Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Who?”

  “Sanders and his coconspirators.”

  “What do they have to do with Michael?”

  “After the NewsFlash broadcast, Markey visited me in the clinic, remember? The government wanted proof that SR1 worked. So they came up with the idea of making Michael a test case and monitoring his progress from the very beginning. Remember how upset I was? I screamed about how the government was trying to stall my progress. But in truth—”

  “You were afraid they would learn you were a fraud.”

  He nodded. “All they had to do was run one HIV test on Michael and all my work would have collapsed around my head. And worse, Markey was sending in his men the next day. What choice did I have? I had to get rid of Michael. So I had George kidnap him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  He did not answer the question. Instead, he stared down at his gun. “I have to kill you, Sara. I’m sorry.”

  “What is your plan this time, Harvey? How are you going to explain away my death? Or Eric’s?”

  “It won’t be very difficult. Eric killed you because you discovered the truth about him. Then he ran away. Disappeared.”

  “What truth?”

  “That Eric was the man behind the Gay Slasher plot. First, I’ll blow the lid off Sanders’ conspiracy. Cassandra will be so outraged by your murder that I am sure she will cooperate. From there it won’t be any problem to convince the media that Eric worked for the conspiracy. The media will eat it up, make it sound like the Goliath right-wing government was picking on the little David clinic. The money will come pouring in.”

  Harvey cocked the gun’s hammer. “The police will search for Eric. They may even find him wherever I dump him. I don’t know. If they do, everyone will figure his coconspirators murdered him to keep him quiet. The media loves that kind of stuff.”

  Sara stared at him with a look that was nearly palpable. “You’ll never be able to tie the conspirators to the murders.”

  “I don’t have to. The speculation will be enough.”

  “Max will figure you out.”

  “You give him too much credit, Sara. All the evidence is gone. I killed Martino with the cyanide injection. The blood samples in Bruce’s package have been destroyed. There’s nothing left to tie me to the murders . . . except you.”

  A million questions ran through her mind, but the same one kept surfacing. “Where is Michael?”

  Harvey stepped toward her. “When I found out that Lieutenant Bernstein knew about George, I realized that it was just a matter of time before he got caught. I had to cut my losses. So I told George to burn down the storage house in Bangkok—something else I could blame on the right-wing conspiracy.”

  His smile was back, his eyes bright and maniacal. “Don’t you see the irony, Sara? Everyone thinks that the patients were murdered by fascists who wanted to stop me from proving there was an AIDS cure. But actually, it was the opposite—the murders made it impossible to prove that there was no cure.”

  Sara’s eyes bored into his. “What happened to Michael?”

  Once again the smile left his face. He lowered his gaze. “He’s dead, Sara. George killed him. I begged him not to, but he hung up on—”

  There was a sudden knock on the lab door. “Dr. Riker?”

  A nurse.

  Harvey turned to Sara, his face suddenly panicked. “If you call out, I will kill her too.”

  The nurse knocked again. “Dr. Riker?”

  “I’m in the middle of an experiment,” he said, his voice cracking. “Is it important?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  He turned back to Sara. Her big green eyes were tearfilled now. There was no longer confusion or horror in them—just devastation and pure hatred.

  “Get in the refrigeration room,” he whispered.

  “You killed Michael.”

  He glanced at the gun and then back at Sara. “Don’t make me kill the nurse too.”

  She knew it was no idle threat.

  “Drop the cane on the floor and move back. Now.”

  With her eyes still on him, she dropped the cane and slowly backed up into the refrigeration room. Her foot bumped into something and she realized with revulsion that it was Eric Blake’s body.

  “The room is soundproof so I wouldn’t try screaming,” he said. “Please don’t bring any more innocent people into this. Enough have died.”

  The cold closed in around Sara as Harvey shut the refrigerator door and locked it with a padlock. Then he moved across the room, unlocked the lab door, and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

  “What is it?” he asked the nurse.

  “It’s Michael Silverman,” the nurse said excitedly. “He’s here.”

  “What?”

  “He just arrived from Bangkok.”

  THE sirens blasted.

  “Drive faster, Willie.”

  “Jesus, Twitch, I can’t drive through cars.”

  “Then drive on the sidewalk.”

  “Here.” Willie handed him a pencil.

  “What?”

  “Suck on your pacifier and tell me what’s going on.”

  “I was an idiot—that’s what’s going on.” Max tossed the pencil on the car floor. “I spent so much time trying to figure out who wanted to destroy the clinic that I couldn’t see what was so obvious.”

  “What?”

  “The murders were helping the clinic, not hurting it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Willie asked.

  “I just got the test results. Riccardo Martino was HIV positive. Krutzer, Leander, and Singer are HIV negative.”

  “Speak English.”

  “Martino had AIDS. The other three don’t.”

  “I thought Martino was cured by this miracle drug.”

  “SR1 is not a miracle drug. It doesn’t work. Harvey Riker faked the whole thing.”

  “The head of the clinic?”

  Max nodded. “At first I thought it might be his assistant, Eric Blake.”

  “So what changed your mind?”

