Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  . . . and a photograph of Bradley Jenkins appeared in its place.

  Harvey felt his heart constrict in his chest. “Oh God, no. Don’t . . .”

  “The murder of Bradley Jenkins, son of Senator Stephen Jenkins and 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 no longer 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, but Sanders did not get angry. Anger was a wasted emotion, one that clouded the mind, shoved away rational thought. What he needed to do was think clearly.

  Dixie was upstairs in the bedroom, passed out on the bed from too much wine. Again. Third straight night. But he loved her. She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—even his enemies confessed to that—a far cry from the Tammy Faye stereotype of an evangelist’s wife. She meant the world to him and so he lavished her with expensive gifts and the best of everything. Still, she despised him. He could see it in the way she looked at him every time he came through the door. His son, Ernie Junior, had grown into a handsome young man who worked in the ministry. He had learned the Gospel well, was a passionate speaker, made a whole heap of money, and hated his father too. The repulsion in his son’s face, Sanders thought, would make a blind man blush.

  Luckily, Dixie, Ernie, and the two girls, Sissy and Mary Ann, all loved his money. Money was power, no question about it. Sanders remembered how his father used to recite the Golden Rule—he who has 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 people perceive. Some considered him a savior, a prophet, a man of God. Others considered him an extremist, a cheap con man, a bigoted hypocrite.

  What was the truth? Well, he had never had a vision from God like he said 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 so what? People wanted to believe. People needed something, and he gave it to them. We need food, we need air, we need recreation and entertainment, and we also need to believe in something. The leftist liberals believed in their gods—secularism, academia, the media. Didn’t old-fashioned Americans have the same right? They needed a strong leader, someone they could follow without question or doubt. Politicians used deception and slick packaging to create an image 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 Sunday morning, the exhilarated, rapt expression on their faces. How could you put a price tag on something like that? Take a look at how their eyes glowed as he spoke to them, their attention and trust never wavering. Yes, take a good look at these hardworking Americans who asked for no more than a few minutes of religious rapture, who wanted to believe there was something more than the boring grind they went through every day, who wanted to rely on the faith of God rather than just people.

  Ernest Sanders gave them all that and more. And yes, he made a lot of money from it. Why shouldn’t he? He made the world a better place and brought joy to thousands, maybe millions, of people. Maybe God hadn’t shown him a burning bush or given him the power to walk on water. But He had given him the power to move people with his words and perhaps that was, after all, the way God intended it to be. No flashy miracles in this technological, bureaucratic era—just the simple power to communicate His message.

  Perhaps, Sanders thought, he was engaged in a holy battle and God had chosen him to lead the side of the righteous, to rally His troops, to lead them into the Promised Land . . .

  . . . and to rid the world of the godless scum, to fight the evildoers who would try to stop him. Even to the death.

  The NewsFlash credits rolled by. With a sigh, Sanders reached for the phone and dialed Raymond Markey’s home.

  “Hello?”

  “Were you watching?” Reverend Sanders asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Very distressing,” Sanders continued. “There is going to be a tremendous outcry.”

  “But Riker played into our hands when they mentioned Bradley Jenkins,” Markey said. “Now we have proof that his reports were falsified. His findings can be labeled invalid.”

  “Maybe,” Sanders allowed, “but don’t count on it. We can use it, but it might not be enough. We might have to consider other plans.”

  Markey cleared his throat. “If you think it’s necessary.”

  “It is. Now that Riker has brought Silverman into this, I don’t see how we have any choice. I’ll contact Silverman’s stepfather.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get on a plane to New York. I want you to confront Harvey Riker man-to-man.”

  “Fine.” Markey paused. “There’s one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Gay Slasher killings—it’s all very strange.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Markey paused again before asking, “Who do you think is behind it?”

  Ernest Sanders weighed his words carefully. “To be honest, Ray,” he said at last, “I really don’t know.”

  14

  EARLY the next morning, Sara hobbled down the corridor and pushed open the door to Donald Parker’s office without knocking.

  “You bastard.”

  Donald looked up from his desk. If he had been surprised by her outburst, his face did not show it. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “Sara—”

  “You said you would leave Bradley Jenkins out of your report.”

  “Sara, I’m sorry but I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a reporter,” Parker said. “I was assigned to cover the story, the full story—”

  “Spare me the speech.”

  “Hold on a minute, Sara. You were biased on this one. Your judgment was clouded.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Parker adjusted his tie. “It’s simple. You don’t leave out a vital aspect of a story to protect a friend.”

  “But I explained—”

  “You explained what? That your friend, this Harvey Riker, lied to government officials? That he falsified reports?”

