Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  THIS was something George had not planned.

  Shit! What the hell was the dumb bitch doing?

  Relax, George. What harm can she do?

  She can see me. Hell, she definitely will see me.

  Then you’ll have to take care of that problem, won’t you?

  Damn. He hated deviations from his plans, and the fat nurse was a big goddamn deviation.

  Okay, calm down. There’s no need to panic.

  But she’s coming this way!

  He could clearly hear the nurse walking toward him. She stepped hesitantly but with authority. He wondered how his employer would react to the death of the old nurse. Not too happily, George imagined. Very pissed off, in fact. But George could not worry about that now. He had far bigger worries. He had to get to Michael Silverman before the damn doctor returned.

  He pressed his back against the nook in the lab doorway and waited. From the sound of her footsteps, the old lady could not have been more than ten steps away. He reached into his pocket and slid out his stiletto. She was only a yard away now.

  His muscles tensed in preparation.

  TWO floors below Sara hobbled next to Reece Porter. “Reece?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he look to you?”

  Reece Porter shrugged. Immediately after hearing Michael’s statement, Reece had left the Knicks’ locker room, taken a taxi to the Seattle airport, waited eight hours for the next available plane to New York, flown across the entire country, spent the day trying to find out where Michael was, located Sara at Dr. Simpson’s office, and then obtained permission from Harvey to visit Michael.

  A damn long twenty-four hours.

  “Mikey looked okay,” he said at last. “Just tired mostly.”

  “From the SR1, I think,” Sara added. “I’m glad you came, Reece. It means a lot to him.”

  Reece shrugged. “So how are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure you are.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your walk, for one thing. It looks like somebody did a deep freeze on your leg.”

  It was true. Her leg had been cramping up all day, the soreness clenching down on the very bone with sharp teeth. Every step was a new adventure in pain. “I’ll be all right. It’s just a little stiff.”

  “Then wait here,” Reece said. “I’ll get the car.”

  “I can walk.”

  He shook his head. “I swear, Sara, you can be as big a pain in the butt as Mikey. Just wait here and stop being so goddamn stubborn. Sit over there.”

  With a weak smile she did as he asked.

  “I parked in the visitors’ lot on One Hundred Sixty-seventh Street,” Reece continued, heading for the exit. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She glanced about her surroundings. There were two armed security guards at the door plus two plainclothes policemen in cars outside the clinic’s door. Her leg throbbed as though her heart had dropped down into the area above her ankle. She would soak it when she got home. Yes, she would take a long, hot bath, find a good book, smother herself with blankets and pillows and . . .

  And what?

  Lie there and worry, she guessed. When she had first been told about Michael’s condition, the news did not really reach her. It was as though her mind had built a barrier—more like a sieve actually—which only let in the facts but kept out the emotions and ramifications. Unfortunately, the holes in the sieve were beginning to widen. They were opening up enough to allow reality to seep into her conscious thoughts.

  Sara had done a few stories on the AIDS epidemic. She had seen what it could do to a person, how the virus could eat you alive from the inside. Her mind began to swirl with the devastating images, and like the horror AIDS inflicted, the images lunged at her in no particular order.

  Wasted bodies now little more than a defenseless battle zone for disease: Kaposi’s sarcoma; pneumocystis carinii; lymphoblastic lymphoma; fierce fevers over 105 degrees; respiratory infections; whole body systems collapsing; mental deterioration; delirium to the point of babbling like an Alzheimer’s patient; every breath an intolerable struggle; lungs filling with fluid until a tube was shoved through the rib cage in order to drain them; getting weaker before your eyes, so weak that even eating becomes impossible; in and out of comas; a handsome young face changing overnight into a haggard skull-mask; healthy physiques disintegrating into little more than brittle bones with skin hanging off; painful and unsightly purple lesions everywhere; sores inside the mouth so thick that swallowing produces only choking sounds; no control over bowel movements; constant, inescapable agony; eyes that can actually see Death standing around the corner, waiting patiently to step forward and claim its conquest . . .

  And the fear of the disease, the confusion, the discrimination. Even now, 25 percent of the American people were so ignorant about AIDS that they actually believed it could be transmitted from just donating blood.

  No, there was nothing pretty about AIDS, nothing romantic, nothing Gothic, nothing cinematic. There was just pain, horror, and death. With AIDS, your body and mind fought a constant battle against agonizing illness after agonizing illness. You suffered through one devastating bout after another, no time to recover, like a weakened club fighter who is forced to go yet another round with the champ. But against AIDS there was no chance for the one-punch comeback.

  Eventually, you lost.

  She replayed what Harvey had told Michael and her no more than an hour ago about his visit from Raymond Markey. And yet, when she considered the cruel severity of the AIDS virus, her mind could not comprehend his words. Could someone really be trying to prevent a cure? Could someone really be trying to turn back the clock, delaying a cure for tens or even hundreds of thousands of fellow human beings? The weight of the cruelty boggled the mind.

  Could someone be so desperate to keep the AIDS virus alive that they would murder? It made no sense. And all of this just made her want to talk to Michael more, want to, at the very least, look in on him one more time before heading home.

