Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

That lucky son of a bitch slept with Sara Lowell every night.

  George shook his head. Sometimes life was just not fair.

  "I'm home," Max Bernstein called out.

  "I'm in the bedroom," Lenny replied.

  "Did you pick up some milk?"

  "Yep. And a six-pack of Diet Coke."

  Lenny walked into the den and kissed Max lightly on the lips.

  "Tired?"

  "Exhausted. How about you?"

  Lenny nodded, taking the bundle from Max's arm.

  "I spent seven hours in court for a case that was never called."

  "What happened?"

  "My client didn't show."

  "Skipped his bail?"

  "Seems so."

  Bernstein shrugged.

  "We cops catch them. You lawyers let them go."

  "Yeah, but without us you'd be out of a job. By the way, I ordered a p izza. I figured you wouldn't want to go out."

  "You figured right."

  Lenny carried the bag to the kitchen.

  "Are you going to be working this weekend?"

  "Huh?"

  "Stop biting your nails for two seconds and listen. Are you going to b e w orking this weekend?"

  "Probably, why?"

  "It's my weekend with Melissa."

  Melissa was Lenny's twelve-year-old daughter.

  "I'll try to be around."

  "I'd appreciate it. Oh, I rented that movie you wanted to see."

  Max picked up the phone and dialed.

  "Can't watch it tonight.

  Newsflash is on in a few minutes."

  "I almost forgot." Lenny came out of the kitchen.

  "Max?"

  "What?"

  "Get your fingers out of your mouth before I shove them down you r t hroat."

  "Sorry."

  "And who are you calling?"

  "My apartment."

  "Such a waste."

  "Lenny, don't start."

  "Why have you kept that empty apartment for six years? All you have i n t here is a telephone and an answering machine."

  "You know why."

  "Oh, that's right. You're afraid someone is going to find out you liv e w ith gasp-oh-gasp! a man. That you're an honest to-God, screamin g f aggot."

  "Lenny.

  "So you keep your swinging bachelor pad on 87th Street for show no , because you're paranoid. Wouldn't it be cheaper just to tell everyon e t hat we're two single, homo studs who happen to live together?

  Something like in Three Men And A Baby."

  "What are you babbling about?"

  "Three Men And A Baby. You remember the movie. Tom Selleck, Ted Danson , and Steve Guttenberg were all single and sharing an apartment and nobod y w orried about their sexual preferences. And what about Oscar and Feli x o n The Odd Couple?

  Murray the cop never thought they were getting it on."

  No messages on the machine. Max hung up the phone.

  "You're a nag."

  "And trim your mustache already. You look like Gene Shalit."

  "Nag, nag. Did you feed Simon yet?"

  "A few minutes ago. He ate eight goldfish the other day and he's downin g a nother half dozen now. Want to watch?"

  "I think I'll pass."

  Lenny shrugged.

  "He's your snake."

  Max had bought Simon, a harmless garden snake, on a whim two years ago.

  He thought it would be kind of cool to own a pet snake. Max, however , had overlooked one small problem he was scared to death of snakes. He l oved Simon, liked to watch him slide about his cage and slither up t o t he screen on the top.

  But he was afraid to touch him or go near him, for that matter.

  And worse, the only thing Simon ate were live goldfish, which he caugh t i n his laser-quick mouth and swallowed whole. You could actually see th e o utline of the struggling fish as it slid down Simon's thin body.

  Gross.

  Luckily, Lenny had taken a liking to Simon a rather sick liking, as a m atter of fact. Lenny enjoyed inviting friends over to watch th e f eeding; they bet on which fish would be the last one eaten.

  Very gross.

  The doorbell rang. Lenny opened the door, paid the delivery boy, an d b rought the pizza into the den. Max watched him, remembering how hi s l ife had changed when he first saw Lenny's gentle eyes seven years ago.

  1984, a year of transition.

  The nights of anonymous sex, orgies in Soho, leather bars, an d c aligula-like bathhouses were beginning to melt away under th e b listering heat of the AIDS epidemic. Though he had lived in constan t f ear of being found out, Max had participated in it all.