  “Something that happened the night Michael was kidnapped. Sara was about to go home for the night when she bumped into Eric Blake. He was heading upstairs to run an errand. Sara volunteered to do it for him, and he let her.”

  “So?”

  “If Eric Blake was behind the kidnapping, he would have never let Sara go back upstairs. He would have insisted on running the errand himself.”

  “Let me get this straight—this Riker guy faked like he had a cure?”

  “Right.”

  “But he didn’t run all the tests. I thought you said the other docs ran blood tests too.”

  “They did. But look at the rotation. Our three murder victims were Trian, Whitherson, and Martino. All three were admitted by Bruce Grey. That meant that Bruce Grey took a blood test, concluded that they had the AIDS virus, and admitted them. Then Riker took over. He was the one who drew the blood that was used to determine if they were cured. He must have sent the lab someone else’s blood—someone who never even had AIDS. Naturally, when the lab tested this blood, it came back negative. Ergo, they were ‘cured.’ A ‘miracle.’”

  “But I still don’t get it, Twitch. Didn’t Bruce Grey do the later tests with some of the patients? And didn’t you just say the three guys Dr. Zry tested were all cured?”

  Max smiled. “Krutzer, Leander, and Singer weren’t cured,” he said, “because they never had AIDS in the first place.”

  “Huh?”

  “All three were admitted by Harvey Riker. So what did he do? He switched the blood samples right in the beginning—except this time he switched their HIV-NEGATIVE blood for the blood of someone who had AIDS.”

  “Motherfucker,” Willie exclaimed. “So it looked like they had AIDS when they never did?”

  “Right. Then Harvey probably infected them with a few mild flu viruses to make it look like they were really sick. When the time
came, Bruce Grey performed the blood tests. Since they never had AIDS in the first place, their tests came back negative. Ergo, they were ‘cured.’”

  “Un-fuckin’-believable. When did you start putting it together?”

  “When George Camron was raving about being paid late. I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but then I got to thinking—why was he paid all of a sudden? How did his boss get his hands on money so fast? Then I remembered my original question—who benefits? Who got the good press? Who put pressure on his foes to keep financing them?”

  “The clinic.”

  Max nodded. “And all the donations solicited from NewsFlash went directly to the clinic.”

  “Riker used the money to pay off Camron?”

  “Some of it. Camron also said he never killed Martino. So I got to thinking—who had the best opportunity to kill Riccardo Martino? Riker claimed to be the last guy who saw him alive. He probably injected him with cyanide a few minutes before O’Connor knocked him over the head.”

  “You got a motive for all of this?”

  Max thought for a minute. “It’s an unselfish, albeit warped, one—Riker thought he could cure AIDS. He tried desperately to keep his clinic financed, but after their first year he must have realized that he needed something big or their grant would get cut off. That’s when he decided to fake the cure. But he also knew that Trian, Whitherson, and Martino would never stand up to close scrutiny and eventually they would die. So he had to find other patients who could stand up to any test. He had to find patients who would be legitimately HIV negative when tested by the government. That’s when he brought in Krutzer, Leander, and Singer.”

  Willie swerved around a van. “It’s a nice little theory, Twitch. Have any evidence?”

  “I will. Riker’s one problem was the storage house in Bangkok. All lab material was immediately packaged by either Eric Blake or Winston O’Connor and sent to Bangkok for safekeeping. If Riker had tried to divert it, it would have looked suspicious. But Riker really wasn’t worried about it anyway. He figured he could always have the storage house destroyed if anybody got too close to the truth.”

  “Which is what he tried to do, except you nailed Camron first.”

  Max nodded. “Colonel T’s men are guarding the building twenty-four hours a day. When we test the stored blood specimens, it will prove that the blood taken upon admittance could not possibly belong to the same person as the blood taken when they were supposed to be cured. That’s one reason Riker wanted the safe house in Bangkok. It was far away and yet it was George Camron’s hometown. Markey and the government would have a lot of trouble finding it. If they really tried, Riker could always have George destroy it.”

  “Case solved.”

  “I hope.”

  “Do you think Riker knows you’re on to him?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So calm down. We’re almost there.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What?”

  Max leaned down and picked up the pencil. “Sara is alone with him.”

  IT was so cold.

  Sara wrapped her arms around herself but it did no good. The frigid air cut through her skin to the bone. She looked down, coughing. Eric’s body was in a twisted fetal position. His eyes were closed, a bullet wound in his throat. She wondered how Michael had died. Had he been tortured or had it been quick and painless? She fought back tears and tried to think clearly. For the sake of their unborn child, she had to find a way out of this.

  She tried the door, but it would not budge. Her cough had become relentless, racking her body with powerful jerks. She could feel the cold settle into the bottom of her lungs. She wondered if it was an infection. Her lips trembled. She felt weak, drained. She hunched her body into a small ball, her eyes darting about the small room. There were shelves filled with various codes. One test tube said 87m332. Another read 98k003. The beakers were labeled NaOH, SO2, H2SO4, H3PO4, HCl and CHCl3.

  Michael. Her poor, beautiful Michael. Dead. How? Why?

