Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "You should come in with the rest of us and watch Sara."

  Once again he failed to acknowledge the defiant glare in his daughter's e yes.

  "You're going to tape the show, right?" she asked.

  "Right."

  "So I'll be able to watch my sister over an dover again. Lucky me."

  "Cassandra ..."

  She ignored her father and strode away. Sara. Ibr Cassandra's whole lif e h er younger sister's name surrounded her like thousands of tiny birds.

  "Sara is sick."

  "We have to take Sara to the hospital."

  "Don't play so rough with Sara." To her father, Cassandra was never a s p retty, never as kind, never as ambitious, never as smart as Sara.

  Her mother had been different. Erin Lowell had loved Cassandra just a s m uch as prettier, kinder, more ambitious, more hard-working, smarter than Sara. God, how she missed her mom. It had been more than a decade now , but still the pain was fresh, constant, and occasionally all-consuming.

  The heat was stifling again today and many of the guests had escaped th e h umidity with a dip in the pool. Most were beginning to head into th e h ouse to watch wonderful Sara's debut on News Flash But seeing Cassandr a s triding toward the pool, several of the men froze.

  Cassandra was tall and wild-eyed, with wavy dark hair and olive skin.

  She differed so from Sara that no one would ever suspect that they wer e s isters. To put it simply, Cassandra was hot. Burning hot.

  Dangerously hot. Where Sara's eyes could best be described as gentl e p onds, Cassandra's smoldered like coals.

  Cassandra arrived at the pool and kicked off her sandals. With a sligh t s mile she slipped her robe down off her shoulders. It fell to the floor , revealing a sleek one-piece bathing suit that struggled to contain he r v oluptuous curves. She stepped onto the diving board, knowing that al l e yes were following her, and sauntered to the front.

  Then, stretching her arms over her head, Cassandra dove in, the coo l w ater tingling her skin all over. She began to swim the length of th e p ool, her long torso reaching forward with each stroke, her well-tone d l egs kicking ever so slightly. Her body sliced through the wate r e ffortlessly, leaving barely a ripple.

  "It's almost eight o'clock," a voice from the house called.

  News Flash is about to start."

  Once again the women began to move toward the house, but the men coul d n ot free themselves so easily from Cassandra's spell. Oh, they strove t o l ook casual, silently sucking in their paunches or putting shirts ove r a ll-too-obvious flaws. They walked by her slowly, trying desperately t o s neak one last peek.

  Cassandra stepped out of the pool and slowly made her way toward a c haise lounge. She did not bother to dry herself.

  Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she withdrew a pair of sunglasses , put them on, and lay back, crossing her legs.

  Cassandra appeared to be resting quietly, but behind her sunglasses he r e yes were very much on the move.

  She spotted chubby Stephen Jenkins, the sixty-two-year-old forme r s enator from Arkansas. Stephen Uncle Stevie, she and Sara called him wa s a n old family friend. He and John Lowell had gone to Amherst together , their wives had hosted parties together, their children had gone t o s ummer camp together. It was all very sweet and nice. And let's be fran k h ere having sex with the conservative minority leader of the United States Senate had been something of a challenge for thirty-something Cassandra. A sexual thrill, however, it was not.

  "Hello, Cassandra," Jenkins called out.

  "Hello, Uncle Stevie."

  Cassandra had considered seducing the senator's handsome, single son a s w ell, but Bradley was kind of a pain in the ass. And worse, he was Sara's friend. Every time they saw each other, the two of them gabbe d f or hours, ignoring Cassandra completely.

  If Sara and Bradley had been lovers, Cassandra might have considered it.

  But they weren't. From the day of her marriage two years ago, Sara wa s d edicated to Michael to the point of absolute boredom.

  Cassandra poured some suntan oil into her cupped hand and began t o m assage it onto her legs. From across the pool Senator Jenkins watched , his eyes wide and hungry.

  "Stephenr Mrs. Jenkins called.

  "Bradley?"

  The senator looked away regretfully.

  "One minute, dear."

  "Hurry, everyone! Sara's on!"

  The crowd moved quickly now. In a few minutes everyone was inside , watching the television. Cassandra lay back and closed her eyes. Sar a w as on national TV. Who gives a rat's ass?

