might be. As he said, thousands of people had access to the magazine.
Still, the incident was unsettling; it left her feeling uneasy and somehow threatened. She had a sense of the initiative slipping from her hands. Once again in her life she was being moved and manipulated by forces outside herself.
She had the same feeling of being pushed in directions she did not wish to go when, late in the afternoon, Dr. Oscar Stark phoned.
'Zoe,' he said without preamble, 'I want you in the hospital as soon as possible. Your tests are back and the results are even more disturbing than I thought they'd be. I talked over your case with a friend of mine, a very capable endocrinologist, and he agrees with me that you belong in a hospital before we have an Addisonian crisis.'
'I won't go,' she said flatly. 'I don't need a hospital. I'm perfectly all right.'
'Now you listen to me, young lady,' he said sharply. 'You are not perfectly all right. You are suffering from a pernicious disease that requires constant treatment and monitoring. All your vital signs point to a serious deterioration of your condition. We've got to find out why. I'm not talking about an operation; I'm talking about tests and observation. If you refuse, I can't be responsible for the consequences.'
'No,' she said, 'I won't go to a hospital.'
He was silent a moment.
'Very well,' he said. 'The only thing left for me to do is contact your parents. Then, unless you change your mind, I must ask you to consult another physician. I'm sorry, Zoe,' he said softly before he hung up.
She could not have said exactly why she was being so obdurate. She did not doubt Dr. Stark's expertise. She supposed he was correct; she was seriously ill and her health was degenerating rapidly.
She told herself she could not endure the indignity of a hospital, of being naked before unfeeling strangers, to be poked and prodded, her body wastes examined critically, her flesh treated as a particularly vile and worthless cut of meat.
And there was also a secret fear that, somehow, in a hospital, she might be restored to perfect health, but in the process be deprived of those private pains and pleasures that were so precious to her.
She did not fully comprehend how this might happen, but the alarm was there, that hospital treatment would mollify those surges of insensate strength and will she felt during her adventures. They would reduce her to a dull, enduring beast and quench the one spark that set her above the animal people who thronged the city's streets.
She was special in this way only. She had excited the dread of millions, had caused fury and confusion in the minds of the police, had influenced the course of events of which, heretofore, she had been merely another victim.
A hospital might end all that. It might rob her of her last remaining uniqueness. It might, in fact, destroy the uncommon soul of Zoe Kohler.
That evening, on the way home, she stopped for a light dinner at the Madison Avenue luncheonette she frequented. She had a salad of cottage cheese and fresh fruit slices. She sat at the counter, drank an iced tea, and dabbed her lips delicately with a paper napkin.
By the time she reached her apartment, she had put the whole idea of hospitals from her mind, just as she was able to ignore the now obvious manifestations of her body's growing decrepitude. She took her pills and nostrums automatically, with the vague hope that she might wake the following morning cured and whole.
But a new shock awaited her on Tuesday. She was seated at her desk, sipping coffee and leafing through The New York Times. There, on the first page of the second section, was a headline:
POLICE RELEASE NEW 'RIPPER' SKETCH.
Beneath the legend was a two-column-wide drawing in line and wash. The moment Zoe Kohler saw it, she looked about wildly, then slapped another section of the paper over the sketch.
Finally, when her heart stopped thudding and she was able to breathe normally, she uncovered the drawing again and stared at it long and hard.
She thought it was so like. The hair was incorrectly drawn, her face was too long and thin, but the artist had caught the shape of her eyebrows, straight lips, the pointed chin.
The more she stared, the more the drawing seemed to resemble her. She could not understand why hotel employees did not rush into her office, crowd around her desk, point at her with accusing fingers.
Surely Mr. Pinckney, Barney McMillan, or Joe Levine would note the resemblance; they were trained investigators. And if not them, then Ernest Mittle, Maddie Kurnitz, or Dr. Stark would see her in that revealing sketch and begin to wonder, to question.
Or, if none of her friends or acquaintances, it might be a passerby, a stranger on the street. She had an awful fantasy of a sudden shout, hue and cry, a frantic chase, capture. And possibly a beating by the maddened mob. A lynching.
It was not fear that moved her so much as embarrassment. She could never endure the ignominy of a public confrontation like that: the crazed eyes, wet mouths, the obscenities. Rather die immediately than face that humiliation.
She read the newspaper article printed beneath the drawing, and noted the detailed description of the clothing she had worn to the Tribunal Motor Inn. She supposed that she had been seen having a drink with that boy, and witnesses had told the police.
There was even mention that she drank white wine, though nothing was said about fingerprints. But the police suggested the woman they sought spoke in a low, polite voice, wore her hair quite short, dressed plainly, and might be employed as a secretary.
It was fascinating, in a strange way, to read this description of herself. It was like seeing one's image in a mirror that was a reflection of an image in another mirror. Reality was twice removed; the original was slightly distorted and wavery.
There was no doubt it was Zoe Kohler, but it was a remote woman, divorced from herself. It was a likeness, a very good likeness, with her hair, face, body, clothes. But it was not her. It was a replica.
Carefully she scissored the drawing from the newspaper, folded it, put it deep in her purse. Then, thinking that someone might notice the clipped page, she carried the whole newspaper to the trash room and dug it into a garbage can.
She hurried home from work that evening, keeping her head lowered, resisting an urge to hold her purse up in front of her face. No one took any notice of her. As usual, she was the invisible woman.
Safe in her apartment, she sat with a glass of iced vodka and inspected that damning sketch again. It seemed incredible that no one had recognized her.
As she stared at the drawing, she felt once again the sensation of disorientation. Like the printed description, the portrait was her and yet it was not her. It was a blurred likeness. She wondered if her body's rot had spread to her face, and this was a representation of dissolution.
She was still inspecting the drawing, eagerly, hungrily, trying to find meaning in it, when her parents called from Minnesota.
'Baby,' her father said, 'this is Dad, and Mother is on the extension.'
'Hello, Dad, Mother. How are you?'
'Oh, Zoe!' her mother wailed, and began weeping noisily.
'Now, Mother,' her father said, 'you promised you wouldn't. Baby, we got a call from a doctor there in New York. Man named Stark. He your doctor?'
'Yes, Dad.'
'Well, he says you're sick, baby. He says you should be in a hospital.'
'Oh, Dad, that's silly. I was feeling down for a few days, but I'm all right now. You know how doctors are.'
'Are you telling the truth, Zoe?' her mother asked tearfully.
'Mother, I'm perfectly all right. I'm taking my medicine and eating well. There's absolutely nothing wrong with
