Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "Neither do I," Harvey said flatly. Then he added, "Listen, I need t o a sk you something."

  "Shoot."

  "Is Sara going to be at the benefit tonight?"

  "Shell be a little late."

  "But she'll be there?"

  Michael recognized the urgency in his old friend's voice. He had known Harvey almost twenty-four years, since a second-year intern named Dr.

  Harvey Riker took care of an eight-year-old Michael Silverman, who ha d b een rushed to Saint Barnabas Hospital with a concussion and broken arm.

  "Of course she'll be there."

  "Good.

  "I'll see you tonight then."

  Michael stared at the receiver, puzzled.

  "Is everything all right, Harv?"

  "Fine," he mumbled.

  "Then what's with the cloak-and-dagger phone call?"

  "It's just.. nothing. I'll explain later. What time you picking me up?"

  "Nine-fifteen. Is Eric coming?" "No," Harvey said.

  "One of us has to run the store. I have to go, Michael. I'll see you a t n ine-fifteen."

  The phone clicked in Michael's ear.

  Dr. Harvey Riker replaced the receiver. He sighed heavily and put a han d t hrough his long, unruly, gray-brown hair, a cross between Albert Einstein's and Art Garfunkel's. He looked every bit of his fifty years.

  His muscle had turned to flab from lack of exercise. His face wa s a verage to the point of tedium. Never much of a hunk to begin with , Harvey's looks had soured over the years like a two-dollar Chianti.

  He opened his desk drawer, poured himself a quick shot of whiskey, an d d owned it in one gulp. His hands shook. He was scared.

  There is only one thing to do. I have to talk to Sara. It's the onl y w ay. And after that ... Better not to think about it.

  Harvey swiveled his chair around to look at the three photographs on hi s c redenza. He picked up the one on the far right, the picture of Harve y s tanding next to his partner and friend, Bruce Grey.

  Poor Bruce.

  The two police detectives had listened to Harvey's suspicions politely , nodded in unison, jotted down notes. When Harvey tried to explain that Bruce Grey would never have committed suicide, they listened politely , nodded in unison, jotted down notes. When he told them Bruce had calle d h im on the phone the same night he leaped from the eleventh-floor windo w a t the Days Inn, they listened politely, nodded in unison, jotted dow n n otes.. and concluded that Dr. Bruce Grey had committed suicide.

  A suicide note had been found at the scene, the detectives reminded him.

  A handwriting expert had confirmed that Bruce Grey had written it. Thi s c ase was open and shut.

  Open and shut.

  The second picture frame on the credenza held a photograph of Jennifer , his former wife of twenty-six years, who had just walked out on hi m f orever. The third photograph was that of his younger brother, Sidney , whose death from AIDS three years ago had changed Harvey's life forever.

  In the picture Sidney looked healthy, tan, and a touch on the chubb y s ide. When he died two years later, his skin was pasty white where i t w as not covered with purple lesions, and he weighed less than eight y p ounds.

  Harvey shook his head. All gone.

  He leaned forward and picked up the photograph of his ex wife He knew h e h ad been as much to blame (more) for the failed marriage as she was.

  Twenty-six years. Twenty-six years of marriage, of shared and shattere d d reams, rushed through his mind. For what? What had happened? When had Harvey let his personal life crumble into dust? His fingertips gentl y p assed over her image. Could he really blame Jennifer for getting fed u p w ith the clinic, for not wanting to sacrifice herself to a cause?

  In truth, he did.

  "It's not healthy, Harvey. All that time working."

  "Jennifer, don't you understand what I'm trying to do here?"

  "Of course I do, but it's gone beyond the point of obsession. You hav e t o take a break."

  But he couldn't. He recognized that his dedication had gone off the dee p e nd, yet his life seemed so minor when he considered what the clinic wa s t rying to achieve. So Jennifer left. She packed and moved to Los Angele s w here she was living with her sister, Susan, Bruce Grey's ex-wife. Yes , Harvey and Bruce had been brothers-in-law as well as partners and clos e f riends. He almost smiled, picturing the two sisters living together in California. Talk about fun conversations.

