"You weren't here when she came in, doctor," the intern told her. "She was extremely agitated. She said something about a devil and burning in hell, I think. I thought..."

"Thank you," she said curtly. "She's my patient. I'll do the thinking from now on."

The intern bit his lip and bowed out, closing the curtains behind him.

"Night," I called from the exam table. "Thanks for the drugs."

Shaking her head, Shapiro checked my chart again. "Valium. By injection. May I assume that you're feeling more relaxed now?"

"Much. No thanks to you. What are you doing here?"

"They beepered me. What are you doing here?"

"Nerves. I was going to call you Monday....Hey, great dress, doc. Did the shoes come with it?"

"Let's just talk about your symptoms, shall we? I understand that you saw the Devil tonight. Is that why you're nervous? I shouldn't wonder. Are you taking the BuSpar?"

"Should I be?"

She sighed. "I can't help you if you won't take your medicine. There's nothing more I can do for you tonight. Go home. Call a taxi; you're in no condition to drive. And..."

"I want the other doctor back," I said sulkily. "He was nice. He was interested. He took notes. Did I ever tell you that a lot of people think you're a quack?"

Shapiro didn't answer; she was writing something on a prescription pad. When she finished, she tore off the top sheet and handed it to me. "Fill this in the morning. Call Monday for an appointment. I think we'll have you CAT-scanned. Meanwhile, if you see any little red men with pitchforks, remind yourself that you were in a car accident a few days ago. You may have subdural trauma of some sort. Anything else?"

"I can't read this."

"You're not supposed to. Go home now." She pulled back the curtains and checked her watch. "I may just get back in time for the Schumann."

"Quack!" I shouted after her.

Then I tore up the prescription; climbed down from the exam table; and wobbled out of the ER to the car, which I drove at a cool 10 mph all the way home.

I wondered how Shapiro had managed to get those ankle-strap pumps on over her webs. How she'd managed to get out of residency without being arrested for impersonation or murder. Monica was no subdural trauma--she'd caused the wreck; she'd come first--and all the prescriptions in the world weren't going to make her go away. I'd been a fool to go to the emergency room.

Telling the truth had been out of the question, of course. I've had this subconscious sexual fantasy, doc. She says she's my demon. She got out somehow, and she's after me. You've got to help me.

Riiiight. The med-school profs probably told them to call the police when they heard stories like that. And not even the stump-dumb cops of Greenville would believe this one--assuming that anyone could flush them out of the doughnut shops long enough to listen.

Telling a minister would be impossible, too, and not just because I wasn't a Believer. Where would I find a minister in this county on a Saturday night, anyway? All the Right Revs would be at home in the bosoms of their families, playing hymns on the Kimball, or out wenching and brawling in some Blue Valley bar.

There was always Cassie, but telling her was even farther out of the question. Even if she believed me--which she wouldn't, but even if she did--she'd just tell me it was my own fault for being celibate for so long.

I wondered whether Cassie believed in anything like sin...and whether she knew I knew that she wasn't half as loose as she let on. She liked to outrage me whenever she could, though, and she was very, very good at it. Monday morning, she'd have some towering lie to tell me about her wild night tonight.

The night would be nine-tenths work, in perfect truth; she was going to Rumours to have another look around. She knew that I wasn't making much progress, but I knew she'd lie if the owners asked her how the campaign was coming.

"Don't worry," she'd say. "Dev's the best. She's working on something that'll make grown men lock themselves in the bathroom. You'll have to run the spots on cable at 2 in the morning, with disclaimers by the cable operators. I guarantee that your business will triple. If you see her, will you tell her I had group sex in the middle of the dance floor?"

Bemused, I went back to the kitchen to pour a drink, thinking about crazy blondes and Baptist morality and certain damnation. I'd just uncorked a bottle when the idea came, clear and complete.

I had the Rumours campaign, and Jack would love it.

To make sure, I ran the footage in my head again. Then I raced upstairs to the master bath to shower and dress. I could be at the office in 15 minutes if the lights were with me.

(c) 1999, ROCFanKat

Continued - Part 7