  How many lovers had he had? He had lost count. How many friends had h e l ost to the AIDS virus? That number too he had lost count. So many take n a way, and now the dead were little more than a blurry blend of faces , vivacious young men whose lives had been suddenly, painfully, snuffe d o ut. They were gone now and too often forgotten.

  Why, Max wondered, did we all gorge ourselves on nameless, faceless sex?

  Was it merely for the physical thrill or was there something more? Wer e w e trying to rebel? Or were we just releasing the pent-up anxieties o f l iving too repressed for years in a straight society? What were w e l ooking for in that mass of flesh? Or more important, what were w e r unning away from?

  Over the past seven years Bernstein had had more than twenty AIDS test s p erformed on himself all under assumed names and all negative. A strok e o f luck and yet sometimes he felt guilty for not having contracted th e v irus, like an Auschwitz survivor wondering why he was still alive.

  Lenny, on the other hand, had come from a conservative family. He m arried his high school sweetheart at the age of nineteen and they had a d aughter a year later. He tried to suppress and deny his true sexua l o rientation, and for a while it worked. But by the fourth year of thei r m arriage, he and his wife Emily knew that the heterosexual facade ha d f inally cracked and broken away. The truth was revealed to thei r f amilies, and Emily and Lenny parted as friends.

  Max turned on the television. The two sat quietly on the couch, watchin g t he television and holding hands.

  Lenny leaned his head on Max's shoulder.

  "I'm the best thing that ever happened to you, you know."

  "Yeah, I guess you are."

  A few minutes later they watched Michael and Sara walk toward th e p odium.

  "Dad?" Cassandra called.

  John Lowell did not respond. He continued to stare down at the ol d p hotograph.

  "What are you looking at?" she asked softly.

  He sighed deeply and placed the photograph down gently as though it wer e d elicate porcelain.

  "Nothing," he replied.

  Cassandra crossed the room. As she suspected, her father had bee n s taring at a picture of her mother. Tears flooded her eyes.

  "I miss her too," she said.

  "She loved you very much, Cassandra. She wanted you to be happy."

  Cassandra nodded, reaching out her hand and touching the image of he r m other.

  "Sara just called."

  "Where has she been?"

  "She wouldn't say. She said we'd find out on Newsflash."

  "On News Flash What does that mean?"

  "I don't know."

  John reached out, and for the first time in many years father an d d aughter embraced. Cassandra snuggled closer, feeling the wool sweate r b rush up against her. For a moment she forgot about the letters she ha d f ound in his desk. She forgot about Reverend Sanders' voice in he r f ather's study, and she even forgot her own crazy suspicions. He was he r f ather. She felt so right in his arms, like a small child again, so saf e a nd warm and content and yet ... "You're my whole world," he whispered.

  "You and Sara."

  They clung to each other with an odd sort of need. The need wa s s urprisingly strong, like a ravenous hunger that grew as you ate.

  Neither spoke, but they both knew that they were thinking the sam e t hing. They could not
say how they knew each other's thoughts, nor coul d t hey explain the awful feeling of doom that permeated the room.

  This should have been a happy, tender moment, but something was lurkin g a round the corner, something that wanted to rip and shred and destroy.

  Cassandra broke away and they both looked at each other uncomfortably , as though they shared an embarrassing secret.

  "The show's coming on."

  "Right," he said.

  They left the room then, no longer holding hands nor even touching.

  Still, the warmth of his embrace stayed with Cassandra like a shaw l w rapped around her shoulders. She watched her father turn on th e t elevision and felt a wave of love overwhelm her. He was such a gentl e m an, she told herself, a man who had dedicated his entire life t o h ealing others. He would never hurt anyone. Never. She was sure of it.

  Positive. Her suspicions were nonsense. After all, a couple of letter s a nd a meeting with Reverend Sanders hardly meant he was guilty of som e s ort of wrongdoing. As a matter of fact it meant nothing at all. She wa s g lad that she had not told Harvey about the letters, that she had no t b etrayed her own father's trust.

  Cassandra sat back now, relieved, confident, and trying like hell t o i gnore the irritating voice of doubt that still echoed in her head.

