Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "Are you trying to tell me that Michael is going to tell the world h e h as AIDS?"

  Sara nodded.

  "And then you're going to do the report on SRI?"

  "Not me," Sara corrected.

  "I'm too close to this now. Donald Parker is going to do it." "And wha t e xactly is Parker going to cover?" Max asked.

  "The AIDS cure? The Gay Slasher connection? Senator Jenkins' kid bein g t reated at the clinic?"

  "All of it," Sara replied.

  Max took the pencil out of his mouth and let go a whistle.

  "That's going to be one hell of a story. The whole country is alread y t alking about the Gay Slasher story. Wait till John Q. Public finds ou t t hat the murders are connected to a clinic that's found a cure for AIDS.

  And then add the fact that Michael Silverman has AIDS and is bein g t reated at the same clinic." Bernstein shook his head again.

  "It's going to be unbelievable."

  No one said anything for a moment.

  "Okay," Max said, "switch gears with me a second, Doc. You said the la b d oor was locked when you tried the knob, right?"

  "Right."

  "Who has a key besides you?"

  "Eric and Winston O'Connor, the chief lab technician."

  "Does this O'Connor know about Michael?"

  "No," Harvey replied, "Winston doesn't know the names of any of th e p atients in here. Like I said before, the test results are coded. Th e p eople in the lab never see the names, only numbers.

  In other words Winston O'Connor sees the test results, but he is 'blind'

  as to whom it involves. We even change their code numbers weekly so tha t t hey cannot be traced down."

  "You're a cautious man, Dr. Riker."

  "Almost paranoid, right?"

  Bernstein was about to answer when they heard a shout.

  Janice Matley stuck her head through the doorway.

  "Dr. Riker, come quick!" Janice shouted, though she knew it was much to o l ate.

  "What is its "Code blue! A patient's arrested!"

  Chapter 12.

  Jennifer Riker scanned the contents in the packet.

  Little of it made sense. First, there were the files.

  Being a doctor's wife, Jennifer had seen plenty of patient files befor e b ut these were considerably more vague than most. Specifics were no t j otted down more like Bruce's overall opinions and thoughts on th e p atient. A journal almost. She read the neatly typed name on the labe l o f the first file: Trian, Scott.

  She jumped back to the beginning of the file and saw a whole slew o f n umbers: 1/9 897a83 1/16 084c33 1/23 995d42 1/30 774c09 2/06 786m60.

  They continued in a similar pattern for two full pages. Jennifer went to th e k itchen and grabbed a calendar. She guessed that 1/9 must stand fo r j anuary 9,1/16 for January 16, and so on. She checked the calendar.

  January 9 was a Monday, as was every other day that followed. For som e r eason Bruce had jotted down a five digit number with a letter betwee n t he third and fourth numeral on every Monday.

  Why?

  She shrugged and continued to read. Very little of it made sense to he r a lot of medical jargon but early on she read something that sh e u nderstood all too clearly: HIV positive. T cell count very low. Signs of Kaposi's sarcoma.

  The word wasn't there, but Jennifer knew what Bruce was trying to say: AIDS. In fact she could not find the term anywhere in any of th e r eports, as though the very acronym should be avoided, whispered, neve r w ritten in anything but easy-to-erase pencil.

  AIDS.

  She continued to read. A few pages later another paragraph gave he r r eason to pause. Bruce's handwriting was bright now, soaring, reflectin g t he mood he had obviously felt at this moment.

  She had seen what the job of medical research could do to a man, th e h ighs and the lows, how every setback brought on depression and ever y b reakthrough a major high. Emotions swayed on a daily, sometimes hourly , basis: Good news. Trian appears to be getting better. His progress i s r emarkably similar to the animal tests which proved so successful. It i s h ard not to get your hopes up when you chart it. The SRI has taken it s t oll on him, but for the first time he appears genuinely healthy.

  Is it simply remission or something much more?

  And ten months later: We are finally ready. Harvey and I will know tomorrow.

  I can't believe it. Both of us are so anxious that we keep snapping a t o ne another and anyone who happens to be around us. Poor Eric. Harve y a lmost bit his head off for nothing.

