Forbidden Cure Part Three

by William Rubin

  I wave my arm. “By all means. You were saying?”

  “Take a sample of your beloved’s DNA from a hairbrush, toothbrush, wherever. Compare the dead woman’s X chromosomes to hers and—Viola!— proof positive they are not from the same person.”

  “Easy enough with the hairbrush, but we’d need to exhume the body for that sample.” I tap my fingers on the desk and speak deliberately. “That part’s going to be... awkward... more sensitive. We’d need to keep it on a need to know basis so the press doesn’t get wind of it.”

  Durand waves his hand dismissively. “Really, Christopher. Why even bother exhuming the body? You already know I’m right.”

  My eyes narrow. Kennedy’s dart between us. “How can you be so sure?” I say, staring back with a perfect poker face.

  Durand just smiles.

  Kennedy, confused: “Yeah, how are we so sure?”

  I pull two sets of latex gloves out of my pocket, tossing one pair to Kennedy as I slip on the others, then fish the disc out of my coat. Nodding to the guard. “Permission to cue it up?” Then to Kennedy, “Could you?”

  As Kennedy readies the disc in the player, I pull my phone from my pocket, bringing up the photo I will need, before slipping it back in my pants.

  Kennedy hands me the remote. “All set. Fire away.”

  And so I do, bringing the recording to the moment of truth and freezing it. I rise from the table, head over to the monitor. “Michelle and I talking in Durand’s lab via CCTV. I remember this moment like it was yesterday. So many emotions at play, so hard to keep them in check.” I look down at the floor, then back to Kennedy. “I thought I had lost her once already, would have overlooked anything so I could believe she was still alive.”

  Durand smiles. “I was counting on it.”

  “She looked like Michelle, acted like Michelle. But something... hard to put my finger on it... something was off. With a small, dark room, seeing her through the TV, I just didn’t figure out what it was until a couple of hours ago.” I shake my head, annoyed at myself for not realizing sooner. I didn’t want to share all this, but I needed Kennedy to understand my rationale, to know I wasn’t just a desperate man grasping at something that wasn’t really there. “A few days ago I had a dream about Michelle. Pristine, her body perfect, untouched by everything you,” pointing angrily at Durand now, “had done to her. She called out to me as if she needed my help.” I glance down at my feet. “I chalked it up to a bout of self-torture, a longing for the way things used to be.” I turn to Kennedy. “But Kev, you made a comment the other day in the car, something about we’ve all got enough scars and time to move on.”

  He nods. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “It unsettled me just like the dream. I thought it was because I had so much work ahead in rebuilding my life, but I see now there was more to it.”

  A smug look overtakes Durand’s face again. “At long last, dear Christopher.”

  “Then it all clicked a couple of hours ago when the kids were roughhousing with my dad and scratched up his neck. As blood flowed from his wound, it all fell into place.”

  I walk over to the table, pull out my phone, open to the photo of Michelle with the kids dressed up for Halloween. I point to my phone as I hand it to Kennedy and head back to the monitor. “Take a good look at Michelle. What do you see?”

  Kennedy looks at the photo, shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s Michelle. What am I looking for?”

  “Look at her face, her chin, then bring your eyes down lower.”

  Kennedy shifts in the chair. “Gotta say, this is creeping me out a bit, like I’m stalking her or something.”

  I shake my head and laugh. “All right, look at her neck. What do you see?”

  “The scar that this fucker gave her when he slit her throat. She’s not wearing make-up like she usually does, uh did, so it’s real obvious.”

  I turn and tap on the monitor, pointing to the same area on Michelle’s neck. “No make-up here either. What do you see?”

  “Holy shit! It’s different, the scar’s different.”

  “Exactly, like someone knew a scar belonged here, but couldn’t figure out how to replicate it.” I turn to Durand.

  Durand nods in deference then heartedly claps his shackled hands, the chains clanging against each other. “Bravo, Detective, bravo! Your wife’s scar was over three months old at that point. No way to mimic it on my clone even if I slit her throat too. There just wasn’t time for the scar to age properly, to settle in the way your dear wife’s had.” Durand waves his hand again. “So we faked it, hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

  I smile. “And I didn’t—until now.” I consider what all this means. “For once, Durand, you’ve been truthful with us, at least about this woman,” tapping hard on the monitor now, “not being Michelle.” My face hardens. “But can we believe you hold the key to the Malekoviec case, to getting Michelle back alive, if she’s alive? The FBI attack in which someone was killed happened less than twenty-four hours after this video. Plenty of time to switch out the clone for Michelle, though I’m at a loss for why you would want to do that.”

  Kennedy looks at Durand as it dawns on him. “Michelle was your insurance policy, in case you were caught.”

  Durand’s eyes narrow as he ignores Kennedy. “What other choice do you have, dear doctor-detective, but to believe me about it all?” He licks his lips again. “But go ahead, exhume the body so your precious little heart and mind are put at ease. But move quickly. Michelle will not be safe much longer and you can be sure Malekoviec’s killer will strike again soon.” Durand’s eyes blaze now. “Spring me or watch the bodies pile up again. Which will it be, Detective?”

