Table of Contents
By William Rubin
FORBIDDEN CURE 2
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BY WILLIAM RUBIN
FORBIDDEN BEGINNINGS: JACQUELINE’S TRAGEDY
FORBIDDEN BIRTH
FORBIDDEN CURE
MICHELLE’S CAPTIVITY
FORBIDDEN CURE 2
REVELATIONS
WILLIAM RUBIN
A Chris Ravello Medical Thriller
Crystal Vision
Publishing
Forbidden Cure is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the author. You can contact William Rubin at [email protected].
This book is also available in print.
ISBN: 978-0-9975949-9-7
All rights reserved.
Copyright 2018 William Rubin
Published by Crystal Vision Publishing
Cover design by Carl Graves – Extended Imagery
Formatted by Christine Keleny – CKBooks Publishing
Chapter 1
Last night’s talk with Durand behind him, Kennedy bounds up the stairs toward Chris’ hospital room, still undecided on how much to share with his friend. At the third floor landing, Kennedy exits the stairwell and plows straight ahead. His pulse quickens as a familiar tightness diffuses through his chest. Reared by a drunken, abusive father, visits to the hospital were a staple for Kennedy, his kid sister, and their mother. Ten years visiting these institutions as a homicide detective has done little to quell his discomfort.
Badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, Kennedy nods at an orderly as he marches toward the nurses’ station. A second nod acknowledges the floor clerk, a large African-American woman of ill-tempered disposition, and two nurses preoccupied with their last minute, early morning charting. A few steps later, Kennedy raps his knuckles on the private room Chris has called home since yesterday afternoon.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything. Looks like a real party around here,” Kennedy says with a smirk.
Ravello, bored by inactivity, brightens at the sight of his friend. “Oh yeah, just sent the dancing girls home after a night of revelry,” he replies with a laugh and a smile. “It’s really been la vida loco around here.” Ravello reaches for the clicker and silences the TV’s incessant drone. “How’s everything going at the 1-7?”
Kennedy pulls a chair over to Chris’ bedside and flops onto it. He hoped to ease into this, to get his bearings before diving in, but what the hell, why wait?
“Funny you should ask. Our buddy Durand rang last night before I left.”
Ravello’s face hardens; his eyes narrow. “What the hell did he want?”
“You’re not going to believe this shit....”
“Try me.”
“He knew about the murder case I just picked up, said he could help find the killer.”
Ravello’s face morphs to frustrated astonishment as his hands clench the bedsheets. “How’s that even possible? The murder happened two days ago. Think he’s involved?”
“That’s my guess, but of course, he denies it.”
Ravello stares out the window at the early morning sun rising over the East River, his frustration mounting. “If he’s not involved, why play snitch? What’s in it for him?”
Kennedy shrugs his shoulders. “He didn’t exactly say.” He shifts in the cramped seat. Shit, I’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Apparently, he’s done sharing with me for now.”
“So, what, that’s it, he’s just dropping it?” Ravello says with confusion. “Why even bother calling in the first place?”
Kennedy averts his gaze, staring at the ceiling for a moment, before coming back to Ravello. “Nah, he just wants to, uh, talk to somebody else now.”
“Yeah? Wh—mother fucker! Me?” Ravello shakes his head violently in disbelief. “No way, I’m out! I’ve got no reason to talk with that psycho bastard again.”
“Actually, buddy, you might.”
§
“You sure about this, Chris?” Kennedy yells to me as I throw my balled-up gown at the shocked ward clerk and fly down the hall. Kennedy lumbers beside me now. “What about staying for testing? What about your cure?”
“That’s just gonna have to wait,” I say impatiently as we reach the stairwell.
“Didn’t Jacobs say it can’t wait? You’re either all in or all out, no turning back?”
I throw the door open, slamming it against the cinder block wall as I charge ahead and race down the stairs.
Kennedy’s words bounce off the dull, white walls as he trails behind. “Guess I’ll call from the car, tell ’em to get Durand ready for us.”
Chapter 2
I implore Kennedy, “Come on Kev, faster, push it!”
Kennedy turns to me, a quizzical look on his face, as we glide through light, early-morning traffic on the Grand Central Parkway heading east. “Uh, buddy, we’re not in a car chase, ya know. And you heard what they said, it’s gonna be like twenty minutes before they bring Durand out.”
I stare out the window of Kennedy’s ancient Honda as we make the turn onto the Francis Buono Memorial Bridge, the only point of access to the island which houses ten of NYC’s fifteen prisons. “Sorry. Durand’s just got my goat again—as usual. I’ll try to bring it down a notch or two,” I say with frustration.
“Or ten,” Kennedy says with a smirk as I let out an involuntary laugh, and he in turn grows more serious. “I wanna pummel Durand just as much as you, but we’ve got to play it cool in there to get what we need from him, agreed?”