  He felt bad about it afterwards, like Harv always does when he loses hi s t emper. Then he tried to make it up to him by repeatedly complimentin g e ric on his work.

  I can't blame Harvey for being a little edgy. This is it.

  This is what we've been waiting for.

  What was Bruce talking about? What were they waiting for?

  Jennifer noted the date. Nine months ago. So much had happened to her i n t he last nine months leaving Harvey, moving to California but whe n j ennifer read what happened the next day, she realized how insignifican t t he changes in her life had been.

  Bruce's words put her own private world back in perspective, and for th e f irst time in many months she felt the hollow pang of inadequacy rippl e a new from the distant recesses of her mind.

  "My God," she uttered out loud.

  "It can't be."

  She swallowed and re-read the page, sure that she had misunderstood th e w ords: I am not ashamed to say that tears keep running down my face as I writ e t his. Powerful emotions keep crashing over me. It's more than I ca n t ake. It's more than I ever expected to hear. But I'm getting ahead o f m yself so let me go back a moment.

  "I'll try to be as precise as possible for the sake of posterity.

  Harvey and I wanted to see the Trian results for ourselves. After all , this is hardly the kind of thing you wait for the lab boys to send you a r eport on. So we walked toward the lab with the controlled rush o f s chool children heading for recess under a teacher's watchful eye.

  Winston seemed surprised to see us. He asked what we were doing in th e l ab. I told him we wanted the results for 443t90. Why the rush?

  Winston asked.

  Harvey became a little impatient, which was certainly understandabl e u nder the circumstances, and told him to hand over the file. Winsto n d id.

  We were too nervous to open it in the lab so we did our "trying not t o r un" bit back down to my office.

  Janice stopped us on the way to ask a question, but we just blew righ t b y her. She looked at us like we had lost our minds. We hustled into m y o ffice and closed the door. Harvey handed me the file. I can't look, h e s aid.

  I opened it. Trian was HIV negative. His T cell count was almost normal.

  My heart leapt into my throat while Harvey stood without moving. I thin k h e was in shock.

  We called in Eric and told him the news. He and I began to shout an d j ump around like Super Bowl champs, but not Harv. He just stood to th e s ide and looked off at nothing. What's the matter? I asked him. We'v e d one it.

  Harv shook his head. Not so fast, he said. We have a lot still to b e d one.

  But look at the results, I insisted. He's HIV negative.

  Harvey: Yes, but for how long? It's encouraging but what do we know fo r s ure? We have to test him again.

  Me: But this is just what we need to get the place going again. We n eeded this boost, this kick in the ass. The PHS will give us more mone y n ow. Our grant will have to be extended.

  Harvey: Timing is everything.

  Me: What does that mean?

  Harvey: It means that we have to keep this quiet. Can you imagine th e u proar if such news got out? The press, the scrutiny? We'll lose ou r a nonymity.

  Eric said nothing.

  Harvey: No, my friends, for right now, we should tell no one. We wil l r eveal little bits enough to maintain interest and finances but no t e nough for anyone to know for sure. In the meantime let'
s make sur e e verything is well documented. Send the sample to Bangkok on Friday.

  Jennifer could not believe what she was reading. HIV negative? They ha d t urned someone who had been HIV positive back into HIV negative.

  The disclosure hit her like a heavyweight.

  They've cured AIDS.

  That was probably optimistic thinking, but the evidence was right i n f ront of her. They had done it. Somehow they had found a cure for th e a IDS virus. And Harvey had never mentioned it to her.

  It was all so unbelievable. The startling revelation wearied her.

  She put the file down and closed her eyes. She wanted just to rest the m f or a few minutes before continuing to read, but exhaustion got th e b etter of her. She slid into the cusp between consciousness and slumbe r a nd her head tilted back. One question kept gnawing at the base of he r b rain as she glided down into a deep, sound sleep: Why had Bruce committed suicide right after mailing out this packet?

  Ralph Edmund, the county coroner, rolled the stretcher past Max. Ralp h l ooked like a coroner to be more precise, a mortician.

