Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Jesus.”

  The red wall.

  He spun back toward Bambi, who was huddled in a corner now. The smile was still there, but her eyes had suddenly filled with pure terror. “Red wall extra, Max.” Pause. “You want?”

  He looked again, not believing what he was seeing. A stun gun. A goddamn police stun gun. Enough volts of electricity to make a body spasm like an epileptic’s during a seizure. “People use this on you?” he asked.

  She did not respond for a few seconds, only smiling. “Not on me. Other girls.”

  He put the stun gun back and picked up a . . . Jesus Christ . . . an electric cattle prod. Kinky was one thing, but this went beyond simple sadism. He had heard about such things, men who enjoyed zapping nipples or even a clitoris, but his mind had dismissed it as mind-boggling fiction.

  “Sometimes,” Bambi said, “they want me to use.”

  “Huh?”

  “On them,” she continued.

  Max looked at the prod and tried to imagine it pressed against his balls and prick. His muscles stiffened and something flipped over in his stomach. He continued to look at the shelves in disbelief. Nipple clamps. Sharp, pointed studs. Torture devices that looked like something from the Middle Ages. Nausea swept over him.

  The Kink Room? Chamber of Horrors is more like it.

  “What you want, Max?”

  “I want to tie you up.”

  “You going to use . . . the red wall?”

  “No.”

  Her relief was palpable. She started to undress, but Max stopped her. “Don’t strip.”

  “You don’t want me naked?”

  He shook his head. “Lie on the bed,” he said, trying to make it sound like a lustful command.

  The girl eyed him strangely but obeyed. Max knew plenty about knots and tying people up. He bound her arms and legs three different ways, making sure they were secure but not cutting into her flesh. There was no reason to hurt her.

  “Open your mouth,” he said.

  The young prostitute did as he asked. She was surprised when he stuffed only a cloth into her mouth. He wrapped a rope around her mouth and the back of her head repeatedly, effectively gagging her.

  “Can you breathe okay?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He wanted to leave with some words of everlasting kindness and wisdom, but he knew it would sound hollow. Instead, he leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead.

  “Good-bye.”

  He stepped back toward the door. Bambi’s eyes followed him. He opened the door slightly and glimpsed through the crack. The corridor was empty. He slipped out and headed toward the room where Frank Reed said Michael was being held. When he reached Michael’s door, he grabbed hold of the knob. He turned it and pushed hard.

  The door gave way and Max entered.

  GEORGE held the phone close to his ear. “Then I’m going to kill Michael Silverman right now,” he said.

  “Wait!” the voice cried. “I am paying you to destroy the Bangkok supply building and—”

  “And I’ll do that,” George interrupted, “but first Silverman must die. He is a loose end now, and I cannot let him go. He knows too much.”

  “Now, just a second. I made it clear—”

  George hung up the phone. The sampan coasted through the still waters of the Chao Phraya River, but George did not really feel its calming effects. For the first time since the Gay Slasher killings, George was seriously worried. His employer was unraveling and worse, holding out on him. To want him to close up shop all of a sudden, to destroy the clinic’s storage house and to return Michael Silverman made no sense unless . . .

  . . . unless something had gone wrong. Very wrong.

  Had he, George Camron, made a mistake?

  Impossible.

  “Thank you, Surakarn. I appreciate your service.”

  “Not at all, old friend.”

  George rolled out of the boat and back to dry land. In front of him the silhouette of the Grand Palace sat in monumental silence. George moved toward the tuk-tuks.

  “Need ride, sir?” the bald driver asked him.

  George strolled toward the driver and suddenly veered in the other direction. Better safe than sorry. He jogged a few long blocks, hailed a taxi on Lak Muang Street and climbed in the backseat.

  “Patpong.”

  The taxi driver nodded and started off.

  Back by the tuk-tuks the bald driver picked up a radio. “Colonel?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “George Camron bypassed us and took a taxi. He could be there in a matter of minutes.”

  The colonel put down the radio microphone and waited for Bernstein’s signal.

  MICHAEL looked up through bleary eyes. “Max?”

  Max signaled Michael to keep quiet while his eyes traveled about the room, probing, searching.

  “Did Camron mention anything about an explosive?” he asked.

  Michael’s voice was weak, barely audible. “Behind you. Ceiling.”

  Max turned, looked up, and saw the sticks of dynamite tied together. “Damn,” he said out loud.

  His hand opened and closed the window shade, signaling the colonel and his men to stay away. “We have to get you out of here.”

  Michael tried to focus on Max’s face, but his eyes would not obey him. Sweat pasted his hair against his forehead. His lower lip quivered as though from a fever.

  “It’s okay, Michael. You’re as good as home.”

  “Home.”

  Max stood on a chair and examined the explosives. Then he jumped off and knelt in front of Michael. From the inside of his boot Max pulled out a long-toothed hacksaw and began to work on the chain around Michael’s ankle. The steel was thick and strong, making progress dangerously slow. The heat in the room was sweltering, like a sauna on overdrive. Max had trouble breathing.

