Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  The word hit Sara like a sharp slap.

  "What?"

  "They both died of multiple stab wounds within two weeks of on e a nother."

  "I didn't read anything about this."

  "The murder of gays is hardly front-page stuff, Sara."

  "Did you talk to the police?"

  He nodded.

  "They thought it was an interesting coincidence but nothing more. The y p ointed out other similarities between the two men both were gay, live d i n Greenwich Village, had brown hair, etcetera, etcetera."

  "They could be right," she said.

  "It could be just a coincidence."

  "I know," he agreed.

  "I thought that too."

  "But?"

  "But now Bruce is dead."

  "And you think his suicide is related to this?"

  He paused and let out a deep breath.

  "I don't think Bruce committed suicide, Sara. I think he was murdered."

  Sara felt her mouth go dry.

  "But how can that be? Wasn't a note found?"

  "Yes."

  "And wasn't it in Bruce's handwriting?"

  "Yes."

  "So how-"

  "I'm not sure how it worked. It could have been a clever forgery o r s omething I don't know."

  Sara's face twisted into a look of puzzlement.

  "Then you're saying that Bruce was thrown through the window?"

  "I'm. saying that it's worth looking into. Bruce was supposed to be i n c anctin on vacation. What kind of man flies home early from a vacatio n t o kill himself? And something else."

  "Yes?"

  "A few minutes before Bruce died, he called me on the phone.

  He sounded scared shitless. He said he needed to talk to me in privat e a bout something important. I'm sure it was about the murders. We onl y s poke for a minute or two before he suddenly hung up."

  "Did Bruce tell you where he was?"

  "No."

  "Let me ask you something else," she continued, her mind racing now.

  "Are there other good case studies you could present besides the tw o m urder victims?"

  "Yes. At least four others. I know this whole thing sounds crazy, Sara , and yes, I know there are a million more rational solutions to all o f t his. There could be a psychotic gay-basher hanging around the clini c w ho followed Whitherson and Trian home and killed them. It could even b e a nother patient or a staff member.

  But Sara, this is so big, so important. If and I admit it's a big if i f s omeone murdered them because of their affiliation to the clinic and i f t hat someone does the same to the others, it could mean a delay i n p roving that the treatment works. That delay could cost thousands, mayb e h undreds of thousands of lives." "I see your point," she said, "but wh y a re you telling me?" Harvey smiled, though his face still looked weary.

  "I don't have much, Sara. I'm divorced. I have no kids. My only brothe r d ied of AIDS. My father died years ago and my mother has Alzheimer's. I w ork all the time so I don't have a lot of friends."

  He stopped now as if trying to summon up some additional strength.

  "Michael has always been like a son to me. That makes you, well, th e b est kind of daughter-in-law. Whether you like it or not, you an d m ichael are my family."

  "We like it," she said softly. She took hold of his hand.

  "Have you told anyone else about this?"

  "I'm going to tell Michael, but I wanted to speak to you first.

  Eric, of course, knows. He's been wonderful since joining the clini c l ast year. I depend on him for everything."

  "I'm glad he worked out so well."

  "Yeah, well, Eric and I are both starting to question our sanity ove r t his whole murder mess. We're not sure if we're complete lunatics o r j ust a pair of paranoid conspiracy nuts. Working on a disease like thi s o ne can make you a little batty after a while.

  Will you help me investigate this?"

  ""I'll get on it right away," she said.

  "I have a friend in homicide, a Detective Max Bernstein.

  "I'll speak to him about it. But I have another suggestion."

  "What?"

  She hesitated.

  "Let me do a story on the clinic."

  "Huh?"

  "Well run it live on Newsflash. The positive publicity will force th e g overnment to refinance the clinic." "I don't know, Sara," he said.

  "It might piss off Washington."

  "So what?" she countered.

  "You'll have all of America on your side after this report. Th e p oliticians wouldn't dare close you down." Harvey looked down and sai d n othing for a few minutes.

  "Harv?"

  "Can you keep our location and identity a secret?" he asked.