  Sallow skin, tall, thin body, thin black hair, long fingers. On th e o ther hand he never dressed like a mortician. He wore loud colors , polyester prints, and ostentatious gold jewelry. He also did not ac t l ike a mortician. Ralph was emotional, loud, uncouth as all hell. Eve n b etter, he had the charming habit of chewing tobacco and spitting th e b lack-yellow juice wherever and whenever he saw fit.

  "I want the autopsy done right away," Max whispered to the coroner.

  "Is that why you called me down here personally?" Ralph asked.

  Max nodded.

  "Check everything."

  "Okay," Ralph replied, a thick ball of tobacco bulging in his cheek.

  ""I'll get to it later this afternoon."

  "Now. Right now. And get all the blood samples you can out of him. I w ant you to run a full battery of tests on him."

  "Like what?"

  "Well go over it later."

  "Hey, Twitch, why you whispering? He's not going to wake up. Ha!"

  "Hilarious. Just find out what killed him." Max turned and moved towar d h arvey. The doctor looked pale and exhausted.

  "Where's Martino's roommate?"

  "Kiel Davis? I had him moved to another room. He's being sedated."

  '1 want to speak with him."

  "Later," Harvey replied. He shook his head.

  "My God, I can't believe this." "What's to believe?" Max asked, flippin g t hrough his notepad.

  "There was no visible trauma, no blood, no stab or gunshot wounds, n o s igns of a struggle. The victim was a patient at an AIDS clinic so w e c an assume he was in poor health. All signs point to death by natura l c auses, right?"

  Harvey did not reply right away.

  "Ricky Martino was no angel," he said at last.

  "He was an intravenous drug abuser. He used to push drugs at a loca l h igh school."

  "Irrelevant. How sick was he?"

  "Actually," Harvey replied, "Martino was cured."

  "He didn't have AIDS?"

  "Not any more. His last test showed he was HIV negative.

  He was still undergoing more treatment, of course, but he was on his wa y t o a full recovery."

  "Interesting," Max said.

  "To be frank," Harvey continued, "I wasn't crazy about treatin g m artino."

  "Why not?"

  "Because he was a lousy candidate. For one thing, he was a heroi n a ddict." "Then why did you?" Sara asked.

  "With so many good candidates willing to give anything a try, why woul d y ou choose Martino?"

  "Because we wanted a cross section of patients not just gay men. So b ruce brought Martino in. Brace liked Martino. He believed in him." "An d y ou didn't?" Sara continued.

  Harvey shrugged.

  "Intravenous drug abusers, by and large, are a rather sordid group. I c onfess I'm no big fan of treating IVDAs not for any moral reason bu t s imply because they are unreliable data. Addicts cannot be trusted. On t op of that, most of them are already unhealthy from a lifetime o f a busing their bodies, which makes their chances of fighting the diseas e t hat much slimmer."

  "Then what do you think killed him, Doctor?" Max asked.

  "I don't know." He paused to gather his thoughts.

  "I just don't understand it. I was in this room less than an hour ago."

  "Before you got hit on the head?"

  "Right before."

  "And Martino appeared fine?"

  "He was breathing, if that's what you mean. Look, Martino was not th e h ealthiest man alive, but he had nothing that would have lead to a n a cute death like this. And with the prowler in here tonight and all ...

  it just seems like a hell of a coincidence."

  Max folded his arms across his chest, his face twisted in heavy thought.

  "If Martino was murdered, it puts this whole thing in a new light."

  "What do you mean?" Harvey asked.

  "New M. O." for one," he answered.

  "No stabbing," Sara agreed.

  "But what about Brace?" Harvey said.

  "He wasn't stabbed either."

  Bernstein nodded slowly and began to pace.

  "Let's slow down a minute. Five people are dead, four patients, on e d octor. Three Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were stabbed to death unde r s imilar, though not identical, circumstances." "We know all this,"

  Harvey said impatiently.

  "Just bear with me, okay? What do the three patients have in common?"

  "They were gay," Sara began, "and they were all being treated at th e s ame AIDS clinic."

