Miracle Cure (38 page)

Willie swerved around a van.

"It's a nice little theory, Twitch.

Have any evidence?"

"I will. Riker's one problem was the storage house in Bangkok.

All lab material was immediately packaged by either Eric Blake or Winston CXConnor and sent to Bangkok for safekeeping. If Riker had tried to divert it, it would have looked suspicious. But Riker really wasn't worried about it anyway. He figured he could always have the storage house destroyed if anybody got too close to the truth."

"Which is what he tried to do, except you nailed Camron first."

Max nodded.

"Colonel Ts men are guarding the building twenty-four hours a day. When we test the stored blood specimens, it will prove that the blood taken upon admittance could not possibly belong to the same person as the blood taken when they were supposed to be cured. That's one reason Riker wanted the safehouse in Bangkok. It was far away and yet it was George Camron's hometown. Markey and the government would have a lot of trouble finding it. If they really tried, Riker could always have George destroy it."

"Case solved."

"I hope."

"Do you think Riker knows you're on to him?"

"I doubt it."

"So calm down. We're almost there."

"You don't understand."

"What?"

Max leaned down and picked up the pencil.

"Sara is alone with him."

It was so cold.

Sara wrapped her arms around herself but it did no good.

The frigid air cut through her skin to the bone. She looked down, coughing. Eric's body was in a twisted, fetal position. His eyes were closed, a bullet wound in his throat. She wondered how Michael had died. Had he been tortured or had it been quick and painless? She fought back tears and tried to think clearly.

For the sake of their unborn child, she had to find a way out of this.

She tried the door, but it would not budge. Her cough had become relentless, racking her body with powerful jerks. She could feel the cold settle into the bottom of her lungs. She wondered if it was an infection. Her lips trembled. She felt weak, drained. She hunched her body into a small ball, her eyes darting about the small room.

There were shelves filled with various codes. One test tube said 87m332. Another read 98k003. The beakers were labeled Naoh, So2, H2So4, Hspo Hd and CHd3.

Michael. Her poor, beautiful Michael. Dead. How? Why?

The room was tiny. The walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in around her. Sara curled herself into a tighter ball, lowered her head, and sobbed gently. She had never known such loneliness, such despair.

The cold grew unbearable. Her fingers became numb. She felt herself grow weaker and weaker. She tried to concentrate on a Blue Oyster Cult song in a bizarre attempt to keep herself awake:

"All our times have come, Here but now they're gone Seasons don't fear the Reaper, Nor do the wind, nor the sun, nor the rain, We can be like they are..."

But she felt herself slipping away.

Hold on, Sara. Hold on.

But it was no good. Harvey was coming back soon and then it would be over. Her Michael was dead. He had joined the Reaper and in the end, so would she.

Her eyes began to close.

Michael was still unconscious when they wheeled him into his room on the third floor. Dr. Sombat patiently filled Harvey in on everything that had happened.

"Your Lieutenant Bernstein is a brave man," the Thai doctor said.

"He saved Mr. Silverman's life."

"Did they capture the man who kidnapped Michael?" Harvey asked.

"Yes. He is in custody." "Has... has he said anything yet? Anything that might help solve this case?"

"I apologize, Dr. Riker, but I am not privy to that information."

Harvey nodded.

"Where is Lieutenant Bernstein now?"

"He had an emergency," Dr. Sombat replied.

"He drove off with Sergeant Monticelli. If there is nothing else, I have to get back to the airport."

"No, nothing else. Thank you for all your help."

"You are welcome. How can I get back to Kennedy Airport?"

"Ask the receptionist downstairs to call a taxi. Thanks again."

They shook hands and Dr. Sombat departed, leaving Harvey alone with Michael in the quiet, dark room.

"Michael?"

No response. Harvey could see that Michael's nose was broken. He had lost a considerable amount of weight.

"I'm sorry, Michael."

Harvey stared down at his young friend lying helplessly in the bed. A tear ran down his cheek. He bent over and gently kissed Michael's forehead. Then he turned to leave.

"Harv?"

He turned around. Michael looked up through the darkness with groggy eyes.

"I'm right here, Michael. You're back now."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"Sara?"

"She left a few minutes before you got here," he replied.

"I left a message on the answering machine for her to call me."

'"Peel... feel weak."

"I know. Try to get some rest. I'll wake you when Sara gets here."

Michael tried to nod.

"Max got the Slasher."

"I know," Harvey replied, walking back toward the bed. He hugged his friend.

"Go to sleep now, Michael. Everything is going to be okay. You want me to give you something?"

Michael shook his head and closed his eyes. Harvey quietly crept out of the room. Then he headed down the hallway, unlocked the door, and entered the laboratory.

"I'm sorry, Michael," he said out loud. But there was no one to hear his words.

He took out the gun from his pocket and wrapped a towel around the barrel, using it as a makeshift silencer. No matter really. The refrigeration room was soundproof once the door was closed. He had shot Eric in there and no one had heard a sound.