  He could just hear Jennifer and Susan arguing over which one had th e l ousier husband. Bruce would probably have gotten the nod, but now tha t h e was dead the girls would raise him to sainthood.

  The truth of the matter was that Harvey's entire world, for better o r f or worse, was right here. The clinic and AIDS. The Black Plague of th e e ighties and nineties. After watching his brother ravaged and strippe d t o brittle bone by AIDS, Harvey had dedicated his life to destroying th e d readed virus, to wiping it off the face of the earth.

  As Jennifer would tell anyone who would listen, Harvey's goal had becom e a n all-consuming obsession, an obsession that frightened even Harvey a t t imes. But he had come far in his quest. He and Bruce had finally see n r eal progress, real breakthroughs when ... There was a knock on hi s d oor.

  Harvey swiveled his chair back around.

  "Come in, Eric."

  Dr. Eric Blake turned the knob.

  "How did you know it was ?"

  "You're the only one who ever knocks. Come on in. I was just talking t o y our old school chum."

  "Michael?"

  Harvey nodded. Eric Blake had become a member of Harvey and Bruce's tea m t wo years ago when they realized that two doctors could no longer carr y t he patient load by themselves. Eric was a nice kid, Harvey thought , though he took life way too seriously. It was okay to be serious , especially when you dealt with AIDS patients all day, but a person ha d t o be just a little loose, just a little quirky, just a touch loony t o s urvive the daily ordeal of death and suffering.

  Eric even looked tightly wound. His most distinctive feature was hi s n eat, scouring-pad, red hair. When you looked at him, the expressio n c lean-cut came to mind. Polished shoes. Good dresser. Eric's tie wa s a lways pressed and tied properly, his face freshly shaven even afte r f orty-eight hours on call.

  Harvey, on the other hand, had his tie loosened to somewhere around hi s k nees, believed in shaving only when the growth began to itch, and woul d n eed a handgun to shoot his hair into place.

  Eric Blake had grown up on the same block as Michael in a New Jerse y s uburb. When Michael first became Harvey's hospital patient, littl e r edheaded Eric Blake visited him every day, staying as long as th e h ospital would allow. Back in those days Harvey was an overworke d i ntern, but he liked to spend any free moments he could muster in th e h ospital with Michael. Even Jennifer, a hospital volunteer then, foun d h erself drawn to the child. Very quickly Harvey and Jennifer formed a s pecial rapport with this irresistible young boy caught up in a world o f c onstant abuse.

  Over the years Harvey and Jennifer watched Michael grow from childhoo d t hrough adolescence and into manhood. They went to his basketball game s a nd music recitals and award dinners, applauding his achievement lik e p roud parents. They were there to comfort him after his beatings, afte r h is mother's suicide, after his abandonment by his stepfather.

  Looking back on it now, Harvey wondered if their close relationship with Michael magnified their own major marital problem: No children.

  Maybe so. They tried, but Jennifer could never carry to full term.

  Perhaps if she had, things might have been different.

  Doubtful. Very, very doubtful.

  Harvey wondered if Jennifer still kept in touch with Michael.

  He suspected she did.

  "Did you tell Michael " Eric started to ask.

  Harvey interrupted him with a shake of his head.

  "Not yet.

  I just wanted to make sure Sara was going to be at the party tonight."


  "Is she?"

  "Yes."

  "What are you going to tell her?"

  Harvey shrugged.

  "I don't know yet."

  "It doesn't make any sense. Why when we're so close "

  "We're not that close."

  "Not that close?" Eric repeated.

  "Harvey, look out there.

  People are alive because of you."

  "Because of this clinic," Harvey corrected.

  "Whatever. When we let the results go public, we're going to go down i n m edical history next to Jonas Salk."

  "I'm more worried about the present."

  "But we need the publicity so that we can raise enough money to continue ."

  "Enough," Harvey broke in, glancing at his watch.

  "Let's make a quick check of the charts and head over to the lounge." He s miled tiredly.

  "I want to watch Sara's report on Reverend Sanders."

  "No friend of the cause, that one."

  "No," Harvey agreed.