  My eyes fixate on Kennedy’s. A madman’s demanding release so he can free my wife and help us catch a killer. But I’m on the outside of this investigation looking in. How the hell can we make this work?

  Chapter 14

  “You want me to get a court order for her disinterment based on the ramblings of a sociopath and a picture on your phone? Are you guys out of your mind?” New York County Assistant District Attorney Kiernan Byrne shakes his fiery red head violently back and forth. “Right or wrong, the press will be on this like piranhas, and Jackman—holy shit!—Jackman’ll be all over my ass too.”

  I speak up. “Which is why they can’t know anything about it, at least not till we have this all figured out.”

  Byrne leans back in his chair, exhales as if he were smoking a cigar. “This is a hell of a tall order, Chris.”

  Kennedy chips in. “What’s the alternative? We do nothing while the real Michelle is alive and in danger?” He looks at me. “Maybe gets killed? That story breaks you’ve got a hell of a lot more problems than with exhuming the body.”

  Byrne pulls a keepsake out of his pocket, a 1964 John F. Kennedy half dollar. He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger as he ponders Kevin Kennedy’s words. I look on, helpless, knowing we’ve got no chance of moving forward, no chance of finding Michelle, without this.

  Byrne is deep in thought as the coin rolls between his fingers. This is nuts. He’s buried her twice already. The ADA avoids eye contact with me, staring at Kennedy instead. Still, if there’s a chance.... The coin stops rolling and Byrne leans forward. “There’s a judge who owes me a favor. I’ll get the order from him and lay pressure on Gate of Heaven to keep it quiet and move quickly.” He slips the silver dollar back into his pocket. “I’ll call McGowan myself, tell her to expect the body by later today and to work on it immediately.” He shakes his head side to side now. “I sure hope you two know what the fuck you’re doing. Now get out of here.”

  Chapter 15

  The last twenty-four hours have been a blur, my insides a wreck. Twice in the last two months I thought Michelle was dead and buried and tried to move on. Now there’s hope, but deep wounds torn wide open are the price I pay for it. It’s a frigid December day, a light frost gathered on the hard ground as Kennedy, Dad, and I stand at the grave, one worker poised
behind the controls of a small backhoe while two others standby with shovels.

  Kennedy nods toward the backhoe. “You really think you need that thing? This ain’t a construction site.”

  The worker nods as chilled air escapes his lips. “The ground is frozen solid. Only way we can break through.”

  Kennedy waves him off. “Do what you got to do. Let’s just make it quick, huh?”

  Moments later the digging bucket tears into the earth, rending my heart as well.

  Dad, Kennedy, and I stand by stone-faced, a stiff wind battering our faces as the ground gives way before us.

  A few minutes later steel shovel strikes solid oak coffin. One of the workers with a shovel shouts to the other, “Careful. We’re there now.”

  The two men spend the next five minutes clearing dirt all around the coffin, then bring another piece of heavy machinery in to lift it up and lay it on the ground next to us. At this point the workers pull back, knowing the next task is all mine. Poised by the casket I take a deep breath, saying a silent prayer as I lift the cover. I tell myself to be strong, that the body is not hers. But the tears well up as I stare at her face, thankful the weeks underground, embalmed and sealed in a sturdy casket, have not changed it much. I raise my hand to my mouth, ready to pull my thick black glove off with my teeth, but then decide no. The wind whistles through the trees now, scattering the last of the remaining leaves. I put one hand in front of my face, shielding it from the dirt and dust that swirls around me. With the other I reach out for the hair draped over her neck and tentatively push it off to the side.

  A smile bursts across my face.

  The scar is not Michelle’s.

  CONTINUED IN MICHELLE’S CAPTIVITY 1: MIRROR, MIRROR

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  William Rubin is a practicing physician who enjoys weaving tales of medical/scientific intrigue. Writing for him is equal parts catharsis, creativity, and escape from the rigors of a busy medical practice and the joys and challenges of raising a family.

  The works of James Patterson, Robin Cook, Michael Palmer, and Patricia Cornwell inspired Dr. Rubin to create the Chris Ravello Medical Thriller Series. Each book in the series has regularly enjoyed a place on the Amazon Best Sellers lists for Medical Thrillers and Medical Fiction since their releases.

  Challenges and tragedies in Dr. Rubin’s life, particularly the untimely death of his mother, provided some of the underlying drama, conflict, and turmoil for the series’ lead character.

  When he isn’t busy practicing medicine or crafting his next medical thriller, Dr. Rubin enjoys time with his family and friends, running, playing piano, and traveling.

  To find out more about William and what is coming next for Chris Ravello, visit the author on Facebook (william.erubin), Twitter (@werubin671), or follow him on Bookbub, Goodreads, or Amazon. You can also email him (werubin67@gmail.com) and/or have your name added to his growing newsletter list at Newsletter Sign Up.

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