by Harlan Coben
If a person is in the latter stages of AIDS if a patient is alread y s eriously ill with some AIDS-induced infection our cure will do littl e i f any good. SRI can stop only HIV. It doesn't cure Kaposi's sarcoma , for example, or any of the other diseases AIDS may eventually give you.
As a result, we have to catch the virus early, before infections an d d isease settle in. And of course, more research is needed. We've onl y s cratched the surface." Cassandra said, "You're sure to get the fund s y ou need once Sara does her report."
"I hope so."
"What do you mean, hope so? Once everyone sees the evidence they'l l s upport the clinic even my father."
Harvey slipped on his shoes and stood.
"That'll be the day."
"You'll see. He'll back you." "Maybe," Harvey said, more to keep th e p eace than anything else.
"But he's not the one I'm afraid of."
"Then who?"
"Dangerous whackos who are making a name for themselves off the death s o f young people. People like that Reverend Sanders "
"You think he's out to sabotage the clinic?"
"It wouldn't surprise me."
Cassandra rolled over, exposing the long smooth curve of her hip.
"He was in my father's study the other day."
Harvey spun back toward Cassandra.
"Reverend Sanders?"
"Yup." "But your father told me he didn't know Sanders personally."
"I heard him in my father's study the morning after the party.
They were arguing."
"Arguing about what?"
"I'm not sure."
"Cassandra, it's important."
She tried to collect her thoughts.
"I remember my father telling Sanders that he should never come to th e h ouse."
"What did Sanders say?" "He just told my dad to relax. I remember tha t s anders sounded so cool. His tone was such a contrast to my father's a ngry one. Then Sanders said something like 'there's still work to b e d one."" Harvey's body went rigid.
"Jesus."
"That's all I heard. I left after that."
"Are you sure " The phone rang. For a moment neither of them moved , their eyes locked onto one another's. Then Harvey lowered his gaze an d m oved toward the phone.
"Hello."
Eric's voice came in a rush.
"Get down to the lab, Harv. Hurry."
"What's the matter?"
"It's Michael, Harvey. Oh God, it's Michael." Michael the button an d h eld it down. Slowly and with a whir, the bed began to move, curling hi s f rame into a sitting position. He coughed twice into his fist and the n s miled at Sara.
"Go ahead," she said.
"Take a sip."
Michael brought the plastic cup to his lips and drank.
"How's the orange juice?" Sara asked.
"Tastes like paint thinner," he replied.
"What time is it?"
"Seven a. M. Did you sleep well?" "Not really," he said.
"I don't like sleeping in separate beds." "Neither do I," Sara said , "but my bed is only a yard away."
"Makes it worse. Sort of like being able to see the Holy Grail and no t g rasp it."
"How poetic."
"To put it somewhat less poetically, I want your bod."
"And I yours," Sara said.
"Every time you stand up I see your cute little ass hanging out the bac k o f your hospital gown. It drives me crazy."
"I know. I'm such a tease." He pushed the orange juice away and glance d u p.
"So tell me, how's the story on Harv's clinic going?"
"We start shooting the interviews later today. It'll be hectic as al l h ell so I may not be able to stop in as much."
"Good. I'll be able to get a little peace and quiet."
"Not so fast, handsome. I'll still be able to come by around lunch an d d inner. And I'll still be sleeping in that bed come this evening."
He grabbed her and they kissed.
"Can't get rid of you, huh?"
"Never."
They kissed again.
Behind them, the door opened. Sara turned and watched Harvey and Eri c e nter. Their grim expressions seemed to magnify into looks of tremendou s p ain when they saw Michael and Sara embracing. Sara took a second loo k a t their faces, at the way they held their heads, at the way their hand s s tayed still in their pockets. And she knew. She knew without questio n o r hesitation.
It was over. Everything was over. She held Michael closely, feeling hi s m uscles stiffen. She wanted very much to scream.
Harvey stepped forward and closed the door.
