Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” the voice replied.

  The voice sounded nervous. George was not sure he liked that. Nervous people had a tendency to make mistakes. “Is there something else I can do for you?” he inquired.

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  Another job. Excellent. George had no idea who his employer was, nor did he care. He did not even know if the voice on the other end of the phone was calling the shots or merely a go-between. It did not matter. This was a job where you asked no questions. George did his work, collected his pay, and moved on. Questions were irrelevant.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “The last job I gave you . . . it went smoothly? There were no problems?”

  “You read the papers. What do you think?”

  “Yes, well, I just wanted to make sure. You have Dr. Grey’s files?”

  “Right here,” George said. “When do you want to arrange a pickup?”

  “Soon. Have you been wearing the gloves and a mask like I told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nothing else happened?”

  George wondered for a moment if he should tell his employer about the package Bruce Grey had mailed at the airport. But no, it was none of George’s concern. He had been hired to kill the man; make it look like a suicide; grab any files or papers he had on him; cut a page out of his passport; and leave all money, personal effects, and identification untouched. Period. Nothing about mailed packages.

  Except, of course, it was his concern. He should never have let Grey mail that package. It was a mistake, George was sure of it, but there had been no way to stop him. He shook his head. Maybe he should have done some more background checking before he signed on for this job. Something about it was not right.

  “Nothing else,” George said.

  “You sure?”

  George cleared his throat. Dr. Bruce Grey had made the job painfully easy. His checking into a high-rise hotel had been a blessing for George; it gave him the license to use whatever means he wished to elicit pain and solicit the suicide note. Any physical trauma inflicted on Dr. Grey would be hidden in the splattered mess on the pavement.

  “I’m sure,” George said. “And in the future, don’t make me repeat myself. It’s a waste of time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You said something about another job?”

  “Yes,” the voice said. “I want you to eliminate another . . . person.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Is someone else with you?”

  “No.”

  “I hear voices.”

  “It’s the television,” George explained. “NewsFlash is about to go on. Sara Lowell’s debut.”

  The voice on the phone sounded startled. “Why . . . why did you say that?”

  A strange reaction, George thought. “You asked about the voices,” he replied.

  “Oh, right.” The voice tried to steady itself, but the strain was unmistakable. “I want you to eliminate someone else.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “This is very short notice. It will cost you.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Fine,” George said. “Where?”

  “At Dr. John Lowell’s house. He’s having a large charity formal tonight.”

  George almost laughed out loud. His eyes swerved back toward the television. Dr. Lowell. Former surgeon general. Sara Lowell’s father. That explained the bizarre reaction. He wondered if Sara would be at the party.

  “The same method as the first two?” George asked.

  “Yes.”

  George took his stiletto out of his pocket, snapped it open, and examined the long, sleek blade. It would be messy, no question about that. He considered his wardrobe and settled on the green Ralph Lauren polo shirt he had picked up in Chicago. It was a little too tight around the shoulders anyway.

  2

  DON’T be nervous. Don’t be nervous. Don’t be nervous . . .

  “Five seconds.”

  The announcement tightened Sara’s stomach. For a fleeting moment she almost started singing again. She forced her mouth to close, adjusted her spectacles, and waited.

  I’m going to do fine. I’m going to kick some ass. I’m going to . . .

  “Four, three, two . . .” The hand pointed toward the two people sitting at the desk.

  “Good evening, I’m Donald Parker.”

  Please don’t sing. . . “And I’m Sara Lowell. Welcome to NewsFlash.”

  DR. John Lowell’s estate in the Hamptons was enormous. The Tudor mansion sat majestically atop ten handsomely landscaped acres. There was a grass tennis court as well as indoor and outdoor swimming pools, three Jacuzzis, two hot tubs, a spacious cabana, a helicopter landing pad, and more rooms than Lowell knew what to do with. The house had been his grandfather’s, a capitalist who had, according to liberal textbooks, raped and pillaged the land and its people for profits. John’s father, however, chose to bypass the family business and become a surgeon. John had followed suit. He made a good living, though practicing medicine was not nearly as profitable as raping and pillaging.