  “He didn’t falsify anything. He allowed Bradley Jenkins the right to confidentiality.”

  “Oh, come, Sara, you didn’t really expect me to give up the Gay Slasher story, did you? If I left Jenkins out of the report, what was the connection between the Gay Slasher’s victims? The whole idea was that they all came from Riker’s clinic. I couldn’t just skip over Bradley Jenkins, now, could I?”

  Sara leaned against her cane. “You don’t realize the consequences.”

  “Worrying about the consequences is not our job. You know that. We report the news and let the pieces fall where they may. We cannot choose to suppress important facts in order to achieve our personal goals. Reverse our roles for a minute. If you were doing a story and I came to you and asked you to leave out a vital part of the story in order to protect a friend of mine—a friend who tampered with government documents—would you?”

  “I didn’t ask you to protect a friend. I asked you to protect the clinic. Don’t you see? Your report could close them down.”

  He shook his head. “No way. After the show last night, the public would never allow it. The researchers at the clinic are overnight heroes. All of America is talking about them.”

  “You still should have told me.”

  “Maybe I should have,” he allowed, “but I didn’t think there was time.” He crossed the room and stood in front of her. “I’m sorry about your husband. He must be a very brave man to go public with something like this.”

  She nodded and turned to go. “Thank you, Donald,” she said curtly. “I apologize for barging in.”
>
  DR. Harvey Riker tried to read the report at his desk, but it was pointless. After watching the NewsFlash report last night, sleep had kept a safe distance away from him. Now that the evening had given way to sunrise, his mind still churned with the same questions and doubts. Had he made a grave mistake in allowing the report to be aired? It had seemed like the perfect idea, the perfect way to keep the clinic going strong, but he had forgotten to add in the Bradley Jenkins factor, a factor that could very well destroy the clinic.

  What was going to happen now?

  The intercom on his desk buzzed.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Raymond Markey is here to see you.”

  Harvey felt something twist in his abdomen. “He’s here? In the clinic?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Oh God, oh God . . . “Show him in.”

  Harvey sat back and began to gulp down large quantities of air. He waited, staring at the second hand of the clock above his door. It moved like it was being weighed down—no sweep, just a grudging crawl.

  Markey already knew. The son of a bitch knew about Jenkins before the show. But how?

  “Dr. Riker?”

  Harvey put on a smile that was way too broad. “Dr. Markey, come in. What brings you here?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Harvey continued to smile, unfazed. “Should I?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Harvey was a touch confused by Markey’s tone. He had expected the man to be cool, calm, sure; instead, there was an undeniable strain in his voice. The Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, black shoes that desperately needed a shine, and a solid red tie.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” Markey fell heavily into the chair as though overcome by exhaustion.

  “Some coffee?”

  “No.” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Dr. Riker, let me get to the point. I saw the television report on your clinic last night. I found it very informative . . . and disturbing.”

  “Disturbing?” Harvey repeated with the same stupid smile glued to his face. He wondered how much longer he would get away with the dumb act. Not very, he surmised.

  “I reread your findings and confidential reports last night,” Markey continued. “While they are not exactly contradictory to what the show said, they were, shall we say, vague.”

  “It was not intentional,” Harvey tried, his brain scanning fiercely for escape avenues. “You see, Dr. Markey, I did not want to make any wild claims before I had full documentation to back them up.”

  “But the show said—”

  “Exactly. The show said—I didn’t. You know how the press operates. They exaggerate everything out of all proportion.”

  “Then the TV coverage was not your idea?”

  “Absolutely not. The media came to me. They told me they heard about the clinic through a leak.” An idea finally broke into view. Harvey seized it. “They implied, Dr. Markey, that the leak came from Washington. Your offices, in fact.”

  That’s it, Harv, lie like a cheap toupee. Put him on the defensive.

  Markey tilted his head toward the ceiling, considering Harvey’s accusation. Then he said, “Maybe the leak came from Michael Silverman or Sara Lowell? I understand that they are both good friends of yours.”

  Harvey shook his head. “They knew nothing about the clinic until the day before yesterday when we diagnosed Michael as being HIV positive. That reporter from NewsFlash—Donald Parker—knew about it over a week ago—”

  Markey looked at him doubtfully. He leaned forward, “Forget that matter for a moment,” he said. “I think it’s time we stopped dancing around and got to the heart of the matter.”

  You’re mixing your metaphors, Harvey wanted to scream. Panic and desperation coursed through him like tiny shards of glass.

  “You lied to us, Dr. Riker. Your reports were falsified.”

  “Falsified?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You experimented on Bradley Jenkins. There was no mention of him in any of your reports.”

