Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “And delay its implementation by two or three years,” Harvey interrupted. “Markey is trying to make us start all over again.”

  “Well, it could have been worse. He could have closed us down all together.”

  Max waited to hear Harvey’s response, but when none was forthcoming, he stepped into view. “Good morning, Doctors.”

  They were both standing over a microscope. Their heads swiveled toward the doorway at the sound of Max’s voice. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  Max’s eyes moved about the room. “Where’s your lab chief this morning?”

  “Winston O’Connor? He’s taken a few days off.”

  Max nodded vigorously, his fingers twirling a pencil as though it were a baton. He began to circle the lab, picking up and putting down items at random. “You two look lousy,” he said.

  “Been a bad day,” Harvey replied.

  “How so?”

  “I received a visit from Ray Markey this morning.”

  “The guy from Washington?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  Harvey recounted his conversation with Dr. Raymond Markey. Max nodded, continuously moving about the lab, his eyes never swerving in the general direction of the speaker. To those who did not know him, he appeared not to be paying attention.

  He did, however, stop and examine Eric Blake as though seeing him for the first time. Nice shoes, expensive suit, monogrammed dress shirt, power tie, matching suspenders. Looked a little stiff. Acted more than a little stiff. Actually, Eric looked more like a Wall Street wheeler-dealer than an altruistic doctor.

  When Harvey finished, Max picked up a test tube, examined it, and said, “Interesting.”

  Eric snatched the tube from the lieutenant’s hand. “Do you mind?” he asked irritably. “These are important experiments.”

  “Sorry.” Max paced off in another direction. Judging by the few sentences Max had overheard in the hallway, Eric Blake did not see Dr. Markey’s visit as reason to panic. In fact, he did not seem concerned at all. Again, interesting.

  You’re missing something here, Max. Something big. Think, damn it.

  But nothing came to him, just a steady, annoying nudge in his brain.

  “So let me get this straight,” he said. “Markey wants to turn Michael into a guinea pig to see if SR1 works?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  Once again Max nodded. “Then we can’t hide Michael with the other patients. But then again, there’s no reason to hide him anyway, is there?”

  Eric stepped forward. “Hide him? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s okay, Eric,” Harvey replied. “The lieutenant and I have talked it over already. We’ve decided to place the cured patients in a police safe house to protect them from this Gay Slasher.”

  “Where?”

  Max smiled. “It’s a secret—hence the words safe house.”

  “From us?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t see why,” Eric continued. “Can’t we just improve security and leave them in here?”

  “We could,” Harvey said, “but we both felt this was the better solution. It would be much too disruptive to have a ton of policemen all over the place and try to operate a first-class medical facility. And another thing. Martino was killed in this very building while I was still here. It would be impossible to guarantee their safety.”

  “What about their medical treatment?” Eric asked.

  “The lieutenant has assured me that he has a qualified man who will follow our very specific instructions. Right, Lieutenant?”

  “Correct. We won’t touch them without your go ahead.”

  “And for right now I have informed the lieutenant that the patients are not to be touched or handled in any manner.”

  Eric said nothing.

  Max cleared his throat. “Now that we have that settled, how many cured patients are still alive?”

  “Three,” Harvey answered. “And to answer your other question, no, there would be no reason to hide Michael from the killer since he is not a cured patient. I might suggest, however, a few extra men at the entrances.”

  “Okay,” Max agreed. “Where are the three patients?”

  “They’re all here.”

  “Good. Did you have a chance to go through Dr. Grey’s private files yet?”

  Harvey nodded slowly.

  “Do you have a list of Dr. Grey’s missing files?”

  “Here.” Harvey handed Max a piece of paper and stepped back. Max glanced over the list of names. He shook his head, took the pencil out of his mouth, and scratched a line across three names:Krutzer, Theodore

  Leander, Paul

  Singer, Arnold

  “Let me guess,” Max said wearily. “The three surviving HIV negative patients are Krutzer, Leander, and Singer.”

  Harvey nodded.

  Max pocketed the list and headed for the door. “Then let’s start preparing them for the move to the safe house.”

  “Fine. Eric, I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay.”

  After the two men left the room, Eric Blake walked toward his private file cabinet. He bent down, unlocked the bottom drawer, and reached way into the back. His fingers deftly lifted away loose papers, digging down to the bottom where they hit warm glass.

  Eric quickly made sure that no one was looking before he pulled out a test tube filled with blood.

  POLICE Sergeant Willie Monticelli was three years away from his pension. He was a twenty-seven-year veteran of the force, having worked homicide for more than a decade. Sounded like glamorous work to many but usually the job was about as exciting as watching paint dry. It consisted of running down useless leads, interviewing hostile people who knew nothing, writing up painstaking progress reports that were never read, and worst of all, surveillance.

  Right now Willie Monticelli was on his second day of surveillance. The first day had produced the usual—nothing. Zippo. Subject X had not done one thing that could be labeled even slightly suspicious. Day 2, however, was another matter.