  “You been in here this whole time?”

  Michael nodded.

  Max continued to saw away. One floor below him George Camron entered the Eager Beaver.

  COLONEL T saw two things at almost the exact same time. He saw Lieutenant Bernstein’s signal telling him that there was indeed an explosive device in Michael Silverman’s room, and he saw George pay the taxi driver.

  “Shall we detain him, Colonel?”

  “You saw the lieutenant’s signal. It is too risky.”

  “Then what shall we do?”

  “Do?” the colonel repeated.

  “We are waiting for your orders.”

  But the colonel knew there was nothing he could do. If they tried to stop him, George Camron might blow up the building. Lieutenant Bernstein was on his own. All the colonel and his men could do was watch helplessly while George disappeared into the Eager Beaver.

  MICHAEL had never known such complete exhaustion. It was as if some sci-fi villain had drained all his life energy, leaving behind nothing but an empty carcass. His limbs were like blocks of lead, impossible to move. The pain that had engulfed his nose was gone now, replaced by a tingling numbness that was equally uncomfortable. The swelling had clogged his nasal passages, each drawn breath like inhaling flames.

  George had fed him only a chunk of bread once a day. He had given him a bit more water, enough to prevent complete dehydration. The ceiling seemed lower now, the walls closer together. Delirium had begun to settle in. Michael wanted very much to scream, to scream until everything snapped and he could scream no more.

  And then Max opened the door.

  At first Michael had been sure it was an hallucination. Even now the room’s dreamlike quality remained fixed. Strange sounds seemed to come from inside Michael’s head—Max’s saw munching through the chain, the bomb going tick, tick, tick, though he knew that the ticking was only in his head. No timer on the bomb. Still, tick, tick, tick, tick . . .

  Ka-boom.

  “Max?”

  “Almost got it, Michael. Hang in there.”

  “Sara.”

  “She’s fine.”

 
; “Our child.”

  “Safe in the womb. You’ll be with her soon.”

  Michael tried again to focus on Max’s face. Skinny face. Long nose. Clean-shaven. “No mustache.”

  A tight smile from Max. “I shaved it. Almost there, Michael. Almost . . .”

  “Almost,” Michael repeated.

  “Got it!” The chain fell apart. “Michael, can you walk?”

  “Sure.”

  Michael made it to his knees before his head began to spin like a plane taking a nosedive.

  “Lean on my shoulder,” Max urged. “We have to hurry.”

  With a lot of help from Max, Michael managed to stand. His legs were wobbly, but he was able to take a step forward.

  “That’s it. You’re as good as home.”

  Michael nodded.

  Max moved another step. He stopped suddenly when he felt something cold touch his neck. He looked down.

  A stiletto blade rested against his throat.

  Before Max could react, a giant biceps wrapped itself around his forehead. The arm gripped his skull and pressed it against a chest as solid as asphalt. Max could not move. George adjusted the blade. The sharp point now touched down on the voice box, nearly piercing the skin.

  “Hello, boys!” George said. “How’s it going?”

  21

  DR. Eric Blake looked up at the clock.

  It was time.

  Something nestled in Eric’s throat, but he managed to swallow it away. He straightened the papers on his desk, lined up the pencils neatly, and stood. He checked his appearance in the mirror, tightened the Windsor knot in his tie, and gently patted his hair with both hands. Then he studied his face for a long time. Something about it was different today. It was as if his thoughts had surfaced, altering his appearance.

  Everything I have worked for, everything I wanted to achieve . . .

  Could it all be gone?

  He took out a neatly folded handkerchief, dabbed his forehead, and then headed for the lab.

  “Good morning, Dr. Blake.”

  “Good morning.”

  Eric tried to remember the nurse’s name but could not. He recalled that she was the youngest and least experienced member of the staff. Her access to patients was strictly limited to the most recent arrivals, and her chores were usually the most mundane. Only one nurse had had access to all the patients and all the floors.

  Janice Matley.

  As quickly as the name had formed in his mind, Eric pushed it away. No use thinking about that now. Dead was dead. No comeback. No reprieve.

  Nothing.

  Eric entered the elevator and pushed the button. His eyes swerved about, trying to find something that might distract him. He settled on the signature of the elevator inspector. He tried to make out the name but the penmanship was too sloppy—looked more like an EKG reading than an actual signature. The inspector, Eric decided, should have been a doctor.

  A minute later he arrived at the lab door. Part of him wanted to stall now that the moment had arrived, but the rest of his body propelled him into the room and over toward his file cabinet. He took out his key, unlocked the drawers, opened one, and reached back. His hand gripped the item. He took a deep breath, pulled it out and looked.

  Silence.

  Eric’s face registered no emotion. He returned the glass dish to the back of the drawer and carefully closed it. He locked the cabinet, picked up the telephone and dialed a number in Bethesda, Maryland. After three rings, the phone on the other end was picked up.

  Eric cleared his throat. “Dr. Raymond Markey, please.”

  I fucked up. Me. George Camron . . .

