosi, with elongated canine teeth, beckoning me to his castle to study anticoagulation.

#

That weekend, Susan finally called. She had just returned from China and would be in town for the next two weeks.

“When can you come over?” I asked.

“As soon as I get out of this uniform and take a shower.”

“You can do both of those here. I’ll help you.”

She laughed. “No, love, you don’t want to see me in this uniform. Rather, you don’t want to smell me in this uniform. I’ll be over in a jiffy, and I have something for you.”

An hour later, Susan, with a satisfied smile and a meowing pet carrier, walked into my apartment.

I was speechless.

We sat on the sofa where she opened the top of the carrier, lifted out a slinky black cat, and put it into my lap. “This is Boris, your birthday present. You had said you’d like a pet and are fond of cats.” The cat purred and curled up in my lap. Susan squealed with pleasure. “He likes you, Eli.”

I shook my head. “Well, uh, at least he’s a sociable little beast.”

Worry lines creased her forhead. “Maybe I should have asked you first. I can take him back if you don’t want him.”

“No, that’s fine. I do want a pet.”

He’ll keep you from getting lonely when I’m away. Were you lonely while I was away?” She smiled shyly.

“Absolutely. Every time the phone rang I thought it was you.”

“I tried to call, but I could never catch you.” Susan snuggled into my arm.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now.”

She smiled. “I’m glad too.” She put her hand on my knee. “You know Eli, I like being with you.” She took a deep breath. “I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone else before.”

I leaned over and touched my lips to hers in a prolonged kiss. Afterwards, she looked down at the cat. “I just hope you don’t have any female cats here when I’m away. You know Boris wouldn’t like that.”

I laughed. “Is Boris jealous?”

She thought a moment. “Oh, I don’t know. Could you tolerate a jealous cat?”

I shrugged. “I guess so. I’m not the type who cats around.”

The pun won me a wry frown. She put the cat on the floor and took me into her arms. “Good. I didn’t think you were.”

Later that evening she gave me another birthday present. After all the worry about my father’s illness and crazy throat-slashers, it was delightful to spend a night with Susan. Except that I was getting involved more quickly and deeply than I had planned. I’d be in London only a few months, but with her job she could follow me all over the world.

#

The next day, Sunday, Mom called again. I said, “You must have bought stock in the phone company,” the standard quip when one of us called long distance frequently.

“I wish.” Her voice sounded leaden. “Talk to your father. I don’t know what to say anymore.”

Dad's voice had a forced cheerfulness. “Hello, Eli. How are you doing, boy?”

“I’m fine, Dad. What's going on?”

“Well, that doctor wants to do a biopsy, jab me with a needle and take out a piece of my liver. Probably wants to fry it with onions. But I don’t know. I hate shoving needles into my innards.”

“There’s no rush. You have time to think about it.” I hesitated. “Maybe I should come home for a few days so we can all talk about this.”

“You do and I’ll slap you silly. We can talk over the phone.” He asked a few more questions and then thanked me for taking the time to explain matters to him. I hung up with a heavy confusion. My father had actually thanked me just for talking to him. Had he ever thought I wouldn’t?

Early next morning Mom called again, this time in tears. Dad had been in such pain, she had rushed him to the hospital. I called my father there. He sounded depressed and annoyed. “Birnbaum wants to operate to do the biopsy, an open biopsy he calls it. He wants to actually cut me open to take a piece of the liver, instead of just using a needle. What do you think?”

“It sounds reasonable. That way he can be sure to sample the right spot, and if there is any bleeding, the surgeon can control it.”

“Yeah, but do you think I need any kind of biopsy -- needle, open, shut, or whatever? What would you do if you were the doctor, Eli?”

“I don’t know. You’re my father. I don’t know what I would do.”

“Forget I’m your father. Do you think I have to have that biopsy?”

Forget that you’re my father? How could I do that? But I said only, “It isn’t absolutely necessary. If the pain isn’t too bad, you could sign out of the hospital for a week or so. On the other hand if you really want to know now what is going on, the biopsy could tell you. Either way is reasonable.”

He again thanked me for my time and hung up. His mood scared me almost as much as the threat of cancer. What the hell was going on? Should I leave London and go home for a week? Dad would be furious, but Mom would appreciate it. I finished dressing, fed the cat, and left for the hospital.

The following morning, while I was putting on my shirt, the doorbell rang for a special delivery package, a birthday present from Mom and Dad. I opened it and smiled. It was a CD of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony. I called Dad at the hospital.

“You like it, Eli?”

“It’s just what I wanted, Dad. I like it a lot.”

“Good. Listen Eli, I’m glad you called. I’ve decided to take your advice to have that biopsy surgery.”

