Miracle Cure (29 page)

"No one else is to be hurt without my say-so. Absolutely no one. Just keep a hold of you-know-who. Make sure you treat him well."

"HI do what I have to do."

"No. You listen to-" "Good-bye," George said.

"Wait. How can I reach you?"

"You can't." George had trusted his employer too much already but no more. It was time to take control.

"Just follow our plan." He snapped off the radio.

"Surakarn?"

"Yes?"

He tried to smile, but he was still distracted.

"I feel good. Let's take a little ride."

"Where to?"

"I just came into a lot of money."

"Congratulations."

"Tell me, Surakarn, can a man still buy anything in Bangkok?"

Surakarn smiled toothlessly.

"Do you still like them older?"

He nodded.

"She has to be at least twenty."

Jennifer Hiker's whole body shook. Over the past three days she had read the press reports, seen the news of Michael's kidnapping on the television, witnessed the outrage of a country.

But Jennifer felt more than outrage.

She felt fear.

Susan was going to be home in another two days, but Jennifer now knew that she could no longer wait until then. She had been wrestling with her decision for three days now and had come to the decision that the stakes were too high for her to hold back.

Michael's life might depend upon her actions.

But when she reached over and picked up the packet, her mind started to vacillate again. No evidence, after all, linked this mailing with the Gay Slasher or the kidnapping. No evidence at all. These were just standard medical files and lab samples.

Period. That was it.

Then why had Bruce mailed them the day he committed suicide? And why had three of the patients listed in the files Trian, Whitherson, and Martino been murdered? Coincidence?

She thought not.

She wavered long enough. The note written to Susan, well, that was Susan's and there was no way Jennifer was going to open it. But the other contents in the packet were not personal. The files were not, she knew, for everyone's eyes, but there was one person who might make sense of it, one person who might be able to piece together why Bruce felt the need to mail it to a seldom-used address on the day he died.

Jennifer picked up the phone and dialed Harvey's private extension.

Enough lying around.

Sara threw the blankets off her body, stood, and took hold of her cane.

The inactivity, the babying, the looks of pity all behind her now. She had to stop crying. She had to get up and act. She had to find out what was happening and who was behind all of this.

She had to save her husband.

"Where are you going?" Cassandra asked.

"To speak with Max and Harvey. They're at the clinic." "Wait a second," Cassandra said.

"You can't tell anyone about this yet not even Max and Harvey. This is still Dad we're talking about."

Sara nodded.

"I know. I won't say a word about him until we speak to him tonight.

"I'll meet you at the house at eight o'clock."

The sisters embraced. Then Sara left for the clinic. She arrived at the door of the third floor lab a half hour later.

"I want to know everything," she said.

Max and Harvey turned toward the lab door.

"Sara," Harvey began, "what are you doing here? You should be-"

"I should be right here," she interrupted.

"Max and I are doing all we can," Harvey continued in a calm voice.

"Why don't you go back home and rest? Well let you know if anything changes."

"Don't patronize me, Harvey."

"I'm not patronizing. I'm trying to do what's best for your health." She continued to stare at them, her eyes both wide and defiant.

"I'm fine. I want to know what you've learned."

Harvey's next protest was cut off by Max.

"Then come over and sit down," Max said.

"We don't have time to argue."

Sara limped over to the table and pulled out a chair.

"Okay, what have you got?"

"A few things," Max said.

"First, we've been going over the files of the murdered patients."

"Learn anything?"

"Maybe," Max said, his leg shaking up and down.

"Maybe not. They were killed in almost the same order they got here.

Trian and Whitherson were both original patients at the clinic and Martino came in a couple of months later. The other three cured patients Krutzer, Leander, and Singer all came in about a year later."

"what's that mean?"

Max hesitated, his fingers entwined in his own hair.

"I don't know," he said.

"It might mean nothing, but something about it bothers me."

"How does Bradley fit in?" she asked.

"Or... or Michael?"

"They don't really. They have no similarity to the other three victims or for that matter to the three who are still alive. In fact, the only similarity I can see is that both Bradley and Michael were V. I.P patients."

Harvey snapped his fingers.

"But maybe that's it. Maybe the killer is after the important patients, not merely the cured patients."

"Could be," Max shrugged.

"But that raises the larger question why kill four patients, one nurse, and presumably one doctor and not kill Michael?"

Harvey looked at Sara hesitantly.

