Miracle Cure (30 page)

"Come on, Frankie," a whore purred with a thick Asian accent.

"Right behind you, sweetheart. Damn, I spilled my drink."

"This way, Frankie. Tawnee going to show you good time, you see."

"Might just be the other way around, honey," the man, an American, slurred. He was clearly inebriated.

"I take care of your big cock. You see."

"Bet your ass you will." The man stumbled, bumping into walls like a pinball.

"You like that, Frankie?"

"Yeah, that's wonderful."

"You want to go in room now, Frankie?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

"Okay, but money before is for boss man. You give Tawnee big tip, yes?"

"Let's talk about it in the room."

Michael froze. He saw the doorknob turn.

"No, Frankie, this way," the whore said.

The door shook.p"

"Damn door is stuck."

"Over here, Frankie. That sign say no enter."

"Fuck the sign, sweetheart.

"I'll get us in. You just keep rubbing my balls."

"No, Frankie, wrong room." Her warnings were more urgent now, but Frankie did not pay heed.

"That's boss man's room, Frankie. He get mad. Come over here.

Frankie!"

Frankie threw his shoulder against the wood. The lock grudgingly gave way. Michael's eyes widened as the door began to swing open.

"No, Frankie, wrong room." The whore quickly reached through the portal. She maneuvered Frankie out of the way, fixed the lock, took hold of the door, and began to swing it closed.

For the briefest of moments she looked at Michael, her eyes stained with fear and sympathy. Then she turned away. Michael's heart sank as the door closed.

"Come on, Frankie," the whore tried to enthuse.

"We go have fun. You like too much."

"I hope so, sweetheart. Let's party!"

Then Michael heard another door open and close.

Frankie's penis remained flaccid.

"What's the matter, Frankie?" Tawnee asked.

"You no like me?"

Frankie looked down. The whore was licking his balls and doing a yeoman's job of it too. Still, no hard-on. Super strange.

Frankie's sexual dysfunctions usually came from the flip-side of a softy: premature eruption of of' Mount Vesuvius. Not being able to achieve a serviceable, gargantuan erection was something new to him.

Super strange.

It wasn't the alcohol either, though he had drunk enough to knock out a battalion. Shit, Frankie had been blitzed plenty of times. Plenty.

But his

"Throbbing Warhead" had never had any trouble engaging in the past. The Big Fella was usually swollen to the size of a Louisville Slugger by now, splitting the little lady in two nice, even pieces. And it wasn't the chicks fault either.

She was a pro in every way, her tongue licking gently at him like a kitten near a saucer of milk. A beautiful thing really. Screw the cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel getting sucked off by a working pro was one of his favorite things.

But suddenly the dog had bitten, the bee had stung, he was feeling sad.

Check that. He was feeling un horny And why?

Because he was a basketball fan.

"Lie down, Frankie. Relax."

He obeyed, but his mind was elsewhere. He had read in the International Herald Tribune a couple of days ago about the kidnapping of Michael Silverman. Super strange stuff. It had happened in some AIDS clinic on the east coast of the USA.

So then why the hell was Silverman chained to the floor of a Thai whorehouse?

Simple, Frankie. You're drunk. Check that: you're shit-faced, you thick-dicked macho hunk. You imagined the whole thing. How long was the door open, Super Stud, two seconds? You barely saw the guy.

Good point, except for one thing. Frankie never hallucinated.

Drinking loosened him up. Drinking made him feel good.

Drinking made him pass out and pee in his pants. Drinking did not, however, cause him to imagine kidnap victims chained to a floor. He had to tell the police, and he had to tell them right away. Could be a reward in it for him.

"Whoa, honey, slow down a second," he said.

The whore lifted her head.

"Something to please you, Frankie?"

He stood and grabbed his pants. He zipped slowly, making sure he kept his Trouser Snake from running wild and getting caught in the metal teeth.

"Don't take it personal, sweetheart, but I gotta go. Maybe next time."

"But, Frankie-"

"Here's fifty bucks. I'll tell boss man you were great.

Don't worry."

He winked and then headed out the door.

Tawnee shrugged and picked up the fifty dollar bill. Poor man, she thought. It was sort of sad. She had seen more than her share of penises in her day, but the thing in that guy's pants looked like a baby's pinkie.

So sad.

Sara arrived at the family estate a few minutes before eight.

Cassandra met her at the front door.

"Hi," Sara said.

"Hi."

That was the extent of their conversation.

They sat on either side of the den and waited in silence. Their eyes never met. They seemed to be avoiding each other, like teenagers left alone on a first date, but above all they looked weary.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, the only noise in the still surroundings. Sara began to tap her leg and sing an old classic from Thin Lizzy, but the words died away quickly.

"Sara?"

"Yes."

"I hope Michael is okay."

Sara nodded, a thin smile on her lips.

"He is."

