Miracle Cure (27 page)

George heard the elevator door opening.

During the elevator ride Sara had concentrated very hard on something completely inane: which would she do first, slide the memo under the lab door or look in on Michael? As the elevator doors opened, she decided to slide the memo under the lab door first. She knew that if she looked in on Michael first and then went to the lab, she would crave a second peek on her way back.

Her leg ached like a bastard as she stepped out of the elevator.

She checked her watch. Reece would be another five minutes at least.

Good. She was really happy he had visited today. She could tell that Michael was thrilled too. Reece meant a lot to him.

They shared a special bond, one that only teammates Sara froze. Her eyes widened.

Oh my God... She stared down the hall in the direction of the laboratory.

The walls looked like some kid had finger painted them with red paint.

Only the texture was too thin for paint, too dark for ketchup, too syrupy for anything but blood.

Maybe somebody dropped a blood sample on their way to the lab?

Then how do you explain the tiny fact that the blood was splashed all over the place?

Maybe whoever it was tripped and the blood sample went flying all over the place and... And nobody cleaned it up? Good try, Sara.

Her heart pounded in her chest as another thought pushed its way through the confusion and into the front of the brain:

Michael.

She spun back toward the door to Michael's room and hobbled forward.

Her knees buckled in fear when she saw the door shade was illuminated.

Why is Michael's light on? Why the hell... For a brief second the light created a silhouette against the window shade. The brief image was as clear to her as those presidential cut-outs kids did in school during President's Week.

It had been the silhouette of a man.

Her leg felt anchored to the ground, but she dragged it along like an inanimate object. When she reached the door, she grabbed the knob and pushed without hesitation. She limped in, her eyes searching.

No one.

Her mind began to whirl aimlessly. There was no one in the room except, of course, for Michael. He lay sleeping. Or was he?

Yes, his eyes were closed, but there was something very strange, something so obvious and yet so subtly horrifying that she felt her chest tighten. She could not breathe. If Michael was just sleeping, then how come his face was upside down? How come his head was lolling at a strange angle. And most important, how come he was lying half off the bed?

From behind her came a voice.

"Good night, Sara."

She turned, but Sara never got a chance to see the man's face.

Wednesday, September 25

"Dad?"

Dr. John Lowell turned toward his older daughter.

"Yes, Cassandra?"

She licked her lips nervously.

"Where are you going?"

"On a business trip.

"I'll be home tonight."

"Where?"

He put down his briefcase.

"Why are you so interested?"

"Just tell me where."

"Washington."

Cassandra closed her eyes.

"You're going to meet with them again, aren't you?" "Meet with whom again?" he asked, his voice a mixture of annoyance and fear.

"What are you talking about?"

"With Reverend Sanders, for one."

Silence. Then: "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she replied.

"I was here when you met with him three days ago. I was hiding in your closet."

His eyes widened.

"You what?"

She moved closer to him.

"It has to stop. You have to tell the truth before there's more bloodshed."

"Cassandra, you don't know what " She stepped in front of him.

"Don't let him blackmail you any longer."

His face grew tight.

"Stay out of this. I know what I'm doing."

"How much more blood are you going to spill? How many people have to die before you put this to a stop?"

"Get out of my way. You are talking nonsense."

"Dad..."

"Move!" He pushed her harder than he had intended. She fell to the floor.

"Cassandra!" He sprinted toward her.

"Honey, I'm so sorry," he began.

"I didn't mean to hurt " She sat up, her eyes burning.

"Get away from me."

He backed away, his face twisted into a look of longing and anguish.

"I have to go now, honey. Please trust me. I know what I'm doing.

When I come home tonight we'll talk about it, okay?

Just trust me. I love you."

He turned and hurried out the door. Cassandra stood. She was still unsure about what she should do. This was, after all, her father not some evil monster. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.

What doubt, Cassandra? What are you so afraid of?

Nothing. She would wait until tonight. She would listen to what he had to say first before jumping to any conclusions... No.

She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. It was time to tell someone before it was too late. But not Harvey. He would never be able to look at it objectively.

It was time to tell Sara.

So hot... Michael tried to stir himself to consciousness. It was no easy task.

His eyes felt stapled shut. His mind spun in figure eights.

Something was wrapped tightly around his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.

He heard boisterous sounds all about him. Very noisy. Cars.

Horns honking. People shouting out like hot dog vendors at a baseball game. Loud rock music. Laughter. General chatter. He tried to concentrate on the sounds, tried to sift out some meaning in them, but he found it difficult. Some people were speaking English, no question about it, but others were talking in a foreign tongue that Michael's cloudy mind could not place. It sounded Chinese or something like that only more lyrical, more pleasant to the ear.

