by Harlan Coben
"Did he tell you about his theory about someone trying to destroy th e c linic?"
Sara nodded.
"It made sense to Michael and me."
"Made sense to me too, but there are so many holes. Take Bradle y j enkins, for example. Let's assume that these conspiracy guys are out t o g et rid of the cured AIDS patients the proof, to use Harvey's word.
Then why kill Bradley Jenkins? He was a new patient at the clinic. An d w hy move his body behind a gay bar? And another thing. If you're out t o d o serious damage to a place and you don't care about killing a fe w p eople in the process, why pussy-foot around? Why not go all out? Wh y n ot burn down the Pavilion? Why not just kill Harvey and Eric an d d estroy their records?"
"I see your point."
"I don't know, Sara, something just doesn't fit. Why did the killer mak e t he murders so obvious?"
"He's a psycho."
"A psycho who has penetrated the inner sanctum of this hospital? I don't t hink so."
"Maybe he wanted to distract everyone by making them think he was jus t t argeting the gay community," Sara said.
"How so?"
"His first two victims were blatant homosexuals killed in a gruesom e m anner," Sara explained.
"The press was bound to pick it up. The killer knew that. He also kne w t hat the world would immediately assume the murders were the work of a p sychotic homophobe. No one looked deeper than that pat explanation a t f irst. The world searched for the Gay Slasher, a man who murder s h omosexuals randomly, not a calculating killer intent on exterminatin g p atients at a confidential clinic."
"But the press didn't go after the story that much until ..."
"Until they killed the son of a famous senator," Sara finished.
"Which explains why he killed Bradley. It attracted media attention.
Everyone finally focused in on the Gay Slasher."
Max scratched his face, thinking.
"I see what you're saying, but it still doesn't jibe. Why did the kille r m ove Bradley's body behind the gay bar?"
"So the world would know he was gay," Sara tried.
"The killer wanted everyone to think he was the Gay Slasher, a man wh o t errorized the gay community. Trian and Whitherson were know n h omosexuals. Bradley's sexual preference, on the other hand, was a w ell-kept secret. What better way to reveal the truth than to dum p b radley's body behind a gay bar in the Village?" "Okay," he said , "that's theory one. I'm not sure I buy it, but let's move on."
"I don't completely buy it either," Sara said, "but let me thro w s omething else out at you. Could the killer just have been afte r b radley?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, could the killer have murdered Trian and Whitherson to make i t l ook like a serial killer when the real target was Bradley all along?
Could someone have been out to destroy Senator Jenkins by "
"Forget it.
I thought about that already. It makes no sense.
Why kill Ricky Martino after the fact? Why break into the lab?
And what about the clinic connection? Are you just going to write tha t o ff as a coincidence? And what about Grey's supposed suicide "
"Enough already," she interrupted.
"I get the point. Forget I mentioned it."
"Sony" He stacked the files and pushed them away.
"Nervous about tonight's press conference?"
"Terrified. But I'm a lot more afraid of this disease."
Max nodded.
"Michael's strong, Sara. Harvey will cure him."
Harvey Riker picked up his private line.
"Hello?" "Hello, handsome," Cassandra said.
"I'd like to rip your clothes off."
"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number."
"All the better," she replied.
"How did your meeting go with Northeastern Air?"
"It's not over yet. How's your day been?"
He considered telling Cassandra about Michael's condition but quickl y d ismissed the thought. It was not his place to say anything.
"Not good. We lost a patient last night. Murdered, we think."
"Another one?"
"Yes."
Cassandra hesitated.
"Do you really think that Reverend Sanders is connected to this?"
"I wouldn't put it past him."
"And my father?"
Harvey weighed his words carefully.
"It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowin g s anders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he li e t o us? What was he trying to hide?"
Harvey's intercom buzzed before she could answer.
"Hold on a second, Cassandra." He pressed the intercom button.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Riker?"
"Yes," Harvey replied.
"There's a call for you on line seven."
"I'm in the middle of something here. Is it important?"
There was a small pause.
"Its Dr. Raymond Markey."
Harvey felt afraid. The Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Service s n ever called unless it was bad news.
"Hold on a second." He pressed a button.
"I'll call you back, Cassandra."
He pushed another button.
"Dr. Markey?"
"Hello, Dr. Riker. How are you this morning?"
"Not very well."
"Oh?"
"Another one of our patients died last night. He may have bee n m urdered."
"Murdered?" Markey repeated.
"My God, Riker, how many does that make?"
Harvey caught himself just before saying the number four.
"Uh, three."
"What was the latest victim's name?"
"Martino."
"Martino, Martino.. ah here it is. Riccardo Martino? Intravenous dru g a buser?"
"That's him."
"So let's see. The other two were Trian and Whitherson. Both gay.
Multiple stab wounds. The same with Martino?"