They heard the familiar sound of the Mercedes diesel engine.

Their father was home. With great effort Sara made her way to her feet. Cassandra did likewise. As they headed down the corridor, past portraits of ancestors and the fine wooden paneling, John Lowell entered.

John saw his two daughters immediately and stopped. He did not call out to them or try to back away. He just stood there for a moment, staring, a defeated look on his face.

Cassandra stepped forward.

"I told Sara. I'm sorry " John interrupted his daughter with a raised hand.

"You did the right thing," he said.

"what's going on, Dad?" Sara asked.

"Perhaps we can explain."

"We?" Cassandra repeated.

John lowered his head and stepped aside. From behind him Senator Stephen Jenkins entered the room. His appearance had changed radically since the Cancer Center gala two weeks ago.

Bradley's father looked drawn. His eyes were unfocused and bewildered.

The senator tried to smile.

"Hello, ladies."

The sisters shared a confused glance.

"Dad," Sara began, "I don't understand what's going on."

"I know you don't, honey," John said gently.

"Maybe we can explain it to you in the study."

Harvey's eyes were red. He had not been home in five days, and he had not seen Cassandra since their brief tryst in his office the day Michael had been kidnapped. His sleep came in infrequent periods of semiconsciousness at his desk, more like airplane dozing than genuine REM sleep. For several minutes at a time he had managed to push Michael from his mind and focus on work. But the minutes never lasted very long before his attention reverted back to Michael. Still, he felt keyed up by new developments. The changes in the SRI formula enhancements, really were going to achieve the desired effect, he was sure of it. He just had to buckle down a little more, push himself a little more.

As anyone who knew or worked with him could attest, motivation had never been a problem for Harvey. More than anyone, he understood the ramifications of his work. That knowledge spurred him on when others almost all others would quit.

The intercom buzzed.

"Dr. Riker?"

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Riker called again. She wanted me to remind you to call her as soon as possible. She said it was urgent." Harvey sighed. Urgent. Yeah, right. To be fair, Jennifer probably wanted to know how Sara was doing and if they had learned anything knew about Michael. He really didn't have the time to go into all that with her. Besides, thinking about her still distracted him, and the last thing he needed was a distraction.

"Okay, thanks, I'll get back to her."

"Would you like me to place the call for you?"

Harvey thought for a moment and decided he might as well get it over with before Jen became hostile.

"That would be fine, thanks."

"I'll connect you."

A few moments later Harvey heard the phone ringing.

Lieutenant Max Bernstein sat at his desk and pondered the latest developments in the Gay Slasher case. Of course, Max never actually sat. He stood, paced, squatted, juggled day-old doughnuts (he was trying to master four at the same time), and drove those around him nuts.

He kept replaying his conversation with Winston O'Connor, the first big break in days. Clearly the National Institutes of Health had a strong interest in Sidney Pavilion. The question was why.

O'Connor's explanation that the NIH wanted to keep an eye on its interests rang hollow. Why single out the Sidney Pavilion?

There had to be a reason.

But what?

Okay, forget that for a moment. Move onto the murder of Riccardo Martino. Winston O'Connor claimed that he had nothing to do with Martino's death, and Max believed him. In an odd way it solved something that had puzzled Max from the moment they found Martino's body.

The timing.

Okay, let's reconstruct. Harvey Riker had seen Riccardo Martino alive a few minutes before Winston O'Connor knocked him unconscious. Ergo, Martino was murdered after Riker was attacked. In order for that to be the case, the killer had to surprise Harvey, go downstairs, kill Martino, and then make his escape all of which seemed very unlikely. No matter how cool a customer the Gay Slasher was, chances are he would have taken off as soon as Harvey stumbled onto the scene, saving Martino for another day.

So what was the explanation?

Simple. The person who killed Martino was not the same person who attacked Dr. Riker.

Well, if Winston O'Connor did not kill Martino, who did?

The Gay Slasher.

Then why didn't the Slasher stab him like the others?

Hmmm. Good question.

Like that one, Max? I got a million more for you. Is the person who hired the Gay Slasher targeting the cured patients like Trian, Whitherson, and Martino? Or is he (or she let's not be sexist) after the secret patients like Jenkins and Michael? Or both? And what about the order of the deaths of the cured patients the three early patients dead, the three later patients alive? Is there any significance in that or is it just a faulty wire in the brain that keeps bringing you back to that seemingly irrelevant point?

And the bigger question, which Max doodled on the top of his desk repeatedly:

Who benefits from the murders?

Good question. Crucial.

The phone on his desk rang. Max dropped the doughnuts onto the floor.

He reached for the receiver without bothering to pick them up.

"Bernstein here."

"Good," Sergeant Willie Monticelli said, "you're still there.

You ain't gonna believe this." The tone of Willie's voice told Max that this was no routine call.

"Where are you?"