  “Hi, Sara.”

  She looked up. Eric was standing in front of her. Despite the fact that he had been working for fifty of the last sixty hours, he looked fresh and neat. He smiled at her warmly. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  “On your way home?” Eric asked.

  “Yes. I’m just waiting for Reece.”

  “I’m on my way out too. I haven’t slept in . . . I can’t even remember the last time I slept. I just have to run up to the lab and slide this under the door first.”

  “Is it anything important?”

  “Not really. It’s just a memo for Winston O’Connor. Harvey wants us all to meet tomorrow morning.”

  “I, uh, I can bring it up for you.”

  Eric looked at her, puzzled. “But I thought you just said you were on your way out.”

  “I am. I mean, I will be.” She pushed down hard against the top of her cane in order to stand. “It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  She half shrugged. “I want to see Michael again.”

  “He’s probably sleeping, Sara.”

  “I know. I don’t want to wake him. I just . . . I don’t know. I just want to peek my head in and make sure everything is okay.”

  Eric smiled tightly. “I understand—really I do—but I don’t think—”

  “Please,” she said. “It’s important to me.”

  Eric hesitated. Then: “Okay, here’s the memo. If he’s still awake, say good night for me too.”

  “I will. Thanks, Eric.” She took the paper from his hand, kissed his cheek, and pushed the call button. A few moments later she was ascending in the elevator toward the third floor.

  JANICE Matley saw George’s sneakers first.

  The toes were jutting out from the doorway of the lab. They were black sneakers, or at least the toe part was black. With the kids and their crazy sneakers now
adays, who knew what color the rest of the sneaker was? Her grandson had a pair of Nike Air Jordans that had more colors than a rainbow.

  She swallowed. “Who’s there?” she called out.

  Her voice, she was surprised to hear, sounded steady, confident.

  “I said, who’s there?”

  She saw the foot slide forward. The sneaker was completely black after all. Reeboks, as a matter of fact. A man, a big man, followed the sneakers. He was dressed entirely in black. Black sneakers, black socks, black sweater, black pants. His shirtsleeves were pushed up, revealing powerful forearms the size of Popeye’s. He stepped out from inside the doorway and smiled at her. The smile was wide, bright, but mostly . . . unfeeling. It touched no other part of his face. When she looked up into his dark, bleak eyes, a cold chill rippled in her belly

  And once again, she knew.

  “Hi,” he said. “Nice night.”

  Janice never had a chance to react. With one hand George palmed the back of her head and yanked it forward. With the other, he flicked the switch on the side of the stiletto, releasing the eight-inch blade. The point of the thin knife penetrated the hollow of Janice’s throat and sliced through her windpipe. Thick streams of warm blood spurted onto George’s face as the stiletto exited out the back of her neck, inches below the spot where his hand gripped her skull.

  Janice’s gaze locked onto his. She could see her own horror-stricken face reflected in the cold blankness of the murderer’s eyes. His grip on her head tightened. She gargled on her blood for a moment before her eyes rolled into her head. The last sounds she heard were the buzzing of the lights and the inhuman choking noises still forcing their way past her own lips.

  George watched the corpse slide to the ground, the stiletto still implanted through the neck. He calmly took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood off his face. Messy. Too messy for a pro like himself. There was blood splattered everywhere, but he had no time to clean it up now. He would have to move fast.

  With a weary sigh, George dragged the body into a supply closet. Once inside, he tugged hard at the blade in order to release it from the throat area. Grudgingly, the corpse surrendered the weapon with a sucking pop. George closed the blade, pocketed it, and headed down the hall toward Michael’s room.

  When he reached the door, George tried to peek into the room through the shade over the door window, but it was pulled closed. Slowly, George turned the knob and pushed open the door. Like Janice Matley before him, George heard Michael’s deep breathing and the violins from the cassette deck. George debated his next step and then made a decision. He would turn on the lights. He wanted to see what he was doing. Heck, the old nurse was certainly not going to mind and the rest of the floor was abandoned. A little illumination might help him along his way. Besides, what was the risk? If Silverman woke up—very unlikely anyway—George would be all over him before his first flinch.

  George’s fingers found the switch and flicked it up. The light was bright, startling, but Michael did not stir. His chest continued to rise and fall at the same steady, undisturbed pace. Nothing surprising in that. But now, as George stepped toward Michael’s bed, something surprising did indeed happen.

  George heard the elevator door opening.

  DURING the elevator ride Sara had concentrated very hard on something completely inane: which would she do first, slide the memo under the lab door or look in on Michael? As the elevator doors opened, she decided to slide the memo under the lab door first. She knew that if she looked in on Michael first and then went to the lab, she would crave a second peek on her way back.

  Her leg ached like a bastard as she stepped out of the elevator. She checked her watch. Reece would be another five minutes at least. Good. She was really happy he had visited today. She could tell that Michael was thrilled too. Reece meant a lot to him. They shared a special bond, one that only teammates—

  Sara froze. Her eyes widened.

  Oh my God . . .

  She stared down the hall in the direction of the laboratory. The walls looked like some kid had fingerpainted them with red paint. Only the texture was too thin for paint, too dark for ketchup, too syrupy for anything but blood.