"We need to talk."
Chapter 10.
Jennifer Riker lifted her face toward the sun, enjoying the feel o f t he warm rays against her skin.
She passed a store window, stopped, took two steps backwards, an d e xamined her reflection. The late forties, she thought, had not bee n p articularly easy on her looks. Her petite figure was beginning t o s pread a little. The small lines around her eyes were deepening int o f ull-fledged (no sense denying it) wrinkles. Her neck was starting t o c rease. She looked again and wondered for the millionth time if she ha d d one the right thing: if she had not, as so many had warned her, jumped out of the frying pa n a nd into the fire.
She thought about it a moment before acknowledging that, in truth, ther e h ad been no choice. To stay with Harvey would have meant to wither awa y i n a world of watching too many soap operas and feeling utterl y w orthless. To remain married would have meant playing the dutiful wif e t o a man who had dedicated his life to a cause and assumed those aroun d h im had chosen to do the same. Just looking at Harvey on those rar e n ights when he'd come home from the clinic, exhaustion blanketing hi s f ace and posture, made Jennifer feel inadequate and selfish. She had t o g et out.
And so she left. She made her escape before the weight of her depressio n h ad a chance to squash her spirit completely. She moved to Los Angele s w here she now lived (quite happily, thank you) with her sister Susan an d h er young nephew Tommy. During her twenty-six years of marriage t o h arvey, Jennifer had rarely ventured off the east coast, never visitin g c alifornia, not even going as far west as Chicago. She and Harvey ha d b een snobbish Northeasterners, believing that the only cultural life o f t he country bloomed within the boundaries of the original thirtee n c olonies.
But Los Angeles had its advantages over New York, albeit they wer e m ostly the obvious. The warmer climate, for one; the warmer attitude , for another. Jennifer enjoyed the laid-back California lifestyl e e specially after the pressure of the last few years. And living wit h s usan had ended up being fun, almost like reliving her childhood i n c ertain respects. Jennifer and Susan had always been close, confiding i n e ach other even as small children. As they grew older, both sister s d ecided that they would always live near each other. Jennifer, olde r t han Susan by two years, had gotten married first, to a doctor name d h arvey Riker.
Almost in a rush not to be left behind, Susan married another doctor , Bruce Grey, a year and a half later. Harvey and Bruce quickly becam e f riends and even medical partners while Jennifer and Susan continued t o g row closer and closer. Everything was moving along perfectly until on e m inor problem began to snag up the works.
Bruce and Susan started drifting apart.
After a few futile attempts to save a dying marriage, Susan left Bruce , moving to Los Angeles and taking their seven-year old son, Tommy, wit h h er. Jennifer and Harvey had been horrified when they heard. The y s tarted to feel isolated and afraid, and for the first time, Harvey an d j ennifer began to question their own happiness and examine their ow n r elationship. From then on, it had been only a question of time.
Jennifer closed her eyes and sighed. She took out a key, opened th e d oor, and stepped inside the apartment. Almost immediately the phon e r ang.
"Hello?"
"Is this Mrs. Susan Grey?"
"She's not here at the moment. May I ask who's calling?"
"Is th
is Mrs. Jennifer Riker?"
"Yes, it is."
"Good morning, Mrs. Riker. This is Terence Lebrock."
"Oh, you're the executor of Bruce's will."
"That's correct. I just wanted to let you know that I sent a post offic e b ox key via overnight mail yesterday. You should be receiving it today."
"A post office box key? I'm not sure I understand."
"Dr. Grey kept a post office box in the main branch of the Los Angele s p ost office. I think it would be best if somebody clears out that bo x r ight away. There might be important papers in there." Jennifer though t f or a moment. Odd that Bruce had a post office box in Los Angeles. Of c ourse it could be the same one he had used during his two-year stint i n t he research department at UCLA, but why would he have saved it? Sh e s hrugged. It was probably another example of Bruce's compulsiv e p ersonality.
