Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  Bruce heard the sharp cracking noise as the bone below the knee snapped.

  His scream was muffled by the man's hand tightening against his mouth.

  Then the giant hand pulled back just slightly before slamming up into Bruce's jaw, fracturing another bone and cracking several teeth.

  Gripping the broken jaw with his fingers, the man reached into Bruce's m outh and pulled down hard. The pain was enormous, overwhelming. Bruc e c ould feel the tendons in his mouth ripping away.

  Oh, God, please ... The big man in the Armani suit let Bruce slide t o t he floor like a sack of potatoes. Bruce's head swam. He watched throug h a murky haze as the big man examined a blood stain on his suit.

  The man seemed annoyed by the stain, upset that it would not come out a t t he dry cleaner. With a shake of his head, the man moved toward th e w indow and pulled back the curtain.

  "You picked a nice, high floor," he said casually.

  "That will make things easier."

  The big man turned away from the window. He strolled back toward where Bruce lay writhing. He bent down, took a solid hold on Bruce's foot an d g ently lifted Bruce's shattered leg into the air. The agony wa s u nbearable. Jolts of pain wracked his body with each slight movement o f t he broken limb.

  Please, God, please let me pass out ... Suddenly Brace realized what th e m an was about to do. He wanted to ask him what he wanted, wanted t o o ffer the man everything he had, wanted to beg the man for mercy, bu t h is damaged mouth could only produce a gurgling noise. Bruce could onl y l ook up hopelessly with pleading, terror-filled eyes. Blood streame d d own his face and onto his neck and chest.

  Through a cloud of pain Bruce saw the look in the man's eyes.

  It was not a wild-eyed, crazed look; not a hateful, bloodthirsty look; not the stare of a psychotic killer. The man was calm. Busy.

  A man performing a tedious task. Detached. Unemotional.

  This is nothing to this guy, Bruce thought. Another day at the office.

  The man reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a pen and a piece o f p aper on the floor. Then he gripped Bruce's foot, one hand on the heel , the other on the toes. Bruce bucked in uncontrollable agony. The man's m uscles flexed before he finally spoke.

  "I'm going to twist your foot all the way around," the big man said , "until your toes are pointed toward your back and that broken bone rip s t hrough the skin." He paused, gave a distracted smile, and repositione d h is fingers in order to get a better grip.

  "I'll let go when you finish writing your suicide note, okay?"

  Bruce made the note brief.

  Saturday, September 14

  Chapter 1.

  Sara Lowell glanced at her wristwatch. In twenty minutes she woul d m ake her national television debut in front of thirty million people. A n h our later her future would be decided.

  Twenty minutes.

  She swallowed, stood slowly, and readjusted her leg brace.

  Her chest hitched with each breath. She had to move around, had to d o s omething before she went nuts. The metal of the brace rubbed agains t h er, chafing the skin. After all these years Sara still could not ge t u sed to the clumsy artificial constraint. The limp, yes. The limp ha d b een with her for as long as she could remember. It felt almost natura l t o her. But the bulky brace was still something she wanted to toss in a r iver.

  She took a deep breath, willed herself to relax, and then checked he r m akeup in the mirror. Her face looked somewhat pale, but that wa s n othing new. Like the limp, she was used to that. Her honey-blonde hai r w as swept back from her beautiful, delicate features and large doll-lik e g reen eyes. Her mouth was wide, her lips sensual and full to the poin t w here they looked almost swollen. She took off her wire-rimme d s pectacles and cleaned the lenses. One of the producers walked over t o h er.

  "Ready, Sara?" he asked.

  "Whenever you are," she said with a weak smile.

  "Good. You're on with Donald in fifteen minutes."

  Sara looked at her co star Donald Parker. At sixty he was double her ag e a nd a billion times more experienced. He had been on Newsflash since th e e arly years, before the fantastic Nielsen ratings and a market shar e t hat no news show had ever seen before or since. Simply put, Donald Parker was a legend in television journalism.

  What the hell do I think I'm doing? I'm not ready for something lik e t his.

