Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  Yes, she would take a long, hot bath, find a good book, smother hersel f w ith blankets and pillows and ... And what?

  Lay there and worry, she guessed. When she had first been told abou t m ichael's condition, the news did not really reach her.

  It was as though her mind had built a barrier more like a sieve actuall y w hich only let in the facts but kept out the emotions and ramifications.

  Unfortunately, the holes in the sieve were beginning to widen. They wer e o pening up enough to allow reality to seep into her conscious thoughts.

  Sara had done a few stories on the AIDS epidemic. She had seen what i t c ould do to a person, how the virus could eat you alive from the inside.

  Her mind began to swirl with the devastating images, and like the horro r a IDS inflicted, the images lunged at her in no particular order.

  Wasted bodies now little more than a defenseless battle zone fo r d isease: Kaposi's sarcoma; pneumocystis carinii; lymphoblastic lymphoma; fierce fevers over 105 degrees; respiratory infections; whole bod y s ystems collapsing; mental deterioration; delirium to the point o f b abbling like an Alzheimer's patient; every breath an intolerabl e s truggle; lungs filling with fluid until a tube was shoved through th e r ib cage in order to drain them; getting weaker before your eyes, s o w eak that even eating becomes impossible; in and out of comas; a h andsome young face changing overnight into a haggard skull-mask; healthy physiques disintegrating into little more than brittle bone s w ith skin hanging off; painful and unsightly purple lesions everywhere; sores inside the mout h s o thick that swallowing produces only choking sounds; no control ove r b owel movements; constant, inescapable agony; eyes that can actually se e d eath standing around the corner, waiting patiently to step forward an d c laim its conquest ... And the fear of the disease, the confusion, th e d iscrimination.

  Even now, 25 percent of the American people were so ignorant about AIDS t hat they actually believed it could be transmitted from just donatin g b lood.

  No, there was nothing pretty about AIDS, nothing romantic, nothin g g othic, nothing cinematic. There was just pain, horror, and death.

  With AIDS, your body and mind fought a constant battle against agonizin g i llness after agonizing illness. You suffered through one devastatin g b out after another, no time to recover, like a weakened club fighter wh o i s forced to go yet another round with the champ. But against AIDS ther e w as no chance for the one-punch comeback.

  Eventually, you lost.

  She replayed what Harvey had told Michael and her no more than an hou r a go about his visit from Raymond Markey. And yet, when she considere d t he cruel severity of the AIDS virus, her mind could not comprehend hi s w ords. Could someone really be trying to prevent a cure? Could someon e r eally be trying to turn back the clock, delaying a cure for tens o r e ven hundreds of thousands of fellow human beings? The weight of th e c ruelty boggled the mind.

  Could someone be so desperate to keep the AIDS virus alive that the y w ould murder? It made no sense. And all of this just made her want t o t alk to Michael more, want to, at the very least, look in on him on e m ore time before heading home.

  "Hi, Sara."

  She looked up. Eric was standing in front of her. Despite the r fac t t hat he had been working for fifty of the last sixty hours, he looke d f resh and neat. He smiled at her warmly.

  "Are you okay?" ;

  She nodded.

  "On your way home?" Eric asked. I "Yes. I'm just waiting for Reece."

  "I'm on my way out too. I haven't slept in ...1 can't even remember th e l ast time I slept. I just have to run up to the lab and slide this unde r t he door first."

  "Is it anything important?"

  "Not really. It's just a memo for Winston O'Connor. Harvey wants us al l t o meet tomorrow morning."

  "I, uh, I can bring it up for you."

  Eric looked at her, puzzled.

  "But I thought you just said you were on your way out."

  "I am. I mean, I will be." She pushed down hard against the top of he r c ane in order to stand.

  "It's just ..."

  "Just what?"

  She half-shrugged.

  "I want to see Michael again."

  "He's probably sleeping, Sara."

  "I know. I don't want to wake him. I just ...1 don't know. I just wan t t o peek my head in and make sure everything is okay." Eric smile d t ightly.

  "I understand, really I do, but I don't think-" "Please," she said.

