Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Wh-wh-what . . . ?”

  George put his finger to his mask-covered lips. “Shhh.”

  George reached down and grabbed the man’s head to hold still. Then he gripped the knife and placed it below the man’s nose, the cool blade directly below the nostrils. He lowered the handle toward the mouth, almost touching the lips, and drove the blade upward. It sliced through the thin tissue, through the cartilage, and into the brain. Blood gushed freely. The body spasmed, but death was instantaneous. The man’s final gaze was locked on George, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.

  George tugged the knife out, and just as he had with the first two jobs, he stabbed the body two dozen times. Wet, ripping sounds accompanied his methodical undertaking. George’s face remained calm as he drove the knife home over and over again.

  It was all very messy.

  George knew that he would have to keep the body in the trunk for the night. Then he would be able to dump it in the appropriate area. With the others, it had not mattered where the corpse was found, but the voice on the phone had given specific instructions to leave this one in the alley behind a gay bar called Black Magic in Greenwich Village. At night, George knew, such places were filled with all sorts of bizarre happenings. They were crowded. He decided it would be safer to dump the body in the daytime when the area was empty.

  Early the next morning George awoke refreshed from a wonderful, dreamless sleep. He drove back into the city and pulled up behind the Black Magic bar. A sleazylooking dump, he thought. It reminded him of Patpong Street in Bangkok. Patpong, Bangkok’s famed red-light district, catered to heterosexuals, but everyone knew about the area two blocks farther north devoted exclusively to homos. And Pattaya, the popular Thai beach resort not far from Bangkok, had a whole street jammed with little boys who served their male customers without question or hesitation.

  Pretty sick, George thought.

  He stopped the car and stepped out. He glanced about the alley. No one. Dozens of stuffed plastic trash bags were piled by the bar’s rear entrance. Rear entrance, George mused. How appropriate.

  Taking one last look, George hefted the corpse out of the trunk, dumped it by the trash bags, climbed back in the car, and drove off. He had traveled three blocks when he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

  Damn. His hair looked horrendous.

  5

  SARA limped along after him as Harvey sprinted toward the emergency ward. Ten yards in front of the entrance he almost slammed into Eric Blake, who was making a blind turn in the same direction.

  “They paged you too?” Eric asked.

  Harvey nodded. The two men barely broke stride as they crashed through the door and into the waiting area. They immediately spotted Reece Porter.

  It was Harvey who reached him first. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. Mikey just grabbed his stomach and collapsed. He’s in there.”

  “Come on, Eric.”

  The two doctors disappeared behind a guarded door reading “No Admittance.” A moment later Sara hobbled into the emergency ward.

  Reece looked up, surprised to see her at the hospital already. “What are you doing here?”

  She ignored the question. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “The emergency room doctor is already with him. Harvey and Eric are in there too.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We were scrimmaging like always, making jokes and all that stuff. We stopped for a break and a minute later . . .”

  “A minute later what?”

  “Mikey collapsed on the floor holding his stomach. We called an ambulance and I drove over with him. The pain seemed to let up a little on the way. When we got here, I told the nurse to page Eric and Harv.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yeah, he’s awake. I bet it’s just some food poisoning or something—all that Chinese food he’s eating all the time. Now answer my question: what are you doing here?”

  “I had a doctor’s appointment next door.”

  “Are you okay?”

  His voice rang with the warmth of genuine concern. In the background Sara could hear children whisper, “Look, Mom, that’s Reece Porter!” Reece’s six-eight frame was about average for the NBA, but it was semi-freak anywhere else. His height always drew fascinated glances.

  “I’m fine,” Sara said, hugging him tightly. “Reece, thanks for going with him.”

  Reece shrugged. “He’s my friend,” he said simply. “And don’t worry too much about Mikey. The man is blessed. Remember how scared we were the last time we met in a hospital? All that blood and everything?”

  Sara did. Every year when basketball season ended, she and Michael joined Reece and his Eurasian wife, Kureen, for a get-away-from-it-all vacation. Five years ago, when Michael and Sara were first getting serious, the four decided to charter a small cruise boat out of Florida and explore the Keys and the Bahamas. The past basketball season had been a particularly long one, ending when the Knicks bested the Seattle Supersonics in a grueling, bruising seven-game showdown. All four of them had been anxious to escape the world, the fans, and the press.

  On the third day of the voyage Michael and Reece had gotten up early, hired a kid with a speedboat, and gone waterskiing. The kid had gotten drunk and crashed the boat into a rock formation while Michael was on the water skis. He had been rushed to a local Bahamian hospital, bleeding heavily, and spent the next three weeks in bed.

  “I remember,” Sara said softly.

  “But Mikey is—as one of the rookies would say—a tough old dude. He’ll be okay.”

  Sara tried to take solace in Reece’s words, but something kept jabbing at the back of her mind, telling her that he was not going to be okay, that nothing was ever going to be okay again.

  “WHAT’S going on?” Harvey asked.

