Miracle Cure (25 page)

Another face came on the screen. Michael's body stiffened.

"It can't be," he uttered.

"Michael, what is it? What's the matter?"

Michael continued to stare at the image on the screen. The face had changed very little in the past twenty years. A little grey around the temples. A little more sag on the jawline and neck.

The overall appearance, however, was radically different. A tailored sports coat. Nice tie. Nice neat haircut. Just your typical, friendly Joe.

The anchorman continued.

"With us now from Lincoln, Nebraska, is Mr. Martin Johnson, the stepfather who raised Michael Silverman. Mr. Johnson, thank you for joining us."

"My pleasure, Chuck."

"Mr. Johnson, what do you think about the reports that your stepson contracted AIDS through a blood transfusion?"

Martin Johnson shrugged.

"Might be. I would never want to speak ill of the boy, but..."

"But?"

"Well, it seems to me that there is a far greater likelihood that he got it from one of his boyfriends."

The anchorman was nearly salivating.

"Then Mr. Silverman is gay?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to say that. I'd say he's more like one of those bisexuals. He's had plenty of sex with both men and women.

Started at a young age. But he prefers men, I'm almost sure."

Michael flew up from the bed.

"Turn it off!"

Sara grabbed the remote control and snapped the off button.

The picture turned into a bright dot before fading away.

"You okay?"

He nodded.

"Lying son of a bitch. I haven't seen him since I was ten years old."

Sara flicked the switch on Michael's portable tape deck. Bach gently blew into the room, but it did little to assuage him.

"It's strange," she said.

"Why do you think he'd lie like that?"

"Because he's a psychopath, that's why."

Sara shook her head.

"There has to be more to it."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure exactly. I just have a feeling he wasn't acting on his own." "Could be," Michael said.

"So what do we do now?"

"Well have to work some damage control, come up with a counteroffensive, prove the slimeball was lying." "No matter what we do," Michael said, "some people are going to believe him."

"Yes, some people are going to believe him."

Michael shook his head.

"After all these years, after all this time, seeing his face again..."

On the other side of the country Jennifer Riker began to shake.

She could not believe what she was seeing on the television screen.

Like something out of a cheap horror movie, Marty Johnson had risen again. She had hoped to shut away the memory of his evil smirk forever, but now it was back, dragging painful images that would not go away into plain sight the bruises on little Michael's body, the black eyes, the concussions, the hospital stays, the absolute terror on the boy's face.

The sick bastard was back.

Jennifer let her anger fester, mount, become obsessive. She concentrated on it, encouraged it, and hoped that it would block out the more painful fact.

Michael has AIDS.

She shook her head. That poor kid. How many times had she said that about Michael? Thousands. Despite being born with looks, intelligence, and enough talent for ten people, bad luck had still tagged along after Michael like a faithful dog.

Jennifer glanced down at the coffee table. For the millionth time she read the name Susan on the envelope and wondered what to do. Last night she had considered trying to reach Susan but had decided it was foolish. Bruce was dead. Whatever he had written in the note would not change that fact. What was the rush? When Susan came back the note would still be here.

But now Jennifer was not so sure about her decision.

Something bothersome gnawed at the back of her brain. Brace's suicide, the mysterious package mailed to an unused California post office box, the murders, the SRI cure, the cryptic writing on the envelope:

And now Michael.

Her sadness at all this bad news had now transformed itself into something more, something deeper. Though she could not say specifically why, she felt frightened. No, more than that.

Petrified. She chastised herself for being paranoid, for seeing conspiracy in everything. But she could not shake the feeling.

Something was very wrong here, and it had something to do with Brace's medical files and that note to Susan.

Jennifer sat back, her head reeling in a rising spiral of uncertainty.

Harvey picked up his private line.

"Hello?"

"Please forgive me, you great big hunk. I want to be your love slave."

He closed his eyes and rubbed them.

"Cassandra, this really isn't the time."

Nervous pause.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I'll call back later."

"Please don't."

"I said I'm sorry. I can't take back "

"It's not that," he interrupted.

"I just don't have the time to get involved with someone right now."

"I blew it, huh?"

"No. It should have never happened in the first place." "But it felt so right. You said so yourself."

"Cassandra..."

"I was scared, Harv. And when I'm scared, I get stupid. I do dumb things. I... I have a tendency to destroy whatever I care about before it dies on me, you know?" "I understand," he said. He stopped, took a deep breath, and then continued.

"Why don't we just take it slow, okay? Go one step at a time."