  Flashbulbs worked like a strobe light, giving the illusion that Sara an d m ichael were moving in slow motion. They reached the podium together.

  Michael stepped forward while Sara stood behind him and to the side.

  Michael's head was lowered, his eyes closed. A few moments later h e l ifted his head high and faced the crowded room of reporters.

  Sara watched him. He looked handsome in his grey suit with a solid blu e t ie, but the clothes were just not him. There were no wild splashes o f c olor, no yellow and green paisley, no purple floral pattern, no funk y p olka dots so drab and.. and lifeless for him. His face, somber, ashen , tired, matched the look.

  He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. His fingers unfolde d i t and his palm smoothed it out against the podium.

  He glanced down at the statement, but he did not read the words.

  His hand pushed the paper to the side and slowly his face tilte d u pwards. Then he just stood there for a few moments and said nothing.

  Through the glare of flashbulbs, Sara could sense the unease in th e a udience. Murmurs began to stir and strengthen through the press corps.

  She moved closer to Michael, took his hand in hers and squeezed. Th e c oldness of his hand startled her. Then he did something very strange.

  He turned toward her and smiled not a fake or tired smile, but a g enuine, beautiful Michael smile. It comforted her and frightened her a t t he same time. The smile slipped away from his lips slowly as he turne d b ack to the microphone.

  "Yesterday," Michael began, "I learned that I have contracted the AIDS v irus."

  Immediate silence. The murmurs ceased as though they had been on a tap e r ecorder that had been switched off.

  "I am entering a private clinic which you will hear more about durin g t his program. That's all I have to say. Thank you."

  He stepped back, smiled anew at Sara, and took her hand.

  "Let's get out of here."

  The press attacked with both barrels.

  "How long have you been gay, Michael?"

  "Sara, how long have you known your husband was homosexual?"

  "Is the marriage a farce?"

  "Have you had sex with any of your teammates?"

  With each question Michael involuntarily winced. Finally, he steppe d b ack toward the podium to set the record straight. When he reached th e m icrophone and the room fell silent, Michael turned away without sayin g a word. He bent down and kissed Sara's cheek.

  "Like I said before, let's get out of here."

  Harvey watched the report alone.

  Being alone was fine with him. That was how it should be.

  Cassandra had been a mistake from the start. Talk about your basi c s elf-delusion he must have been taking major mind expanding drugs t o t hink someone like her could be interested in someone like him.

  Besides, he had the clinic. He could not afford distractions that woul d h inder his concentration and affect his work negatively.

  He shook his head. Enough of this. There were much more important thing s t o worry about than his creature comforts.

  Harvey pushed Cassandra clear out of his mind and focused on th e n ewsflash report.

  Donald Parker was doing an excellent job, presenting the facts withou t t oo much innuendo. To help the clinic keep its anonymity, the report di d n ot give the name or address of the Pavilion. Thank God for that.

  Harvey could just imagine the riots if the clinic's name and addres s w ere used in the report. Talk about bedlam.

  Better still, only Eric's name was used in the report. The name of the "chief researcher" was left out. Perfect. Couldn't be better.

  Parker had even given an 800 telephone number and an address for thos e w ho wanted to make donations to the clinic and suggested writing o r t elegram ming Congress to approve additional grants for the "unnamed"

  AIDS clinic.

  Donald Parker's blue eyes swerved forward, making contact with million s o f viewers. Harvey could see why Parker was considered the best in th e b usiness. His intensity made you forget that you were watchin g t elevision. He became a house guest, just a member of the family seate d i n the den instead of a studio.

  "Even more glaring," Donald Parker's deep voice continued, "is th e c linic's connection with the so-called Gay Slasher who has bee n t errorizing New York City's gay community for the past two months. I n r eality, the Gay Slasher might better be called the AIDS Slasher.

  Here's our report."

  His voice was now on tape.

  "Young men found stabbed and mutilated they had everything to live for."

  Several snapshots of bloodied sheets draped over bodies, an arm or le g j utting into view, flashed across the screen.