What the hell is going on?

He wondered if he was perhaps dreaming, if he was not still asleep. But how often did he dream of sounds with no vision?

No, he was awake. His eyes were closed. He was lying on a hard wood floor, his right ear numb from leaning against it. His whole body felt sore, as though he had been lying on this floor for a week, which, he surmised, was entirely possible.

He tried to sit up, but he fell back down upon the ground twice. His hands, he realized, were handcuffed together behind his back, pinning back his shoulder blades painfully.

After another failed attempt Michael managed to work himself into a sitting position. In the background he could hear someone shouting with a heavy accent, "Supergirl! Supergjrl! Come meet Supergirl! Time of your life!" With a struggle Michael's eyes fluttered and then opened. It took him another minute or two to focus and take in his surroundings. Small room. Barren. Dirty.

The walls were covered with chipped paint. A light bulb dangled from exposed wires on the ceiling. There was a fold-out chair and ratty mattress which made the room smell of mildew, sweat, and urine. There were also blood stains on it. Michael's right ankle was shackled to a pipe running through the room. His mouth had been taped shut with what tasted like masking tape. His eyes continued to scan the room until they stopped at something on the ceiling.

What the...?

He looked again. Jammed in a hole by the door were sticks of what looked like dynamite. Michael swallowed.

Where the fuck am I?

He tried to reconstruct his last conscious hours. He had been at the clinic. Harvey had given him an injection of SRI. Reece and Sara had visited him. He recalled dosing a bit while they were still in the room and finally falling asleep. And then... nothing.

The heat in the room was well past tropical, the air thick and still.

His body was coated with sweat. He tried to wipe his cheek on his shoulder, but his wet shirt just added more perspiration to the area.

He glanced about the room again. His eyes stopped when he saw a piece of paper on the floor:

Hello, Michael.

Welcome to the land of conscious. I hope you had a pleasant nap and an equally pleasant journey. Try to make yourself comfortable. Please do not try to escape. ' If by some miracle you were gone when I returned, I would hunt down your beautiful bride, fuck her, and then kill her.

Best wishes, George P.S. I have people downstairs so don't try shouting out the window.

I'm having a nightmare, Michael said to himself. That's what it is. A nightmare. Either that or I am losing my mind.

He struggled and scraped his way toward the window. The chain just reached. He lifted his head, pushed his face under the shade with his nose and looked out. If he had been only confused before, he was completely lost now. There were tons of people on the streets. Neon lights splashed across the dark sky, LIVE Sex Shows! and LIVE Nudes!

over an dover again, as though some patrons would be confused and think that they performed sex shows with dead bodies. Dark, oriental men stood outside bars, opening the door every once in a while to reveal naked dancing girls on tables, hoping the view would entice customers into their establishment. A man stood in the middle of the street with three girls, each dressed in a red cape, blue boots, and yellow body suits with a giant "S" emblazoned upon the chest. The man kept yelling out, "Supergirl! Supergirl! Spend an evening with Supergirl! She fly you to the moon and back!"

Michael spotted a young Asian boy approaching an American couple in their sixties who looked liked they belonged on a farm in the Midwest.

"You want go to sex show?" he asked in broken English, handing the couple a card.

"Lookie at all these positions."

He began to point to different parts of the card.

"Woman on top.

Two women with one man. Doggie. You name it. Lookie, big breasts.

Use banana too. You like. Anything you want. Come with me. Live show."

Mr. and Mrs. Old Macdonald studied the card as if it were the fine print of a real estate contract, nodded eagerly, and then followed the Asian boy.

The street was packed, waves of people heading in both directions.

There were other neon signs too. Some in English, some written in characters Michael did not understand. They were not, he knew, Chinese or Japanese. Not Hebrew or Arabic either.

No cars were on the road, but he could hear them close by. On his right, he saw tables set up with watches, shirts, pants, sweaters, cassettes, everything.

"Three dollars for Lacoste shirt," one vendor cried. Another shouted, "One dollar for favorite cassette. Six for five dollars. All favorites of you. George Michael.

U2. Barbra Streisand. You name, we have."

What is this place?

The door behind him opened.

"Well, well, we're awake."

Michael slid back to the floor. The man in the doorway was large and stocky. He appeared to be very muscular, though not as disproportionate as most weight-lifters. His hair was slicked back like Pat Riley, the former Lakers coach, and his suit looked like something off the cover of GQ.

"Welcome, Michael," the man began.