I nod in assent as Kennedy reaches the gate. A guard checks us in and gives us directions to the Otis Bantum Correctional Center where Durand is held. A chill runs through me as the gate lumbers open before us and Kennedy inches the car forward. Rikers has a well-earned reputation as the world’s largest penal colony and a human cesspool where violence, abuse, and squalor run rampant. A fitting place for the depraved, serial-killing bastard we are about to see.
A few turns later, Kennedy and I slow down and park his car. We march along dreary corridor after dreary corridor, through a series of highly secured check points, to a small room where Durand is being held for us. I take a deep breath and nod at the guards stationed on each side of the door as we enter the room. My anger swells as I lay eyes on the tall, lithe man seated before us, a man who terrorized this city, and my family, with a series of horrific murders earlier this year until Kennedy and I took him down a few weeks ago.
I scowl at the shackled sadist as Kennedy and I sit down across from him. “You seem no worse for the wear, Durand—what a shame.”
A thin smile emerges as he replies, “A pity I can’t say the same for you, dear doctor-detective.” Then quickly with a laugh, “Or should I just call you Christopher since your illness precludes you from carrying on in your chosen professions?”
Kennedy growls at him, “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Dur
and.”
So much for restraint.
“Call me what you will, Durand, but at least I’m a free man.”
He sneers back at me. “Ill health, unable to work, you and your family’s lives torn asunder with tragedy. Is that what you call freedom, Christopher?” My face flush with anger, he continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Ah, but let’s dispense with the juvenile banter and get to the real reason for your visit.” He looks at Kennedy and me in rapid succession. “Solving your crime and reuniting you with your dear, sweet Michelle.”
“Why should we believe a damn word you say, Durand?” Kennedy snaps. “For all we know you’re involved with the Malekoviec murder, and as for Michelle, where’s the proof she’s alive?”
Durand ignores Kennedy as he addresses me. “I have a score to settle with those who took out the Russian. As for your dear wife, Christopher, you know in your heart of hearts the woman you spoke to in my lab was not your wife.” Pouty faced, a hand raised to his face as if dabbing tears, his voice is laced with condescension. “But you ignored those feelings, boo hoo, fearing that would mean she was already dead.”
I lunge across the table and grab his throat, knocking him back in his chair, the chains running from his shackles to the floor the only thing keeping us upright. “You fucking bastard.”
Kennedy dives in. “Chris!” as the door flies open and two guards join the fray. One helps Kennedy pry my fingers from Durand’s throat. The other slams me forcefully back in my chair and screams at me as Durand gasps for air.
“You fucking crazy? We’re done here.”
Kennedy: “Shit, shit! Please officer, just a minute more.” He holds his hands up. “Won’t happen again, promise.”
“Damn right it won’t.” Then begrudgingly, “He shouldn’t even be in here, Detective, he’s just a civilian now.”
“I know, I know. Just cut us some slack; we’re almost done here.”
The guard looks at Durand then back at Kennedy. “Anybody else but this piece of shit and you’d be out of here, but this fucking baby-killer has it coming.” The guard plants his back against the wall and rests a hand on his gun. His counterpart does the same. “One minute.”
Durand’s breathing becomes more regular. His eyes, filled a moment ago with fear, regain their luster. “She was a striking replica, indeed, but not your Michelle. Your Michelle lives under my men’s lock and key. But a power struggle has ensued and threatens to create an untenable situation. We must act quickly to save your beloved, Christopher.” Durand eyes Kennedy and me. “Forty-eight hours on the outside with both of you will be time enough to help you apprehend your killer and reunite you with Michelle.”
Kennedy: “Get you released under protective custody? Are you fuckin’ nuts?” He shakes his head side to side as Durand looks back at us impassively. “Even if we believed you, no way the higher ups go for it.”
I stare at Durand, trying to read him. He’d screwed us plenty before, including stealing a body out of Michelle’s coffin. Was that hers? Another clone? No way to know for sure without playing along, seeing where it leads us.
My voice is raw, unsteady. “Where’s the proof she’s alive? And what’s in it for you?”
He smiles. “All of my clones possess a unique genetic marker, my signature, if you will. It will prove the buried woman is not your Michelle.” Durand’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Eliminating the death sentence.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“That’s the price for my cooperation—take it or leave it.”
The guard nearest to me nods to his partner as he wraps a hand around his gun. “Time’s up.” They detach Durand’s shackles from the floor and lead him away as Kennedy and I look on, dumbfounded. As he exits the room, Durand turns his head back toward me. “There’s an even more tangible sign you missed, dear Christopher. It too will confirm my story.” Durand laughs as they push him through the door, his final words echoing in the hallway. “Time is short. Don’t delay.”
Chapter 3
“You believe anything he said?”
Kennedy shakes his head as we press on toward Manhattan. “Honestly? I don’t know what the hell to make of it. Michelle alive after all the shit that’s gone down, after we thought twice that he killed her? That just blows my mind.”
“And what he knew about the Malekoviec case. Where the hell’d that come from? Is he involved, or is it like he said, he’s just got an ax to grind with a competitor he’s keeping tabs on?”
