Max nodded, understanding. “Okay, where were we?”
“Riccardo Martino.”
“Right. Add him into the equation and what makes them all similar?”
“Two things,” Sara answered. “AIDS and the clinic. Like Harvey said, we can eliminate the gay connection since Martino was heterosexual.”
“Okay, now let’s move on to Dr. Bruce Grey. Add him to Whitherson, Trian, Jenkins, and Martino. Now what is the common denominator?”
“Only one thing,” Sara answered. “The clinic. Someone is targeting people associated with the Sidney Pavilion.”
Max did not respond right away. He just looked off, his head slowly shaking, his teeth locating another corner of fingernail on which he could gnaw. “We’re missing something here,” he said finally, “something big.”
“Like?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Do you think someone is trying to sabotage the clinic?”
“Could be.”
She glanced at the clock above the door. “I have to get back to Michael now. He’ll be waking up in a little while.”
“I’m going to check through Dr. Riker’s patient files.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later.”
“Sara? One other thing?”
“Yes?”
“I’m saying this as a friend, not a police officer.”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re blocking on Michael. It’s going to hit you soon.”
She moved to the door. “I know, Max. Thanks.”
HE could hear the running water.
“No, no, please . . .”
“Shut up, you whining punk.”
Seven-year-old Michael looked up, his eyes tainted with fear. His stepfather was leaning over the tub. His blue work shirt, the name Marty sewed on the breast pocket in red script, was unbuttoned, revealing a ripped white T-shirt underneath. Marty’s face contorted into a look of pure, dumb anger and hate. His breath reeked of liquor and tobacco.
“Get over here, Michael!”
“Please . . .”
“If I have to chase you, boy . . .” He never finished the sentence, allowing Michael’s imagination to do it instead.
Michael tried to run, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He could not move. Marty reached his hand out and took Michael by the hair. He tugged him forward and then down, forcing Michael’s head under the water.
“You gonna mess around in my room again?” Marty shouted.
Michael could not answer. He could not breathe. He flailed his head back and forth, searching for air. But there was none. Water went down his throat and he began to choke.
Marty’s grip tightened. His hand held firm. “I didn’t hear you, boy. You gonna mess around in my room again?”
Pressure built up in Michael’s head. His lungs felt like they were about to burst. He could hear the water splash around him . . .
Michael shot up out of bed. Sweat coated his skin.
Just a dream.
He looked around, almost expecting to see Marty’s face in the corner of the darkened room. But his stepfather was not there. Michael was alone in the clinic. The AIDS clinic. He had AIDS. From the hallway he could hear water running. Someone washing up. Someone cleaning out something. No reason to be scared.
He swung his legs out of the bed and stood. His body still trembled from the power of the dream, but at least he didn’t feel any of the SR1 side effects yet. He wrapped his arms around his chest and moved toward the window. He looked out. Not much of a view. Just a dirty alley. Garbage strewn everywhere. Two homeless men playing cards. Overturned tin cans. Cats chewing on a chicken bone. The only thing that hinted at the sanitary conditions within the building was a startlingly clean white truck with the inscription “Recovery Corporation of America—Medical Waste Disposal” painted across its side. Michael continued to stare.
Random thoughts and emotions ricocheted through his mind. They moved so quickly that he could not make complete sense of them, like trying to read a license plate as a car speeds by you. He tried to slow them down, but it was impossible. He caught just glimpses. In the end, one word became clear, blocking out all others:
Sara.
Funny, but Michael was not afraid of dying. Leaving Sara frightened him more. Alone. With the baby. The future meant something to him now. He had a stake in it, responsibilities. He wanted to stay with Sara, with the baby. So why did this happen now? Why show him what could be only to take it away?
Enough self-pity, Michael. You’re making me sick.
He thought about the press conference he would have to give tonight on NewsFlash and wondered what he was going to say. He could just imagine the questions the reporters were going to hurl at him gleefully:
“Have you always been gay? . . .” “Did your wife know? . . .” “How about your teammates? . . .” “How many boyfriends have you had? . . .”
And oh God, Sara, what am I doing to you? he asked himself. All I ever wanted to do was protect you. Now I’m throwing you in the middle of this. I wish I didn’t have to. I wish I could just ignore it, blind myself from the truth. But I can’t. Why should you have to suffer anymore? Part of me wants to push you away, to shield you from going through this whole AIDS shit with me.
But Michael knew he could never. Sara would never allow it. And he knew that if the roles had been reversed, there would be no way Sara could have persuaded him to let her go. None. She would want to be there, and selfish as it might be, he wanted her there. He knew he would never make it without her.
He just wished he wasn’t so goddamn scared.
“Michael?”
He turned. Sara stood in the doorway. She was so beautiful, so goddamn achingly beautiful . . . He felt tears come to his eyes, but he forced them back down again. “I love you,” he said.
She limped to the window and hugged him tightly.
He closed his eyes and held on. “We’re going to beat this thing, aren’t we?”