“Oh?” That wasn’t my advice. I had been scrupulously careful to discuss options without giving advice. But I didn’t contradict him.

“Yes. Might as well get it over with already. There’s no sense going on like this. I’m no good to myself, no good to your mother. No damned good to anyone.”

“Dad, don’t talk like that. You know Mom doesn’t feel that way. And I sure as hell don’t.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to say that, Eli.”

“Things will get better, Dad. You know, things are going really well here with me.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, definitely.” I spoke rapidly and with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. “My research is going great. I may get a paper out of this. Your son, the professor.”

“That’s nice.”

“And Dad, I met this really nice gal. I’m sure you’d like her. I don’t know, at my age maybe it’s time for me to think about getting married and having children.”

“That’s really great. I guess I have a lot to live for.” he said, with a voice so flat it gave me shivers.

“I still think maybe I should take a week off and come home.”

“No! Absolutely not. But there is one thing I want you to promise me.”

“Of course, anything.”

“If something happens to me, take care of Mom, will you?”

“Of course I will, Dad.”

“Thanks Eli. I’m glad you called,” and, bombshell delivered, he hung up.

I stood for several seconds, telephone receiver in hand. Then a knock sounded at the front door. I froze. My ears buzzed and my chest itched. I put down the phone and, without knowing why the thought arose, hoped it wasn't Shmuel.

I opened the door, my prayers unanswered. There stood Shmuel on my doorstep. Though the radio had announced a fierce cold spell and frost lined the windows of my apartment, he wore no jacket. A button had popped from his shirt, revealing an inch of skin. And, as usual, he needed a shave.

I bristled. He is an innocuous, lonely little man, a harmless, middle-aged widower. Why should I tense up at the sight of him?

When I opened the door, his mouth fell open, facial muscles twitching as if opposing passions warred within him as he stared at my still unbuttoned shirt where the mezuzah hung on my chest. Remembering his flirtation with the young man at the party, I buttoned my shirt.

“What are you doing here so early, Shmuel? And how did you get my address?”

“What kind of a greeting is that? Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I thought of the joke from my childhood -- why do Jews always answer a question with another question? And why shouldn’t a Jew answer a question with another question? -- now played out in real life. I frowned and waved my hand to invite him in.

“Eli, can I please come in?” he asked. Was not a wave of the hand sufficient? I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth. Even in England, three thousand miles away from my parents, someone took it on themselves to point out, albeit indirectly, my bad manners, in this case gesturing instead of specifically saying “come in.” I didn’t like him, but I didn't want to be rude. I answered him in deliberate tones. “Yes, Shmuel, come on in.”

He entered and, looking uncomfortable, stood in my living room. “Could I have something to drink?”

I went into the kitchenette and put the teakettle on to boil. “This is a bad time to call.”

He followed me and sat down at the table. “You’re never home in the evening.”

I poured a glass of orange juice for each of us and sat next to him. “Why are you here, Shmuel?

He sipped his juice.” Have you checked those biblical passages I gave you?”

I stared at the ceiling and sighed heavily. “Yes, a couple days ago. And by the way, how did you get my address?”

“From a friend. What do those passages mean to you?”

“You’re one of those Jewish Christians or whatever they call themselves, aren’t you?” My chest burned and itched more than ever.

“Yes, of course. I told you that when I first met you on the plane.”

“You never said that.”

“I told you I’m a completed Jew. You’re incomplete because you haven’t accepted your Messiah.”

“What do you want from me, anyway?” Lips pursed, I stood and searched for something to occupy my hands. I put some dishes in the cupboard, rattling them more than necessary, and felt him staring at me.

“Eli, those passages mean that Jesus Christ is your Savior. What do I want from you? I want your soul. We’re all sinners. Only Jesus Christ can save us from Hell and only if we believe in Him.” He licked his upper lip and smiled.

His threats of damnation bothered me, but I didn’t know how to answer. My years in Hebrew School had taught me only the broadest generalities about the bible. I knew I was a Jew. Only last month I had pledged myself to follow the Jewish path. But how could I follow that path when I knew nothing about it?

Shmuel talked on, words pouring out like dirty mud from a hot geyser. I felt angry and helpless to reply, like when you hear a politician making promises you know are lies, but you can’t prove it. I have read of “psychic vampires,” neurotic people who metaphorically suck spiritual energy from others, leaving them listless and nervous. Shmuel fitted that description. Now that he had tracked me down I would never be rid of him. My whole head buzzed. “You don’t expect me to believe that nonsense, do you?” I asked uneasily.

“Are you calling the Holy bible nonsense?”