"No."
"Then what killed him?"
"An injection of cyanide."
"My God, how awful. Terrible thing."
"Yes, it is. I'm really beginning to worry about the safety of my othe r p atients."
"Yes, well, I wouldn't worry about that too much. I'm sure this is al l n othing more than a terrible coincidence."
A terrible coincidence?
"With all due respect, sir, three patients all from the same clinic hav e b een killed."
"Yes, but you're forgetting one important factor: Bradley Jenkins, th e s enator's son, was also found stabbed to death.
According to the police, he was murdered by the same man who kille d t rian and Whitherson this so-called Gay Slasher. And Jenkins was not a p atient at the clinic. I have your patient list right in front of me an d h is name is not on it."
Harvey froze, trapped. For some reason he was sure that Raymond Marke y w as smiling on the other end of the phone.
"Well, yes, but-"
"So there is nothing to worry about. Now if Jenkins had been a patien t a t the clinic, well, then we'd have quite a problem on our hands. You r r eports would be inaccurate. And if that were the case, then everythin g i n the reports could be questioned. We'd have to assume othe r d iscrepancies exist. All your studies would have to be re-examined an d a ll your findings would be considered tainted. You could lose you r g rant."
Harvey felt something in his gut tighten. The show tonight.
The report on the clinic, on the murders ... on Bradley Jenkins.
Lieutenant Bernstein's voice came back to him.
"What exactly is Parker going to cover?" Max had asked Sara.
"The AIDS cure? The Gay Slasher connection? Senator Jenkins' kid bein g t reated at the clinic?"
And Sara's answer.
"All of it."
Raymond Markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words t o f loat about, settle, and then burrow in
to the surroundings.
The son of a bitch already knows about Jenkins, Harvey thought.
But how? And why didn't I think of this before? What the hell is goin g o n here?
At last Raymond Markey broke the silence.
"But of course," he said, "we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a p atient at the clinic so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths ar e n othing but an awful coincidence. Goodbye, Dr. Riker."
Raymond Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sander s s at smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly , friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all.
What a mask it was. Incredible really as incredible as the man himself.
Markey knew Sanders' history. Poor boy from the south.
Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a d runk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out o f p overty, stampeding over anything that got in his way.
He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a powe r b ase. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and no w s tretched into some of Washington's most powerful circles.
Including mine, Markey thought.
"Done," Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflectio n o f a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties.
They had become something of a trademark over the years.
Red ties and thick glasses.
"Good," Sanders said.
"Has your source come up with anything new?"
"Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging ou t a t the clinic, but everything is being kept hush hus h t he reverend shook his head seriously.
"Not a good sign.
They might go public with Michael Silverman's illness."
"You don't think my call will stop them?" Markey asked.
Sanders thought a moment.
"I don't think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins' connection to th e m urders," he said.
"But if they've decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don't se e h ow your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them."
"Maybe we should forget this whole thing," Raymond said tentatively.
"It may have gone too far already."
Sanders looked at him with burning eyes.
"Are you trying to back out, Raymond?"
"No, it's just-"
"Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission?
You were the one who never trusted Riker, disliked him personally an d p rofessionally. And I have that videotape right-" "No!" Markey shouted.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. His voic e g rew calmer.
"I'm still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit th e c onspiracy is cracking."
Sanders' smile returned.
"Conspiracy is such an ugly word," he said.
"I see it as more of a holy mission. The Lord is behind us in ou r c rusade to do His work." Straight from his TV show, Markey thought i n d isgust.
Sanders' "holy mission" was to tell the world that Armageddon was upo n t hem. And what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the AIDS e pidemic.
After all, Reverend Sanders would shout into the microphone, AIDS is th e m odern equivalent of the plagues of Egypt. It strikes down the immora l w ithout mercy. Yes, my friends, God is preparing for the final battle.
For Armageddon. God has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore.
God has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of th e p erverted, hedonistic scum. And soon the final battle between good an d e vil will be upon us, amen, praise the Lord. Who will be ready?
Who will bask in the light of God, and who will join the AIDS carrier s i n the fires of hell? We must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends , and we need your help to do it. Now is the time for those with untainte d s ouls to give and give generously.
Then Sanders would show a few slides of how God's plague could ravag e a nd pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. Hi s m esmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terro r w hile the contribution baskets were passed among them. From the pulpi t s anders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.
Ah, but if AIDS were somehow cured, if the Lord's plague were someho w l ifted.. well, that could throw a real socket wrench into Reveren d s anders' interpretation of the gospel.
Strange thing was, Raymond was convinced that Sanders really believe d m ost of it. Oh, he knew how to fake a miracle and he sure like d s iphoning off a lot of money, but he honestly felt that he was doin g g od's work here. When Sanders compared AIDS with biblical plagues, h e s aw a direct correlation. Why, he once asked Raymond, was it so hard t o b elieve that God could function in the twentieth century just as well a s h e had in Biblical times? Did people think God had lost his power ove r t he centuries?