  The room was tiny. The walls and ceiling seemed to be closing in around her. Sara curled herself into a tighter ball, lowered her head, and sobbed gently. She had never known such loneliness, such despair. The cold grew unbearable. Her fingers became numb. She felt herself grow weaker and weaker. She tried to concentrate on a Blue Oyster Cult song in a bizarre attempt to keep herself awake.

  But she felt herself slipping away.

  Hold on, Sara. Hold on.

  But it was no good. Harvey was coming back soon and then it would be over. Her Michael was dead. He had joined the Reaper, and in the end, so would she.

  Her eyes began to close.

  25

  MICHAEL was still unconscious when they wheeled him into his room on the third floor. Dr. Sombat patiently filled Harvey in on everything that had happened.

  “Your Lieutenant Bernstein is a brave man,” the Thai doctor said. “He saved Mr. Silverman’s life.”

  “Did they capture the man who kidnapped Michael?” Harvey asked.

  “Yes. He is in custody.”

  “Has . . . has he said anything yet? Anything that might help solve this case?”

  “I apologize, Dr. Riker, but I am not privy to that information.”

  Harvey nodded. “Where is Lieutenant Bernstein now?”

  “He had an emergency,” Dr. Sombat replied. “He drove off with Sergeant Monticelli. If there is nothing else, I have to get back to the airport.”

  “No, nothing else. Thank you for all your help.”

  “You are welcome. How can I get back to Kennedy Airport?”

  “Ask the receptionist downstairs to call a taxi. Thanks again.”

  They shook hands and Dr. Sombat departed, leaving Harvey alone with Michael in the quiet, dark room.

  “Michael?”

  No response. Harvey could see that Michael’s nose was broken. He had lost a considerable amount of weight.

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  Harvey stared down at his young friend lying helplessly in the bed. A tear ran down his cheek. He bent over and gently kissed Michael’s forehead. Then he turned to leave.

  “Harv?”

  He turned around. Michael looked up through the darkness with groggy eyes.

  “I’m right here, Michael. You’re back now.”

  His voice was barely a whisper. “Sara?”

  “She left a few minutes before you got here,” he replied. “I left a message on the answering machine for her to call me.”

  “Feel . . . feel weak.”

  “I know. Try to get some rest. I’ll wake you when Sara gets here.”

  Michael tried to nod. “Max got the Slasher.”

  “I know,” Harvey replied, walking back toward the bed. He hugged his friend. “Go to sleep now, Michael. Everything is going to be okay. You want me to give you something?”

  Michael shook his head and closed his eyes. Harvey quietly crept out of the room. Then he headed down the hallway, unlocked the door, and entered the laboratory.

  “I’m sorry, Michael,” he said out loud. But there was no one to hear his words.

  He took the gun out of his pocket and wrapped a towel around the barrel, using it as a makeshift silencer. No matter, really. The refrigeration room was soundproof once the door was closed. He had shot Eric in there and no one had heard a sound.

  He crossed the lab. How was he going to get the bodies out? Harvey knew from firsthand experience how heavy deadweight could be. He would have to place the corpses in a plastic bag. Then he would instruct the nurses that he would take care of Michael for this evening on his own and that no one was to enter the third floor under any condition. That would give him the opportunity to drag the bodies to the elevator, head down to the basement, get them out through the tunnel George had used, and put them in the trunk of his car.

  Then what?

  He was not sure. Tie weights to their legs and dump them in the river. Wasn’t that what they always did in the movies?
He would have to be careful. Wear gloves. Clean the lab from top to bottom. Wouldn’t want the police to find a few strands of long blond hair in the refrigeration room, now, would we?

  He reached the door of the refrigeration room and leaned his ear against it. Cold. Well, what did he expect? And why did he put his ear against the door in the first place? What had he expected to hear through the thick door?

  Idiot.

  Stop putting it of, Harv. Stop stalling. Sara has to die. She’ll never keep silent. Think of all the young men dying every day. Think of the thousands, maybe millions, you can save from an awful death. Look toward your goal.

  A world with no AIDS.

  Harvey nodded to himself. He reached down and unlocked the padlock. Then he opened the door and pointed the gun at Sara.

  TWO floors below, Cassandra smiled at the security guard as she headed into the clinic. She tried to put a little bounce in her steps, tried to make her smile bigger, but it would not hold. In her right hand, she had a bag of Chinese takeout. Spare ribs, moo shu pork, General Tso’s chicken (Chinese generals cook?), and beef with broccoli, all packaged in those little white boxes Chinese restaurants use. The bottom of the bag no doubt had about 850 packets of duck sauce, soy sauce, and that mustard hot enough to remove paint. Then there were the usual fortune cookies and, for some reason that always escaped her, they always gave you an orange for dessert.

  Cassandra strolled down the hall toward Harvey’s office. She had not seen him very much in the past few days and missed him terribly. Probably he had not been sleeping or eating properly. Between Michael’s mysterious kidnapping, the Gay Slasher, and now her father’s Washington conspiracy—it was enough to make any man begin to unravel.

  So Cassandra had decided another little surprise was in order. At the end of the hallway, she knocked on Harvey’s door. “Hello?”

  No response.

  “Harv?”

  Still no response.