  "No friend."

  Eric picked up a photograph from the credenza.

  "Poor Bruce."

  Harvey nodded but said nothing.

  "I hope his death means something," Eric said.

  "I hope Bruce didn't die for nothing."

  Harvey moved toward the door, his head lowered.

  "So do I, Eric."

  George Camron removed his gray, pinstriped Armani suit, carefully folde d t he pants at the creases, and placed it on a wooden hanger. He had bee n f orced to burn another Armani two weeks ago, and that upset him ver y m uch. Such a waste. He would have to be more careful with his wardrobe.

  Blood-stained silk suits raised overhead and increased expenses.

  George, a very large man, enjoyed the finer things in life. He wore onl y c ustom-made suits. He stayed in only the most luxurious hotels.

  He frequented only the finest gourmet restaurants. His slicked-back hai r w as styled (not cut, styled) by the world's most expensive hai r d esigners (not beauticians, designers). He enjoyed manicures an d p edicures.

  He walked over to the hotel phone, picked up the receiver, and presse d s even.

  "Room service," a voice said.

  "Is there something we can get you, Mr. Thompson?"

  The Ritz always referred to its guests by their names when they called.

  The personal touch of a very fine hotel. George liked it. Thompson was , of course, his current alias.

  "Caviar, please.

  Iranian, not Russian."

  "Yes, Mr. Thompson."

  "And a bottle of Bollinger. 1979. Very cold."

  "Yes, Mr. Thompson."

  George hung up the phone and relaxed on the king-sized bed.

  He was a long way from his humble beginnings in Wyoming, a long way fro m h is military days in Vietnam, a long way from Thailand, the country h e n ow called home. A wide variety of elegant hotel rooms was George's hom e n ow. The Somerset Maugham suite at the Oriental in Bangkok. The harbo r p enthouse at the Peninsula in Hong Kong. The corner suite at the Crillo n i n Paris. The presidential suite at the Hassler in Rome.

  George checked his watch, turned on the television with the remot e c ontrol, and switched to Channel 2. In a few minutes Newsflash, with Donald Parker and Sara Lowell, would be on.

  George wanted to watch that show very much.

  The phone rang. George picked it up.

  "Hello."

  "This is ..." "I know who it is," George .

  "Did you get the last payment?"

  "Yes."

  "Good," the voice replied.

  The voice sounded nervous. George was not sure he liked that. Nervou s p eople had a tendency to make mistakes.

  "Is there something else I can do for you?" he inquired.

  "As a matter of fact ..."

  Another job. Excellent. George had no idea who his employer was, nor di d h e care. He did not even know if the voice on the other end of the phon e w as calling the shots or merely a go between It did not matter.

  This was a job where you asked no questions. George did his work , collected his pay, and moved on. Questions were irrelevant.

  "I'm listening," he said.

  "The last job I gave you.. it went smoothly? There were no problems?"

  "You read the papers. What do you think?"

  "Yes, well, I just wanted to make sure. You have Dr. Grey's files?"

  "Right here," George said.

  "When do you want to arrange a pickup?"

  "Soon. Have you been wearing the gloves and a mask like I told you?"

  "Yes."

  "And nothing else happened?"

  George wondered for a moment if he should tell his employer about th e p ackage Bruce Grey had mailed at the airport. But no, it was none of George's concern. He had been hired to kill the man; make it look like a s uicide; grab any files or papers he had on him; cut a page out hi s p assport; and leave all money, personal effects, and identificatio n u ntouched. Period. Nothing about mailed packages.

  Except of course, it was his concern. He should never have let Grey mai l t hat package. It was a mistake, George was sure of it, but there ha d b een no way to stop him. He shook his head.

  Maybe he should have done some more background checking before he signe d o n for this job. Something about it was not right.

  "Nothing else," George said.

  "You sure?"

  George cleared his throat. Dr. Bruce Grey had made the job painfull y e asy. His checking into a high-rise hotel had been a blessing for George; it gave him the license to use whatever means he wished t o i llicit pain and solicit the suicide note. Any physical trauma inflicte d o n Dr. Grey would be hidden in the splattered mess on the pavement.