  Sara nervously scanned her material for the millionth time.

  The words began to blur. Once again she wondered how she had gotten thi s f ar so fast. Her mind flashed through her college years, her column i n t he New York Herald, her work on cable television, her debates on public TV. With each step up the ladder, Sara had questioned her ability t o c limb any higher. She had been enraged by the jealous chatter of he r c olleagues, the cruel voices that whispered, "I wish my relatives wer e f amous.. Who did she sleep with?.. It's that damn limp."

  But no, the truth of the matter was much more simple: the public adore d h er. Even when she got rough or sarcastic with a guest, the audienc e c ould not get enough of her. True, her father was the former surgeo n g eneral and her husband was a basketball star, and maybe her childhoo d p ain and her physical beauty had also helped her along the way. But Sar a r emembered what her first boss had told her: "No one can survive in this business on looks alone. If anything they'r e a drawback. People will have a preconceived notion that because you're a b eautiful blonde you can't be too bright. I know it's unfair, Sara, bu t t hat's the way it is. You can't just be as good as the competition yo u h ave to be better. Otherwise they're going to label you an airhead.

  You"II get blown off the stage if you're not the brightest person ou t t here."

  Sara repeated the words like some battle cry, but her confidence refuse d t o leave the trenches. Her debut tonight featured a report on th e f inancial improprieties of Reverend Ernest Sanders, the televangelist , founder of the Holy Crusade a big, slippery (read: slimy) fish. In fact , the Reverend Sanders had agreed to appear for a live interview after th e r eport was aired to answer the charges on the condition, of course, that News Flash display his 800 number on the screen. Sara had tried to mak e h er story as evenhanded as possible.

  She merely stated facts, with a minimum of innuendo and conclusions.

  But deep inside Sara knew the truth about the Reverend Ernest Sanders.

  There was just no avoiding it.

  The man was pure scum.

  The studio bustled with activity. Technicians read meters and adjuste d l ights. Cameramen swung their lenses into place. The teleprompter wa s b eing tested, no more than three words to a line so that the audience a t h ome would not see the anchor's eyes shifting. Directors, producers , engineers, and gofers scrambled back and forth across a set that looke d l ike a large family room with no ceiling and only one wall, as thoug h s ome giant had ripped apart the outside so he could peer in.

  A man Sara did not recognize rushed toward her.

  "Here you go," he said. The man handed her several sheets of paper.

  "What's this?" she aske d.

  "Papers."

  "No, I mean what are they for?"

  He shrugged.

  "To shuffle."

  "Shuffle?"

  "Yeah, you know, like when you break for a commercial and the camer a p ulls away. You shuffle them."

  "I do!"

  "Makes you look important," he assured her before rushing off.

  She shook her head. Alas, so much to learn.

  Without conscious thought, Sara began to sing quietly. She usuall y r estricted her singing to the shower or the car, preferably accompanie d b y a very loud radio, but occasionally, when she was nervous, she bega n t o sing in public. Loudly.

  When she got to the chorus of "Tattoo Vampire" ("Vampire photo suckin' the skin"), her voice rose an d s he started playing the air guitar.

  Really into it now. Getting down.

  A moment later she realized that people were staring at her.


  She lowered her hands back to her sides, dropping her well tuned ai r g uitar into oblivion. The song faded from her lips. She smiled , shrugged.

  "Uh sorry."

  The crew returned to work without so much as a second glance. Air guita r g one, Sara tried to think about something both distracting an d c omforting.

  Michael immediately came to mind. She wondered what Michael was doin g r ight now. He was probably jogging home from basketball practice. Sh e p ictured all six feet five of him opening the door, a white towel drape d a round his neck, sweat bleeding through his gray practice jersey. He a lways wore the craziest shorts loud orange or yellow or pink Hawaiia n o nes that came down to his knees, or some whacko-designed jams.

  Without breaking stride, he would jog past the expensive piano and int o t he den. He would turn on a little Bach, veer toward the kitchen, pou r h imself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then drink half o f i t in one gulp. Then he would collapse into the reclining chair and le t t he chamber music sweep him away.