"Don't worry, Mr. Lebrock. I'll clear it out today."
The silence was staggering. It filled the room, expanding, growin g l arger and larger until Sara was sure the walls around them were abou t t o give way. First, there had been denial. How could it be? Michael ha d n ever experimented with homosexuality.
He had never been an intravenous drug abuser. He was not a hemophilia c w ho needed constant blood transfusions. He had slept with no one bu t s ara for six years. Any way you looked at it, Michael should have been a v ery healthy, thirty-two-year-old man.
Except he was not healthy. He was lying in a hospital bed with hepatiti s b and a positive reading on an HIV test. His T cell count wa s d angerously low and the most obvious conclusion the doctors could dra w w as that Michael had received contaminated blood in the Bahamas afte r h is boating accident.
He had AIDS.
She looked at him now. His handsome face showed no emotion, so strang e f or a man as filled with passion as Michael, a man who rarely hi d t houghts and feeling behind a black expression. She thought about th e f irst time she had seen that face, the first time she had ever spoken t o h im in person.
The door swung open and Beethoven's Sonata No. 32 in C minor escape d f rom the room and moved outside.
"Yes?" Michael said. He was surprisingly handsome, tall, of course, wit h b road shoulders. There was a towel draped around his neck, a glass o f w hat looked like orange juice in his hand. Perspiration matted the end s o f his hair together. He wiped his brow with the corner of the towel.
Sara nervously gripped her cane. She was about to stick out her right-hand for him to shake, but she suddenly realized that her palm wa s s lick. Her honey-blond hair was tied back away from her face , accentuating her already prominent cheekbones.
"Good afternoon. My name is Sara Lowell."
He looked at her, startled.
"You're Sara Lowell?"
"You sound surprised." "I am," he said.
"You're not what I pictured."
"What did you picture?"
He shrugged.
"Something a little gruffer-looking, I guess."
"Gruffer-looking?"
"Yeah. Dark, curly hair. Cigarette dangling from lip with an ash abou t t o fall off. Manual typewriter. Black sweater. A little on the meat y s ide."
"Sorry if I disappointed you."
"Hardly," he said.
"What are you doing here, Miss. Lowell?"
"Sara."
"Sara."
She sneezed.
"God bless you," he said.
"Thank you."
"Have a cold?"
She nodded.
"So what can I do for you, Sara?"
"Well," she began, "I'd like to come in and ask you a few questions."
"Hmmm. This whole scenario seems a tad familiar to me. Do you have a s ense of deja vu too, Sara, or is it just me?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"On if you slam the door in my face like you slammed the phone in m y e ar." He smiled. "louche."
"Can I come in?"
"First, let me ask you a question," he said. He feigned taking a penci l o ut of his pocket and writing in a small notebook.
"Why the cane?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he continued in his serious, reporter-like voice.
"You're using a cane and you have a brace on your leg. What happened t o y ou?"
"Playing role-reversal, Mr. Silverman?"
"Michael. Just answer the question, please."
"I was born prematurely, with permanent nerve damage in my foot."
"Was it bad when you were young?"
Her voice was soft.
"Not good."
She lifted her head and saw the gentle, almost soothing expression o n h is face. He'd have made a great interviewer, she thought, except ther e w as an undeniable tension between them, a tension that was not al l t ogether unpleasant.
"You say you were born premature," he continued.
"Were there other complications ?"
"Not so fast," she replied.
"My turn. When did you start playing basketball?"
"I don't know. When I was six or seven, I guess."
"Were you one of those kids who played all the time, who lived on th e p layground?"
"It was the best place to be," he replied.
"What do you mean?"
Michael did not answer.
"What were your other complications, Sara?"
"Lung infections," she said quickly. "So when did you start playing th e p iano?"
"When I was eight."
"Your parents hired a music teacher?"
A humorless smile came to his lips.
"No."
"Then who-"
"I think you'd better leave," he said.
"Let's change the subject."
"No."