  "I'm sure," George said.

  "And in the future, don't make me repeat myself. It's a waste of time."

  "I'm sorry." "You said something about another job?"

  "Yes," the voice said.

  "I want you to eliminate another ... person."

  "I'm listening."

  "Is someone else with you?"

  "No."

  "I hear voices." "It's the television," George explained.

  "Newsflash is about to go on. Sara Lowell's debut."

  The voice on the phone sounded startled.

  "Why.. why did you say that?" A strange reaction, George thought.

  "You asked about the voices," he replied.

  "Oh, right." The voice tried to steady itself, but the strain wa s u nmistakable.

  "I want you to eliminate someone else."

  "When?"

  "Tonight."

  "This is very short notice. It will cost you."

  "Don't worry about that."

  "Tine," George said.

  "Where?"

  "At Dr. John Lowell's house. He's having a large charity forma l t onight."

  George almost laughed out loud. His eyes swerved back toward th e t elevision. Dr. Lowell. Former surgeon general. Sara Lowell's father.

  That explained the bizarre reaction. He wondered if Sara would be at th e p arty.

  "The same method as the first two?" George asked.

  "Yes."

  George took his stiletto out of his pocket, snapped it open, an d e xamined the long, sleek blade. It would be messy, no question abou t t hat. He considered his wardrobe and settled on the green Ralph Laure n p olo shirt he had picked up in Chicago.

  It was a little too tight around the shoulders anyway.

  Chapter 2.

  Don't be nervous. Don't be nervous. Don't be nervous ... "Fiv e s econds."

  The announcement tightened Sara's stomach. For a fleeting moment sh e a lmost started singing again. She forced her mouth to close, adjuste d h er spectacles, and waited.

  I'm going to do fine. I'm going to kick some ass. I'm going to ...

  "Four, three, two ..." The hand pointed toward the two people sitting a t t he desk.

  "Good evening, I'm Donald Parker."

  Please don't si
ng ..."And I'm Sara Lowell. Welcome to News Flash .

  Dr. John Lowell's estate in the Hamptons was enormous. The Tudor mansio n s at majestically atop ten handsomely landscaped acres. There was a gras s t ennis court as well as an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, three Jacuzzis, two hot tubs, a spacious cabana, a helicopter landing pad, an d m ore rooms than Lowell knew what to do with. The house had been hi s g randfather's, a capitalist who had, according to liberal textbooks , raped and pillaged the land and its people for profits. John's father , however, chose to bypass the family business and become a surgeon. Joh n h ad followed suit. He made a good living, though practicing medicine wa s n ot nearly as profitable as raping and pillaging.

  In a few hours, the east wing would be packed to capacity with some o f t he wealthiest people in the world, all of whom had donated thousands t o t he Erin Lowell Cancer Center for the right to attend. John would hav e t o smile a lot and be solicitous.

  He hated doing that. During his controversial tenure as surgeon genera l i n the early eighties, John Lowell had never learned much abou t d iplomacy or political subtlety. He crusaded zealously to crush cancer , bulldozing whatever and whomever stood in his way. He declared war o n c igarette smokers, claiming in an angry remark on national television , "Cigarettes are murder weapons, plain and simple. I feel no pity fo r s mokers who give themselves lung cancer.

  They don't care if they make other people sick with secondhand smoke o r e ven if they give their own children a deadly disease. It boggles th e m ind how we put up with people who are so selfish and destructive."

  The remark sent shock waves throughout the country. The tobacco industr y l obbied to have John Lowell removed from office.

  They failed, but not from lack of trying. Battle lines had been drawn o n t hat day, and even though John was no longer surgeon general, h e c ontinued to fight.

  "Hi, Dad."

  John Lowell spun toward his elder daughter, Cassandra. She was wearing a b athrobe and sandals.

  "Cassandra, where are you going?"

  "Just taking a quick dip in the pool," she replied.

  "But your sister is going to be on in a few minutes. All the hous e g uests are coming inside to watch."

  Cassandra's eyes clouded over, but John did not appear to notice.

  ""I'll only be a moment."