  Michael.

  Another tap on her shoulder.

  "Telephone call." The same man who had handed her the sheets of pape r h anded her a portable telephone.

  She took the phone.

  "Hello?"

  "Did you start singing yet?"

  She broke into a smile. It was Michael.

  "Blue Oyster Cult?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Let me guess." Michael thought a moment. " Tton't Fear the Reaper?"

  "No, Tattoo Vampire'."

  "God, how awful. So what are you up to now?"

  Sara closed her eyes. She could feel herself beginning to relax.

  "Not much. I'm just hanging around the set, waiting to go on."

  "Play any air guitar?" "Of course not," she said.

  "I'm a professional journalist, for God's sake."

  "Uh-huh. So how nervous are you?"

  "I feel pretty calm actually," she replied.

  "Liar."

  "All right, I'm scared out of my mind. Happy?"

  "Ecstatic," he replied.

  "But remember one thing."

  "What?"

  "You're always scared before you go on the air. The more scared you are , the more you kick ass."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so," he said.

  "This poor guy will never know what hit him."

  "Really?" she asked, her face beginning to beam.

  "Yeah, really," he said.

  "Now let me ask you a quick question: do we have to go to your father's gala tonight?"

  "Let me give you a quick answer: yes." "Black tie?" Michael asked.

  "Another yes."

  "These big stuffy affairs can be so boring."

  "Tell me about it." He paused.

  "Can I at least have my way with you during the party?"

  "Who knows?" Sara answered.

  "You may get lucky." She cradled the phone between her neck and shoulde r f or a moment.

  "Is Harvey coming to the party tonight?"

  "I'm going to pick him up on my way."

  "Good. I know he doesn't get along with my father "

  "You mean your father doesn't get along with him," Michael corrected.

  "Whatever. Will you talk to him tonight?"

  "About what?"

  "Don't play games with me, Michael," she said.

  "I'm worried about your health."

  "Listen, with Bruce's death and all the problems at the clinic, Harv ha s e nough on his mind right now. I don't want to bother him."

  "Has he spoken to you yet about Bruce's suicide?" Sara asked.

  "Not a word," Michael said.

  "To be honest, I'm kind of worried about him. He never leaves the la b a nymore. He works all day and night."

  "Harvey has always been that way."

  "I know, but it's different this time."

  "Give him a little more time, Michael. Bruce has been dead only tw o w eeks."

  "It's more than just Bruce."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know. Something to do with the clinic, I guess."

  "Michael, please talk to him about your stomach."

  "Sara ..."

  "Talk to him tonight.. for me."

  "Okay," he agreed reluctantly.

  "Promise?"

  "Yes, I promise. And Sara?"

  "What is it?"

  "Kick some Southern-fried reverend ass."

  "I love you, Michael."

  "I love you too."

  Sara felt a tap on her shoulder.

  "Ten minutes."

  "I have to go," she said.

  "Until tonight then," he said.

  "When I have my way with a famous TV star in her childhood bedroom."

  "Dream on."

  A sharp pain ripped across Michael Silverman's abdomen again as h e r eplaced the receiver. He bent over, his hand clutched under his ri b c age, his face scrunched into a grimace. His stomach had been botherin g h im on and off for weeks now. At first he had thought it was just a flu , but now he was not so sure. The ache was becoming unbearable. Even th e t hought of food now made his stomach perform backflips.

  Bach's Seventh Symphony drifted across the room like a welcome breeze.

  Michael closed his eyes, allowing the melody to work like a gentl e m asseur against his aching muscles. His teammates gave him unlimite d s hit about his musical taste. Reece Porter, the black power forward wh o c o-captained the New York Knicks with Michael, was always goofing o n h im.

  "How can you listen to this shit, Mikey?" he would ask.

  "There's no beat, no rhythm."

  "I realize that the musical ear of a Chopin does not compare with tha t o f MC Hammer," Michael would reply, "but try to be open-minded. Jus t l isten, Reece. Let the notes flow over you."

  Reece paused and listened for a moment.