  "It's important to me."

  Eric hesitated. Then: "Okay, here's the memo. If he's still awake, sa y g ood night for me too."

  "I will. Thanks, Eric." She took the paper from his hand, kissed hi s c heek, and pushed the call button. A few moments later she was ascendin g i n the elevator toward the third floor.

  Janice Matley saw George's sneakers first.

  The toes were jutting out from the doorway of the lab. They were blac k s neakers, or at least the toe part was black. With the kids and thei r c razy sneakers nowadays, who knew what color the rest of the sneake r w as? Her grandson had a pair of Nike Air Jordans that had more color s t han a rainbow.

  She swallowed.

  "Who's there?" she called out.

  Her voice, she was surprised to hear, sounded steady, confident.

  "I said, who's there?"

  She saw the foot slide forward. The sneaker was completely black afte r a ll. Reeboks, as a matter of fact. A man, a big man, followed th e s neakers. He was dressed entirely in black. Black sneakers, black socks , black sweater, black pants. His shirt sleeves were pushed up, revealin g p owerful forearms the size of Popeye's.

  He stepped out from inside the doorway and smiled at her. The smile wa s w ide, bright, but mostly.. unfeeling. It touched no other part of hi s f ace. When she looked up into his dark, bleak eyes, a cold chill ripple d i n her belly.

  And once again, she knew.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Nice night."

  Janice never had a chance to react. With one hand George palmed the bac k o f her head and yanked it forward. With the other, he flicked the switc h o n the side of the stiletto, releasing the eight-inch blade. The poin t o f the thin knife penetrated the hollow of Janice's throat and slice d t hrough her windpipe. Thick streams of warm blood spurted onto George's f ace as the stiletto exited out the back of her neck, inches below th e s pot where his hand gripped her skull.

  Janice's gaze locked onto his. She could see her own horror stricke n f ace reflected in the cold blankness of the murderer's eyes.

  His grip on her head tightened. She gargled on her blood for a momen t b efore her eyes rolled into her head. The last sounds she heard were th e b uzzing of the lights and the inhuman choking noises still forcing thei r w ay past her own lips.

  George watched the corpse slide to the ground, the stiletto stil l i mplanted through the neck. He calmly took out his handkerchief an d w iped the blood off his face. Messy. Too messy for a pro like himself.

  There was blood splattered everywhere, but he had no time to clean it u p n ow. He would have to move fast.

  With a weary sigh, George dragged the body into a supply closet. Onc e i nside, he tugged hard at the blade in order to release it from th e t hroat area. Grudgingly, the corpse surrendered the weapon with a s ucking pop. George closed the blade, pocketed it, and headed down th e h all toward Michael's room.

  When he reached the door, George tried to peek into the room through th e s hade over the door window, but it was pulled closed. Slowly, Georg e t urned the knob and pushed open the door. Like Janice Matley before him , George heard Michael's deep breathing and the violins from the cassett e d eck. George debated his next step and then made a decision. He woul d t urn on the lights.. He wanted to see what he was doing. Heck, the ol d n urse was certainly not going to mind and the rest of the floor wa s a bandoned. A little illumination might help him along his way.

  Besides, what was the risk? If Silverman woke up very unlikely anywa y g eorge would be all
over him before his first flinch.

  George's fingers found the switch and flicked it up. The light wa s b right, startling, but Michael did not stir. His chest continued to ris e a nd fall at the same steady, undisturbed pace. Nothing surprising i n t hat. But now, as George stepped toward Michael's bed, somethin g s urprising did indeed happen.

  George heard the elevator door opening.

  During the elevator ride Sara had concentrated very hard on somethin g c ompletely inane: which would she do first, slide the memo under the la b d oor or look in on Michael? As the elevator doors opened, she decided t o s lide the memo under the lab door first. She knew that if she looked i n o n Michael first and then went to the lab, she would crave a second pee k o n her way back.

  Her leg ached like a bastard as she stepped out of the elevator.

  She checked her watch. Reece would be another five minutes at least.