"The point remains," Markey said.
"We're losing the base of our support."
"You're wrong, Raymond. They are still with us."
"How can you say that? Senator Jenkins "
"Stephen is grieving right now," Sanders interrupted.
"It must have been a terrible blow to find his son was an immora l p ervert.
He will rejoin us when he comes to his senses."
Raymond looked at him incredulously.
"You can't be serious.
You know what he did. He sold us out."
"Yes, I know. And I don't like it. But he is still a powerful senato r a nd we need him. I want you to call him, Raymond. Tell him I expect t o s ee him at our next meeting."
"And when is that going to be?"
Ernest Sanders shrugged.
"Depends," he said.
"If Michael Silverman goes public with his illness, then I want you t o c all an emergency meeting right away. All of us."
"All of us? But Silverman is John Lowell's son-in-law."
Sanders chuckled lightly.
"Don't worry about Dr. Lowell. I'll take care of him." He stood, put o n h is coat, and walked to the door.
"After all," he reminded Markey, "John Lowell is one of us."
Harvey stormed into Michael's room, his eyes wide with panic.
"Sara, thank God I found you."
She was sitting on the side of Michael's bed. Sara and Michael had bee n g oing over his press statement. They had decided to make it as brief a s p ossible.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Where is Donald Parker?" Harvey asked.
"He should be here in a few moments. What's going on?"
Harvey's words rushed out.
"You have to speak with him.
He can't mention Bradley Jenkins' connection to the clinic."
"Why not?"
"Because it could jeopardize everything." Harvey quickly recounted hi s c onversation with Assistant Secretary Markey, his sentences stumblin g a gainst one another.
"If Markey finds out I left Bradley's name off the progress reports, I c ould lose the clinic. All our findings would be labeled invalid."
"Could they do that?" Michael asked.
"Markey will certainly give it his best shot. He's itching for an excus e t o reallocate our funds. This would be just what he needs. We can't le t h im find out Bradley was treated here."
Sara nodded.
"I'll speak to Donald as soon as he gets here."
Cassandra woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. Th e d isorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a m assive hangover. The disorientation usually lasted only a few moments , just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli t o r econstruct the previous evening. The pain customarily clung to her a l ittle longer.
"Harvey?" she called out.
No answer.
She groaned. She clasped her head between both hands, but the interna l j ack-hammer continued to rip through her temples.
By exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. She squinte d i n the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the light s w ere out. In fact, the room was fairly dark.
She groaned again.
It was a hotel room, not Harvey's apartment. A fancy hotel room. A t ravel brochure would call it 'lush" and "well-appointed."
In the distance a car honked its horn, but to Cassandra it might as wel l h ave been a blown amplifier from a rock concert taking place somewher e i n her cerebrum.
"Shhh," she said out loud.
Her hands held her head in place, waiting until time glued her skul l b ack together. She tried to remember what had happened. The meeting wit h n ortheastern Air. Had they gotten the account? Not yet.
Northeastern's marketing director, a runaway egomaniac, had held of f m aking a decision. Then they had gone drinking at the.. at the Plaza , that's where she was.
What had they talked about? She couldn't remember. The marketin g d irector, while good-looking, was obnoxious, overbearing, and conceited.
A big-time phony. When he opened his mouth, shit came out.
She tried to recall what he had said, but the only thing she coul d r emember him saying was "me, I, me, I, me, I."
Then what?
Pretty simple. The marketing director had taken her upstairs, fucke d h er, and left. It started coming back to her now. The sex was bad. He w as a "poser," someone more interested in his appearance than in what h e w as doing, the kind of guy who would rather look in a mirror than at hi s p artner. Might as well have been making love to himself.
Cassandra sat up and glanced about the room. Yep, he was gone, than k g od. He had left a note on the night table. She reached for it and read: Congratulations. You got the account.
He had not signed the note, just left his business card.
Christ.
She swung her legs off the bed and managed to stand. The room was lik e s o many others she had been in spacious, beautiful, immaculate , expensive furnishings, clean sheets, thick towels. Only the best fo r c assandra Lowell. Never a sleazy motel.
If you wanted to fuck Cassandra Lowell, you had to surround her wit h b eautiful things. You had to take her to a classy place.
She was, after all, no cheap whore.
She was a classy whore.
She headed toward the bathroom. Standing outside the shower, she turne d o n the hot water and waited till the water steamed before stepping unde r t he spray. She stood there for a very long time, letting th e n ear-scorching water pound down on her. She lathered her body and rinse d o ff repeatedly. Forty-five minutes later, she dried herself off. The n s he sat on the kingsized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, an d w ent home.