  "No names of doctors, no names of patients, nothing like that?

  I won't risk a patient's confidentiality."

  "No problem."

  He looked around, his eyes misty and afraid.

  "If you think it will work ..."

  "It has to," Sara urged.

  "Like you said before, it's time to let the world know."

  Harvey nodded.

  "Okay then. Do it." He shook his head, in some vain attempt to clear it.

  His face fought to look cheerful.

  "Now let's change subjects for a while. How are you doing?" "Actually,"

  Sara said with a hint of a smile, "I need a small favor."

  "Name it."

  "I need you to find me a good obstetrician."

  Now it was Harvey's turn to look surprised.

  "Jesus, Sara, are you ...?

  She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement. She wanted so damn muc h t o say yes, to see Michael's face after a positive test result cam e b ack.

  "Right now, I'm just late."

  "Maybe this is an insensitive question, but what about your career?"

  "No problem there. I can still tape the shows up until the birth and th e n etworks love the publicity of a maternity leave. Boosts ratings throug h t he roof."

  "Can you be at Columbia Presbyterian tomorrow morning at ten?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Ask for Dr. Carol Simpson. She'll know you're coming." He paused , his voice becoming serious.

  "I know you and Michael have been trying for a long time, Sara. Have yo u t old him?"

  She shook her head.

  "I'd rather wait for the results of the test.

  I don't want to build up his hopes if it's just another false alarm."

  "Do you mind if I meet you there?"

  "I'd like that."

  "Great.

  "I'll see you then."

  "Harvey?"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't forget to talk to Michael about his stomach. He won't sa y a nything, but it's really giving him some problems."

  ""I'll speak to him right away."

  George sat in his car behind lush shrubbery at the foot of Dr. Lowell's d riveway. He checked his gold Piaget. Getting late. The party wa s w inding down now. Most of the guests had already left.

  George had been sitting in the car for hours, watching while hi s i ntended victim drove up the driveway in a shiny limousine.

  The poor soul was in the large mansion now, enjoying Dom Perigno n c hampagne and foie gras, hobnobbing with the jet set, never knowing tha t i n a few hours the knife in George's hand would slit open his arterie s a nd extinguish his life forever.

  He examined the stiletto blade front and back. Even in the dark, i t g leamed menacingly.

  A limousine drove down the driveway and past him. George looked up. He r ecognized the license plate immediately. The familiar adrenalin course d t hrough his veins.

  He turned the ignition key and followed.

  Chapter 4.

  It was a two-on-one fast break. Michael had faced hundreds of them i n h is career, maybe thousands.

  He watched as the New York Knickv number one draft pick, a scrawny blac k k id from Memphis State named Jerome Holloway, dribbled toward h
im wit h l ightning speed. On Jerome's left ran the Knick's second round pick , Mark Boone, a big white guy from Brigham Young who looked like a gian t f armhand. The two kids bore down on the old veteran with determinatio n i n their eyes.

  Come to Papa, Michael thought.

  Michael knew better than anyone how to defend two men against one: confuse them especially the man dribbling the ball.

  The key was to make the Holloway kid throw an errant pass or to stal l h im long enough for Michael's teammates, his reinforcements, to arrive.

  Michael head-faked back and forth, alternating between blockin g h olloway's trail to the basket and picking up the free man Boone. He l ooked, he thought, suspiciously like a man having a fit. But that wa s o kay better to shake up the rookies.

  Jerome Holloway headed straight toward the basket. At the last momen t m ichael stepped in his way. Jerome leaped, his eyes desperately seekin g b oone streaking down the other side. Michael almost smiled.

  Once Holloway's feet had left the ground, he had committed. A mistake.

  A pure rookie mistake. Predictably, the kid looked panicky and began t o m ove his arms toward his chest, preparing to throw the ball to Boone.

  Like taking candy from a baby.

  Michael slid between the two, readying himself to steal the pass an d h ead back down the court for a fast break in his favor.

  He had done the same thing countless times before. Games had bee n d ecided by such a switch in momentum. Michael stepped forward an d e xtended his hand into the passing lane, just as Holloway was about t o r elease the ball.

