Through the darkness a long, narrow sampan glided silently to the shore. The boat—closer to a canoe really—was being steered from the back by a skinny boy. An elderly man with only one arm and a wisp of a mustache sat in the front.
“George?” the man whispered.
Right on time as always. George climbed aboard the sampan, sat and clasped his hands together. He bowed respectfully. “Sawasdee, kap.”
“Sawasdee, kap.”
“How is business, Surakarn?”
“Brisk,” the old man said. “But, alas, we have had to close down our profitable Malaysian operation. Too much heat from the state police. They are not, I’m afraid, as receptive to gifts as they used to be.”
“So I’ve heard.” George looked at Surakarn’s weather-beaten face, his skin brittle like dry brown leaves. The former Thai boxing champion must be nearing seventy now, George thought, and worth countless millions of dollars. Yet Surakarn did not slow down, nor, it seemed, did he do anything with his vast wealth. He still lived in a modest hut along the Chao Phraya, though he had long ago allowed creature comforts to enter his dwelling. From the outside, the hut looked like something from a Vietnam War documentary; inside were two big-screen televisions, VCRs, a GE refrigerator, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, a microwave, central air-conditioning, the works.
Surakarn smiled. “You’ve been away for a long time, old friend.”
“Too long,” George replied.
Surakarn waved his one arm toward the boy, and the sampan began its slow journey down the Chao Phraya. Surakarn’s other arm had been sliced off in Chiang Rai almost twenty-five years before by a fellow competitor in the smuggling industry named Rangood. Rangood, however, had made the mistake of allowing Surakarn to live. After he captured his nemesis, Surakarn tortured him mercilessly in ways that were beyond imagination. Rangood begged Surakarn to kill him, but Surakarn would listen only to his shouts of agony, not his words. By the time Rangood’s heart gave out several weeks later, his mind had long since snapped.
Surakarn was as trustworthy as they came, but George did not tell even him about Silverman’s kidnapping. This was too big, too risky, to trust anyone. George had decided not to solicit the help of the usual local cutthroats he worked with, despite what he had written in the note to Michael. He had even gone so far as to put a mask on Michael’s face when he sneaked him into the Eager Beaver.
The Chao Phraya area was quiet this evening. The gentle splashing sounds from an occasional boat enhanced the feeling of calm, of solitude. There was no mist in the air, only the stifling humidity, and yet there always seemed to be a fog rolling across the city, as though mist and fog could be detected by some sense other than sight and smell.
“Nothing changes here,” George said.
Surakarn nodded. “Bangkok is a constant.”
“I need to use the safe phone.”
“Of course.” Surakarn pointed to a radio with a microphone. “The radio leads to a cellular phone aboard one of my vessels near Hong Kong.”
“I see.”
“You asked to make a call that could not be traced. This is it.” Surakarn moved toward the far end of the boat. “You need not fear. I will not listen.”
George checked his watch. He called in the number to the captain of the drug boat in Hong Kong, who proceeded to hook him up with the United States. No matter what Surakarn claimed, the call was still, after all, traceable. The authorities could, in theory at least, figure out the call was made from a cellular phone (no doubt a stolen one) in Hong Kong. But to find out who made the call and then to find out that there was a radio hookup to Bangkok, well, that would be nearly impossible. Worst-case scenario: it would take weeks.
A few moments later George heard the voice. “Hello.”
“Perfect,” George said. “You’re right on time.”
“I can barely hear you,” the voice said.
“Don’t worry about it. We won’t be on long.”
“Is he all right?”
“Fine. We’re having a ball together. Did you transfer the money?”
“Yes.”
“All of it.”
“Every last penny,” the voice replied.
“How did you get it?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“I’ll check my account tomorrow morning just to be sure. If it is not all there, my houseguest will be missing a few fingers by tomorrow afternoon.”
“It’s all there.” The voice faltered for a moment and then said, “Why did you have to kill the nurse?”
“Excuse me?”
“The nurse. Why did you have to kill her?”
“She saw me.”
“But you’re supposed to be an expert. How could you let that happen?”
The words stung because George knew that they were true. He had miscalculated. That was rare. And very bothersome. “It was just a freak thing.”
“Listen to me closely: I don’t want any ‘freak thing’ to happen to Michael Silver—”
“Don’t use names, imbecile! Someone could be listening.”
“What—oh, sorry.”
The voice was extra-taut tonight, George thought, like somebody wound so tightly he would either snap or stretch into something unrecognizable. George had not liked it when the voice was nervous. Now he feared that his employer was beginning to lose control completely.
That was not good. It was, in fact, very bad.
“I guess I should be thankful,” the voice continued. “At least you didn’t kill Sa—uh, his wife.”
“I was able to sneak up behind her,” George replied evenly. “She never got the chance to see me.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise she would be lying on a cold slab too.”
“No one else is to be hurt without my say-so. Absolutely no one. Just keep a hold of you-know-who. Make sure you treat him well.”
“I’ll do what I have to do.”