“No, but you’re talking about the New Testament. Jews don’t have to believe in that.”

“If you accept the old, you have to accept the new. Listen.” He took out a bible and read another passage from Handel’s “Messiah”, “a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.”

“A prophet wrote that more than 500 years before Jesus’ crucifixion, yet described it perfectly,” Shmuel said in a low, soporific voice. He kept talking, gently, but with conviction. My head now buzzed so loudly I could scarcely understand him, let alone refute him.

As he droned on, my muscles sagged and my anger ebbed. I stared at him through blurred eyes. His face became fuzzy. I sat down and tried to focus my vision and my thoughts, but could do neither. My resistance softened; I tried to fight, but my strength waned with each sentence. I was like a man entranced. This sudden lassitude baffled me. Shmuel’s ideas almost began to make sense.

Then Boris the cat, looking for breakfast, came out of the bedroom. He saw Shmuel and they each stiffened, Shmuel’s monologue cut short. The cat hissed and crouched, eyes bright, ready to jump. Shmuel, eyes riveted on the animal, turned white. Suddenly the cat lunged. Shmuel put his left arm up to protect his face. At the same time, his right hand crashed the juice glass onto the kitchen table, shattering the glass and gashing his hand.

He also shattered my trance. “Boris, no!” I screamed, throwing orange juice at the cat, who jumped off Shmuel’s arm and ran into the bedroom. Shmuel, trembling, held his lacerated hand over the table, his eyes pleading for help. Blood dripped from the cuts onto the tabletop. I grabbed a towel and wrapped the wounds tightly. By then blood covered the table.

Shmuel’s face was just as red. “Eli, I’m sorry. I hate cats. I’ve always hated them. They hate me back. Look at this mess. Let me clean it up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I unwrapped the towel. Angry red gashes crisscrossed his hand, but the bleeding had stopped. “Lie down on the sofa for a few minutes.” I wrapped his wounds with gauze and, when he had calmed down, sent him to an emergency room.

With him out of the room, I sighed with relief and looked around my apartment. Congealing blood, orange juice and shards of glass covered the kitchen table. It resembled a homicide scene. I mopped the tabletop with the same towel I had used on his hand, stirring the mishmash rather than cleaning anything, and then collapsed into a chair, unable to move.

The teakettle shrieked a high-pitched whistle. I jumped up, ran to the stove to turn off the fire, and pressed my hands on my aching temples. Lord, what a morning.

My head in a whirl, I left to go to the hospital without even cleaning the mess. While walking, I thought about the thick precipitant at the bottom of the test tube, the test showing bat anticoagulant in the dead man’s blood. I remembered Fred Ashley’s talk about vampires. Fred’s words had sounded absurd a few days ago. Now, they seemed reasonable.

Shmuel’s personality in itself aroused suspicions. I felt almost supernaturally drained when he talked to me. His actions reinforced the premonitions. Shmuel had waited for a specific verbal invitation before entering my home. Almost all vampire legends had that detail. That shushing sound the dying man made -- could he have been trying to say Shmuel’s name? The story about a stranger who came at midnight and gave Shmuel red wine now had an ominous implication. Could that have been the night he joined the coven?

I sighed and hugged myself in a futile attempt to keep out the penetrating cold. This inane obsession depressed me. I was a scientist, damn it. My father had taught me one lesson quite well; superstition didn’t work for me. If my friend Herb ever heard about this, he would laugh until my face turned red, and he would have every right to do so. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And if Shmuel was a vampire, how was this bible-thumping involved?

If Shmuel were a vampire then he should have traces of bat anticoagulant in his blood—either the venom itself or antibodies to the venom. One way to stop these insane thoughts would be to test Shmuel’s blood.

But how could I get a blood sample? I saw myself asking him, “Mr. Weinstein, may I draw blood to see if you’re a vampire?” and laughed despite myself. On second thought, I didn’t have to ask him. Blood had soaked the towel I had used to stop his bleeding. During my lunch hour I could bring it to the lab and test it. The blood would have clotted, but that didn’t matter. As long as enough remained, the chemical reaction would work. I would not need a lot -- the amount on my kitchen table would be plenty. My step lightened with the thought that this test could cure the ridiculous, troublesome brooding of the past few days. One way or another I would know what to do. If the test came out negative I could forget about vampires at least as far as he was concerned. If it showed positive, then that detective would hear from me again and perhaps Mr. Shmuel Weinstein would have a little more testing done.

Why not write Zvi the Fiddler and let him know how much you liked this story so far?

A short story by Zvi which you might also enjoy is The Tax Bell

And if you have a minute, take a look at Zvi's home page and THE KLEZMANIACS.

Revised 8/05