  The young resident whose name tag read “John Richardson” looked up and spoke with quick precision. “We’re not sure yet. He’s suffering severe abdominal pain. Physical examination is remarkable for the liver being palpable four centimeters below the right costal margin. It’s extremely tender.”

  “Hurts like hell is more like it,” Michael managed from his prone position on the table.

  “Vital signs?”

  “All stable.”

  Harvey moved toward the bed. “Looking good, champ.”

  “Feel like shit, Coach.”

  “I was only kidding. You look like shit too.”

  Michael managed a chuckle. “I got the varsity in here now. How’s it going, Eric?”

  “Fine. Should I page Dr. Sagarel, Harv?”

  Harvey nodded.

  “See you in a bit, Mike,” Eric said.

  “I’ll wait here for you.” Michael turned his attention back to Harvey. “Who is Dr. Sagarel?”

  “A gastroenterologist.”

  “Of course. I should have known.”

  “Jesus, Michael, look at your shorts. They’re horrendous—even by your standards.”

  “I ask for a doctor. I get a fashion critic.”

  Harvey probed the liver area. “Does that hurt?”

  “Like a son of a bitch.”

  Harvey straightened his back and turned toward the resident. “Have you done the blood work yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get him an abdominal flat plate done stat.”

  “I’ll also need to get a better history,” Richardson said. “It could be something he consumed—”

  “Can’t be. He’s had this pain for weeks. And his skin is jaundiced.”

  Eric came back into the room. “Dr. Sagarel will be here in about a half hour.”

  “Michael,” Harvey asked, “have you noticed anything unusual in your urine lately?”

  “A Datson hatchback came out the other day.”

  “Hilarious. Now answer my question.”

  Harvey saw the fear gather around Michael’s eyes. “I don’t know. The color’s been darker maybe.”

&nbs
p; The doctors exchanged knowing glances.

  “What?” Michael asked. “What have I got?”

  “I don’t know yet. Eric, make sure they do a hep screen on the blood. Also EBV and CMV titers. Then bring him down for an abdominal ultrasound.”

  “One step ahead of you.”

  “Now in English?” Michael asked.

  “All the signs point to hepatitis,” Harvey explained. “Eric and Dr. Richardson are going to take you downstairs for X-rays now. I’ll see you in a little while.”

  DR. Raymond Markey, Assistant Secretary for Health of the Department of Health and Human Services, stared out the window at the lush green compound in Bethesda, Maryland. To him, the National Institutes of Health resembled a cross between a European spa and a military base. From his corner office the wilderness seemed to stretch for miles. But Markey knew better. He knew, for instance, that his big boss, the President of the United States, was about ten miles away, beginning his weekly brunch meeting with the Vice President. The two men met most Mondays for a light brunch and a heavy discussion. Raymond had attended a few of those brunches. He did not particularly care for the conversation or the food.

  He sighed deeply, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He was excruciatingly nearsighted. When he viewed the sprawling landscape without his glasses, the world turned into a large abstract painting. The bright colors bled into one another and seemed to move in a kaleidoscope pattern.

  He put his glasses back on, turned away from the calming view, and glanced at the two reports on his desk. The first was marked “Confidential!” and there were numerous seal protectors on the envelope so that Markey could be sure that no one had opened it before him. The envelope was also specially treated so that its contents could not be read by holding it up to a light. Any tampering left permanent scars. It was a lot of security, but sometimes every bit of it was needed.

  The second envelope read “Sidney Pavilion, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, New York.” The security surrounding this file, while significant, was somewhat more limited.

  Assistant Secretary for Health of the Department of Health and Human Services—a long and rather unimpressive title, Raymond Markey thought. But he knew better. His office was in charge of the U.S. Public Health Service, controlling such agencies as the Food and Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, and the National Institutes of Health—hardly an unimportant or ceremonial post.

  Markey reached for his letter opener and slit the confidential envelope. He then laid the reports side by side. The regular report had been filled out by Dr. Harvey Riker and for the first time Dr. Bruce Grey’s signature had been omitted. Too bad. As for the confidential report . . . well, safer not to think about the source. Repeating the name of the author out loud could prove hazardous to one’s health. Even fatal.

  Markey skimmed the files for obvious discrepancies. One jumped out at him immediately.

  The number of patients.

  According to Riker’s report, they had been treating forty-one patients, two of whom had been murdered in recent weeks. Riker’s write-up was factual, not drawing any conclusions, but he did mention the strange coincidence that two patients had died of multiple stab wounds within a couple of weeks of each other. Markey also noticed that Riker never referred to Grey’s death as a suicide but as a “shock” and “death that made no sense.”

  Curious description, Markey mused.

  He examined the reports again. The report stamped “Confidential” stated unequivocally that there had originally been forty-two patients, not forty-one. Why the discrepancy? Markey wondered. Raymond doubted very much it was a mistake. No one made mistakes in these situations. There was a reason for the discrepancy. All he had to do was figure out what.