"Excuse me for suggesting this," he began carefully, "but we really don't know if Michael is alive, do we? The killer may have just moved his body."

"It wouldn't make sense," Max replied.

"Kill him at the clinic and then move him out? Very risky."

Harvey was about to point out that Bradley Jenkins had met a similar fate but chose not to push it in front of Sara.

"Okay, let's move on."

The intercom on the table buzzed. A woman's voice said, "Dr. Riker?"

Harvey lifted the receiver.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Riker is on line 6," the receptionist said.

"Take a message." "She said it's urgent."

"Sure. Her alimony payment is probably a week late. Tell her I'll call her back." Harvey replaced the receiver in its cradle.

"Nothing important. Go on."

Sara nodded, struggling in her ongoing battle against coming apart.

"How do you think the kidnapper got in and out of the clinic?"

"We think he used a secret entrance," Max replied.

"There is a small tunnel in the basement that leads to an apartment building two doors down. Somehow, he found out about it."

"How?" "I don't know," Max said.

"Then someone has to be giving out information on this place," Sara said.

"And what about the timing, Max? Markey decides to use Michael as a guinea pig and the next thing you know he vanishes. It has to be related."

Max quickened his pace, his teeth working on a stubborn hangnail.

"Agreed."

"Hold on a second," Harvey interrupted.

"This makes no sense. No one has access to that kind of information, except..."

He stopped.

Max stopped.

"Except whom?" he prodded.

Harvey shook his head.

"No one."

As if on cue, Winston O'Connor came around the doorway.

"Hey, gang," he drawled.

"What's going on?" "Where the hell have you been?" Harvey almost shouted.

Winston looked confused.

"No reason to bite my head off, Harv. Hell, I went fishing. Stayed in the family summer cabin on the lake. Caught the hugest humdinger of a fish "

"Don't you get a newspaper?"

"Shit, no. We don't even have a phone out there." He stopped, looked around.

"Now what in the hell is going on around here?"

Max walked toward the chief lab technician.

"Will you excuse us a moment?" he said to Harvey and Sara.

"I'd like to speak with Winston alone."

In Bethesda, Maryland, four powerful men sat in a plush office in a picturesque baronial structure on the campus of the National Institutes of Health.

One was powerful in the religious world; one in the political realm; two in the medical community.

It was a beautiful day. The sky was dark blue and clear. The well-manicured grounds outside were alive with green. The whole area resembled the most exclusive of country clubs.

But the four men were oblivious to their resort-like surroundings.

Arguments raged. Accusations were hurled. Fingers were pointed. And in the end nothing was resolved. Through it all, one man had not raised his voice. One man had not engaged in the bitter debate. One man a normally very verbose man had not said a word.

But the man had listened. And the man had made a decision.

As the meeting broke up, the man pulled Dr. John Lowell to the side and said five words: "We have to talk alone."

To which Dr. Lowell nodded and replied, "Let's get back to New York first."

Max closed the lab door.

"So how were the fish biting?"

"Pretty good," Winston drawled.

"I caught one of the biggest bass ya ever did see. She must have weighed a good "

"Great. Congratulations. Now why don't we stop playing games?"

"Playing games? I don't getcha, Lieutenant."

Max renewed his pacing with surprising vigor.

"Would you mind telling me why you were in Washington three days ago?"

"How do you know "

"Don't worry about how. Just tell me why."

Winston's expression remained cool, his tone impatient.

"While I don't reckon it's any of your goddamn business, I stopped in Washington to visit some friends on my way home. Happy?"

"Your home in Alabama?"

"That's right."

"The cabin by the lake and all that."

"Yep."

"Tell me something else, Winston what parts of Washington did you visit?"

"I don't see why that's important."

"It's not really. I just want to know why you went to the National Institutes of Health."

Winston tried to glare at his interrogator, but Max had his back turned.

"You had me followed?"

"Yes."

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but there is nothing very sinister in that. I was visiting a couple of former co-workers.

I used to work there."

"Interesting," Max replied.

"Then how come there is no mention of it in your resume?" Max reached into his coat pocket, withdrew his hand, reached into his front pants pocket, withdrew again.

"Damn, I had it here someplace."

"Lieutenant..."

"Here it is." Max took out the crumbled piece of paper and unfolded it with quick fingers.

"Now this resume covers your work history from your undergraduate studies to the present day.

When exactly did you work for the NIH?"

Again the silence. Then: "I have a friend who works for the NIH, okay?