He crossed the lab. How was he going to get the bodies out?

Harvey knew from first-hand experience how heavy dead weight could be.

He would have to place the corpses in a plastic bag.

Then he would instruct the nurses that he would take care of Michael for this ever ting on his own and that no one was to enter the third floor under any condition. That would give him the opportunity to drag the bodies to the elevator, head down to the basement, get them out through the tunnel George had used, and put them in the trunk of his car.

Then what?

He was not sure. Tie weights to their legs and dump them in the river.

Isn't that what they always did in the movies? He would have to be careful. Wear gloves. Clean the lab from top to bottom. Wouldn't want the police to find a few strands of long blonde hair in the refrigeration room now, would we?

He reached the door of the refrigeration room and leaned his ear against it. Cold. Well, what did he expect? And why did he put his ear against the door in the first place? What had he expected to hear through the thick door?

Idiot.

Stop putting it off, Harv. Stop stalling. Sara has to die. She'll never keep silent. Think of all the young men dying every day.

Think of the thousands, maybe millions, you can save from an awful death. Look toward your goal.

A world with no AIDS.

Harvey nodded to himself. He reached down and unlocked the padlock.

Then he opened the door and pointed the gun at Sara.

Two floors below Cassandra smiled at the security guard as she headed into the clinic. She tried to put a little bounce in her steps, tried to make her smile bigger, but it would not hold. In her right hand, she had a bag of take-out Chinese. Spare ribs, moo-shu pork, General Tsao's Chicken (Chinese generals cook?), and beef with broccoli, all packaged in those little white boxes Chinese restaurants use. The bottom of the bag no doubt had about 850 packets of duck sauce, soy sauce, and that mustard hot enough to remove paint. Then there were the usual fortune cookies and, for some reason which always escaped her, they always gave you an orange for dessert.

Cassandra strolled down the hall toward Harvey's office. She had not seen him very much in the past few days and missed him terribly.

Probably he had not been sleeping or eating properly.

Between Michael's mysterious kidnapping, the Gay Slasher, and now her father's Washington conspiracy it was enough to make any man begin to unravel.

So Cassandra had decided another little surprise was in order.

At the end of the hallway, she knocked on Harvey's door.

"Hello?"

No response.

"Harv?"

Still no response.

She peeked in the doorway and saw that the room was empty.

Maybe the receptionist would know where he went. She went back down the hall to the receptionist's desk. Cassandra smiled, and the receptionist smiled back, putting up one finger to signal her to wait.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said into the phone, "but I can't locate Sara Lowell. She may have already left, Mrs. Riker, I know you said it's an emergency, but... yes, I understand the importance. Would you like me to page Dr. Riker? No? Okay, okay, I won't, calm down."

Cassandra leaned over.

"A call for Sara?"

The receptionist put her hand over the mouthpiece.

"It's Jennifer Riker, Dr. Riker's ex. She keeps ranting about an emergency."

"I'll talk to her."

Cassandra took the phone.

"Hello?"

Jennifer's voice came fast.

"Who is this?"

"Cassandra Lowell, Jennifer. I'm Sara's sister. We met a few years back at a party " "I remember," Jennifer.

"Where's Sara?"

"I don't know. I just got here myself."

"Find her, Cassandra. She's in grave danger."

Cassandra held the phone close to her ear.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the letter," Jennifer explained.

"What letter?"

"The letter Bruce wrote."

Sergeant Willie Monticelli veered right and exited off the Henry Hudson Parkway at 178th Street. He sped down Fort Washington Avenue, passed Hood Park, and turned left at 167th Street. He made a hard right on Broadway, accelerated past the main hospital building and Babies Hospital, and took a sharp left.

Ten seconds later the squad car arrived at the Sidney Pavilion entrance. Willie pulled the car up on the sidewalk, braking with a horrid screech, inches before hitting the cement stairs at the entrance. Max was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, Willie not far behind. The two sprinted up the stairs, badges out. The security guards, spotting the police IDs, stepped back to avoid being the victims of a two-man stampede.

"Any other police arrive yet?" Max asked without breaking stride.

"None," the guard yelled back.

Max continued to run, busting through doors like an Old West gunslinger in a saloon. He reached the reception desk.

"Where's Sara Lowell?" he asked.

The receptionist looked up quizically.

"And who might you Max tossed his badge on her desk.

"Lieutenant Bernstein, NYPD. Where is Sara Lowell?"

"She is a very popular young lady today."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Lieutenant, that you are not the first person in a rush to speak to her."

"Who else?"

"Jennifer Riker just called looking for Ms. Lowell. She said it was very urgent."

"Dr. Riker's wife?"

"Ex- wife," the receptionist corrected.

"Anyhow, I couldn't find Ms. Lowell anywhere so Mrs. Riker spoke to her sister instead."

"Cassandra? Where is she?"

The receptionist shrugged.

"I couldn't tell you for sure. She spoke to Mrs. Riker, turned all white and funny, and then ran off without a word. Didn't even have the courtesy to hang up the phone."