"You mean it?" He half-smiled.

"Yeah."

"Why the change of heart?"

"I remembered something Sara once said about you."

"My sister?" "She said you had a heart as big as all outdoors despite what you think of yourself."

Pause.

"Sara said that?" she asked incredulously.

"About me?"

"Yes. I think she wishes you two were closer."

"I think I'm falling in love with you, Harvey."

He let a small chuckle pass his lips.

"Like we just agreed, let's take it slow."

"I'd like that."

"Good- bye, Cassandra."

"Good- bye, Harvey."

George picked up the telephone.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"Good afternoon."

! i

"I've been waiting for your call," George said.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"And I've been waiting for the rest of the money you owe me."

Pause.

"I know that, George. I'll have it for you soon. I promise."

"Plus ten grand."

"For what?"

"Late fee. An extra ten grand a week."

His employer let loose a long sigh.

"Okay. An extra ten thousand dollars." "Tine then," George said.

"Do you have another job for me?"

"Yes. But this one is going to be very different and more than a little tricky."

"Go on."

"Did you see Newsflash last night by any chance?" the voice asked.

"Of course."

"Then you'll appreciate how difficult this job is going to be."

"That's my problem," George said.

"You just worry about paying me."

"Understood."

"When do you want the job done?" George asked.

"Tonight."

"That doesn't give me much time."

"This situation has changed now," his employer said.

"It has to be tonight."

"Okay, but it'll cost you."

"101 pay it. I swear." George sighed.

"So who is tonight's lucky faggot?"

From the other end of the phone, George heard a throat being cleared.

"Michael Silverman."

Ll Dr. John Lowell looked across his desk at the plump man. He tried to mask the naked hatred from his face, but he knew that it was pointless. Reverend Sanders could see his expression of loathing; it did not seem to bother him.

"Thank you for seeing me," Sanders began.

"I appreciate you finding the time in your busy schedule."

"We only have an hour," Lowell replied impatiently.

"What do you want?"

Sanders stood and strolled about the spacious study.

"This is really a beautiful room, John," he began, his smile locked on autopilot.

"Every time I'm in here, I feel so... so at home. It's a wonderful study."

"Never mind that. My daughter will be home in a little while."

"So?"

"I don't want her to see you."

Sanders reached out and picked up the picture frame on John's desk.

"You have such lovely daughters, John. Gentle, beautiful Sara and the uh, sex " he stopped, looked up "the uh, sculpted Cassandra. You are a very fortunate man. You see, John, family is what it is all about. Our country was built on the principle of family values. Now that foundation is beginning to crack and crumble. It is our task, dear John, to repair the cracks and make the foundation as strong as ever."

"What do you want?"

"It's very simple. I want you to continue to help me in our crusade. I want you to stand up and do what is right."

"Will you please stop with the mumbo-jumbo and get to the point?"

Sanders' voice remained unruffled, placid.

"Tell me, John, why did you refuse to come to last night's emergency meeting?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

"No, John, I don't think so."

"You don't want this disease cured, do you?"

Sanders gave an amused smile.

"Tell me, John, would you have wanted to cure the plagues of Egypt?

Would you have tried to help Job, even though God did not want you to?

Would you have told Abraham that God did not really want him to sacrifice Isaac?"

"What the hell are you "

"Would you try to stop God's work, John? Would you try to join Lucifer in obstructing the Lord's plans?"

"Get the hell off your high horse "

"We know that AIDS can be transmitted through bodily fluids," Sanders interrupted, "yet if you dare suggest mandatory testing of your doctor or your dentist, the liberals go crazy. They scream about constitutional rights. Well, John, what about our constitutional rights? What about our rights to remain healthy?

They don't care about us. Why should we care about them?"

John Lowell just stared for a moment.

"You and Markey said they weren't making any progress."

"Yes, I know. It was a surprise to us as well, John. Dr. Riker's reports never showed any hints of what we all heard on your daughter's television show last night. We were as shocked as you were."

John rubbed his forehead. Sanders' calm voice was beginning to unnerve him.

"I would have never gone along with..."

"With what, John?"

"You know what."

Again, Sanders smiled.

"The fact remains, however, that we still have a job to complete. Now it will be tougher than ever.

We need your help, John."

"You're insane. My son-in-law is being treated in that clinic, for God's sake."

Sanders nodded his head solemnly, his expression suddenly grave.

"I'm so sorry for you and your daughter. What an awful way to find out the truth about Michael's, uh" again the dramatic pause "his sexual preference."