Is that such a crime? I didn't want to say anything because I knew he would jump "

"Now there are two ways we can play it," Max said, ignoring Winston's shifting explanations.

"One, you can tell me what I want to know. Two, you can continue your little charade and I can arrest you."

"On what charge?"

"Murder in the first degree. Breaking and entering. Assault."

"You're out of your cotton-pickin' mind. Who am I supposed to have murdered?"

"Riccardo Martino."

"Who?" Max smiled.

"The patient who was murdered in the clinic."

"I don't know the name of any patients. Harv must have told you that."

"Riccardo Martino was mentioned in the story on Newsflash a few nights back."

"I don't recall the name," Winston said with a dismissing wave of his hand.

"And anyway, you got nothing on me."

Max leaned forward. O'Connor's expression was relaxed, but Max had seen the familiar scared shadow cross his face briefly.

"Sure about that, Winston?"

"Whadda ya mean?"

"We have a witness who will swear under oath you were in the hospital at the time of Martino's death, even though you claimed to be home."

"Get lost."

"The same witness saw you hit Dr. Riker over the head. We also know you were in the lab breaking into Dr. Riker's files."

"You're bluffing," he said.

True, Max thought, but now he noticed that O'Connor's voice was not as confident as it had been. Max decided to give him another little push.

"And one other thing." Max turned his head so that his back was to Winston.

"Drop the southern drawl. It's insulting."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Max turned around, his eyes toward the floor, pencil between his teeth.

Something close to a smile passed his lips.

"No one who has lived in New York for the past twenty years has a southern accent that thick. You sound like somebody on Heehaw."

Again, silence.

"We know you work for the NIH," Max continued.

"We assume you're CIA-trained. And we know what you've been up to."

"You don't know shit." The southern accent was weaker now, less pronounced. Winston's Adam's apple bopped up and down continuously as he swallowed.

Max took the pencil out of his mouth and examined it.

"I know I have the authority to drag your ass down to headquarters, book you for murder, and seal you in a cage. If you think your CIA or your NIH buddies are going to rescue you, you are very much mistaken. This case is too hot. They'll let you rot before admitting you're one of them."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Winston said, but there was now a clear waver in his voice.

"Then just humor me by listening to your other option," Max continued.

"You might find it interesting." "I told you I don't know "

"Option 2: you can tell me what you know," Max interrupted.

"In return, I will promise to keep our conversation confidential it'll just be between you and me. Washington will never know anything about it. Think about it. The choice is yours." There was a stony silence which Max by taking out his handcuffs and a plastic card from which he read: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you "

"Hold on a minute."

Max looked up from his card.

"Something you wanted to say?"

Winston rubbed his face.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't. But if you don't cooperate, I'll pin Martino's murder on you. That's a promise."

For a brief moment Max and Winston locked eyes. It was Winston who looked away.

"What do you want to know?"

"Who are you working for?"

"All confidential, right?"

"Right. Who are you working for?"

Winston took a deep breath and released it.

"I don't know.

I'm a CIA operative, but I report to the Department of Health and Human Services."

"To whom?"

Winston shook his head.

"No names."

"Raymond Markey?" "I said, no names."

"What is your function?"

"Gathering information on the clinic."

"What kind of information?"

"Any and all."

"And how do you go about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"How do you gather your information?"

Winston shrugged.

"Simple. I snoop around. I break into the confidential files.

Whatever it takes."

"Is that what you were doing the night Harvey stumbled across you?" Winston paused. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.

"You gotta light?"

Max shook his head.

"I don't smoke. It's bad for you."

"Yeah, sure, and chewing pencils is healthy, right?"

"Were you in the clinic the night Martino was killed?"

"I'd rather not answer that."

"Then I'll take that as a yes."

Winston O'Connor found a set of matches near a Bunsen burner. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, as though the cigarette were an oxygen mask and he was caught in a fire.

"Take it anyway you want, Lieutenant. But I did not kill anyone."

"Why did the NIH want all of this information?"

"I don't like to theorize, Lieutenant."

"Try."

Another deep puff.

"I assumed that the NIH wanted to check up on the clinic's progress independently. They got a big investment here, and Harv and Bruce can be pretty damn secretive." Max thought for a moment.

"Okay, tell me this: why did you report to Washington in person three days ago?"

"My contact was worried."

"About what?"

"He didn't like the positive media reports about the clinic."

"Why not?"

Winston shrugged.