"Where did she go?"

"She got in the elevator and went up. It stopped at the third floor."

Max turned toward the elevator.

"Willie?"

The sergeant stood at the elevator, holding the door open.

"One step ahead of you, Twitch."

"Then let's move."

Harvey cradled the gun close to him as he swung open the door slowly.

He had considered the possibility that Sara Lowell might launch some sort of futile attack when he first opened the door.

But when he looked in the cold room, he knew that he had worried needlessly.

Sara was slumped in the corner. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back at a strange angle. Her normally pale complexion was frighteningly white, colorless. Her trembling lips were thin and blue.

She looked so pitifully small and helpless, huddled in the corner like a wounded animal trapped in a cage.

"Sarar No response. Her breathing was labored and uneven. Her shoulder drooped into her chest, her arms hung limply at her sides.

"Sarar Still nothing. Her eyes remained closed. A choking noise, like something was stuck in her air passage, came from her throat.

Part of him wanted Sara to stay unconscious, but most of him wanted her to be awake. He wanted her to be conscious when he killed her, to have the right to stare at him with accusing, hateful eyes as he pulled the trigger. The haunting image would never leave him, he knew. It would be his own way of serving penance.

He kept his distance on the off chance that she would regain consciousness and try to surprise him. From where he stood near the doorway, he would have plenty of time to raise his gun and fire should she try to cross the room. Not even someone with Michael's quickness would be able to cross a room that fast.

For a moment he considered using the knife in his pocket on her. It would, no doubt, be quieter. But no, he would stick to the gun. The gun was more impersonal. It could kill from a distance. Stabbing someone, slicing their throat from ear to ear or jutting the long blade into the heart... only a certain sort of man could do such a thing.

Harvey found it too painful to stare at Sara's pathetic form crouched in the corner. He swerved his eyes toward the neat row of test tubes on the top shelf. He read the labels. So close was he to his project that he had each patient's code and every chemical in this room memorized.

87m332 was Ezra Platt. 98k003 was Kiel Davis. The next one should be, yes it was, 39k10, Kevin Fraine..."Sarar Still nothing. Her troubled breathing had deteriorated into struggled gasps and arduous intakes.

Harvey felt tears push into his eyes, but as he had done when he ordered Bruce's death, he forced them back down. His eyes moved down the row of beakers.

Naoh, S02, H2So4, next should be H3PO4, and then. where was the HC1?... Sara's slumped arm moved like it had been spring-released.

The arm shot toward him as he raised his gun. In her hand Sara held a large glass beaker filled with HC1. Harvey's eyes widened.

HCl. Hydrochloric acid."

There was no time to react. The liquid flew across the room and splashed onto Harvey's face.

He screamed.

The acid ripped at him. It burrowed into his face, eating away at his flesh, shredding his corneas and pupils, tearing apart the milky white of his eyes. Pain engulfed him, but the pain in his skin was nothing compared to what was happening in his eyes.

Thousands of sharp flaming darts punctured the soft gel of his eyeballs.

His hands flew to his face, his fingers pulled at his eyes in a futile attempt to lessen the pain. He could hear his skin and eyes sizzle, smell the burning flesh on his own face.

As Sara struggled to her feet, she saw the gun fall from his hand and bounce underneath a shelf. She thought groggily of trying to get it but decided against it. It would probably take too long and give Harvey the time he needed to recuperate. Better to make a run for it.

Before she took a step, Sara heard Harvey manage his first words since the acid had landed on his face. They started low, almost inaudible, but they grew louder with each syllable. He repeated the same words over an dover as though they were some sort of ritual chant:

"You must die, Sara. You must."

The elevator moved so damn slowly. After thirty seconds of pushing the close-door button, the door grudgingly obeyed by sliding shut. With a grunt it began to ascend.

"You check the second floor," Max said to Willie. "I'll go up to the third. Yell if you see anything."

"Right."

The elevator stopped on the second floor. The door had not yet opened when Max and Willie heard what sounded like a long, primal scream.

"Third floor," Max shouted.

Willie repeatedly pressed the third floor button, but the elevator's course had already been set and it was not about to be rushed by a human scream. The door opened slowly on the second floor and then paused.

Impatience overcame Max. He sprinted across the portal. "I'll take the stairway. Meet me up there."

Willie withdrew his revolver from its holster.

"Got ya."

"You must die, Sara..."

Sara wasted little time. Summoning up strength she did not have, she maneuvered past Eric's body, shoved Harvey aside, and hobbled toward the door. Even with the adrenalin flow, her movements were slow. The cold had stiffened her limbs and constricted her lungs. She had spent so much energy on the quick swing of her arm and pushing Harvey that she feared she might not be able to make it.

Have to. The baby... A few minutes earlier Sara had been ready to give up. Trapped in the cold room, no way of escape, no hope of a last minute rescue... no Michael in truth, she had almost welcomed defeat.