  In a few hours, the east wing would be packed to capacity with some of the wealthiest people in the world, all of whom had donated thousands to the Erin Lowell Cancer Center for the right to attend. John would have to smile a lot and be solicitous. He hated doing that. During his controversial tenure as surgeon general in the early eighties, John Lowell had never learned much about diplomacy or political subtlety. He crusaded zealously to crush cancer, bulldozing whatever and whomever stood in his way. He declared war on cigarette smokers, claiming in an angry remark on national television, “Cigarettes are murder weapons, plain and simple. I feel no pity for smokers who give themselves lung cancer. They don’t care if they make other people sick with secondhand smoke or even if they give their own children a deadly disease. It boggles the mind how we put up with people who are so selfish and destructive.”

  The remark sent shock waves throughout the country. The tobacco industry lobbied to have John Lowell removed from office. They failed, but not from lack of trying. Battle lines had been drawn on that day, and even though John was no longer surgeon general, he continued to fight.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  John Lowell spun toward his elder daughter, Cassandra. She was wearing a bathrobe and sandals. “Cassandra, where are you going?”

  “Just taking a quick dip in the pool,” she replied.

  “But your sister is going to be on in a few minutes. All the houseguests are coming inside to watch.”

  Cassandra’s eyes clouded over, but John did not appear to notice. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  “You should come in with the rest of us and watch Sara.”

  Once again he failed to acknowledge the defiant glare in his daughter’s eyes. “You’re going to tape the show, right?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “So I’ll be able to watch my sister over and over again. Lucky me.”

  “Cassandra . . .”

  She ignored her father and strode away. Sara. For Cassandra’s whole life her younger sister’s name surrounded her like thousands of tiny birds. “Sara is sick.” “We have to take Sara to the hospital.” “Don’t play so rough with Sara.” To her father, Cassandra was never as pretty, never as kind, never as ambitious, never as smart as Sara.

  Her mother had been different. Erin Lowell had loved Cassandra just as much as prettier, kinder, more ambitious, more hardworking, smarter Sara. God, how she missed her mom. It had been more than a decade now, but still the pain was fresh, constant, and occasionally all-consuming.

  The heat was stifling again today and many of the guests had escaped the humidity with a dip in the pool. Most were beginning to head into the house to watch wonderful Sara’s debut on NewsFlash. But seeing Cassandra striding toward the pool, several of the men froze.

  Cassandra was tall and wild-eyed, with wavy dark hai
r and olive skin. She differed so from Sara that no one would ever suspect that they were sisters. To put it simply, Cassandra was hot. Burning hot. Dangerously hot. Whereas Sara’s eyes could best be described as gentle ponds, Cassandra’s smoldered like coals.

  Cassandra arrived at the pool and kicked off her sandals. With a slight smile she slipped her robe down off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, revealing a sleek one-piece bathing suit that struggled to contain her voluptuous curves. She stepped onto the diving board, knowing that all eyes were following her, and sauntered to the front. Then, stretching her arms over her head, Cassandra dove in, the cool water tingling her skin all over. She began to swim the length of the pool, her long torso reaching forward with each stroke, her well-toned legs kicking ever so slightly. Her body sliced through the water effortlessly, leaving barely a ripple.

  “It’s almost eight o’clock,” a voice from the house called. “NewsFlash is about to start.”

  Once again the women began to move toward the house, but the men could not free themselves so easily from Cassandra’s spell. Oh, they strove to look casual, silently sucking in their paunches or putting shirts over all-too-obvious flaws. They walked by her slowly, trying desperately to sneak one last peek.

  Cassandra stepped out of the pool and slowly made her way toward a chaise longue. She did not bother to dry herself. Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she withdrew a pair of sunglasses, put them on, and lay back, crossing her legs. Cassandra appeared to be resting quietly, but behind her sunglasses her eyes were very much on the move.

  She spotted chubby Stephen Jenkins, the sixty-two-year-old former senator from Arkansas. Stephen—Uncle Stevie, she and Sara called him—was an old family friend. He and John Lowell had gone to Amherst together, their wives had hosted parties together, their children had gone to summer camp together. It was all very sweet and nice. And—let’s be frank here—having sex with the conservative minority leader of the United States Senate had been something of a challenge for thirty something Cassandra. A sexual thrill, however, it was not.