  On Day 2, Subject X had flown to Washington, D.C.

  Earlier in the morning Willie had followed Subject X to La Guardia Airport, where he purchased a ticket for American Airlines flight 105 to Washington. Willie did likewise. When Subject X landed at Dulles International Airport, he rented a car from Hertz. Willie did likewise. Now they were both driving down Rockville Pike. Destination—still unknown. Willie was not worried about losing the gray Chevy Camaro in front of him. He was the best tail man in the business. Willie could stick to a guy’s tail like sweaty thighs to a car seat.

  He shook his head. Twitch Bernstein had done it again. The kid was stranger than a duck on bad acid, no question about it, but Willie reviewed his nearly three decades on the force and could think of no better man to lead a homicide investigation. The kid was more than just smart; hell, there were a lot of smart guys in homicide. No, Willie thought, it was Twitch’s very weirdness that raised him above the others. Twisted and warped realities were no problem for Bernstein. The kid understood the loony mind.

  Subject X’s car turned, stopped in front of a guard’s post, and then continued forward. Willie stopped his car and looked at the sign.

  NATIONAL INSTITUTES OF HEALTH

  SARA undressed quickly, sat on the cold examining table and waited. She passed the time by reading Dr. Carol Simpson’s medical diplomas twice and counting the tiles on the floor. Ninety-four in all.

  Carol Simpson arrived with an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a busy week.”

  “I understand.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  Carol took in a deep breath, held it, and then let it go. “Look, Sara, there are two things I can do. I can dance around awkwardly and pretend I live in a vacuum and never heard about Michael’s condition or I can just come out and say I’m sorry. If there is anything I can do
. . .”

  “Just one thing,” Sara said. “Help me make Michael the father of a healthy baby.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I have to be honest with you. This is not going to be an easy pregnancy. Normally, I would tell you to avoid stress, but I realize that would be impossible in your case. I can only urge you to minimize it as much as possible. Try to keep up with your regular routine.”

  “I’ll be going back to work on the show tomorrow,” Sara said. “Now that the treatment is getting more intense, I won’t be staying overnight at the hospital anymore.”

  “Good.”

  “Dr. Simpson?”

  “Carol.”

  “Carol, what are the chances that I’ll carry to full term?”

  Again, the doctor inhaled deeply, kept the air in her lungs and her puffed cheeks, and then released it slowly. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “The next month or two will be critical. If we can get past that, it should get easier. Now, why don’t you lie back and relax?”

  EXHAUSTION emanated from every fiber of Harvey’s being.

  He wished he could find a way to unwind, to forget this place for just a few minutes, to rejuice his flagging battery. But there was no escape, and in truth, it was because he accepted none. The clinic was just too important to diddle in the mundane or trivial.

  He opened the door to his office. The room was dark. No lights on. No windows to offer illumination. He flicked the switch.

  “Close the door,” a husky voice commanded.

  Harvey’s stomach dropped to his knees as he stared at Cassandra. She was standing in front of his desk wearing a short white robe whose brightness contrasted beautifully with the dark Mediterranean tone of her upper thigh. Her long, black hair was slightly mussed, with a couple of tight curls reaching down and covering one eye. She smiled a wild, seductive, tantalizing smile that he could feel in his toes.

  “I said, close the door.”

  Swallowing, Harvey obeyed.

  She loosened the robe and let it open slightly, hinting at the delights that lay beneath.

  Harvey swallowed again.

  The robe slid off her shoulders and onto the floor. Underneath, she wore only a black garter belt and lace brassiere.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she purred.

  With her torrid gaze never leaving his, Cassandra sat on his desk and slowly lowered herself into a prone position. She rolled back, stretching her hands above her head and arching her back. Then she turned her body to the side, her head leaning against her hand.

  She renewed her smile.

  Harvey’s eyes crawled over every inch of her, over every luscious curve. Her body was utterly fantastic. Milelong legs to a flat stomach, hourglass hips and waist, and then her bountiful, round breasts and smooth shoulders. Incredible. She was almost impossibly voluptuous.

  He felt the familiar, unsettling stir building up inside of him. He tried to swallow yet again, but his mouth had gone completely dry.

  “I thought we agreed to take this slow,” he managed.

  She laughed, threw her head back, and beckoned him forward with both a look and a demanding finger. “The slower, the better.”

  MAX drove the rented station wagon across the George Washington Bridge and into New Jersey. In the backseat Theodore Krutzer, Paul Leander, and Arnold Singer sat quietly. They looked, Max thought, amazingly healthy and calm. All three men had been diagnosed with the AIDS virus two years ago, but Max would never have guessed it. He kept turning around and snatching glances at them. Their good health and spirits, in shocking contrast to the many friends and lovers Max had seen ravaged by the virus, were a fresh and constant reminder to him of the importance of solving this case.

  As they reached New Jersey, Max’s beeper went off. He pulled into a Gulf station on Route 4 and parked next to a pay phone. “I have to make a call,” he said to the three men in the backseat. He got out of the car and dialed the precinct. “Max Bernstein,” he said.