  He could not believe it and yet he was holding the evidence against his chest. They had found Silverman. Shit, they had found him. Not even George’s employer knew where he had hidden Silverman.

  George held the point of the blade in place. When the man swallowed, George felt the stiletto vibrate in his hand. His mind raced for answers, but none came to him. He had fucked up. Badly. But how? When?

  Get control of yourself, George. Show you’re still in control.

  Listening to the voice in his head, George forced himself to smile. It gave the appearance, he was sure, of being in complete control.

  “So, gentlemen,” he began, both his grip and grin strong and steady, “how are we today? Lovely weather, don’t you think?”

  Max managed a shrug. “Tad warm for my taste, George.”

  The man knew his name!

  “Sorry about that,” George replied. He wrestled with his tone in order to keep out any hint of panic. A droplet of sweat trickled down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “Mind identifying yourself before I slice your goddamn head off?”

  “Lieutenant Max Bernstein. NYPD. You are under arrest for the—”

  “Spare me, Lieutenant.” A cop! He looked like some goddamn college kid. George could not believe it. They had sent a snot-nosed kid after George Camron. Incredible.

  “I have to read you your rights,” Max continued.

  “Try to move, and you’re dead.” With the point of the blade still against Max’s throat, George released his powerful grip and reached into his pocket. He took out something resembling a small television remote. He held it in front of Max’s face.

  “Do you know what this is?” George asked.

  Max looked at the device. “Are we going to watch TV?”

  “You’re very funny, Lieutenant,” George said, but he did not like Bernstein’s attitude. Here he was, holding a knife against the kid’s throat, and this asshole was making jokes.

  He knows something, George. You missed something else . . .

  “This button right here”—George placed his thumb on it for emphasis—“sets off that little explosive up there. Very noisy stuff, I’m afraid. Ka-boom.”

  That seemed to shake up the cop. He suddenly looked pale. “Explosive?”

  George gestured with the remote. “Right up there, my friend.”

  Max’s eyes followed the gesture. “Jesus.”

  George was feeling better now. Not so confident now, are you, kid? “Yes. Powerful stuff. Bits and pieces of us will end up in Singapore. If I see even a hint of trouble, it’s ka-boom time.”

  Max’s eyes darted in every direction as if searching for a quick exit. “Forget it, Camron,” the young cop said, but his tone no longer held the same bluster as before. “It’s over. The place is surrounded.”

  “Guess I have no choice,” George said with fake regret. “Looks like I’ll have to blow the place up.”

  “You’d kill yourself too.”

  “No big deal.”

  “Wait!” Max shouted. When he did, the point of the blade broke the skin. A small cut opened up. Blood began to trickle down Max’s neck.

  “What?” George asked.

  Max closed his eyes. He did not like bloodletting, especially his own. “I have an idea,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “An exchange, actually.”

  “What kind of exchange?”

  Max thought a moment. “Information for freedom. I’ll have the charges dropped in exchange for your testimony against the guy who hired you.”

  Panic again seized George. He knew almost nothing about his employer—no name, no address, nothing. Damn it! He knew he should have investigated this new employer more thoroughly. Why had he failed to follow his standard background check? Stupid! And another goddamn mistake.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  He could fake it, of course. Stall. Make up a name. Lie. But George was realistic. There was no way the Thais were going to let him walk—not after an incident like this. The Thais were not like the Americans. They did not work that way.

  “No dice,” George answered slowly. Like a well trained surgeon, George scraped at Max’s wound with the point of the blade. More blood flowed. A plan—a brilliant, surefire plan—began to take shape in his mind. His smile returned, radiant. “But I have another idea,” George ventured
.

  “Yes.”

  “I am going to walk out of here. In exchange, I guarantee that no one will get hurt.”

  Max shook his head. “The place is surrounded—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” George interjected. “I have a way out. You are going to wait five minutes. If you leave this room before then, I’ll detonate the bomb. After five minutes you are free to go.”

  “Max,” Michael interrupted. It was the first time he had spoken since George had entered the room. “Don’t listen to him. He’s lying.”

  Max nodded, but he seemed unsure. “How can we trust you?”

  “You have my word,” George said.

  “Max—”

  “Then it’s a deal,” Max said, “under one condition.”

  “Max, listen to me. You can’t—”

  “You have a better idea, Michael? He’s got a blade on my throat.”

  Michael just stared at him. “You can’t trust him.”

  “What choice do we have? Huh?”

  George liked what he was hearing. “We are wasting time. What is your condition?”

  “You give us some information before you leave.”

  “No.”

  “Then no deal,” Max said.

  “I am the one holding the stiletto and the detonator—”

  “No deal unless you talk. I just want information, George. I’m not interested in capturing you.”

  George considered his options. His employer had, after all, screwed things totally. George no longer owed him any loyalty. Why not talk? The cop would be less likely to try anything if he had information he thought was useful.

  Besides, Lieutenant Max Bernstein was not going to live long. Neither was Michael Silverman.

  “Ask your question.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “I don’t know. I got anonymous calls.”

  “What was the purpose of the murders?”