  But Holloway pulled back. The passing movement and panicked expressio n h ad been a fake. Completely out of position now, Michael watched whil e h olloway grinned, cupped the ball between his hand and forearm, an d g lided toward the cylinder.

  The dunk crashed through the basket with remarkable force. The backboar d v ibrated from the assault.

  Holloway landed and turned toward Michael. The grin was still on hi s f ace.

  Out of breath, Michael managed, "I know, I know. In my face, right?"

  Jerome shrugged.

  "You said it, old dude, not me. But I do love playing against legends."

  "This is just practice, kid. We're on the same team."

  "Knicks to the end. By the way, nice shorts."

  "You don't like them?"

  "Pink and aqua flowers? Very hip."

  They ran up court. Sweat soaked all ten players running through th e s crimmage. Their bodies glistened in the dim light.

  Michael felt hot, tired, and a touch out of shape. His stomach was no t h elping matters much.

  The upcoming season would be Michael's twelfth with the New York Knicks.

  He had begun, like Holloway, as a number one draft pick.

  Coming out of Stanford at age twenty-two, Michael had been a supersta r h is first year in the NBA, winning the Rookie of the Year Award an d m aking the All-Star team. That same year the Knicks went from last plac e i n the Eastern Conference to second place a twenty-game swing-around.

  The next year Michael led them to the finals, where they lost in a s even-game showdown to the Phoenix Suns. Two years later he collecte d h is first NBA championship ring. He had won three in his career with th e k nicks, been named to the All-Star team ten times, and been the league's l eader in steals and assists for eight seasons.

  Not bad for an old dude.

  Michael, an all-purpose shooting guard, did it all. There were many wh o c ould score like him, a few who could rebound like!

  him, a couple who could pass like him, but next to none whoj could pla y d efense like him. Add it all up and you had the kin of player ever y c hampionship team needs.

  "What's the matter, Michael? Feeling your age. Haul ass!"

  Michael could hear himself suck in air. The voice belo to the Knick's n ew head coach, Richie Crenshaw. Richie had a second round pick by th e b oston Celtics the same year Michael was drafted by the Knicks. Ther e h ad been something of a IT between the two during Crenshaw's playin g d ays, but for the most' part it was an amicable rivalry. The two me n a lways got along off the court. Now Richie Crenshaw was Michael's coac h a nd still his good friend.

  Eat shit, Richie, Michael shouted. But only to himself.

  His lungs burned in his chest, his throat was dry. He was getting older , goddamn it even though the gods of health had smiled upon Michael fo r h is first ten-plus NBA seasons. No injuries. He had had a boatin g a ccident a few years ago, but that took place off-season so it didn't c ount. Only two games missed in almost ten full seasons and those wer e t he result of a minor groin pull. Remarkable, really.

  Unheard of. Then something must have really pissed off the gods.

  Michael had landed wrong in a game against the Washington Bullets , twisting his knee. To make matters worse, Big Burt Wesson, the Bullet's 270-pound enforcer, crashed into Michael on the play.

  Michael's foot remained firmly planted on the floor. His knee did not.

  It bent the wrong way backwards in fact. There a snapping sound an d m ichael's scream filled the stadium.

  Out of basketball for over a year.

  The cast on his leg had been enormous and about as comfortable a s w earing a jock-strap made of tweed. He hobbled around for months , listening to Sara tease him.

  "Stop imitating my limp. It's not a very nice thing to do."

  "Great. I married a comedienne."

  "We can be a comedy team," Sara had enthused.

  "The Gimpy Couple. Well limp our way to laughter. We'll be as funny as a r ubber crutch."

  "Awful, Horrendous. Not even remotely funny. Stop."

  "Not funny? Then we'll become a dance team. Limp to your left. Limp t o y our right. We can switch leg braces during a tango."

  "Stop. Help. Police. Somebody shoot."