  “Hello, Cassandra,” Jenkins called out.

  “Hello, Uncle Stevie.”

  Cassandra had considered seducing the senator’s handsome, single son as well, but Bradley was kind of a pain in the ass. And worse, he was Sara’s friend. Every time they saw each other, the two of them gabbed for hours, ignoring Cassandra completely. If Sara and Bradley had been lovers, Cassandra might have considered it. But they weren’t. From the day of her marriage two years ago, Sara was dedicated to Michael to the point of absolute boredom.

  Cassandra poured some suntan oil into her cupped hand and began to massage it onto her legs. From across the pool Senator Jenkins watched, his eyes wide and hungry.

  “Stephen?” Mrs. Jenkins called. “Bradley?”

  The senator looked away regretfully. “One minute, dear.”

  “Hurry, everyone! Sara’s on!”

  The crowd moved quickly now. In a few minutes everyone was inside, watching the television. Cassandra lay back and closed her eyes. Sara was on national TV. Who gives a rat’s ass?

  SARA felt a knot form in her stomach. She knew that the Reverend Ernest Sanders was sitting in the next room, waiting to be interviewed. He was good in an interview—slick as a greased pig. If the Reverend Sanders did not like a question, he dodged it by an old, proven method: he ignored it. He could frustrate and fluster an interviewer with the best of them.

  Most of Sara’s report on Sanders and his Holy Crusade was taped, so she removed her glasses, took a deep breath, and willed herself to remain calm. She had gone over the report so many times that she knew every word by rote memory. She sung softly to herself and only listened to bits and pieces of the story.

  Starting twelve years ago with only a few dozen members, the Reverend Ernest Sanders, former member of several white supremacy groups, built the Holy Crusade into a powerful movement encompassing thousands of members throughout the country. Combining what Sanders calls “deep, religious values” and “traditional American rights,” the Holy Crusade has been blanketed in controversy from its inception . . .

  . . . the IRS has confirmed that neither the Reverend Ernest Sanders nor his wife, Dixie, has filed an income tax return in twelve years . . . Reverend Sanders has spent as much as ten thousand dollars a day on himself and several young women during “missionary” trips to Caribbean islands without a single new member of the Holy Crusade to show for it . . . millions of dollars in Holy Crusade donations are missing . . . the FBI is investigating corruption in the upper ranks of the Reverend Sanders . . .

  When the taped portion of the story was finished, the camera swung to pick up the familiar and comforting face of Donald Parker. Sara stopped singing altogether.

  “We have the Reverend Sanders here in our studio,” Parker stated. “Reverend Sanders, good evening.”

  Ernest Sanders appeared on a screen, rather than in person. As on Ted Koppel’s Nightline, guests rarely if ever sat in the same room as the interviewers. A toll-free number appeared below his image.

  “Good evening, Donald.” Sanders’ voice was pleasant, relaxed. Sara felt the knot in her stomach tighten. The minister wore a light blue, three-piece suit, an obvious hairpiece, and a gold wedding band. No watch. No other jewelry. Nothing ostentatious. His face was gentle, trusting—the face of a dear uncle or friendly neighbor. His bright smile, one of his biggest assets, was firmly set.

  “Thank you for joining us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Parker.”

  Donald Parker asked the first question. “You saw the report, Reverend Sanders. Do you have any comments?”

  Sanders’ face was so damn calm that Sara wanted to scream. “I am a man of the Lord,” he said in a smooth, Southern drawl. “I understand human desires.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

  “It’s clear to me and the God-fearing people around the nation what is going on here. I do not think I need to lower myself to Miss Lowell’s level by answering her charges.”

  “No charges were leveled, Reverend Sanders,” Sara broke in, putting her wire-rimmed glasses back on her face. “Are there facts in the report you would care to dispute?”

  “Do not be so sly, Miss Lowell. I know what you are really after.”

  “What is that, Reverend Sanders?”

