Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Let’s see. What do you remember last?”

  He thought. “Eric taking my blood, the little vampire.”

  “Well, nothing much has happened since then.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the television.

  “CNN Headline News. Today’s major story surrounds the still-unnamed AIDS clinic that is treating basketball star Michael Silverman. Thousands of gay activists marched upon Washington today, demanding that the FDA approve nationwide testing of the little-known drug called SR1. Donations to the financially troubled institution have been pouring in from all over since the NewsFlash story aired last evening. According to reports, the anonymous AIDS clinic has made amazing strides in its fight to cure the AIDS virus with injections of a new drug called SR1. With us now is Dr. Eli Samuels from the Mallacy AIDS Center in San Francisco.”

  The doctor appeared on the screen, his left hand holding an earplug in place. On the bottom of the screen the words “San Francisco, California” appeared in white.

  “Dr. Samuels, what is the reaction of the medical community to last night’s NewsFlash story?”

  “Cautiously intrigued,” the doctor replied.

  “Could you elaborate for us?”

  “Certainly. While the press may want to have a field day by celebrating the discovery of this supposed cure, the medical community has to question the authenticity of the report. This unnamed clinic has released no results yet, no firm findings, has not written a paper for The New England Journal of Medicine or a similar periodical. It’s all highly unusual.”

  “Are you suggesting fraud?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, but I do believe that the media and the medical community would be acting irresponsibly if we accepted these claims as fact without further evidence.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  The anchorman spun his chair in order to face forward. “In a related story, New York Knicks basketball superstar Michael Silverman shocked the sports world last night with his announcement that he had contracted the AIDS virus. According to clinic doctors and last night’s report on NewsFlash, Michael Silverman contracted the virus during a blood transfusion in the Bahamas several years ago after a serious boating accident. There are those, however, who doubt the story and believe that the clinic is trying to cover up Mr. Silverman’s true sexual orientation.”

  Another face came on the screen. Michael’s body stiffened.

  “It can’t be,” he uttered.

  “Michael, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  Michael continued to stare at the image on the screen. The face had changed very little in the past twenty years. A little gray around the temples. A little more sag on the jawline and neck. The overall appearance, however, was radically different. A tailored sports coat. Nice tie. Nice, neat haircut. Just your typical, friendly Joe.

  The anchorman continued. “With us now from Lincoln, Nebraska, is Mr. Martin Johnson, the stepfather who raised Michael Silverman. Mr. Johnson, thank you for joining us.”

  “My pleasure, Chuck.”

  “Mr. Johnson, what do you think about the reports that your stepson contracted AIDS through a blood transfusion?”

  Martin Johnson shrugged. “Might be. I would never want to speak ill of the boy, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, it seems to me that there is a far greater likelihood that he got it from one of his boyfriends.”

  The anchorman was nearly salivating. “Then Mr. Silverman is gay?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to say that. I’d say he’s more like one of those bisexuals. He’s had plenty of sex with both men and women. Started at a young age. But he prefers men, I’m almost sure.”

  Michael flew up from the bed. “Turn it off!”

  Sara grabbed the remote control and snapped the OFF button. The picture turned into a bright dot before fading away. “You okay?”

  He nodded. “Lying son of a bitch. I haven’t seen him since I was ten years old.”

  Sara flicked the switch on Michael’s portable tape deck. Bach gently blew into the room, but it did little to assuage him. “It’s strange,” she said. “Why do you think he’d lie like that?”

  “Because he’s a psychopath, that’s why.”

  Sara shook her head. “There has to be more to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. I just have a feeling he wasn’t acting on his own.”

  “Could be,” Michael said. “So what do we do now?”

  “We’ll have to work some damage control, come up with a counteroffensive, prove the slimeball was lying.”

  “No matter what we do,” Michael said, “some people are going to believe him.”

  “Yes, some people are going to believe him.”

  Michael shook his head. “After all these years, after all this time, seeing his face again . . .”

  ON the other side of the country Jennifer Riker began to shake. She could not believe what she was seeing on the television screen. Like something out of a cheap horror movie, Marty Johnson had risen again. She had hoped to shut away the memory of his evil smirk forever, but now it was back, dragging painful images that would not go away into plain sight—the bruises on little Michael’s body, the black eyes, the concussions, the hospital stays, the absolute terror on the boy’s face.

  The sick bastard was back.

  Jennifer let her anger fester, mount, become obsessive. She concentrated on it, encouraged it, and hoped that it would block out the more painful fact.

  Michael had AIDS.

  She shook her head. That poor kid. How many times had she said that about Michael? Thousands. Despite being born with looks, intelligence, and enough talent for ten people, bad luck had still tagged along after Michael like a faithful dog.

  Jennifer glanced down at the coffee table. For the millionth time she read the name Susan on the envelope and wondered what to do. Last night she had considered trying to reach Susan but had decided it was foolish. Bruce was dead. Whatever he had written in the note would not change that fact. What was the rush? When Susan came back the note would still be here.