  "I feel like I'm trapped in a dentist's office. How does this shit ge t y ou psyched for a big game? You can't dance to it or anything."

  "Ah, but just listen." "It doesn't have lyrics," Reece said.

  "And your noise pollution does? You can understand the words over al l t hat racket?"

  Reece laughed.

  "Mikey, you're a typical whitey snob," he said.

  "I prefer the term pompous honky ass, thank you."

  Good of' Reece. Michael held a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice , but the thought of even a sip nauseated him. Last year the knee, and no w t he stomach. It didn't make sense.

  Michael had always been the healthiest guy in the league. He had gon e t hrough his first ten NBA seasons without a scratch before tearing apar t h is knee a little more than a year ago. It was tough enough trying t o b ounce back from reconstructive knee surgery at his age.. the last thin g h e needed was this mystery stomach ailment..

  Putting down his glass, Michael moved across the room and made sure the VCR was set. Then he turned off the stereo and turned on the television.

  Sara would be making her Newsflash debut in a matter of minutes. Michae l f idgeted in his seat. He twisted his wedding band around and around an d t hen rubbed his face. He tried to relax, but, like Sara, he couldn't.

  There was no reason to be nervous, he reminded himself. Everything h e h ad said to Sara on the phone was true. She was an amazing reporter, th e b est, very sharp and quick. Well prepared and yet spontaneous. A bit o f w ise-ass sometimes. A sense of humor when it was called for. A bulldo g a lmost always.

  Michael had learned firsthand how tough an interviewer Sara could be.

  They had met six years ago when she was assigned to interview him fo r t he New York Herald two days before the start of the NBA finals. She wa s s upposed to do a personal, non sports-related piece on his life off th e c ourt. Michael did not like that. He did not want his personal life , especially his past, splashed across the headlines. It was none o f a nybody's business, Michael told Sara, resorting to more colorful term s t o get his point across and then slamming down the
phone for emphasis.

  But Sara Lowell was not so easily thwarted. To be more precise, Sara Lowell did not know how to give up. She wanted the interview.

  She went after it.

  A jolt of pain knocked aside the memory. Michael clenched his lowe r a bdomen and doubled over on the couch. He held on and waited. The pai n s ubsided slowly.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  He leaned back, glancing at the photograph of Sara and himself on th e s helf behind the TV. He stared at the picture now, watching himsel f h unched over Sara with his arms locked around her small waist. Sh e l ooked so tiny, so achingly beautiful, so goddamn fragile. He ofte n w ondered what it was that made Sara appear so innocent, so delicate.

  Certainly not her figure. Despite the limp, Sara worked out three time s a week. Her body was small, taut, athletic dynamite might be a bette r w ay to describe it. Sexy as hell. Michael examined the photograph again , trying to look at his wife objectively. Some would say it was her pal e p orcelain complexion that accounted for her unaffected appearance, bu t t hat wasn't what it was. Her eyes, Michael thought now, those larg e g reen eyes that reflected frailty and gentleness while maintaining th e a bility to be cunning and probing.

  They were trusting eyes and eyes you could trust. A man could bathe i n t hose eyes, disappear forever, lose his soul for all eternity.

  They were also sexy as hell.

  The phone interrupted his thoughts. Michael reached behind him an d g rabbed the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Michael."

  "How's it going, Harvey?"

  "Not bad. Look, Michael, I don't want to keep you. I know the show i s a bout to go on."

  "We got a couple of minutes." There was a crashing sound in th e b ackground.

  "What's all that noise? You still at the clinic?"

  "Yep," Harvey replied.

  "When was the last time you got some sleep?"

  "You my mother?" "Just asking," Michael said.

  "I thought I was going to pick you up at your apartment."

  "I didn't have a chance to get out of here," Harvey said.

  "I had one of the nurses rent me a tux and bring it here. It's just so bus y r ight now. Eric and I are swamped. Without Bruce here."

  Harvey stopped.

  There was a moment of silence.

  "I still don't get it, Harv," said Michael carefully, hoping his frien d w as finally ready to talk about Bruce's suicide.