“No. You listen to—”
“Good-bye,” George said.
“Wait. How can I reach you?”
“You can’t.” George had trusted his employer too much already but no more. It was time to take control. “Just follow our plan.” He snapped off the radio. “Surakarn?”
“Yes?”
He tried to smile, but he was still distracted. “I feel good. Let’s take a little ride.”
“Where to?”
“I just came into a lot of money.”
“Congratulations.”
“Tell me, Surakarn, can a man still buy anything in Bangkok?”
Surakarn smiled toothlessly. “Do you still like them older?”
He nodded. “She has to be at least twenty.”
JENNIFER Riker’s whole body shook. Over the past three days she had read the press reports, seen the news of Michael’s kidnapping on the television, witnessed the outrage of a country. But Jennifer felt more than outrage.
She felt fear.
Susan was going to be home in another two days, but Jennifer now knew that she could no longer wait until then. She had been wrestling with her decision for three days now and had come to the decision that the stakes were too high for her to hold back. Michael’s life might depend upon her actions.
But when she reached over and picked up the packet, her mind started to vacillate again. No evidence, after all, linked this mailing with the Gay Slasher or the kidnapping. No evidence at all. These were just standard medical files and lab samples. Period. That was it.
Then why had Bruce mailed them the day he committed suicide? And why had three of the patients listed in the files—Trian, Whitherson, and Martino—been murdered? Coincidence?
She thought not.
She’d wavered long enough. The note written to Susan, well, that was Susan’s and there was no way Jennifer was going to open it. But the other contents in the packet were not personal. The files were not, she knew, for everyone’s eyes, but there was one person who might make sense of it, one person who mig
ht be able to piece together why Bruce felt the need to mail it to a seldomused address on the day he died.
Jennifer picked up the phone and dialed Harvey’s private extension.
ENOUGH lying around.
Sara threw the blankets off her body, stood, and took hold of her cane. The inactivity, the babying, the looks of pity were all behind her now. She had to stop crying. She had to get up and act. She had to find out what was happening and who was behind all of this.
She had to save her husband.
“Where are you going?” Cassandra asked.
“To speak with Max and Harvey. They’re at the clinic.”
“Wait a second,” Cassandra said. “You can’t tell anyone about this yet—not even Max and Harvey. This is still Dad we’re talking about.”
Sara nodded. “I know. I won’t say a word about him until we speak to him tonight. I’ll meet you at the house at eight o’clock.”
The sisters embraced. Then Sara left for the clinic. She arrived at the door of the third-floor lab a half hour later.
“I want to know everything,” she said.
Max and Harvey turned toward the lab door.
“Sara,” Harvey began, “what are you doing here? You should be—”
“I should be right here,” she interrupted.
“Max and I are doing all we can,” Harvey continued in a calm voice. “Why don’t you go back home and rest? We’ll let you know if anything changes.”
“Don’t patronize me, Harvey.”
“I’m not patronizing. I’m trying to do what’s best for your health.”
She continued to stare at them, her eyes both wide and defiant. “I’m fine. I want to know what you’ve learned.”
Harvey’s next protest was cut off by Max. “Then come over and sit down,” Max said. “We don’t have time to argue.”
Sara limped over to the table and pulled out a chair. “Okay, what have you got?”
“A few things,” Max said. “First, we’ve been going over the files of the murdered patients.”
“Learn anything?”
“Maybe,” Max said, his leg shaking up and down. “Maybe not. They were killed in almost the same order they got here. Trian and Whitherson were both original patients at the clinic and Martino came in a couple of months later. The other three cured patients—Krutzer, Leander, and Singer—all came in about a year later.”
“What’s that mean?”
Max hesitated, his fingers entwined in his own hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “It might mean nothing, but something about it bothers me.”
“How does Bradley fit in?” she asked. “Or . . . or Michael?”
“They don’t, really. They have no similarity to the other three victims or for that matter to the three who are still alive. In fact, the only similarity I can see is that both Bradley and Michael were VIP patients.”
Harvey snapped his fingers. “But maybe that’s it. Maybe the killer is after the important patients, not merely the cured patients.”
“Could be.” Max shrugged. “But that raises the larger question—why kill four patients, one nurse, and presumably one doctor and not kill Michael?”
Harvey looked at Sara hesitantly. “Excuse me for suggesting this,” he began carefully, “but we really don’t know if Michael is alive, do we? The killer may have just moved his body.”
“It wouldn’t make sense,” Max replied. “Kill him at the clinic and then move him out? Very risky.”
Harvey was about to point out that Bradley Jenkins had met a similar fate but chose not to push it in front of Sara. “Okay, let’s move on.”
The intercom on the table buzzed. A woman’s voice said, “Dr. Riker?”
Harvey lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Riker is on line six,” the receptionist said.
“Take a message.”
“She said it’s urgent.”
“Sure. Her alimony payment is probably a week late. Tell her I’ll call her back.” Harvey replaced the receiver in its cradle. “Nothing important. Go on.”