  "Now add Martino to the list, assuming he too was murdered."

  "Then we can rule out a gay basher," Harvey noted.

  "Martino was heterosexual." His beeper went off.

  "Damn, I have to go."

  ""I'll need to speak to you later," Max said.

  "I also want to see your files on the murder victims."

  Harvey nodded and left. Bernstein stopped pacing and looked toward Sar a g ently.

  "You must be exhausted. Why don't you get some sleep?"

  "I feel fine."

  "Sara ..."

  "Don't start this shit with me, Max. Crying and moping around is no t g oing to help. I need something to distract me."

  Max nodded, understanding.

  "Okay, where were we?"

  "Riccardo Martino."

  "Right. Add him into the equation and what makes them all similar?"

  "Two things," Sara answered.

  "AIDS and the clinic. Like Harvey said, we can eliminate the ga y c onnection since Martino was heterosexual."

  "Okay, now let's move on to Dr. Bruce Grey. Add him to Whitherson , Trian, Jenkins, and Martino. Now what is the common denominator?"

  "Only one thing," Sara answered.

  "The clinic. Someone is targeting people associated with the Sidne y p avilion."

  Max did not respond right away. He just looked off, his head slowl y s haking, his teeth locating another corner of fingernail on which h e c ould gnaw.

  "We're missing something here," he said finally, "something big."

  "Like?"

  "Hell if I know."

  "Do you think someone is trying to sabotage the clinic?"

  "Could be."

  She glanced at the clock above the door.

  "I have to get back to Michael now. He'll be waking up in a littl e w hile."

  "I'm going to check through Dr. Riker's patient files."

  "Okay. I'll see you later."

  "Sara? One other thing?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm saying this as a friend, not a police officer."

  "Go ahead."

  "You're blocking on Michael. It's going to hit you soon."

  She moved to the door.

  "I know, Max. Thanks."

  He could hear the running water.

  "No, no please ..."

  "Shut up, you whining punk."

 
Seven-year-old Michael looked up, his eyes tainted with fear. Hi s s tepfather was leaning over the tub. His blue work shirt, the name Mart y s ewed on the breast pocket in red script, was unbuttoned, revealing a r ipped white T-shirt underneath. Marty's face contorted into a look o f p ure, dumb anger and hate. His breath reeked of liquor and tobacco.

  "Get over here, Michael!"

  "Please ..."

  "If I have to chase you, boy ..." He never finished the sentence , allowing Michael's imagination to do it instead.

  Michael tried to run, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He could no t m ove. Marty reached his hand out and took Michael by the hair.

  He tugged him forward and then down, forcing Michael's head under th e w ater.

  "You gonna mess around in my room again?" Marty shouted.

  Michael could not answer. He could not breathe. He flailed his head bac k a nd forth, searching for air. But there was none. Water went down hi s t hroat and he began to choke.

  Marty's grip tightened. His hand held firm.

  "I didn't hear you, boy. You gonna mess around in my room again?"

  Pressure built up in Michael's head. His lungs felt like they were abou t t o burst. He could hear the water splash around him ... Michael shot u p o ut of bed. Sweat coated his skin.

  Just a dream.

  He looked around, almost expecting to see Marty's face in the corner o f t he darkened room. But his stepfather was not there.

  Michael was alone in the clinic. The AIDS clinic. He had AIDS.

  From the hallway he could hear water running. Someone washing up.

  Someone cleaning out something. No reason to be scared.

  He swung his legs out of the bed and stood. His body still trembled fro m t he power of the dream, but at least he didn't feel any of the SRI sid e e ffects yet. He wrapped his arms around his chest and moved toward th e w indow. He looked out. Not much of a view. Just a dirty alley. Garbag e s trewn everywhere. Two homeless men playing cards.

  Overturned tin cans. Cats chewing on a chicken bone. The only thing tha t h inted at the sanitary conditions within the building was a startlingl y c lean white truck with the inscription "Recovery Corporation of America Medical Waste Disposal" painted acros s i ts side.

  Michael continued to stare.

  Random thoughts and emotions ricocheted through his mind.