  Michael and Sara had both recognized that he might not be able to com e b ack; they were prepared for it. Michael had never been a stupid joc k w ho thought that a basketball career would last forever. There was tal k i n the Republican party about running him for Congress when he retired.

  But Michael was not ready to call it quits. Not yet anyway.

  He worked hard for a full, painful year with the therapist Harvey ha d f ound for him and rebuilt his shattered knee.

  Now he was trying to get himself back into playing condition at th e k nicks' pre-season camp. But while the knee felt okay in its vise-lik e b race, his stomach was slowing him down. He had promised Harvey las t n ight that he would swing by the clinic before three o'clock for a c omplete check-up. With a little luck, Harv would take a few tests, se e i t was just some stupid bug again, give him a shot of antibiotics, an d s end him on his way.

  Harvey. Jesus Christ, what was going on? Michael and Sara had gotte n l ittle sleep last night. They drove home, made love again in a tangle o f p arty clothes, then sat up and analyzed what Harvey had told them.

  If what Harvey said last night was true, if he had indeed found a t reatment for the AIDS virus ... One of Michael's teammates set a pic k f or him. Michael used the screen and ran from the left side of the cour t t o the right.

  He caught a glimpse of the wall clock and saw it was ten. Another hour , and then he would go uptown and see Harvey. At the Clinic.

  Capital C in his mind.

  Michael was not looking forward to that visit. Immature to say but th e p lace gave him the creeps. He was not sure if it was the magnitude o f t he disease or his not-so-latent homophobia, but the place intimidate d h im. Terrified him actually.

  To be honest, Michael had never been all that comfortable with gays.

  Yes, he believed that homosexuals should be treated like everyone else , that their private lives were their own business, that discriminatio n a gainst someone because of his sexual preference was wrong. He r ecognized that Sanders and his gang of mentally malnourished bigot s w ere deranged and dangerous people. But still, Michael found himsel f m aking the occasional gay joke, referring to some
one effeminate as "tha t b ig fag," keeping away from someone who was a "blatant fruit." He r emembered when his teammate Tim Hiller, a good friend and apparently a l adies man, shocked the sports world by admitting he was gay. Michae l h ad stood beside him, supported him, defended him, but at the same time , he distanced himself from Tim. Their friendship did not crumble; Michae l j ust let it slowly slide away. He felt bad about that.

  Back on the court the ball was passed to Reece Porter, | Michael's c losest friend on the team and the only Knick besides Michael who wa s o ver thirty. Reece spotted Michael and tossed him the ball.

  "Do it, Mikey," Reece cried.

  Michael made a beautiful fake on the rookie Holloway, dribbled down th e m iddle of the key, and laid up a soft shot.

  As Michael watched the ball float gently toward the basket, Jerom e h olloway came flying into view. The rookie smacked the ball with hi s p alm, sending the orange sphere off the court and into the seats. A c lean block.

  Again the rookie grinned.

  Michael held up his hand.

  "Don't say it. Faced again, right?"

  The cocky grin strengthened.

  "The word Spaulding is imprinted on your forehead, old dude."

  Michael heard the laughter. It was coming from Reece Porter.

  "What the hell are you laughing at?"

  Reece could barely control himself.

  "Old dude," he managed between cackles.

  "You going to take that shit, Mikey?"

  Michael turned back toward Holloway.

  "Take the ball out of bounds, hotshot, and dribble up while I cove r y ou."

  "One-on-one?" the kid asked in disbelief.

  "You got it."

  ""I'll blow by you so fast you'll wonder if I was ever there."

  Michael grinned.

  "Yeah, right. Come on, hotshot."

  Jerome Holloway caught the ball. He took two dribbles and began t o a ccelerate toward Michael. He was six feet past him when he realize d t hat he no longer had the ball.

  "What the ?"

  Holloway spun in time to see Michael making an uncontested lay-up. No w i t was Michael's turn to smile.

  Jerome Holloway laughed.

  "I know, I know. In my face, right?"

  Reece whooped and hooted like a lottery winner.

  "Bet your sweet ass, brother. You've been faced something awful."

  "Guess so," Holloway agreed.