  Maybe somebody dropped a blood sample on their way to the lab?

  Then how do you explain the tiny fact that the blood was splashed all over the place?

  Maybe whoever it was tripped and the blood sample went flying all over the place and . . .

  And nobody cleaned it up? Good try, Sara.

  Her heart pounded in her chest as another thought pushed its way through the confusion and into the front of the brain: Michael.

  She spun back toward the door to Michael’s room and hobbled forward. Her knees buckled in fear when she saw the door shade was illuminated.

  Why is Michael’s light on? Why the hell ...

  For a brief second the light created a silhouette against the window shade. The brief image was as clear to her as those presidential cutouts kids did in school during President’s Week.

  It had been the silhouette of a man.

  Her leg felt anchored to the ground, but she dragged it along like an inanimate object. When she reached the door, she grabbed the knob and pushed without hesitation. She limped in, her eyes searching.

  No one.

  Her mind began to whirl aimlessly. There was no one in the room except, of course, for Michael. He lay sleeping. Or was he? Yes, his eyes were closed, but there was something very strange, something so obvious and yet so subtly horrifying that she felt her chest tighten. She could not breathe. If Michael was just sleeping, then how come his face was upside down? How come his head was lolling at a strange angle. And most important, how come he was lying half off the bed?

  From behind her came a voice. “Good night, Sara.”

  She turned, but Sara never got a chance to see the man’s face.

  17

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

  “DAD?”

  Dr. John Lowell turned toward his older daughter.

  “Yes, Cassandra?”

  She licked her lips nervously. “Where are you going?”

  “On a business trip. I’ll be home tonight.”

  “Where?”

  He put down his briefcase. “Why are you so interested?”

  “Just tell me where.”

  “Washington.”

  Cassandra closed her eyes. “You’re going to meet with them again, aren’t you?”

  “Meet with whom again?” he asked, his voice a mixture of annoyance and fear. “What are you talking about?”

  “With Reverend Sanders, for one.”

  Silence. Then: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replied. “I was here when you met with him three days ago. I was hiding in your closet.”

  His eyes widened. “You what?”

  She moved closer to him. “It has to stop. You have to tell the truth before there’s more bloodshed.”

  “Cassandra, you don’t know what—”

  She stepped in front of him. “Don’t let him blackmail you any longer.”

  His face grew tight. “Stay out of this. I know what I’m doing.”

  “How much more blood are you going to spill? How many people have to die before you put a stop to this?”

  “Get out of my way. You are talking nonsense.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “Move!” He pushed her harder than he had intended. She fell to the floor.

  “Cassandra!” He sprinted toward her. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” he began. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”

  She sat up, her eyes burning. “Get away from me.”

  He backed away, his face twisted into a look of longing and anguish. “I have to go now, honey. Please trust me. I know what I’m doing. When I come home tonight we’ll talk about it, okay? Just trust me. I love you.”

  He turned and hurried out the door. Cassandra stood. She was still unsure about what she sh
ould do. This was, after all, her father—not some evil monster. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.

  What doubt, Cassandra? What are you so afraid of? Nothing. She would wait until tonight. She would listen to what he had to say first before jumping to any conclusions . . .

  No.

  She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. It was time to tell someone before it was too late. But not Harvey. He would never be able to look at it objectively.

  It was time to tell Sara.

  SO hot . . .

  Michael tried to stir himself to consciousness. It was no easy task. His eyes felt stapled shut. His mind spun in figure eights. Something was wrapped tightly around his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.

  He heard boisterous sounds all about him. Very noisy. Cars. Horns honking. People shouting out like hot dog vendors at a baseball game. Loud rock music. Laughter. General chatter. He tried to concentrate on the sounds, tried to sift out some meaning in them, but he found it difficult. Some people were speaking English, no question about it, but others were talking in a foreign tongue that Michael’s cloudy mind could not place. It sounded Chinese or something like that—only more lyrical, more pleasant to the ear.

  What the hell is going on?

  He wondered if he was perhaps dreaming, if he was not still asleep. But how often did he dream of sounds with no vision? No, he was awake. His eyes were closed. He was lying on a hard wood floor, his right ear numb from leaning against it. His whole body felt sore, as though he had been lying on this floor for a week, which, he surmised, was entirely possible.

  He tried to sit up, but he fell back down upon the ground twice. His hands, he realized, were handcuffed together behind his back, pinning back his shoulder blades painfully.

  After another failed attempt Michael managed to work himself into a sitting position. In the background he could hear someone shouting with a heavy accent, “Supergirl! Supergirl! Come meet Supergirl! Time of your life!” With a struggle Michael’s eyes fluttered and then opened. It took him another minute or two to focus and take in his surroundings. Small room. Barren. Dirty. The walls were covered with chipped paint. A lightbulb dangled from exposed wires on the ceiling. There was a foldout chair and ratty mattress that made the room smell of mildew, sweat, and urine. There were also bloodstains on it. Michael’s right ankle was shackled to a pipe running through the room. His mouth had been taped shut with what tasted like masking tape. His eyes continued to scan the room until they stopped at something on the ceiling.