This is the fifth and final episode of the "Dressed for Disaster" saga about a man who escapes from the World Trade Center, fakes his death, and falls into the hands of a mad scientist, who transforms him into a woman.
Anne Summers had always thought that Christmas would be the worst time.
The death of her husband Patrick the preceding September had been such a devastating shock, she had barely gone through the motions that first December, in an effort to create a semblance of joy for her three year old daughter Lindy. In her fragile state, she had succumbed to the smooth advances of her investment advisor, Andrew Nash, a few weeks before Christmas, and for a time she even thought she might be falling in love again.
Too soon, of course, and as it turned out, with the wrong person. After the sensational murder of Nash by another woman in his apartment, her grief had quickly turned to rage, and she doubted if she would ever be able to love a man again.
Now, two days before the anniversary of her marriage to Patrick, she had plunged into the depths of depression, as if the arrival of spring had never come. If it weren't for Lindy, she might even have taken her own life, had she been able to find the courage to do so. After seeing her daughter off to school that morning, she sat listlessly in her robe and slippers, oblivious to the warm sunlight streaming through the high windows in her study.
Patrick had provided well for them, the insurance money enabling Anne to pay cash for a small but smart townhouse on Chicago's Gold Coast. The murder of Arnold Nash had been fortuitous, as he was about to invest Patrick's entire estate in highly speculative tech stocks. As Anne logged onto her computer that morning, a quick scan of her portfolio confirmed that she and Lindy were comfortably secure.
Her screen chirped at her. "You have an instant message from patricksummers. Would you like to accept?"
Anne's heart jumped to her throat. That was her husband's old address. What kind of a cruel prank was this?
Warily, she typed, "Who is this?"
"Do you believe in the migration of souls?"
Anne felt paralyzed, wanting to believe it could be him, knowing that it must be a hoax. She was about to log off when her computer chirped again. "Don't go, Anne. Let me prove who I am."
Still she sat glued to her screen, unable to lift her fingers to terminate this insane conversation. Then another message flashed across her screen. "Do you remember what you told me the night before I married you?"
Oh God, who was this? There was nobody on earth who knew that. Another message: "You told me something about yourself, Anne, which required such courage. You thought you had to tell me, and that it might turn me away, but it just made me love you more."
She felt tears began to stream down her cheeks as she lifted her hands, hesitated for a moment, and then typed, "Patrick."
"Not any more, Anne."
"Who are you?"
"I have to meet you to explain."
*****
Patricia Summers got up from her computer and gathered her purse and shoulder bag. It was a beautiful spring day, and she decided against carrying a raincoat. She was not due at work for another forty-five minutes, and if she kept up a steady pace, she would be able to walk the distance without difficulty.
She had a spring in her step as she turned onto Michigan Avenue and headed south, past the magnificent storefronts and the planters of bright spring flowers. She was wearing a blue cotton shirtdress which flowed around her calves, and white sox and sneakers over her pale hose. The uniform of the working Chicago woman.
Pat needed the walk to think about her next move. For three months following the murder of Arnold Nash, she had kept a low profile, concentrating on mastering her new job as a sales associate in the men's department at Marshall Fields flagship downtown store. With one promotion already under her belt, she had saved up enough money to lease a Honda Civic, although she had not yet signed the papers.
She knew somehow that she was at a crossroads. She could continue to make a little life for herself, secure in her loneliness, or she could risk it all and try to reclaim what was rightfully hers. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that she really had no choice.
* * *
Anne paced around her townhouse, walking upstairs to her bedroom, where she picked up a photo album from her newlywed days, and then back downstairs to her study. As she turned the pages of the album, she tried to tell herself that it was impossible. And yet, as she looked at Pat’s smiling face in picture after picture, she felt sure somehow that he was alive, and that she had connected with him a few moments ago.
She closed the album and put it down on her desk. Tucked into the corner of her blotter was a scrap of paper with the name and phone number of Detective Frank Sturgess of the New York Police Department. She hesitated, and then picked it up and studied it. Finally, she reached for the phone and dialed his number.
"Homicide, Sturgess."
"Detective Sturgess, this is Anne Summers. In Chicago."
"Mrs. Summers, how are you?"
"Fine. Do you remember talking to me a few months ago?"
"February it was, yes, I remember."
"You asked me to call you if anyone contacted me on behalf of my husband."
"That’s right. Have you been contacted?"
"Not exactly. Look, Detective, I need to ask you something. You told me that a man named Pat was abducted in New York last September. And that he might be using a different identity now."
"That’s right."
"Detective, tell me what happened."
"Pardon?"
"To the man. The man who was abducted. What happened to him?"
She heard a deep sigh. "Mrs. Summers, what I’m about to tell you is pretty rough. Do you think you can handle it?"
"Detective, I’ve been through a lot since September. I think I can take it. Tell me what you know."
* * *
Pat looked at her watch and quickened her stride. Lost in thought, she had missed a few lights, and she would have to step up the pace to make it to Marshall Fields on time.
She brushed past two good-looking men, crossed against a light, and ignored their catcalls as she left them behind. It was still hard for her to think of herself as attractive, although she could tell from the faces of the man she passed in the street, and encountered in the store, that she was.
Had she done the right thing, contacting Anne? Most assuredly not, but she couldn’t help herself. As their anniversary day approached, she found herself unable to take her mind off of Anne. Maybe it was simply spring fever, after a brutal Chicago winter, but her sap was on the rise, and after so many months of pain and isolation, she desperately needed human contact. With the one person who knew her best.
Had know her best, she corrected herself. When she was Patrick Summers, before the mad Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener had forcibly transformed him into a woman. How could she even think about presenting herself to Anne now? For months, she had vowed to let Patrick die a hero’s death, and leave Anne and their daughter to their memories of him. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone, and let them get on with their lives?
As her need to see them became stronger, she thought about transforming herself back into a man. She had even gone so far as to spirit men’s clothing away from Marshall Fields, and to try them on in her apartment. But it was hopeless. The surgery and hormones had done their work. Even dressed in men’s clothing, she was unmistakable female.
* * *
Sturgess chose his words carefully. "On September 11th, a man named Pat went to the Greenwich Village apartment of a Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener, after responding to a personal advertisement which, we believe, involved some kind of role reversal study. Sometime that evening or the following morning, Dr. Frankenwiener drugged this man, and subjected him to medical experiments."
"What kind of experiments" Anne asked him.
"She castrated him, filled him full of female hormones, and performed what is called sex reassignment surgery. She also modified his face and his voice."
"Oh my God!"
That’s all we know until December, when she was found dead in her apartment, strangled by a nylon stocking. There was no trace of the abducted man, whom we suspect was her killer."