She pulled back and looked up at him. A smile flirted with her lips. “We’re going to whip its ass,” she said staunchly.
She embraced him again, trying so very hard to believe her own words.
THAT morning Lieutenant Bernstein found Dr. Harvey Riker in the lab, checking through his private files.
“Anything missing?” the lieutenant asked.
Harvey shook his head. “But someone went through them. A couple of them are out of order.”
“Michael’s?”
“Yes. Have you heard from the coroner yet?”
Bernstein nodded. The fingers of his right hand busily twisted a paper clip into shapes it was never intended to achieve. “There were traces of cyanide. Someone injected it into his right arm.”
“So it was murder.”
“Looks like.”
Harvey let go a long breath. “Did you speak with Kiel Davis yet?”
“Yes. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He knows nothing.”
As Harvey was about to respond, Winston O’Connor stepped through the doorway. “Good morning, Harvey.”
“Hi, Winston. Win, I want you to meet Lieutenant Bernstein.”
Winston O’Connor stuck out his hand. “Pleasure, sir. Ain’t you kinda young to be a lieutenant?”
Bernstein ignored the common question and busied himself studying the man. Fortyish, thick Southern accent, blond-turning-to-gray hair, average height, open smile. “You’re the chief lab technician?”
“That’s right,” Winston twanged. “What brings you all around these parts, Lieutenant?”
“Someone broke into this lab last night,” Bernstein said, purposely not saying anything about Martino yet.
“You’re kidding! A break-in here? What did they take?”
“Nothing,” Max replied. “Dr. Riker walked in on them.”
“You all right, Harv?”
“Fine.”
“Where were you last night at around three in the morning?” Max asked.
Winston’s face registered sur
prise. “Am I a suspect?”
“No one is a suspect. I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”
“I was home all night.”
“You live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?”
“Why the hell would I need anyone to vouch for me?”
“Please just answer the question.”
“No. I don’t make a point of having witnesses watch me when I’m in my own home.”
“What time did you leave here last night?”
“Around midnight.”
“Were you the last one to leave the lab?”
“No,” Winston said, his voice an octave higher. “Eric Blake was still here.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. I just locked up some of the experiments, same as I do every night, and left him in here.” Winston glared at the police detective, but Bernstein diverted his gaze, never allowing the man to look him in the eye. “Can I go down the hall now to get a cup of coffee, Lieutenant, or do you need my mama’s maiden name first?”
“Go.”
Winston spun and left.
“Kind of touchy,” Bernstein remarked.
“But a good man,” Harvey added, “hard worker.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Fifteen years.”
“How long has he lived in New York?”
“I don’t know. Almost twenty years.”
Max stroked his chin. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“Ask away.”
Bernstein’s pacing commenced. He never looked in Harvey’s direction as he spoke. “How many confidential patients do you treat?”
“They are all confidential, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, but how many are ‘very’ confidential, kept away from the rest of the patients behind that door down the hall with no window on it?”
“Right now, just Michael. I came up with the idea of the secluded room when we first started treating Bradley Jenkins.”
“How did you meet Jenkins?”
Harvey went back to sorting his files. “Through his father.”
“And how did you meet his father?”
“He came to see me one day. Said he wanted to know more about what we were doing. I was wary, of course. Senator Stephen Jenkins is hardly one who normally sides with our cause. After a while he said he had heard rumors that we could cure AIDS. I denied it, telling him our success had been minuscule at best. But he was adamant. That’s when he told me about his son.”
“He admitted to you that Bradley had AIDS?”
“Yes. He was desperate, Lieutenant. He may be a bit of a fanatic, but his boy was sick and dying. He promised me he’d help the clinic discreetly if I took Bradley in.”
“So you did.”
He nodded and then realized that the lieutenant was not facing him. “I didn’t really believe he’d help. I was more hoping he wouldn’t hurt.”
“Jenkins took a hell of a risk trusting you.”
“What choice did he have? He wanted to save his son’s life. We worked out extra security measures like we used with Michael—hidden entrances from the basement and all that.”
“Besides yourself, who knows the names of the patients in here?”
“That’s the weird part. Practically nobody. Bruce knew. Eric knows many of the names, not all. And . . .” He stopped.
“Who else?” Max asked again.
“Dr. Raymond Markey.”
“Who’s he?”
“An Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services. We report to him directly.”
“Do you trust him?”
“Not much. He’s always been more of a politician than a doctor.”
“But he knew Bradley Jenkins was in here?”
“No. We hid it from him.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I lied.”
“How?”
Harvey shrugged. “I just left Bradley’s name off the patient list I sent Markey.”
“And this Markey guy never questioned it?”
“No.”
“Does he know you’ve found a cure?”
“Yes and no. We tell him just enough so he can’t pull back the money.”
“And he just accepts your word?”