  But now Jennifer was not so sure about her decision. Something bothersome gnawed at the back of her brain. Bruce’s suicide, the mysterious package mailed to an unused California post office box, the murders, the SR1 cure, the cryptic writing on the envelope:TO BE OPENED UPON MY DEATH

  And now Michael.

  Her sadness at all this bad news had now transformed itself into something more, something deeper. Though she could not say specifically why, she felt frightened. No, more than that. Petrified. She chastised herself for being paranoid, for seeing conspiracy in everything. But she could not shake the feeling. Something was very wrong here, and it had something to do with Bruce’s medical files and that note to Susan.

  Jennifer sat back, her head reeling in a rising spiral of uncertainty.

  HARVEY picked up his private line. “Hello?”

  “Please forgive me, you great big hunk. I want to be your love slave.”

  He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Cassandra, this really isn’t the time.”

  Nervous pause. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I’ll call back later.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I said I’m sorry. I can’t take back—”

  “It’s not that,” he interrupted. “I just don’t have the time to get involved with someone right now.”

  “I blew it, huh?”

  “No. It should have never happened in the first place.”

  “But it felt so right. You said so yourself.”

  “Cassandra . . .”

  “I was scared, Harv. And when I’m scared, I get stupid. I do dumb things. I . . . I have a tendency to destroy whatever I care about before it dies on me, you know?”

  “I understand,” he said. He stopped, took a deep breath, and then continued. “Why don’t we just take it slow, okay? Go one step at a time.”

  “You mea
n it?”

  He half smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “I remembered something Sara once said about you.”

  “My sister?”

  “She said you had a heart as big as all outdoors—despite what you think of yourself.”

  Pause. “Sara said that?” she asked incredulously. “About me?”

  “Yes. I think she wishes you two were closer.”

  “I think I’m falling in love with you, Harvey.”

  He let a small chuckle pass his lips. “Like we just agreed, let’s take it slow.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good-bye, Cassandra.”

  “Good-bye, Harvey.”

  GEORGE picked up the telephone. “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call,” George said.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “And I’ve been waiting for the rest of the money you owe me.”

  Pause. “I know that, George. I’ll have it for you soon. I promise.”

  “Plus ten grand.”

  “For what?”

  “Late fee. An extra ten grand a week.”

  His employer let loose a long sigh. “Okay. An extra ten thousand dollars.”

  “Fine, then,” George said. “Do you have another job for me?”

  “Yes. But this one is going to be very different and more than a little tricky.”

  “Go on.”

  “Did you see NewsFlash last night by any chance?” the voice asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate how difficult this job is going to be.”

  “That’s my problem,” George said. “You just worry about paying me.”

  “Understood.”

  “When do you want the job done?” George asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “This situation has changed now,” his employer said. “It has to be tonight.”

  “Okay, but it’ll cost you.”

  “I’ll pay it. I swear.”

  George sighed. “So who is tonight’s lucky faggot?”

  From the other end of the phone, George heard a throat being cleared.

  “Michael Silverman.”

  15

  DR. John Lowell looked across his desk at the plump man. He tried to mask the naked hatred on his face, but he knew that it was pointless. Reverend Sanders could see his expression of loathing; it did not seem to bother him.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Sanders began. “I appreciate you finding the time in your busy schedule.”

  “We only have an hour,” Lowell replied impatiently. “What do you want?”

  Sanders stood and strolled about the spacious study. “This is really a beautiful room, John,” he began, his smile locked on autopilot. “Every time I’m in here, I feel so . . . so at home. It’s a wonderful study.”

  “Never mind that. My daughter will be home in a little while.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t want her to see you.”

  Sanders reached out and picked up the picture frame on John’s desk. “You have such lovely daughters, John. Gentle, beautiful Sara and the, uh, sex”—he stopped and looked up—“the, uh, sculpted Cassandra. You are a very fortunate man. You see, John, family is what it is all about. Our country was built on the principle of family values. Now that foundation is beginning to crack and crumble. It is our task, dear John, to repair the cracks and make the foundation as strong as ever.”

  “What do you want?”

  “It’s very simple. I want you to continue to help me in our crusade. I want you to stand up and do what is right.”

  “Will you please stop with the mumbo jumbo and get to the point?”

  Sanders’ voice remained unruffled, placid. “Tell me, John, why did you refuse to come to last night’s emergency meeting?”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, John, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t want this disease cured, do you?”

  Sanders gave an amused smile. “Tell me, John, would you have wanted to cure the plagues of Egypt? Would you have tried to help Job, even though God did not want you to? Would you have told Abraham that God did not really want him to sacrifice Isaac?”

  “What the hell are you—”

  “Would you try to stop God’s work, John? Would you try to join Lucifer in obstructing the Lord’s plans?”