"Downstairs. I got a police station in Bangkok on the phone.

A guy named Colonel something. I can't pronounce it."

Bangkok! Max sat down.

"What does he want?"

"I still have him on the line, Twitch. I want you to hear this for yourself."

"What is it?"

"I'd rather let him tell you himself."

"Patch him through."

"Just hold on. Damn, which button do I push?"

"The yellow one."

"Oh, right. Here goes."

Click. Static. Then: "Hello."

"Hello, Colonel," Max said, speaking slowly.

"My name is Lieutenant Max Bernstein. I am with the New York Police Department. With whom am I speaking?"

"Colonel Thaakavechikan. Bangkok Special Forces."

"Colonel Thaka-"

"Colonel will suffice, Lieutenant. I went to school in California so I know that Thai names are difficult for Americans."

"Thank you, Colonel. You have some information for us?"

"I believe so. I understand that you are in charge of the Gay Slasher homicides and the disappearance of Michael Silverman."

"Yes."

"Well, something has come to our attention which might be of interest to you. Have you ever heard of George Camron?"

"No."

"He is a professional hit man who lives in Bangkok, though he travels frequently. He is quite good and very deadly. We estimate that he has killed over two hundred people in the past decade."

"Jesus."

"When Camron is in Bangkok, he works out of a bar called the Eager Beaver on Patpong Street. He has been seen there quite frequently in recent days."

"Just recent days?"

"Yes. According to our sources, George Camron arrived in Bangkok within the week."

"Interesting," Max remarked.

"It gets more interesting, Lieutenant Bernstein."

"How so?"

"I have an American named Frank Reed sitting beside me.

Mr. Reed is a patron of the Eager Beaver Bar."

"Oh?"

"Let me preface this by mentioning that Mr. Reed admits to being drunk at the time he was in the bar."

"Go on."

"It seems that Mr. Reed was engaging in sexual activities with a prostitute in the upstairs section of the Eager Beaver. He accidentally opened the wrong door and saw a man chained at the ankle." "I see," Max said. His fingers plucked at his hair and mustache.

"Isn't that fairly normal? Whips and chains at a whorehouse?"

"Oh, yes, quite normal," the colonel agreed.

"Mr. Reed, however, swears that the man he saw was Michael Silverman."

The words slammed into Max's solar plexus.

"What?"

"He claims Michael Silverman is being held captive at the Eager Beaver Bar."

"Have you checked out his story?"

"That might not be as easy as you might think," the colonel explained.

"George Camron is more than a dangerous hit man, Lieutenant Bernstein he is very clever and careful. If Michael Silverman is being held in the Eager Beaver and it would not be the first time Camron has kept someone there it will be nearly impossible to get him out. Camron probably has the place wired with explosives and if he gets even slightly suspicious, he will blow the place up."

"Can't you take him out by surprise?"

"It is too risky, Lieutenant Bernstein. If we failed to kill Camron immediately or if he is working with an accomplice, I assure you that Mr. Silverman's life would be forfeited. Because Mr. Silverman is something of an international celebrity, our government would frown upon such actions. That is why I am calling you. I am not saying that the place is definitely wired.

I am just giving you Camron's past history."

"I appreciate it. Willie, are you listening in?"

"Yeah, Twitch, I'm here."

"Get me booked on the next plane to Bangkok."

"Already did it. I have you booked on Japan Airlines flight 006 which leaves Kennedy in about two hours. You connect in Tokyo with JAL flight 491 that'll bring you into Bangkok in the evening. Problem is, I don't think the department will pay for it."

"I'll worry about that when I get back. Colonel, do you mind my coming over?"

"Not at all, Lieutenant, as long as you understand that we are in charge of the situation."

"Understood."

"Then we have no problem. In the meantime we will do our best to monitor the Eager Beaver as inconspicuously as possible."

Max rifled through his drawers until he found his passport underneath a jar of mayonnaise. He wiped it clean with an old napkin.

"Then I'm on my way."

They were all seated in the study.

John Lowell sat behind his large oak desk with Senator Jenkins on his right and a few feet behind him. Facing them on the other side of the desk were Sara and Cassandra. For a moment they all just studied one another. Then Sara broke the silence:

"Is Michael still alive?"

John glanced at the senator and then back toward his daughter.

"We don't know, honey."

"But you know something about his kidnapping?"

"We may know something about it," Senator Jenkins corrected.

"We can't say for sure."

Sara shook her head.

"Dad, what's going on?"

"I'm not sure where to begin actually." Dr. John Lowell rose and moved toward a bookshelf filled with large medical volumes.

His eyes passed over the titles, but they read nothing.

"You know how I feel about the Cancer Center, don't you?"

"Of course we do," Sara replied, "but what does that have to do with "

"Everything, Sara," John said simply. He pulled out a book, glanced at the binding, and put it back in the shelf.