  “Yeah, Lieutenant, we have a call from Sergeant Monticelli. I’ll connect you.”

  There was a clicking noise. “Twitch?”

  “Yeah, Willie, it’s me. Where are you?”

  “Bethesda, Maryland,” he said. “Guess what Southern-fried lab technician is visiting the National Institutes of Health.”

  Max felt a strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach. “Winston O’Connor.”

  “Bingo. So I checked his file real good. About his childhood in Alabama and all that crap. Everything is in order. No holes at all. Nothing suspicious. Absolutely clean. Perfect.”

  “Too perfect?”

  “Yup. The guy’s gotta be a plant.”

  Max nodded to no one in particular. “Thanks, Willie. Come on home. No reason to follow him anymore.”

  “Will do, Twitch.”

  When Max reached the safe house, he took Dr. Zry, his best (and quietest) medical man, aside. “I have some very specific instructions for you.”

  “Like?” Dr. Zry prompted.

  “I want you to take some blood samples from the three patients,” Max said.

  “But I thought the guys at the clinic said not to touch—”

  “I know what they said,” Max interrupted. “That’s why I want it to remain our little secret.”

  GEORGE entered the clinic’s basement at five o’clock in the afternoon. Despite the cops crawling all over the obvious entrances, George had had no problem getting into the building through a tunnel entrance in the basement. Getting out the same way would be no problem either. He had spent most of the day studying a blueprint of the building and had come up with a plan he was sure would not fail.

  Michael Silverman was in a private room on the third floor, no more than ten yards from the stairwell and the elevator. George was not yet sure which he was going to use to make his escape, but he was leaning toward the elevator. No other patients were housed on the third floor, and after eight p.m., the floor should be abandoned unless someone was still in the lab down the other end of the hallway.

  Time to recheck the plan.

  He took the blueprint out of his pocket and quietly unfolded it. His finger traced along the paper until it arrived at the third floor. He squinted. Michael’s room was over here, the lab was way down there, two empty rooms right there, the storage closet on the right, medical supplies locked over on the left. That was it. Nothing had been overlooked. He would just have to watch the nurse, wait until she left Michael’s room.

  George refolded the blueprint and jammed it into his front pants pocket. He wondered if Michael Silverman was another faggot or if he had really gotten the disease from a blood transfusion. Probably another fruitcake. His marriage to Sara Lowell was for show.

  He settled back against the brick wall and waited.

  16

  GEORGE checked his watch.

  Seven forty-five p.m.

  He was already on the third floor and ready to move. Just a few more minutes to go.

  From his spot inside the lab doorway George watched Sara Lowell and Reece Porter leave Michael’s room. Perfect. Right on time. Ten minutes earlier Dr. Harvey Riker had made his exit. Now Michael Silverman was alone in his room, probably asleep.

  George listened closely, but he heard no voices. Sara and Reece were waiting for the elevator in perfect silence. Nothing to be said, he guessed.

  Well, they’ll have plenty to talk about tomorrow.

  The familiar adrenaline rush was beginning to build inside of him, but George remained cool. No reason to rush. Rushing led to mistakes.

  He knew he would have to wait a few more minutes until the nurse came by to check on Silverman. When she left his room, George would be able to waltz down the hallway and spend a little quality time with Michael. And what do you know? Lookie here. George would not have to be patient much longer.

  The nurse was at Michael’s door already.

  NO more than two minutes after Reece and Sara had left, Janice Matley entered Michael’s room. Her ears were gr
eeted by a mixture of the soothing strings of Mozart coming from the tape deck and the gentle sounds of slumber coming from Michael.

  Out like a light, the nurse said to herself. Sleeping like a baby, the poor thing. Not enough he had to have this awful virus—he had to go through it while the whole world tried to watch. Damn shame, that was what it was. Nice young fella like that.

  Damn shame.

  She checked his chart. According to the file, Dr. Riker had given Michael an injection of SR1 less than an hour ago. That would mean he would not have to be wakened for another four hours. Good. Lord knew the boy could use some rest. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to eight. She would go downstairs until one a.m. Then she’d come back for his shot.

  She pulled down the shade on his door window and left the room. She was just about to head down the stairs when something made her stop short. She could not say exactly what it was. There had been no sound, no voices, no rustling noises in the lab. There was only the steady hum of the fluorescent overhead lights. Damn lights made the most annoying noise. They can put men on the moon, she thought, but they can’t make a long lightbulb that doesn’t sound like an angry bee.

  Her eyes passed over the empty corridor, but nothing appeared out of place. She shook her head in a vague attempt to clear it. What on God’s green earth was bothering her? Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything was peaceful and quiet. Or maybe it was the very quiet that needled her. Maybe it was the sense of pure desolation that gave her reason to pause. And yet, when something was so quiet, so damn still, it was almost like someone was making it like that, like someone was standing so still that the whole room does the same.

  Janice decided not to use the stairs just yet. Instead, she walked toward the lab at the other end of the hallway.