  Harvey cleared his throat. “A patient has a right to confidentiality, Doctor.”

  “Not in this case, he doesn’t. There were no studies on him, no lab test results, nothing.”

  “But—”

  “You haven’t changed, Riker. You still don’t understand that there are rules that must be followed.”

  “I know all about rules.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. You’ve always been the same, always looking for the easy way.”

  “Not the easy way,” Harvey corrected, fighting to hold back his growing fear and rage. “I look for the way with the least amount of bureaucratic bullshit to wade through. I look for the way that will save the most lives quickest.” He stopped, not wanting to continue but knowing he was powerless to stop. “You’d understand that if you were more of a doctor than a pencil pusher.”

  Markey’s eyes widened behind his thick spectacles. His whole face became two angry eyes. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Dr. Markey, if you’d just listen—”

  “Do you understand the seriousness of your actions?” Markey interrupted. “You could have your grant revoked. The clinic could be shut down and all your findings labeled invalid.”

  Harvey stared at him, frozen, afraid for a moment to speak or even move. Finally, his lips parted. “Senator Jenkins forced me to keep Bradley’s name out of the reports,” Harvey said, grasping at anything to stay afloat. “If you try to close us down, there will be a scandal like you’ve never seen before.”

  “The senator’s good name has already been dragged through the mud,” Markey replied. “A little more isn’t going to hurt.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Simply this. I have a proposal for you.”

  Harvey looked at him, confused. “Proposal?”

  “What I am about to offer you is not negotiable. You either take it or we close the clinic. It’s your choice.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You have falsified reports, which we both know is a very serious issue. All your findings are tainted. We could disregard them all together . . . or we could allow you to build upon them.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Michael Silverman is your most recently admitted patient. Correct?”

  “So?”

  “Not much work has been done on him yet?”

  “Very little. He’s been on SR1 for less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Good. We are going to watch his progress. I am bringing in my own men to monitor everything that happens with Silverman. They will chart every detail of his treatment. When and if he becomes HIV negative, we’ll be able to reexamine your other findings and begin testing—”

  “It could take years!”

  “You should have thought of that before you tampered with NIH reports,” Markey snapped.

  Oh God, oh God, what do I do now? I’m trapped . . .

  “I didn’t tamper with evidence,” Harvey half shouted. “I tampered with a goddamn patient list—that’s all. One goddamn name.”

  “The point remains. If you could falsify reports on one thing, you could do it for others.”

  “But we’ve already cured six patients.”

  “Only three of whom are still alive. And how do we know that your findings on them are not distorted?”

  “Test them, for chrissake!” Harvey shouted. “I’m not going to let you get away with this. I’ll do whatever it takes—”

  “Simmer down.”

  “I’ll go to the press.”

  Harvey was sure he saw fear in the man’s face, but Markey just smiled at him. “An unwise move, Dr. Riker. First off, I’ll immediately cut off your grant. Then I’ll reveal to the world that you falsified reports, that you would not allow us access to your patients, that you have never cured anybody, and anything else I can make up. Our PR men will make you look
like some charlatan selling snake oil. You won’t be able to get a job cleaning bedpans by the time they’re finished with you.”

  Harvey’s mind battled back his mounting panic. “The facts will prove you’re lying,” he said.

  “Eventually, perhaps—if you haven’t falsified them. But by the time they do, I’ll already have stalled you into the next century.”

  Harvey stared at him in horror. He knew Markey was semi-bluffing, that he did not want to be forced into a confrontation, but what he was saying was also true. He could destroy everything. Even if Harvey cleared his name and proved that Markey was lying, it would take months. Years maybe. And in the meantime the money would stop. A cure would be delayed indefinitely.

  Raymond Markey stood and moved toward the door. “My people will be here tomorrow afternoon. Please inform your staff.”

  MICHAEL came to consciousness slowly. He heard the TV. A man talking. Sounded like the news. His eyes blinked open.

  “Good morning, handsome,” Sara said.

  He felt groggy. His vision was blurred. He rolled over and kissed Sara, who was lying next to him. There was a book in her hand.

  “Good morning, Nurse. You better get out of here before my wife gets here.”

  “Funny.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost noon. How do you feel?”

  He tried to sit up. “Like a small animal died in my stomach.”

  “Yuck. Guess what I have here.”

  “What?”

  She held the book closer to his face. Michael squinted and read the title out loud. “1,000 Names for Your Baby? I already thought of a name.”

  “Oh?”

  “Moahmar.”

  “And if it’s a girl?”

  “That is for a girl. So what’s happening?”