John struggled to keep his temper under wraps.

"You saw the report. Michael got the virus from a blood transfusion."

The smile came back.

"Perhaps you are right, John, but it seems awfully suspicious to me. A blood transfusion in the Bahamas? You will have to admit it's rather hard to swallow especially in light of the statements made by Michael's very own father."

"Stepfather," John corrected.

"An ignorant son of a bitch who Michael hasn't seen since his childhood."

"Is that so? How interesting. I wonder why he would lie then."

John said nothing for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed into thin slits.

"You," he whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"You put him up to it, didn't you? You paid Johnson off to say that garbage."

"Me? Why would I do such a thing?"

"To distract the media. To cast a shadow over the clinic's positive press."

"Now hold on a minute, John. It is not very nice to hurl unsubstantiated accusations around like that."

"Get the hell out of my house."

"But there is so much more to discuss, John..."

"Get out." "like your continued participation in our struggle."

He stood.

"Jesus, you are insane. This has gone too far. It has to be stopped now before anyone else gets hurt."

"Regrettably, John, I fear it will continue." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cassette tape.

"This might help to steer you back on the road of the righteous."

The color drained from Lowell's face, turning his ruddy complexion into something near chalk. He sat back down.

"What's...1"

"On the tape? A good question, John. You remember our first meeting in Raymond's office? The one where you said you would do anything to destroy Riker and Grey's clinic so that the Cancer Center could get the finances for its new wing? Do you remember that meeting?"

"You son of a bitch."

The smile grew broader, happier. Power always had that effect on him.

"I wonder what gentle, beautiful Sara would think of her sweet little of' daddy after hearing this tape? Or the press?"

"You'd be taking yourself down too."

"No, I don't think so, John. You see, this tape is edited. Only your voice is on it."

"I'd reveal everything."

"But you'd have no proof, John. And let's face facts. Your accusations would only strengthen my hand with the religious right.

They would see me as a leader who is willing to do more than just talk.

You, on the other hand, would be ruined along with the Cancer Center."

John opened his mouth but ended up saying nothing.

"Yes, John, the Lord cloth move in mysterious ways. Ah, but do not be upset with me. You are doing what is right. You are going to help destroy something that is evil, and in turn, you are going to benefit cancer research. You are truly helping mankind."

"Get out."

"I have a plan that I am sure you will find satisfactory one that will help us all, including your son-in-law. You can find out all about it at our next meeting. Raymond will call you. In the meantime I would advise you to keep all of this to yourself. Loose lips sink ships, you know."

He winked, flashed one last smile, and then headed for the door.

"After all, John, you are one of us."

After he was gone, Lowell just sat there alone in his study.

He stared unseeing at a bookshelf, weighing his options. After five minutes had passed, he stood and went out of the room, closing the door to his study behind him.

After the door closed, the door to a closet swung open.

Cassandra pushed away her father's Burberry coat and stepped out. She was still shuddering.

Lieutenant Max Bernstein headed down the Sidney Pavilion's third floor hallway. He was about to enter the laboratory when he heard Dr. Eric Blake's voice coming from just inside the door:

"Maybe what Markey is suggesting isn't so terrible," Eric said.

There was a small pause. Then Harvey replied, "Don't you see what he is trying to do?"

"Of course I do, but maybe we can twist it into our favor."

"How?"

"If he keeps his word," Eric continued, "the government will have to finance the clinic for a few more years yet until Michael's prognosis is determined anyway plus we have the new donations coming in on the 800 line. That may give us the time to perfect SRI "

"And delay its implementation by two or three years," Harvey interrupted.

"Markey is trying to make us start all over again."

"Well, it could have been worse. He could have closed us down all together."

Max waited to hear Harvey's response, but when none was forthcoming, he stepped into view.

"Good morning, doctors."

They were both standing over a microscope. Their heads swiveled toward the doorway at the sound of Max's voice.

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

Max's eyes moved about the room.

"Where's your lab chief this morning?"

"Winston O'Connor? He's taken a few days off."

Max nodded vigorously, his fingers twirling a pencil as though it were a baton. He began to circle the lab, picking up and putting down items at random.

"You two look lousy," he said.

"Been a bad day," Harvey replied.

"How so?"

"I received a visit from Ray Markey this morning."

"The guy from Washington?"

"That's right."

"What did he have to say?"

Harvey recounted his conversation with Dr. Raymond Markey.

Max nodded, continuously moving about the lab, his eyes never swerving in the general direction of the speaker. To those who did not know him, he appeared not to be paying attention.