  Good. She was really happy he had visited today. She could tell tha t m ichael was thrilled too. Reece meant a lot to him.

  They shared a special bond, one that only teammates Sara froze. Her eye s w idened.

  Oh my God ... She stared down the hall in the direction of th e l aboratory.

  The walls looked like some kid had finger painted them with red paint.

  Only the texture was too thin for paint, too dark for ketchup, to o s yrupy for anything but blood.

  Maybe somebody dropped a blood sample on their way to the lab?

  Then how do you explain the tiny fact that the blood was splashed al l o ver the place?

  Maybe whoever it was tripped and the blood sample went flying all ove r t he place and ... And nobody cleaned it up? Good try, Sara.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as another thought pushed its way throug h t he confusion and into the front of the brain: Michael.

  She spun back toward the door to Michael's room and hobbled forward.

  Her knees buckled in fear when she saw the door shade was illuminated.

  Why is Michael's light on? Why the hell ... For a brief second the ligh t c reated a silhouette against the window shade. The brief image was a s c lear to her as those presidential cut-outs kids did in school durin g p resident's Week.

  It had been the silhouette of a man.

  Her leg felt anchored to the ground, but she dragged it along like a n i nanimate object. When she reached the door, she grabbed the knob an d p ushed without hesitation. She limped in, her eyes searching.

  No one.

  Her mind began to whirl aimlessly. There was no one in the room except , of course, for Michael. He lay sleeping. Or was he?

  Yes, his eyes were closed, but there was something very strange , something so obvious and yet so subtly horrifying that she felt he r c hest tighten. She could not breathe. If Michael was just sleeping, the n h ow come his face was upside down? How come his head was lolling at a s trange angle. And most important, how come he was lying half off th e b ed?

  From behind her came a voice.

  "Good night, Sara."

  She turned, but Sara never got a chance to see the man's face.

  Wednesday, September 25

  Chapter 17.

  "Dad?"

  Dr. John Lowell turned toward his older daughter.

  "Yes, Cassandra?"

  She licked her lips nervously.

  "Where are you going?"

  "On a business trip.

  "I'll be home tonight."

  "Where?"

  He put down his briefcase.

  "Why are you so interested?"

  "Just tell me where."

  "Washington."

  Cassandra closed her eyes.

  "You're going to meet with them again, aren't you?" "Meet with who m a gain?" he asked, his voice a mixture of annoyance and fear.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "With Reverend Sanders, for one."

  Silence. Then: "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You know exactly what I'm talking about," she replied.

  "I was here when you met with him three days ago. I was hiding in you r c loset."

  His eyes widened.

  "You what?"

  She moved closer to him.

  "It has to stop. You have to tell the truth before there's mor e b loodshed."

  "Cassandra, you don't know what " She stepped in front of him.

  "Don't let him blackmail you any longer."

  His face grew tight.

  "Stay out of this. I know what I'm doing."

  "How much more blood are you going to spill? How many people have to di e b efore you put this to a stop?"

  "Get out of my way. You are talking nonsense."

  "Dad ..."

  "Move!" He pushed her harder than he had intended. She fell to th e f loor.

  "Cassandra!" He sprinted toward her.

  "Honey, I'm so sorry," he began.

  "I didn't mean to hurt " She sat up, her eyes burning.

  "Get away from me."

  He backed away, his face twisted into a look of longing and anguish.

  "I have to go now, honey. Please trust me. I know what I'm doing.

  When I come home tonight we'll talk about it, okay?

  Just trust me. I love you."

  He turned and hurried out the door. Cassandra stood. She was stil l u nsure about what she should do. This was, after all, her father no t s ome evil monster. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. She shoul d g ive him the benefit of the doubt.

  What doubt, Cassandra? What are you so afraid of?

  Nothing. She would wait until tonight. She would listen to what he ha d t o say first before jumping to any conclusions ... No.

  She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. It was time to tel l s omeone before it was too late. But not Harvey. He would never be abl e t o look at it objectively.

  It was time to tell Sara.

  So hot ... Michael tried to stir himself to consciousness. It was n o e asy task.