  “Get the hell off your high horse—”

  “We know that AIDS can be transmitted through bodily fluids,” Sanders interrupted, “yet if you dare suggest mandatory testing of your doctor or your dentist, the liberals go crazy. They scream about constitutional rights. Well, John, what about our constitutional rights? What about our rights to remain healthy? They don’t care about us. Why should we care about them?”

  John Lowell just stared for a moment. “You and Markey said they weren’t making any progress.”

  “Yes, I know. It was a surprise to us as well, John. Dr. Riker’s reports never showed any hints of what we all heard on your daughter’s television show last night. We were as shocked as you were.”

  John rubbed his forehead. Sanders’ calm voice was beginning to unnerve him. “I would have never gone along with . . .”

  “With what, John?”

  “You know what.”

  Again, Sanders smiled. “The fact remains, however, that we still have a job to complete. Now it will be tougher than ever. We need your help, John.”

  “You’re insane. My son-in-law is being treated in that clinic, for God’s sake.”

  Sanders nodded his head solemnly, his expression suddenly grave. “I’m so sorry for you and your daughter. What an awful way to find out the truth about Michael’s, uh”—again the dramatic pause—“his sexual preference.”

  John struggled to keep his temper under wraps. “You saw the report. Michael got the virus from a blood transfusion.”

  The smile came back. “Perhaps you are right, John, but it seems awfully suspicious to me. A blood transfusion in the Bahamas? You will have to admit it’s rather hard to swallow—especially in light of the statements made by Michael’s very own father.”

  “Stepfather,” John corrected. “An ignorant son of a bitch who Michael hasn’t seen since his childhood.”

  “Is that so? How interesting. I wonder why he would lie, then.”

  John said nothing for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed into thin slits. “You,” he whispered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You put him up to it, didn’t you? You paid Johnson off to say that garbage.”

  “Me? Why would I do such a thing?”

  “To distract the media. To cast a shadow over the clinic’s positive press.”

  “Now, hold on a minute, John. It is not very nice to hurl unsubstantiated accusations around like that.”

  “Get the hell out of my house.”

  “But there is so much more to discuss, John . . .”

  “Get out.”

  “. . . like your continued participation in our struggle.”

  He stood. “Jesus, you are insane. This has gone too far. It has to be stopped now before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “Regrettably, John, I fear it will continue.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cassette tape. “This might help to steer you back on the road of the righteous.”

  The color drained from Lowell’s face, turning his ruddy complexion into something near chalk. He sat back down. “What’s . . . ?”

  “On the tape? A good question, John. You remember our first meeting in Raymond’s office? The one where you said you would do anything to destroy Riker and Grey’s clinic so that the Cancer Center could get the finances for its new wing? Do you remember that meeting?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  The smile grew broader, happier. Power always had that effect on him. “I wo
nder what gentle, beautiful Sara would think of her sweet little ol’ daddy after hearing this tape? Or the press?”

  “You’d be taking yourself down too.”

  “No, I don’t think so, John. You see, this tape is edited. Only your voice is on it.”

  “I’d reveal everything.”

  “But you’d have no proof, John. And let’s face facts. Your accusations would only strengthen my hand with the religious right. They would see me as a leader who is willing to do more than just talk. You, on the other hand, would be ruined—along with the Cancer Center.”

  John opened his mouth but ended up saying nothing.

  “Yes, John, the Lord doth move in mysterious ways. Ah, but do not be upset with me. You are doing what is right. You are going to help destroy something that is evil, and in turn, you are going to benefit cancer research. You are truly helping mankind.”

  “Get out.”

  “I have a plan that I am sure you will find satisfactory—one that will help us all, including your son-in-law. You can find out all about it at our next meeting. Raymond will call you. In the meantime I would advise you to keep all of this to yourself. Loose lips sink ships, you know.”

  He winked, flashed one last smile, and then headed for the door. “After all, John, you are one of us.”

  After he was gone, Lowell just sat there alone in his study. He stared unseeing at a bookshelf, weighing his options. After five minutes had passed, he stood and went out of the room, closing the door to his study behind him.

  After the door closed, the door to a closet swung open. Cassandra pushed away her father’s Burberry coat and stepped out. She was still shuddering.

  LIEUTENANT Max Bernstein headed down the Sidney Pavilion’s third-floor hallway. He was about to enter the laboratory when he heard Dr. Eric Blake’s voice coming from just inside the door:

  “Maybe what Markey is suggesting isn’t so terrible,” Eric said.

  There was a small pause. Then Harvey replied, “Don’t you see what he is trying to do?”

  “Of course I do, but maybe we can twist it into our favor.”

  “How?”

  “If he keeps his word,” Eric continued, “the government will have to finance the clinic for a few more years yet—until Michael’s prognosis is determined anyway—plus we have the new donations coming in on the toll-free line. That may give us the time to perfect SR1—”