He did, however, stop and examine Eric Blake as though seeing him for the first time. Nice shoes, expensive suit, monogrammed dress shirt, power tie, matching suspenders.

Looked a little stiff. Acted more than a little stiff. Actually, Eric looked more like a Wall Street wheeler-dealer than an altruistic doctor.

When Harvey finished, Max picked up a test tube, examined it, and said, "Interesting."

Eric snatched the tube from the lieutenant's hand.

"Do you mind?" he asked irritably.

"These are important experiments."

"Sorry." Max paced off in another direction. Judging by the few sentences Max had overheard in the hallway, Eric Blake did not see Dr. Markey's visit as reason to panic. In fact, he did not seem concerned at all. Again, interesting.

You're missing something here, Max. Something big. Think, dammit.

But nothing came to him, just a steady, annoying nudge in his brain.

"So let me get this straight," he said.

"Markey wants to turn Michael into a guinea pig to see if SRI works?"

"Something like that, yes."

Once again Max nodded.

"Then we can't hide Michael with the other patients. But then again, there's no reason to hide him anyway, is there?"

Eric stepped forward.

"Hide him? What are you talking about?"

"Its okay, Eric," Harvey replied.

"The lieutenant and I have talked it over already. We've decided to placed the cured patients in a police safehouse to protect them from this Gay Slasher."

"Where?" Max smiled.

"Its a secret hence the word 'safehouse."

"From us?"

"Yes."

"But I don't see why," Eric continued.

"Can't we just improve security and leave them in here?" "We could," Harvey said, "but we both felt this was the better solution. It would be much too disruptive to have a ton of policemen all over the place and try to operate a first-class medical facility.

And another thing. Martino was killed in this very building while I was still here. It would be impossible to guarantee their safety."

"What about their medical treatment?" Eric asked.

"The lieutenant has assured me that he has a qualified man who will follow our very specific instructions, right, Lieutenant?"

"Correct. We won't touch them without your go-ahead."

"And for right now I have informed the lieutenant that the patients are not to be touched or handled in any manner." || Eric said nothing. | Max cleared his throat.

"Now that we have that settled, how many cured patients are still alive?"

"Three," Harvey answered.

"And to answer your other ' question, no, there would be no reason to hide Michael from the killer since he is not a cured patient. I might suggest, however, a few extra men at the entrances."

"Okay," Max agreed.

"Where are the three patients?"

"They're all here."

"Good. Did you have a chance to go through Dr. Grey's private files yet?"

Harvey nodded slowly.

"Do you have a list of Dr. Grey's missing files?"

"Here." Harvey handed Max a piece of paper and stepped back. Max glanced over the list of names. He shook his head, took the pencil out of his mouth, and scratched a line across three names:

Krutzer, Theodore Leander, Paul Martino, Riccardo Singer, Arnold Trian, Scott Whithoroon, William

"Let me guess," Max said wearily.

"The three surviving HFV negative patients are Krutzer, Leander, and Singer."

Harvey nodded.

Max pocketed the list and headed for the door.

"Then let's start preparing them for the move to the safehouse."

"Fine. Eric, I'll see you later."

"Okay."

After the two men left the room, Eric Blake walked toward his private file cabinet. He bent down, unlocked the bottom drawer, and reached way into the back. His fingers deftly lifted away loose papers, digging down to the bottom where they hit warm glass.

Eric quickly made sure that no one was looking before he pulled out a test tube filled with blood.

Police Sergeant Willie Monticelli was three years away from his pension. He was a twenty-seven-year veteran of the force, having worked homicide for over a decade. Sounded like glamorous work to many but usually the job was about as exciting as watching paint dry. It consisted of running down useless leads, interviewing hostile people who knew nothing, writing up painstaking progress reports which were never read, and worst of all, surveillance.

Right now Willie Monticelli was on his second day of surveillance. The first day had produced the usual nothing.

Zippo. Subject X had not done one thing that could be labeled even slightly suspicious. Day 2, however, was another matter.

On Day 2, Subject X had flown to Washington, DC.

Earlier in the morning Willie had followed Subject X to La Guardia Airport where he purchased a ticket for American Airlines flight 105 to Washington. Willie did likewise. When Subject X landed at Dulles International Airport, he rented a car from Hertz. Willie did likewise. Now they were both driving down Rockville Pike. Destination still unknown. Willie was not worred about losing the grey Chevy Camaro in front of him. He was the best tail-man in the business.