  "The world at large believed that a psychopath was hunting down member s o f the gay community. But new evidence has come to light which blow s t hat theory right out of the water and draws a more devastatin g c onclusion."

  A proper pause.

  "The so-called Gay Slasher is murdering AIDS sufferers. In fact, th e m urder victims all had one thing in common they were patients at th e c linic we have been discussing tonight." After another proper pause , Parker continued.

  "The first victim was Scott Trian." A smiling photograph of Trian cam e o n.

  "Trian, a twenty-nine-year-old stockbroker, was murdered in hi s a partment in the most grisly fashion imaginable. He was tortured an d m utilated with a knife before he finally bled to death."

  Bill Whitherson's image replaced Trian's.

  "William Whitherson, a vice president at First City Bank, was the Ga y s lasher's next prey. Over twenty stab wounds were scattered across Mr.

  Whitherson's face, neck, chest and groin. He was found in his apartmen t b y his roommate, Stuart Lebrinski, who had left the victim only an hou r b efore. The blood was still flowing from Mr. Whitherson's wounds whe n m r. Lebrinski came back from the supermarket." The picture of Bil l w hitherson faded away ... and a photograph of Bradley Jenkins appeare d i n its place.

  Harvey felt his heart constrict in his chest.

  "Oh God, no.

  Don't ... "The murder of Bradley Jenkins, son of Senator Stephen Jenkin s a nd a secret patient at the AIDS clinic, put the Gay Slasher on the map.

  Bradley was found behind a gay bar in Greenwich Village " Harvey n o l onger heard his words.

  "No," he whispered in horror.

  "Do you know what you've just done?"

  Reverend Ernest Sanders watched the report. It was bad, very bad, bu t s anders did not get angry. Anger was a wasted emotion, one that cloude d t he mind, shoved away rational thought What he needed to do was thin k c learly.

  Dixie was upstairs in th
e bedroom, passed out on the bed from too muc h w ine. Again. Third straight night. But he loved her. She was a n e xtraordinarily beautiful woman even his enemies confessed to that a fa r c ry from the Tammy Faye stereotype of an evangelist's wife. She mean t t he world to him and so he lavished her with expensive gifts and th e b est of everything. Still, she despised him. He could see it in the wa y s he looked at him every time he came through the door. His son, Erni e j unior, had grown into a handsome young man who worked in the ministry.

  He had learned the gospel well, was a passionate speaker, made a whol e h eap of money, and hated his father too. The repulsion in his son's f ace, Sanders thought, would make a blind man blush.

  Luckily, Dixie, Ernie, and the two girls, Sissy and Mary Ann, all love d h is money. Money was power, no question about it.

  Sanders remembered how his father used to recite the Golden Rule he wh o h as the gold makes the rules. And Sanders had the gold. The power.

  The control.

  And he had his job. His ministry. Funny how you are what peopl e p erceive. Some considered him a savior, a prophet, a man of God.

  Others considered him an extremist, a cheap con man, a bigote d h ypocrite.

  What was the truth? Well, he had never had a vision from God like h e s aid on his show. Jesus had never visited him in his bedroom at night.

  He had never heard a mysterious voice or seen a real miracle. But s o w hat? People wanted to believe.

  People needed something, and he gave it to them. We need food, we nee d a ir, we need recreation and entertainment, and we also need to believ e i n something. The leftist liberals believed in their gods secularism , academia, the media. Didn't old-fashioned Americans have the same right?

  They need a strong leader, someone they could follow without question o r d oubt. Politicians used deception and slick packaging to create an imag e a person could trust. What was so wrong with a preacher doing the same?

  To the critics who accused him of taking advantage of his followers , Ernest Sanders scoffed. Just take a look at his parishioners one Sunda y m orning, the exhilarated, rapt expression on their faces. How could yo u p ut a price tag on something like that? Take a look at how their eye s g lowed as he spoke to them, their attention and trust never wavering.

  Yes, take a good look at these hard-working Americans who asked for n o m ore than a few minutes of religious rapture, who wanted to believ e t here was something more than the boring grind they went through ever y d ay, who wanted to rely on the faith of God rather than just people.