"He wanted to know what Harvey was up to what he was going to do next."

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth. I can break into files and I can snoop around, but I cannot read another man's mind. I told them I had no idea."

"What has the NIH said to you about Michael Silverman's kidnapping?"

"Not a thing. I haven't spoken to them since the day I flew into Washington."

"Has your contact ever mentioned the Gay Slasher?"

"Never."

"Do you think your employers are behind it?"

Winston smiled, the cigarette dangling from his lip.

"How fuckin' crazy do you think I am, Lieutenant?"

Shrug.

"How often did you break into the clinic's confidential files?"

"About once a week, I guess."

"During the daytime or the night?"

"Night usually. When I thought no one would be around."

Max nodded, pacing.

"Except you didn't know Michael was on the third floor, did you, Winston?"

"Huh?"

Max walked toward him.

"A few hours before Martino was murdered, a new patient had been secretly whisked into the room down the hall Michael Silverman.

Naturally, you wanted to find out who he was. So you broke into Harvey's private files that night."

"Now hold on a minute." "But you screwed up," Max continued.

"Dr. Riker was on the floor at the time. He heard you in the lab. So you knocked Harvey out."

"Slow down a second."

"Then you went downstairs, killed Martino "

"I didn't kill anybody!" he interrupted.

"Okay, I admit it. I was in the lab that night. I broke into the file cabinet and saw Silverman's name. I knew the NIH boys would be interested in him so I tried to find out more. That's when Harv interrupted me.

I guess I panicked a little. My instructions were not to get caught under any circumstances. So when Harv came in the lab, I hit him in the back of the neck. But I didn't kill Martino, I swear it."

"You're a martial arts expert." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah, so?"

"And the blow to Sara's neck was delivered by a martial arts expert."

"Whoa, back up a second, Lieutenant. I didn't touch Sara Lowell. For that matter, I never touched her husband or Janice or that Martino guy.

Christ, I felt awful when I heard about Janice.

She was a fine woman." Winston lowered his head into his hands.

"I never hurt anybody, I swear. I was just trying to gather information for a branch of the government that has every right to know what was going on in here. There is nothing illegal in that."

"What else do you know?"

"Nothing. I swear."

Max stopped his pacing and restarted his nodding. "You better not be holding out on me. Or else."

He had tried to sound tough, but it came out too whiny.

Damn.

"Tuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it. Yes. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, I'm commnngggg!"

Michael tried to ignore the continuous cries of the prostitute in the next room and consider his options.

One, he could try to break the chain manacled to his ankle.

The problem lay in the fact that the steel was rather secure; more to the point, it would not budge.

He could yell out the window for help. But suppose George or his accomplices heard him?

Three... There was no three. He stood and tested how far the chain would allow him to roam. He could get close to the window but not to the door.

George probably did that on purpose. The door was a scrawny-looking thing with rotted wood and a lock that a strong gust of wind could break in two.

He sat back down, his nose throbbing painfully. Downstairs, the topless bar was in full swing now. The music was considerably louder than earlier, the vibrations from the deep bass potent enough to reach inside Michael's chest. Prostitutes and their clients walked about freely in the hallway. Michael heard doors shut on both sides of his room. Then a woman yelling:

"Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it. Yes. Ohhhh, Ohhhh, I'm cominnngggg!"

The woman screamed into her fake orgasm. The man grunted into his real one.

The sessions never lasted more than a couple of minutes.

Then it would all start again. The prostitute would come upstairs with a new John. There would be the same giggling. The same fake orgasm.

The same

"Fuck me" words shouted at the same rehearsed pitch. Over and over. Performance after performance.

The woman's high-pitched squeals of delight were incessant, monotonous, passionless, as though Michael were listening to a robot or an actress who had learned her lines too well.

Okay, let's think this through. Harvey tells me Raymond Markey wants to use me as the clinic's guinea pig. Next thing I knew, I'm in the Orient with a psychopath. So what can we conclude from all this.

Just one thing:

I have to get the hell out of here.

Cramps ripped through his stomach. The cause, he knew, could be his hepatitis or withdrawal from the addictive SRI or... or something new.

Something AIDS-related.

"Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that's it..."

The very air had mingled with the sleazy surroundings, giving everything around him a dense and seedy feel. Breathing nauseated him.

The women's cries were maddening in their repetition, hour after hour, endless. He put his hands to his ears and tried to block them out, but the sounds were right outside his door: