Life Blood --IX---Page 30

Turmoil, dismay, and hope, all tossed together, that was what
I had on my mind. I really didn't need mixed signals from Steve at
the moment.

A few more awkward pleasantries and I clicked off the phone,
wiped the streaks from my cheeks, and abruptly sensed Alex
Goddard's face floating through my psyche. Why was that? Then I
looked down at the bottles on the seat beside me, the "herbal
extracts" Ramala had given me on the way out. What, I wondered,
should I do about them? For that matter, what were they anyway?
And what did they have to do with "centering"? If I started on his
homeopathic treatments, what would I be getting into? Then I
lectured myself: Never take something when you don't know what
it is.

Hannah Klein. That's who I should ask.

I was so focused, I pushed the number I had stored for her in my phone memory before I remembered it was Sunday. Instead of getting her office, I got an answering service.

"Do you want to leave the doctor a message?" a southernsounding voice enquired.

Without thinking, I heard myself declaring, "No, this is an emergency."

What am I saying? I asked myself. But before I could take it back, Hannah was on the line.

I know how intruded on I feel when an actor calls me at home
on Sunday to bitch. Better make this good, I told myself.
        "I was at an infertility clinic yesterday and passed out," I
began. "And now I have some herbs to take, but I'm . . . well, I'm
not sure about them."

"What 'clinic'?" she asked. There was no reprimand for calling her on Sunday morning.

When I told her about Alex Goddard, she said little, but she

did not sound impressed. Looming there between us like the dead
elephant on the living room floor was the fact that she'd
specifically warned me not to go near him. And after what had just
happened, there was a good case she might be right.
        "Can I buy you brunch?" I finally asked, hoping to lure her
back onto my case. "I'd really like to show you these herbs he
gave me and get your opinion."

"I was just headed out to Zabar's to get something," she said, somewhat icily. Well, I suppose she thought she had good
reason. "I'll get some bagels and meet you at my office."

Sunday traffic on upper Broadway was light, and I lucked out
and found a parking space roughly two blocks from her building. It
was one of the low-overhead "professional" types with a single
small elevator and no doorman. When I got there, the lobby was
empty.

Her suite was on the third floor, and I rang the bell before I
realized the door was open. She was back in her office, behind
the reception area, taking off her coat, when I marched in.

While she was unwrapping her sesame bagels, smoked

sturgeon, and cream cheese with chives, she got an earful. My

feeling was I'd better talk fast, and I did. I told her everything I

could think of about what had happened to me at Quetzal Manor. I
didn't expect her to make sense of it from my secondhand
account, but I wanted to set the background for my next move.
        "When I was leaving, his assistant gave me these two bottles
of gel-caps. She said they're special herbal extracts he makes
from plants in the rain forest. Do you think I ought to take them?"
        I suspected I already knew the answer. Given her previously
voiced views on Alex Goddard, I doubted she would endorse any
potions he might dispense. But plant medicine has a long history.
At least she might know if they presented any real danger.
        She was schmearing cream cheese on the bagels, but she
put down the plastic knife, took the two bottles, and examined
them skeptically.

"These are not 'herbal extracts,' " she declared giving her first analysis before even opening them. "They're both manufactured drugs. The gel-caps have names on them. It's a Latin American pharmaceutical company."

Then she opened the first bottle, took out one of the caps, crushed it between her fingers, and sniffed.

"Uh-huh, just what I thought." Then she touched a pinch of the
white powder to her tongue. "Right." She made a face and wiped
her tongue with a tissue. "Except it's much stronger than the usual
version. I can tell you right now that this drug, in this potency, is
illegal in the U.S."

What was it? I wondered. Cocaine? And how could she tell its
potency with just a taste? Then I reminded myself why I'd come to
her in the first place: She'd been around the track many, many
times.

"It's gonadotropin," she said glaring at me. Like, you damned

fool. "I'm virtually certain. The trade name here in the U.S. is

Pergonal, though that's not what this is. This is a much stronger

concoction, and I can see some impurities." She settled the bottle
onto her desk with what seemed almost a shudder. "This is the
pharmaceutical equivalent of hundred-and-ninety-proof
moonshine."

"What is it? What's it supposed it do?" Jesus, I thought, what's he giving me?

"It's a hormone extracted from the urine of menopausal
women. It triggers a greater than normal egg production and
release. It's sometimes prescribed together with Lupron, which
causes your body to release a similar hormone. Look, if you want
to try Pergonal, the real version, I'll write you a prescription,
though I honestly don't think it's going to do you the slightest bit of
good."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd almost been

considering giving Alex Goddard the benefit of the doubt, at least till I found out more about him, and now he hands me this.
        Now we both were looking at the other bottle.
        "What do you think that is?" I asked, pointing.

She broke the plastic seal, opened it, and looked in. It too was a white powder sealed in gel-caps, and she gave one a sniff, then the taste test.

"I have no idea."

She set the bottle back on her desk, and I stared at it, terrified
of what it might be. Finally I got up my courage and reached for it.
A white sticker had been wrapped around it, with directions for
taking . . . whatever it was . . . written on it. Then I happened to
notice that one corner showed the edge of another label, one
beneath the hand-applied first one. I lifted a letter opener off her
desk and managed to get it under the outer label. With a little
scraping and tugging, I got it off.

"Does this mean anything to you?" I asked her, handing it
back. "It's in Spanish, but the contents seem to be HMG
Massone."

"I don't believe it," she said, taking the bottle as though lifting
a cobra. I even got the distinct feeling she didn't want to leave any
fingerprints on it. "That's an even more powerful drug to stimulate
ovarian follicles and induce superovulation. It's highly illegal in this
country. Anybody who gives these drugs in combination to a
patient is flirting with an ethics charge, or worse."
        I think I gasped. What was he trying to put into my body?
        She settled the bottle back on the desk, her eyes growing
 narrow. "Since you say his 'nurse' or assistant or whatever she