  Markey thumbed back to the beginning of the confidential report. He was sure that Harvey Riker was behind the discrepancy. He knew Riker well and did not trust him. Many years earlier, when Raymond Markey had been chief of staff at St. Barnabas Hospital in New Jersey, he had first encountered a brash young intern named Harvey Riker. Even back then Riker hated rules and regulations. And now that those rules and regulations came from the government, Markey knew Riker was even more apt to bend them. The man had tremendous talent but very little discipline. He needed to be watched. Closely.

  Ah, here it was. On page two.

  Page two of the confidential report listed all the staff members and patients at the Sidney Pavilion. Markey sifted through Riker’s report until he found the patient list. He counted them. Yes, forty-two in the confidential report. Forty-one in the doctor’s report. Which name was missing from Dr. Riker’s file?

  It did not take long to find. The name might as well have been underlined.

  His hand shaking, Raymond picked up the phone behind his desk. The office phone was probably bugged, but he carefully screened his private line on a daily basis. Can’t be too careful. He dialed. The receiver on the other end was picked up after three rings.

  “Yes?”

  “I have the confidential report. It arrived this morning.”

  “And?”

  Markey swallowed. “I haven’t had a chance to go through it completely yet, but I think we better move fast. They’re getting close.”

  “Then we might have to send someone to Bangkok. When can I get a copy?”

  “I’ll mail it out today.”

  “Good.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Riker is secretly working on an important patient,” Markey said. “He left the name out of his report.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Bradley Jenkins. The senator’s—”

  “I know who he is.” There was a brief silence. “That explains a lot of things, Raymond.”

  “I know,” Markey said.

  “Get me that report right away.”

  “I’ll send it out immediately. It’ll be on your desk tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, Raymond. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Reverend Sanders.”

  STILL leaning heavily on her cane, Sara hobbled toward Michael’s room. So much was going on, so much happening at one time. Michael’s illness, the possibility of being pregnant, and this weird mystery surrounding Harvey’s clinic. Two patients murdered. Coincidence? Maybe, but Sara did not think so. She made a mental note to call Max Bernstein when the opportunity arose. He might know something.

  She turned the corner and pushed open the door to Michael’s room. Her foot felt stiff today, more like an attached club than flesh and bones. Michael looked up from the bed. His face brightened when he saw her. She moved over to the bed and kissed him lightly.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Much,” he replied.

  “You scared me half to death, you know. I called my father. He should be here soon.”

  “Sara,” he said, “what were you doing at the hospital today?”

  She hesitated. “I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was sure.”

  Michael sat up, his voice unsettled. “Sure about what? Are you okay?”

  She nodded. His concerned, tender gaze plucked at her heart. “You know about my time of the month?”

  “I guess so,” he replied. “It was pretty well covered in seventh grade health class.”

  She chuckled but the anxiety still would not leave Michael’s face. “Well, mine is six weeks late.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?”

  “I don’t know yet. The test results should be back in a few hours.”

  “Jesus, Sara, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She sat next to him on the bed and took his hand in hers. “I didn’t want to get either of our hopes up if it was just another false alarm. I hate to see the disappointment in your face . . .” She turned away, but Michael gently tilted her face back toward him.

  “Sara, I love you. Not being able to have kids is not going to change that.”

  She nestled he
r face into his chest. “Mean it?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, mean it.”

  “You got a lemon when you married me.”

  “Yeah, but a pretty foxy lemon. Great in the sack too.”

  “Fresh. You’re supposed to be sick.”

  “I can still have a lewd thought now and again. Doctor said it’s good for me.”

  “Funny, I didn’t hear him say that.”

  “What did you hear him say?”

  “Something about the fact that your skin was jaundiced and you may have hepatitis.”

  “Well, is it true? Does my skin look jaundiced?”

  She examined him. “You look like a Ticonderoga pencil.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But a cute pencil.”

  There was a sharp knock on the door and then Sara’s father peeked his head through the opening. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Come in,” Michael called out. “I could use all the doctors I can get ahold of.”

  John Lowell entered the room. He was of average height and extraordinarily good-looking. His neatly parted, full head of gray hair was the very definition of distinguished. His face boasted cheeks that dimpled when he smiled and a cleft chin, but one’s gaze was immediately drawn to his eyes—eyes as bright green as Sara’s. He crossed the room, kissed Sara, and shook Michael’s hand. “I think I’m a little out of my field of expertise here. Who examined you?”

  “Harvey and Eric—you remember my friend Eric Blake?”

  “Of course. I hear he is working with Dr. Riker at . . . at the clinic.”

  John Lowell’s face shadowed at the mention of the clinic. Sara and Michael both noticed it. Michael decided to let it slide; Sara did not.

  “Yes, he is,” Sara said. “The clinic is making marvelous progress.”

  “Good,” her father said, his tone clearly ending any discussion of the clinic. “Now, then, Michael, what seems to be the problem with you?”

  “They’re running some test, but they think it’s hepatitis.”

  “What specialist is Harvey recommending?”

  “Dr. Sagarel.”