  His eyes felt stapled shut. His mind spun in figure eights.

  Something was wrapped tightly around his mouth, making it hard for hi m t o breathe.

  He heard boisterous sounds all about him. Very noisy. Cars.

  Horns honking. People shouting out like hot dog vendors at a basebal l g ame. Loud rock music. Laughter. General chatter. He tried t o c oncentrate on the sounds, tried to sift out some meaning in them, bu t h e found it difficult. Some people were speaking English, no questio n a bout it, but others were talking in a foreign tongue that Michael's c loudy mind could not place. It sounded Chinese or something like tha t o nly more lyrical, more pleasant to the ear.

  What the hell is going on?

  He wondered if he was perhaps dreaming, if he was not still asleep. Bu t h ow often did he dream of sounds with no vision?

  No, he was awake. His eyes were closed. He was lying on a hard woo d f loor, his right ear numb from leaning against it. His whole body fel t s ore, as though he had been lying on this floor for a week, which, h e s urmised, was entirely possible.

  He tried to sit up, but he fell back down upon the ground twice. Hi s h ands, he realized, were handcuffed together behind his back, pinnin g b ack his shoulder blades painfully.

  After another failed attempt Michael managed to work himself into a s itting position. In the background he could hear someone shouting wit h a heavy accent, "Supergirl! Supergjrl! Come meet Supergirl! Time of you r l ife!" With a struggle Michael's eyes fluttered and then opened. It too k h im another minute or two to focus and take in his surroundings. Smal l r oom. Barren. Dirty.

  The walls were covered with chipped paint. A light bulb dangled fro m e xposed wires on the ceiling. There was a fold-out chair and ratt y m attress which made the room smell of mildew, sweat, and urine. Ther e w ere also blood stains on it. Michael's right ankle was shackled to a p ipe running through the room. His mouth had been taped shut with wha t t asted like masking tape. His eyes continued to scan the room until the y s topped at something on the ceiling.


  What the ...?

  He looked again. Jammed in a hole by the door were sticks of what looke d l ike dynamite. Michael swallowed.

  Where the fuck am I?

  He tried to reconstruct his last conscious hours. He had been at th e c linic. Harvey had given him an injection of SRI. Reece and Sara ha d v isited him. He recalled dosing a bit while they were still in the roo m a nd finally falling asleep. And then ... nothing.

  The heat in the room was well past tropical, the air thick and still.

  His body was coated with sweat. He tried to wipe his cheek on hi s s houlder, but his wet shirt just added more perspiration to the area.

  He glanced about the room again. His eyes stopped when he saw a piece o f p aper on the floor: Hello, Michael.

  Welcome to the land of conscious. I hope you had a pleasant nap and a n e qually pleasant journey. Try to make yourself comfortable. Please d o n ot try to escape. ' If by some miracle you were gone when I returned, I w ould hunt down your beautiful bride, fuck her, and then kill her.

  Best wishes, George P. S. I have people downstairs so don't try shoutin g o ut the window.

  I'm having a nightmare, Michael said to himself. That's what it is. A n ightmare. Either that or I am losing my mind.

  He struggled and scraped his way toward the window. The chain jus t r eached. He lifted his head, pushed his face under the shade with hi s n ose and looked out. If he had been only confused before, he wa s c ompletely lost now. There were tons of people on the streets. Neo n l ights splashed across the dark sky, LIVE Sex Shows! and LIVE Nudes!

  over an dover again, as though some patrons would be confused and thin k t hat they performed sex shows with dead bodies. Dark, oriental men stoo d o utside bars, opening the door every once in a while to reveal nake d d ancing girls on tables, hoping the view would entice customers int o t heir establishment. A man stood in the middle of the street with thre e g irls, each dressed in a red cape, blue boots, and yellow body suit s w ith a giant "S" emblazoned upon the chest. The man kept yelling out , "Supergirl! Supergirl! Spend an evening with Supergirl! She fly you t o t he moon and back!"

  Michael spotted a young Asian boy approaching an American couple i n t heir sixties who looked liked they belonged on a farm in the Midwest.