"You see, focus can be a dangerous thing. Your view of the world narrows.

You grow obsessed. Blinded. You see everything in terms of your obsession and nothing else. You cannot accept defeat. You cannot understand why everyone else does not share your passion. Don't get me wrong. Concentration and focus are good and necessary.

But when they slide unchecked, they can distort your perspective.

In the ultimate pursuit of knowledge, you can easily become ignorant."

Sara and Cassandra shared a confused glance.

"I still don't understand." John smiled sadly.

"You will. This is not easy for me to say, so just give me a little time. I'll get to the heart of the matter eventually."

The sisters nodded.

"I wanted that new wing at the Cancer Center so badly I ached physically," he continued.

"It could help so many people people suffering the worst medical curse known to mankind. Diseases and plagues come and go, but cancer is a constant. I thought the new wing and the additional finances would be a gigantic step toward unlocking the secrets of cancer and, ultimately, to curing it. I would have done anything to get that new wing.

Anything." He paused here, letting his meaning sink into the still surroundings.

"When the additional finances for the new wing were rejected, it was like a spear through my heart. Those damn fools, I raged. How could they be so stupid? I tried to save the idea. I threw all the money I could into it, and tried to raise more privately. But it was not enough. We had needed the grant, and now that was gone. The new wing was dead. And why? Where had the money gone? To AIDS. To Harvey and Bruce's clinic. To a gay disease. To a drug addict's disease. To a disease I still believe will never run rampant in the normal heterosexual community."

Sara opened her mouth, but John stopped her by raising his hand.

"I don't want to argue with you, Sara. I know you feel differently.

Suffice to say that this is how I see it. Yes, some non intravenous-drug-abusing heterosexuals have come down with

AIDS, but the number is small, especially relative to the number of people who die from cancer. This is how I see it right or wrong it doesn't matter anymore."

He caught Sara's eyes then. A small smile appeared on his face.

"You remember when we watched Damn Yankees on the video? Remember how the guy sells his soul to the devil in order to get what he wants?

That's what I did. I didn't realize it at the time or maybe I did but I didn't care. Who knows anymore? I only know that I signed on with the devil and there was no looking back."

"What did you do?" Sara asked, her tone distant.

"My rage consumed me. I started to look for any way, legal or not, to get the money away from the clinic and into the Cancer Center. Raymond Markey he's the Assistant Secretary "

"I know who he is," Sara interrupted. Her voice was cold.

"Go on."

John cleared his throat.

"Anyway, Dr. Markey contacted me.

He said that there were other people who felt the way I did, people who felt too much emphasis was being placed on AIDS, people who wanted to bring down the Sidney Pavilion."

"What other people?"

John took a deep breath.

"Reverend Sanders, to name one."

Sara glared at her father.

"You signed on with that con man?"

"Listen to me, Sara. We both knew that we did not share the same ideology just the same enemy. Sanders had his reasons for wanting to destroy the clinic, and I had mine. His reasons did not matter to me.

The only important thing was getting the money for the new wing even if that meant working with Sanders."

"And who else joined you?"

"Me," Senator Jenkins replied from behind John.

"I was the fourth member of the conspiracy."

She turned her glare toward his.

"And what was your reason, Senator?"

"A strange one," he replied in an oddly calm voice.

"Love."

"What?"

"Let me explain," Senator Jenkins began, his voice hollow as though he were speaking through a long tube.

"I was readily accepted by Sanders because of my right-wing affiliations, but politics had nothing to do with why I joined."

"Then why?"

"Sara, you've covered political campaigns before, am I correct?"

"So?"

"So I don't have to tell you that politics is a strange game.

The strangest. Like it or not, a candidate must compromise to win elections. I am the leading senator in the Republican Party.

I agree with most of the Party's platforms, but lets say, for example, that I came out against the death penalty. Do you know what would happen?"

Sara folded her arms across her chest.

"Why don't you tell me?"

"I'd be finished. Wiped out. All my years of service would go right down the drain. I wouldn't get elected dog-catcher. Let me give you a better example: our current President's position on abortion. He used to be pro-choice. Now, he has magically shifted to pro-life. Do you honestly believe he had a change of heart? Of course not. He just accepted reality. He knew that if he ran as a pro-choice candidate, he would have never won the Republican nomination. And it's not just Republicans. The Democrats do it too. Do you really believe that every liberal senator is for abortion or against tax cuts? Of course not. They are just trying to get elected. Like I said before, you have to compromise.

You have to compromise your very values and beliefs. It is not necessarily the politician's fault. It's just the system. Play the game or don't get elected."

"I don't see the point in any of this," Sara said.

"I am just saying that a man cannot be so neatly labeled as right or left wing. At times we are all hypocrites. At times we all do things that others would consider sinful." He glanced at Cassandra quickly and then continued.