  Sara felt a knot form in her stomach. She knew that the Reverend Ernest Sanders was sitting in the next room, waiting to be interviewed.

  He was good in an interview slick as a greased pig. If the Reverend Sanders did not like a question, he dodged it by an old, proven method: he ignored it. He could frustrate and fluster an interviewer with th e b est of them.

  Most of Sara's report on Sanders and his Holy Crusade was taped, so sh e r emoved her glasses, took a deep breath, and willed herself to remai n c alm. She had gone over the report so many times that she knew ever y w ord by rote memory. She sung softly to herself and only listened t o b its and pieces of the story.

  Starting twelve years ago with only a few dozen members, the Reveren d e rnest Sanders, former member of several white supremacy groups, buil t t he Holy Crusade into a powerful movement encompassing thousands o f m embers throughout the country. Combining what Sanders calls "deep , religious values" and "traditional American rights," the Holy Crusad e h as been blanketed in controversy from its inception ... the IRS ha s c onfirmed that neither the Reverend Ernest Sanders nor his wife Dixi e h ave filed income tax returns in twelve years.. Reverend Sanders ha s s pent as much as ten thousand dollars a day on himself and several youn g w omen during "missionary" trips to Caribbean islands without a singl e n ew member of the Holy Crusade to show for it.. millions of dollars i n h oly Crusade donations missing.. the FBI is investigating corruption i n t he upper ranks of the Reverend Sanders ... When the taped portion o f t he story was finished, the camera swung to pick up the familiar an d c omforting face of Donald Parker. Sara stopped singing all together.

  "We have the Reverend Sanders here in our studio," Parker stated.

  "Reverend Sanders, good evening."

  Ernest Sanders appeared on a screen, rather than in person.

  As on Ted Koppel's Nightline, guests rarely if ever sat in the same roo m a s the interviewers. A toll-free number appeared below his image.

  "Good evening, Donald." Sanders voice was pleasant, relaxed.

  Sara felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The minister wore a ligh t b lue, three-piece suit, an obvious hairpiece, and a gold wedding band.

  No watch. No other jewelry. Nothing ostentatious.

  His face was gentle, trusting; the face of a dear uncle or friendl y n eighbor. His bright smile, one of his biggest assets, was firmly set.

  "Thank you for joining us."

  "Thank you, Mr. Parker." Donald Parker asked the first question.

  "You saw the report, Reverend Sanders. Do you have any comments?"

  Sanders' face was so damn calm that Sara wanted to scream.

  "I am a man of the Lord," he said in a smooth, Southern drawl.

  "I understand human desires."

  "I'm not sure I follow you, sir."

  "It's clear to me and the God-fearing people around the nation what i s g oing on here. I do not think I need to lower myself to Miss. Lowell's l evel by answering her charges."

  "No charges were leveled, Reverend Sanders," Sara broke in, putting he r w ire-rimmed glasses back on her face.

  "Are there facts in the report you would care to dispute?"

  "Do not be so sly, Miss. Lowell. I know what you are really after."

  "What is that, Reverend Sanders?" He smiled.

  "A name for yourself. A quick reputation. What better way than to try t o d rag the good name of a simple preache
r through the mud? A man wh o p reaches the Bible in all its glory, who helps those less fortunate "

  "Reverend Sanders," Sara interrupted, "your personal income last year i s e stimated at over thirteen million dollars, yet you paid no incom e t axes. Can you explain this?"

  The remark did not faze him.

  "Unless I'm mistaken, Miss. Lowell, your family is not exactl y e conomically strapped. I seem to recall that your father has a rathe r s pacious mansion of his own. Should his finances be questioned, too?"

  "My father declares his income every year," she replied.

  "My father can explain where every penny comes from. Can you do th e s ame?"

  "Of course," he stated emphatically.

  "Your lies and innuendos do not fool God's chosen people. Many hav e t ried to distract the righteous from the path of the Lord, but the Hol y c rusade will march on. The Holy Crusade will not allow Satan t o s ucceed."

  "Can you address these supposed lies?" Sara asked.

  "Can you be more specific?"

  Sanders looked up and shook his head.