Sara nodded, struggling in her ongoing battle against coming apart. “How do you think the kidnapper got in and out of the clinic?”
“We think he used a secret entrance,” Max replied. “There is a small tunnel in the basement that leads to an apartment building two doors down. Somehow, he found out about it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” Max said.
“Then someone has to be giving out information on this place,” Sara said. “And what about the timing, Max? Markey decides to use Michael as a guinea pig and the next thing you know he vanishes. It has to be related.”
Max quickened his pace, his teeth working on a stubborn hangnail. “Agreed.”
“Hold on a second,” Harvey interrupted. “This makes no sense. No one has access to that kind of information, except . . .” He stopped.
Max stopped. “Except whom?” he prodded.
Harvey shook his head. “No one.”
As if on cue, Winston O’Connor came around the doorway. “Hey, gang,” he drawled. “What’s going on?”
“Where the hell have you been?” Harvey almost shouted.
Winston looked confused. “No reason to bite my head off, Harv. Hell, I went fishing. Stayed in the family summer cabin on the lake. Caught the hugest humdinger of a fish—”
“Don’t you get a newspaper?”
“Shit, no. We don’t even have a phone out there.” He stopped, looked around. “Now, what in the hell is going on around here?”
Max walked toward the chief lab technician. “Will you excuse us a moment?” he said to Harvey and Sara. “I’d like to speak with Winston alone.”
18
IN Bethesda, Maryland, four powerful men sat in a plush office in a picturesque baronial structure on the campus of the National Institutes of Health. One was powerful in the religious world; one in the political realm; two in the medical community.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was dark blue and clear. The well-manicured grounds outside were alive with green. The whole area resembled the most exclusive of country clubs.
But the four men were oblivious to their resort like surroundings.
Arguments raged. Accusations were hurled. Fingers were pointed. And in the end nothing was resolved. Through it all, one man had not raised his voice. One man had not engaged in the bitter debate. One man—a normally very verbose man—had not said a word.
But the man had listened. And the man had made a decision.
As the meeting broke up, the man pulled Dr. John Lowell to the side and said five words: “We have to talk alone.”
To which Dr. Lowell nodded and replied, “Let’s get back to New York first.”
MAX closed the lab door. “So how were the fish biting?”
“Pretty good,” Winston drawled. “I caught one of the biggest bass ya ever did see. She must have weighed a good—”
“Great. Congratulations. Now, why don’t we stop playing games?”
“Playing games? I don’t getcha, Lieutenant.”
Max renewed his pacing with surprising vigor. “Would you mind telling me why you were in Washington three days ago?”
“How do you know—”
“Don’t worry about how. Just tell me why.”
Winston’s expression remained cool, his tone impatient. “While I don’t reckon it’s any of your goddamn business, I stopped in Washington to visit some friends on my way home. Happy?”
“Your home in Alabama?”
“That’s right.”
“The cabin by the lake and all that.”
“Yep.”
“Tell me something else, Winston—what parts of Washington did you visit?”
“I don’t see why that’s important.”
“It’s not really. I just want to know why you went to the National Institutes of Health.”
Winston tried to glare at his interrogator, but Max had his back turned. “You had me follo
wed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Lieutenant, but there is nothing very sinister in that. I was visiting a couple of former coworkers. I used to work there.”
“Interesting,” Max replied. “Then how come there is no mention of it in your résumé?” Max reached into his coat pocket, withdrew his hand, reached into his front pants pocket, withdrew again. “Damn, I had it here someplace.”
“Lieutenant . . .”
“Here it is.” Max took out the crumbled piece of paper and unfolded it with quick fingers. “Now, this résumé covers your work history from your undergraduate studies to the present day. When exactly did you work for the NIH?”
Again the silence. Then: “I have a friend who works for the NIH, okay? Is that such a crime? I didn’t want to say anything because I knew he would jump—”
“Now, there are two ways we can play it,” Max said, ignoring Winston’s shifting explanations. “One, you can tell me what I want to know. Two, you can continue your little charade and I can arrest you.”
“On what charge?”
“Murder in the first degree. Breaking and entering. Assault.”
“You’re out of your cotton-pickin’ mind. Who am I supposed to have murdered?”
“Riccardo Martino.”
“Who?”
Max smiled. “The patient who was murdered in the clinic.”
“I don’t know the name of any patients. Harv must have told you that.”
“Riccardo Martino was mentioned in the story on NewsFlash a few nights back.”
“I don’t recall the name,” Winston said with a dismissing wave of his hand. “And anyway, you got nothing on me.”
Max leaned forward. O’Connor’s expression was relaxed, but Max had seen the familiar scared shadow cross his face briefly. “Sure about that, Winston?”
“Whadda ya mean?”
“We have a witness who will swear under oath you were in the hospital at the time of Martino’s death, even though you claimed to be home.”
“Get lost.”
“The same witness saw you hit Dr. Riker over the head. We also know you were in the lab breaking into Dr. Riker’s files.”
Miracle Cure Page 28