  He smiled. “A name for yourself. A quick reputation. What better way than to try to drag the good name of a simple preacher through the mud? A man who preaches the Bible in all its glory, who helps those less fortunate—”

  “Reverend Sanders,” Sara interrupted, “your personal income last year is estimated at over thirteen million dollars, yet you paid no income taxes. Can you explain this?”

  The remark did not faze him. “Unless I’m mistaken, Miss Lowell, your family is not exactly economically strapped. I seem to recall that your father has a rather spacious mansion of his own. Should his finances be questioned, too?”

  “My father declares his income every year,” she replied. “My father can explain where every penny comes from. Can you do the same?”

  “Of course,” he stated emphatically. “Your lies and innuendos do not fool God’s chosen people. Many have tried to distract the righteous from the path of the Lord, but the Holy Crusade will march on. The Holy Crusade will not allow Satan to succeed.”

  “Can you address these supposed lies?” Sara asked. “Can you be more specific?”

  Sanders looked up and shook his head. “Satan uses words to twist goodness and righteousness and make it appear evil,” he explained like a schoolteacher lecturing an insubordinate student, “but we will not be fooled. We live in a society today that is overrun with immorality, but we stand firm. What has happened to family values and ethics in this country, Miss Lowell? God-fearing people like my wife, Dixie, and I can’t raise our children in this society anymore. Children are forced to attend public schools where God has been expelled but homosexuals are welcome. Does the Lord not tell us—”


  “Excuse me, sir, but you were about to address the issues raised in our report.”

  “What issues? Your show does not address the real issue in America. I’m talking about Armageddon, Miss Lowell. The members of the Holy Crusade understand what is happening. They understand that we are living in an era of Sodom and Gomorrah, that heretics and infidels are attacking God. Dixie and I are doing the Lord’s work, but He helps us along. He gives us signs which you choose to ignore.”

  “The report spoke of your financial—”

  “Take what you call the AIDS virus, for example,” Sanders interrupted, his voice rising to a fever pitch. “What you call the new phenomenon of AIDS is just the final chapter of Sodom and Gomorrah. God is clearly striking down the wicked, immoral homosexuals and perverts with His plague.”

  “Reverend Sanders—”

  “Why is that so hard for you to believe?” he asked quietly, his smile brighter now, his eyes twinkling. “Most Americans believe in the Lord’s work as transcribed in the Bible. Why, then, is it hard to believe He can still act in our present age? We have no trouble accepting the plagues of ancient Egypt. So why is it so hard to accept the plague of modern America? And woe to him who does not take heed. The sinners, Miss Lowell, there is no place left for them to hide. If AIDS is not a sign of what is to come, if AIDS does not make you accept the Lord as your only salvation and repent, then nothing will show you the light. You are doomed.”

  Sara closed her eyes and tried to keep her temper in check. She knew that she should keep to her line of questioning, that it would be a mistake to get off the subject of his financial improprieties. But her temper had other ideas.

  “And what about the other victims, Reverend Sanders?” she asked, struggling to maintain an even tone.

  “The other victims?”

  “Yes, what about the so-called innocent victims of AIDS, the newborn babies born with the deadly disease or the people who contract the virus through blood transfusions? How do you explain the fact that AIDS is now the leading cause of death among hemophiliacs?”

  Again that damn smirk of a smile. “I do not explain it, Miss Lowell. I explain nothing. The Bible does it for me. Read the Lord’s words and you will see for yourself. The Bible tells us that not all living creatures in Noah’s time were cruel and heartless, yet the Lord chose to save only the creatures upon Noah’s ark. And in the story of Moses, why were the innocent forced to suffer through the hosts of plagues that besieged Egypt? The Bible gives us a simple answer, Miss Lowell. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Who are we to question His ultimate plan? I know, I know, it’s an old cliché, but it happens to be true. You cannot deny that the vast majority of those stricken with God’s plague are abnormal people with perverse lifestyles, but yes, the innocent must on occasion pay for the sins of their brethren. That is why I ask all of you to return to God now, repent before it’s too late. God will not allow a cure to be found until he rids the planet of the immoral—”