"My name is George.

Did you read my note?"

Michael nodded.

"It was for your own good," George continued.

"Escape would be very dangerous. You see, I have already killed a lot of people.

Killing your wife would just be one more."

Michael struggled, but the chains held him in place.

"Now just relax a second, Michael." George knew a lot about the art of intimidation. Threatening a man's wife was one of his favorite tactics. It was connected to the whole possession thing, he guessed, and nothing demoralized a man more than the thought that his wife was balling another guy by force or otherwise.

George grabbed the chair from the corner, sat down, and leaned toward his captive.

"You look confused, Michael, so let me explain to you what's going on."

His voice was relaxed, casual.

A casual voice, George knew, was often more unnerving than the loudest of screams.

"We are in Bangkok. That's right, we are in the Far East, just you and me, pal. In fact, this building is on Patpong Street, the red-light district. Twelve-year-old whores suck off guys in this very room all the time, Michael, isn't that sick?

Twelve years old and already they're hustling. A real shame."

George shook his head solemnly.

"I tell you, the world is falling apart before our very eyes and nobody cares. Fact is, we're standing over a topless bar right now bottomless too if you pay the right price."

George laughed maniacally at his joke. Michael stared back in horror.

"Don't get so upset, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Good. Maybe later we'll have time to see the sights. The Reclining Buddha is a must-see in my opinion. Same with the Grand Palace. Maybe well even take a little boat trip through the floating market. Would you like that?" Michael just continued to stare.

"But first, let's talk business. If you do what I say, no one will be hurt and you will be free very soon. We might even have some fun. If, however, you do not cooperate, my reaction will be swift and painful." George smiled again.

"Let me give you an example."

Without warning, George's hand shot out. It moved so fast it was barely a blur. His knuckles landed on Michael's nose.

Michael heard a crunching, squelching noise and he knew that his nose had been broken. Blood trickled out of his nostrils.

"You see what I'm saying?"

The pain engulfed Michael's entire face. Since his mouth was still covered with the tape, he had no choice but to breathe through his broken nose. What do you want? Michael tried to scream, but the tape muffled his voice.

"Now let me tell you something else," George continued.

"I have things to do so I can't sit here and watch you all day. Besides, it's too hot in here. Bangkok is always so humid, Michael, but you get used to it after a day or two. The thing is my employer told me to make you as comfortable as possible. So I would like to loosen some of those chains and take the tape off your mouth.

But I need your promise you won't try anything. Do you promise, Mike?"

Michael nodded.

"Good. If you leave this room or do something cute, my men will spot you, and Sara will suffer. I am good at making people suffer. And Sara is such a delicate little flower, Michael. You wouldn't want me to attach electric cables to her clit, would you?

Juice her up good and then let my boys take turns with her?"

Michael quickly shook his head.

"I'm also pretty handy with explosives. If the police did by some miracle find you and decide to try a rescue," he paused, smiled, and nodded toward the sticks of dynamite by the door, "ka-boom! Michael all gone. Blood, limbs, screams very messy stuff. Follow me?"

Another nod.

"I'm going to take the tape off your mouth row. If you scream, I'll break your jaw. No one will pay attention anyway. People are always screamingvm this street." George reached out and ripped off the tape.

Michael caught his breath. With some effort he worked his vocal chords.

"What do you want?"

"Don't worry about it."

"I'll pay you anything you want."

"Forget it, Michael."

Michael managed to sit upright.

"Can you take off the handcuffs?" he asked.

"They're killing my shoulders."

"Sure, but the ankle chain stays on." George used a small key to unlock the handcuffs. They opened with a click.

"Better?"

Michael nodded. He rubbed his wrists, eyeing George in the process.

His head still swam, his vision still blurred. George sat no more than a yard away.

Now; or never, Mikey boy.

Later, Michael would claim that pure fear clouded his brain and distorted his rational thinking. It was the only explanation for what he did next.

With something approaching horror, Michael realized that his fingers were forming a fist. His eyes watched helplessly while he cocked the fist and launched it toward George's face.

The punch moved at a pitifully slow pace. The drugs George had pumped into Michael's body continued to extract a heavy toll on his physical prowess. George's right forearm knocked the blow to the side with a casual wave.

"You are a brave man, Michael Silverman," George said.

"You are also very foolish."

George's hand reached out and took hold of Michael's broken nose between his thumb and index finger. Michael screamed.

Then George twisted.

Tiny fragmented bones began to grate against one another, making a horrid grinding noise like someone was tap-dancing on a thousand beetles. George increased the pressure. Tendons and tissue ripped.