  "Satan uses words to twist goodness and righteousness and make it appea r e vil," he explained like a school teacher lecturing an insubordinat e s tudent, "but we will not be fooled. We live in a society today that i s o verrun with immorality, but we stand firm.

  What has happened to family values and ethics in this country, Miss.

  Lowell?

  God-fearing people like my wife Dixie and I can't raise our children i n t his society anymore. Children are forced to attend public schools wher e g od has been expelled but homosexuals are welcome. Does the Lord no t t ell us "

  "Excuse me, sir, but you were about to address the issues raised in ou r r eport."

  "What issues? "tour show does not address the real issue in America.

  I'm talking about Armageddon, Miss. Lowell. The members of the Hol y c rusade understand what is happening.

  They understand that we are living in an era of Sodom and Gomorrah, tha t h eretics and infidels are attacking God. Dixie and I are doing th e l ord's work, but He helps us along. He gives us signs which you choos e t o ignore."

  "The report spoke of your financial "

  "Take what you call the AIDS virus, for example," Sanders interrupted , his voice rising to a fever pitch.

  "What you call the new phenomenon of AIDS is just the final chapter o f s odom and Gomorrah. God is clearly striking down the wicked, immora l h omosexuals and perverts with His plague."

  "Reverend Sanders "

  "Why is that so hard for you to believe?" he asked quietly, his smil e b righter now, his eyes twinkling.

  "Most Americans believe in the Lord's work as transcribed in the Bible.

  Why then is it hard to believe He can still act in our present age? We h ave no trouble accepting the plagues of ancient Egypt. So why is it s o h ard to accept the plague of modern America? And woe to him who does no t t ake heed. The sinners, Miss. Lowell, there is no place left for them t o h ide. If AIDS is not a sign of what is to come, if AIDS does not mak e y ou accept the Lord as you only salvation and repent, then nothing wil l s how you the light. You are doomed."

  Sara closed her eyes and tried to keep her temper in check.

  She knew that she should keep to her line of questioning, that it woul d b e a mistake to get off the subject of his financial improprieties. Bu t h er temper had other ideas.

  "And what about the other victims, Reverend Sanders?" she asked , struggling to maintain an even tone.

  "The other victims?"

  "Yes, what about the so-called innocent victims of AIDS, the newbor n b abies born with the deadly disease or the people who contract the viru s t hrough blood transfusions? How do you explain the fact that AIDS is no w t he leading cause of death among hemophiliacs?"

  Again that damn smirk of a smile.

  "I do not explain it, Miss. Lowell. I explain nothing. The Bible does i t f or me. Read the Lord's words and you will see for yourself. The Bibl e t ells us that not all living creatures in Noah's time were cruel an d h eartless, yet the Lord chose to save only the creatures upon Noah's a rk. And in the story of Moses, why were the innocent forced to suffe r t hrough the hosts of plagues that besieged Egypt? The Bible gives us a s imple answer, Miss. Lowell. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Who ar e w e to question His ultimate plan? I know, I know, it's an old cliche , but it happens to be true. You cannot deny that the vast majority o f t hose stricken with God's plague are abnormal people with pervers e l ifestyles, but yes, the innocent must on occasion pay for the sins o f t heir brethren. That is why I ask all of you to return to God now , repent before it's too late. God will not allow a cure to be found unti l h e rids the planet of the immoral " Nice move, Sam. She had played righ t i nto his hands, allowing the butt head to get on his soapbox and preach.

  It was time to knock him off.

  "Reverend Sanders, why have you not filled out an income tax form i n t welve years? Why have you and your wife Dixie not paid a penny o f i ncome tax in all that time?"

  Donald Parker sat back and watched. He did not want to interrupt. Th e s how's director signaled for a commercial break, but Donald waved hi m o ff.

  "Miss. Lowell, you know the law as well as I do. This great country o f o urs works to protect religious freedom, despite what some communist s a nd atheists try to do. You may have temporarily succeeded in throwin g g od out of school and murdering unborn children, but the tide i s c hanging "

  "Thank you, Reverend Sanders, but we were talking about your taxes.

  Please try to answer the question."