Kennedy bobs his head slowly. “Could be something else altogether?”
“What’re you thinking?”
“We always figured Durand had a snitch in NYPD but couldn’t pin it on anyone.”
“So that’s where all the Malekoviec info is coming from. The bit about Michelle, it’s just a con, the icing on the cake. We spring him and bingo he torments me up close and personal again, maybe even escapes in the process.” I bury my head in my hand. “Aw, Christ. I can’t survive another round of this shit.”
We sit in silence, me stewing, Kennedy unsure what to say. A mile ticks by. We cross the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, make short work of Randall’s Island.
Then Kev pipes up, “You want me to drop you back at the hospital? I gotta get over to the 1-7, start digging deeper on Malekoviec. I could circle back tonight when I know more?”
I stare out the window, head spinning, insides a mess. “Yeah, might as well. I got nothing better to do. Hell, with any luck Jacobs won’t even know I’ve been gone.”
Chapter 4
“This isn’t the Waldorf Astoria. You can’t just come and go as you please, Chris!” Never seen Jacobs this mad, but it’s that kinda day. Hell, what’s one more fire to put out?
“I’m so sorry, Doctor. Kennedy needed my help on something urgently. It was early..., I didn’t think anyone would miss me.”
Jacobs whips his glasses off. “What the hell kind of excuse is that? ‘I didn’t think I’d be missed.’ Really? That why you threw your gown at the ward clerk; you were going for the clandestine approach?” Jacobs grinds his teeth. “You missed two hours of monitoring and blood draws crucial in reformulating your treatment.” He shakes his head. “Best case scenario, the risk of death or disability with your second treatment has now gone up sixty percent—and that’s a best-case scenario.”
“I, I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were too busy going off half-cocked to consider the risks.” Jacobs shakes his glasses toward the window a foot away. “When you took off earlier, why did you bother with the stairs? You could have just repelled down the side of the building instead. That would have been less risky than the situation you’re in now, and at least nobody here would have seen you leaving.”
I smile awkwardly, then peer out the window at the street below. “Three floors is kinda a steep drop for a guy in my condition. Didn’t want to take any chances.”
Jacobs looks like he wants to strangle me. “So help me God, Chris. You pull anything else, I’ll throw you out that window myself.” He takes a calming breath. “Now get back into bed and behave before I have security escort you out for good.”
I give him the thumbs up and hop onto the bed, still wearing my street clothes. “Sounds like a plan. Say, anyone see that gown of mine?”
Chapter 5
Kennedy applies the last of the pins to his suspect board, leans back, and reviews his work. Finally, some progress.
A head shot of Irina’s estranged brother, Dmitri, who lives only eight blocks away from the deceased, yet has scarcely seen her in over a year. Dmitri, a successful entrepreneur, had come late to the dry-cleaning business, but the last four years has seen his fleet of stores grow from one to six. All in Coney Island, all in neighborhoods run by the Russian mob. No crime in that, no cause for familial discord—unless his laundering services extended beyond textiles. Unless his sister knew things she shouldn’t have. Like the fact that Dmitri served as one of the mob’s main bookies for high-n
et-worth clients in Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan.
Vladimir was Irina’s husband of twenty-two years until an early and unseemly demise sixteen months prior, purportedly at the hands of the Russian mob. Poor Vlad was found holed up in a dumpster on 47th Street near 6th Avenue, his face an ashen shade of blue. Seems Vladimir’s sticky fingers and big mouth rubbed other diamond district merchants the wrong way. It didn’t take a magnifying glass or loupes to determine cause of death or the message being sent. A small bag of diamond’s tucked in Vlad’s mouth where his tongue should have been, took care of that. Either relationship could have made her resentful of the mob, putting Irina in harm’s way. But her bizarre manner of death, what was that all about?
Kennedy grabs his notebook off his desk and flips through it. Irina’s rheumatologist, Doctor Gorelick, heads a large university-based practice flush with cash. Located on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, the practice specializes in hard-to-treat patients using investigative therapies from a multitude of clinical trials. Irina came under Gorelick’s care just over a year ago, shortly after her husband’s death, after growing dissatisfied with a series of traditional treatments by a rheumatologist in her neighborhood.
Despite high hopes, Malekoviec washed out of two of Gorelick’s more promising trials within six months. Insistent on entering a third, five months later she was accepted into a treatment protocol designed by Doctor Harold Hyslop and administered by Gorelick. Office notes showed the first of the treatments took place six days before her death and produced no appreciable improvement in Irina’s condition and no side effects. Little is known about the effects of the last dose since no response was observed in the office and Irina died later that day. Kennedy rests his hand on the notepad. My money’s on that medication. He picks up the notepad, tapping it repeatedly against the desk as he shakes his head in frustration. Hyslop, Hyslop. Where the hell have I heard that name before? Kennedy mumbles to himself, “Gotta pay him a visit. Maybe figure it out then.”
Forbidden Cure Part Two Page 1