"But I was just going to ask "
"I know what you were going to ask," Michael interrupted.
"How hard is this for you to understand? I don't want my personal lif e s plashed all over the papers. Period."
"I just wanted to know the name of your piano teacher," she said.
"I thought you would want to give your teacher credit."
"Bullshit, Sara.
"Let's change the subject' is just another way of saying you want to tr y t o attack from another angle. You figure if you keep probing, eventuall y y ou'll get what you want no matter what the cost."
"And what are the costs, Michael? Your story could give hope t o t housands of children who are being abused "
"Jesus, how low will you stoop to get this story?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she replied.
"I want every story I'm assigned."
"Have you no ethics?"
Sara's fists clenched.
"Spare me the morality play. We reporters are great as long as we'r e t elling the world what a wonderful guy you are. We're your best pal s w hen we pat you on the back and help you get more endorsement money.
But oh, if we dare to criticize, if we dare to dig deeper "
"My personal life is none of anyone's goddamn business."
"Afraid I'll shatter your precious image? Afraid I'll make you look lik e s omething other than Superman?"
She could see him wrestling with his temper.
"Good-bye, Sara," he said with too much control.
"I really didn't want to do this."
"Go ahead. Slam the door in my face. I'll be back." "No," he said, "yo u w on't."
"We'll see."
And then he closed the door in her face just as Sam let loose wit h a nother sneeze. Her breathing was shallow from the effects of her cold.
Sara wheezed, each drawn breath a painful struggle. She turned away fro m t he door and huffed off.
"The man is a major league pain in the ass."
Back home, she began to re-read his file. As the words passed in fron t o f her, her anger softened and then evaporated. Could she really blam e h im for being so defensive? His childhood read like something out o f o liver Twist. She sat back, laced her fingers behind
her head, an d s neezed again. Her breathing was still labored, even worse than before.
She had tried to dismiss it, but the truth was becoming more and mor e a pparent. With something near terror, Sara knew what she had to do.
She reached for the phone and called her father.
The next morning the doctors confirmed Sara's diagnosis.
"Pneumonia," John told his daughter from her hospital bed. There wer e t ears in his eyes.
"Third time for you in the last two years, Sara." "I know," she said.
"You have to slow down a little." Sara glanced up at her father but sai d n othing.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked.
"Fine," she replied.
"How long will I have to be here this time?"
"The doctors don't know, honey. I can stay with you for a while, i f y ou'd like."
She nodded.
"I'd like that very much."
John Lowell left his daughter's bedside at nine p . M. Sara did not wan t h im to go. Irrational as it might seem, she hated being alone at nigh t i n the hospital. Despite all the time she had spent in hospitals, Sar a w as still scared to close her eyes, afraid that someone or somethin g m ight sneak up on her. She felt like some movie character left alone t o s urvive a night in a haunted house. It was the hospital sounds that mad e h er shudder, the sounds that reverberated louder in the blackness an d s tillness of the night: footsteps echoing much too loudly against th e t ile floors; the constant beeping, gurgling, and sucking noises o f l ifesaving machines; the random moan of pain; the scream of terror; th e s queak of wheels; crying.
Feeling lonely, Sara strapped on her Walkman and began to sing a littl e d itty by the Police. When her voice grew too loud ("Don't Stand So ...
Don't Stand So ... Don't Stand So Close To Me!") the nurse came in, gav e h er a scolding glare, and told her to quiet down.
"Sorry."
She took off the headset and flicked on the television. She wa s i mmediately greeted by a sportscaster's voice.
"Great move by Michael Silverman. What a game he's having, Tom."
"Sure is, Brent. Twenty-two points, ten rebounds, nine assists. He's p laying like a man possessed."
"And Seattle calls time out. The score in this fourth game of the NBA Championship Series New York 87, the Sonics 85. We'll be back at Madiso n s quare Garden in New York City in just a moment."
Though not much of a sports fan, Sam watched the remainder of the game.