  "I am answering your question, Miss. Lowell. Dixie and I are law-abidin g c itizens. We pay our fair share of taxes."

  "How much income tax did you pay last year, Reverend Sanders?"

  "Churches do not have to pay taxes. It's called separation of church an d s tate. You can read all about it in the Constitution."

  Sara readjusted her spectacles.

  "I've read the Constitution, Reverend Sanders, but with all due respect , sir, you are not a church. You would certainly not suggest that peopl e w ho work in the church should slide by without paying taxes, forcin g h ardworking Americans to carry the load for them, would you?"

  His smile wavered, and for a brief moment there was a crack in th e f acade, allowing a quick peek at the cold soul beyond the smile.

  "Of course not," he said.

  "You twist everything around to suit your purposes, and the righteou s k now that. The righteous will not be swayed off the path of the Lord b y y our lies. I repeat what I have said all along. I have paid my fai r s hare of taxes. This whole issue is nothing but a play by secularists t o r uin my good name."

  Donald Parker finally broke in.

  "Thank you, Reverend Sanders. Well take a break and be back after thi s m essage. Don't go away."

  "Dr. Lowell? May I speak with you for a moment?"

  John Lowell looked up, obviously annoyed.

  "Can't it wait until after the show, Ray?" "There's a commercial o n n ow," Raymond said. Dr. Raymond Markey worked for the Department o f h ealth and Human Services in Washington. A small man, his arms and leg s l ooked too short for his body. Thick glasses magnified his small dar k e yes fivefold, making him look more like a classic movie nerd than a m edical doctor. In truth, Markey rarely practiced medicine anymore. Hi s j ob as assistant secretary of the department threw him more into th e p olitical realm than he cared to admit.

  With a deep sigh, John Lowell stood and walked out of the room. The tw o h eaded down the hallway together. When they were alone, Lowell said , "Okay, what is it?"

  Raymond Markey's giant eyes scanned the hallway like two searchlight s a cross a prison courtyard.

  "He's coming to your party tonight."

  Lowell's face turned red.

  "What? I don't want that man in my house, I thought I made that clear."

  "You did."

  "It's too dangerous," he whispered.

&n
bsp; "The timing of this party, everything."

  "It doesn't matter," Markey said.

  "He'll be here. I thought you should know."

  Lowell cursed silently, his hands clenching into fists.

  "That son of a bitch is going to destroy us all."

  As the party got into full swing, the group of men surrounding Cassandr a f ought for center stage like vain actors. But Cassandra, used to suc h s cenes, couldn't have cared less. She merely smiled brightly , seductively, nodding now and again but never really listening. they wer e a ll important men. Randall Crane owned a large chunk of severa l c onglomerates. He had been featured on the cover of Fortune magazin e l ooking very distinguished and serious. But he was boring. They were al l d eadly boring. If these men had not possessed staggering amounts o f m oney, nobody would even pretend to listen to their self-indulgent hors e m anure.

  The crowd of well-dressed patrons buzzed about Sara's debut o n n ewsflash. Cassandra's eyes swept over the mansion's large ballroom , recognizing most of the nearly three hundred guests.

  Hypocrites, she thought. Like they really gave a flying shit abou t f ighting cancer. They were here to be seen, to mingle and impress.

  If that meant coughing up some money for charity, well, that was th e p rice of admission. Being seen was the thing.

  Randall Crane interrupted her thoughts.

  "Do you know how I arrived here tonight, Cassandra?"

  She barely glanced in his direction.

  "No, Randall. Why don't you tell me?"

  "By private helicopter," he said proudly.

  "I just bought the bird. Seats eight. I have my own full-time pilot , co-pilot, and stewardess."

  "Stewardess?" Cassandra repeated.

  "On a helicopter?"

  Randall Crane nodded.

  "We traveled from the roof of my highrise on 47th Street to here i n u nder an hour." "I'm very im, Randall."

  The older man beamed.

  "Do you want to take a ride in it" You won't believe how fast it goes."

  She had bedded Randall Crane more than three years ago, and he laste d a bout as long as a fifteen-year-old boy on his first time out. The ma n h ad barely got his pants off.

  "You should learn to slow down, Randall," she said with a wicked smile.