Harvey half chuckled. “Hardly. We always back up our claims with irrefutable evidence. A good researcher always guards against a charge of tampering with results. Just the accusation of falsifying data could bring down an entire clinic like ours. That’s why I set up a system where at least two doctors work on each case—always at separate times. It prevents any hint of wrongdoing.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Take the blood work.”
“The blood work?”
“The taking and handling of blood. If I did the original examination on a patient, Bruce or Eric would do the testing during the latter stages of the treatment and vice versa. Let me give you an example. I diagnosed Teddy Krutzer as having the AIDS virus three years ago. As a result, Bruce was the one who handled the blood work when we tested to see if Krutzer had actually become HIV negative. Another example. Scott Trian, the first murder victim, was first diagnosed with AIDS by Bruce Grey four years ago so—”
“So you or Eric ran the blood test to see if he had been cured or not.”
“Exactly. This way, we are able to head off anyone who might want to slow us down by throwing out false accusations of tampering.”
Max shook his head. “This case just keeps getting weirder and weirder.”
“Not so weird,” Harvey said.
“Oh?”
“I think it’s pretty simple.”
“Then why don’t you let me in on it?”
Harvey stopped playing with the files and looked up. “Someone is trying to destroy this clinic. Someone has found out what we have discovered here and wants to prevent us from showing the world. It’s what I’ve suspected all along. It’s why I set up all these internal safeguards.”
“But—”
“Look, Lieutenant, it’s like I told Sara in the beginning. If I wanted to prove to you that I could cure AIDS, what would be the most convincing thing I could show you? Cured patients, right? Eliminate the cured patients and all I have is charts and graphs and tests and files that don’t add up to a thing. I’d have to start all over again. A vaccine could be delayed years.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Bernstein said without breaking stride. “But let me ask you this. How many good test cases are still alive?”
“Three.”
“Three cured patients left,” Max repeated. “Well, then, all three need protection. They should be moved to a safe house where no one will know where they are.”
“I agree,” Harvey said.
“Then I have a suggestion for you, Doctor, that you might not like. I want to put them in a real safe house.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If this conspiracy is as big as you suspect, then anyone could be involved in this plot. They’ve already gone to extreme lengths and they probably won’t stop now. I think it safest if no one, not even you, knows where they are. The less everyone knows, the less that can slip out. Or be forced out.”
“Do you really think—”
“Five men have been murdered already,” Bernstein interrupted.
“But these patients have to be watched by a qualified doctor.”
“I have a doctor who has made a living keeping his mouth shut. You tell him what to do and he’ll do it. If you need to see them yourself, I’ll take you to the safe house. Blindfolded.”
Harvey nodded. “Okay, sounds reasonable. But I want your word that the patients won’t be touched without specific permission. If your doctor were to give them the wrong medication or take unnecessary tests—”
“He won’t—you have my word. I’d also like to go
through the medical records of the four victims.”
“Of course, Lieutenant, but let me ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“If this conspiracy is so powerful, how do I know you’re not a part of it?”
Bernstein stopped pacing, looked up, and twirled his hair around his middle finger. “Interesting question,” he replied. And then he walked out the door.
JENNIFER Riker woke up on the couch. The contents of the packet were scattered around her. I’ll look through it later, she thought. She showered, dressed, and poured herself a bowl of Triple Bran, the latest in a series of fad cereals that were supposed to cure everything from cancer to lockjaw. It tasted like tree bark. Her sister, Susan, bought all those crazy health foods, coming home from the supermarket exclaiming, “I just bought (fill in the blank), and my friend (fill in the blank) swears that this will make you feel one hundred percent more (fill in the blank).”
She sighed, carried the bowl back into the den, and sat on the couch. She glanced at the file she had read yesterday. Unbelievable. Harvey and Bruce had done it. Cured AIDS. Turned an HIV positive into an HIV negative. Historic.
Jennifer picked up Scott Trian’s file and fingered through the pages until she arrived at the spot where she had left off. She scanned down the page. There. The spot where Trian became HIV negative. She read on. Trian’s condition progressed nicely now, though not without some setbacks. Bruce noted:There are times when Scott is made so weak from the injections of SR1 that I fear for him. Harvey and I talked about it last night. We both agree that we have to do something to lessen the side effects. Still, the alternative—death from AIDS—is far worse than what we are seeing in Trian.
The file held no more surprising revelations, just a few scattered notes about Trian’s reaction to SR1. Bruce’s last note read:DNA? A vs. B
What did that mean? She shrugged, put down the file, and picked up another. Whitherson, William. His file was very much like Trian’s. Whitherson had also been transformed to HIV negative, but he had other problems:Bill’s family is so damn unsupportive. His father won’t speak to him, and his mother feels trapped between her husband and her son, afraid to talk to Bill because her husband would see it as some sort of betrayal. Horses’ asses, both of them. The funny thing is Bill still loves them like mad. He calls them all the time. I hear him pleading over the phone in a hushed, defeated voice. “But don’t you understand? I’m dying.” Still nothing.
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