by Harlan Coben
The Knicks won by five points, tying up the NBA finals at two game s a piece. The series would now move to Seattle for the next two games an d t hen back to New York if a seventh and final game was needed. Sh e c ontinued to watch as the inane sportscasters spewed out as many chiche s a s they could come up with while reviewing the game highlights.
After that there were interviews with numerous players and coaches , which lasted for another hour or so.
"Looking for me?"
Sara turned quickly toward the door.
"Who ?"
Michael stepped forward from the shadows. His hair was still wet fro m h is post-game shower.
"Miss. Nancy Levin," he said simply.
"What?" "You asked about my piano teacher. Miss. Nancy Levin. She wa s t he music teacher at Burnet Hill Elementary School."
Sara swallowed, not sure what to say.
"It's past visiting hours." "I know," he said.
"I promised the security guard two tickets to a game if he turned th e o ther way. One of the advantages of fame. Mind if I take a seat?"
Sam tried to speak but had to settle for a shake of the head.
"Thanks," he said.
"I called your office this morning and your editor told me you ha d p neumonia. He said you get it pretty frequently."
She shrugged.
"So I thought I'd pay you a visit. I hope I'm not keeping you awake."
"Not at all," she replied, finding her voice at last, "but shouldn't yo u b e celebrating with your teammates?"
"We don't celebrate until we win four games. We've only won two so far."
"Didn't the reporters want to interview you after the game?"
He nodded, smiling.
"But as you well know, I don't really like interviews."
"Not even post-game victory ones?"
"Actually, I like those."
"So?"
"So I wanted to come here and see you, okay?"
She turned away from his steady gaze, summoning some inner strengt h b efore turning back to face him.
"How much does this championship series mean to you, Michael?"
"Do you always ask so many questions?"
"Occupational hazard."
"Well, how can I put it? It means everything to me. I can't tell you ho w m any times I've dreamed about hitting the winning shot in the NBA f inals. Since I was a little kid, winning the NBA finals has been m y d ream. Does that answer your question?"
"Yes."
"So how are you feeling?"
"fine," she said.
"Tired?"
"No." "Want to talk?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Under one condition," he said.
"It's all off the record. We're just chatting now. None of this can b e u sed in a story. I want your word."
"You have it."
He stood and paced.
"What do you know about me?"
"The file is on the night table," she said.
"Read it."
He lifted the folder and opened it. Sara watched his eyes grow large an d p ained as they moved across the page.
"Is it true?" she asked him.
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes."
And so they talked for the next hour until the nurse, a large blac k w oman who was no basketball fan, found Michael in Sara's room , reprimanded him for being there after visiting hours, and threw him out.
The Knicks and the Sonics split the next two games, putting both team s a t three wins apiece and setting up Game Seven at Madison Square Garde n i n New York. Game Seven mystical words for sports fans.
Twenty-four teams playing eighty-two regular season games each and fou r r ounds of play-offs had come down to one final game to decide th e c hampionship.
Sara watched the game from her hospital room. She found herself cheerin g f or the Knicks fiercely, for Michael most especially. With three second s l eft and the Knicks down 102-101, the ball was passed to Michael. Sar a f elt her heart leap into her throat as Michael drove the lane and lofte d a hook shot high over the outstretched hand of Seattle's seven-foo t c enter. The buzzer sounded. The ball bounced on the rim twice, hit th e b ackboard, and then dropped in for two points.
The game was over.
New York Knicks 103, Seattle Supersonics 102.
New York City went crazy. Michael's teammates, led by Reece Porter , mobbed Michael. Madison Square Garden rocked in a frenzied celebration.
Sara heard herself crying out with joy, her hands pounding the bed i n e xcitement.
He had done it. Michael had done it.
"Yahoool" she shouted.
The same nurse peeked her head through the doorway.
"Miss. Lowell ..."
"Sorry."
She watched the locker room scene, the champagne being poured o n e veryone's head, the rare joy of winning the NBA championship.
The Knick players and coaches were hooting and shouting and hugging on e a nother in one of adult life's few moments of uninhibited, unashame d h appiness. Sara tried to find Michael in the rejoicing horde, but ther e w as too much confusion. Several Knicks were interviewed by th e s portscasters, all singing Michael's praises, but the game's supersta r w as nowhere to be found. Some time later Sara heard footsteps approac h h er room.
"Hi," Michael said.
"What are you doing here?"
Sara's voice was angry. A hurt look, crossed Michael's face.
"What are you doing here?" she repeated, her tone no softer.
"You're supposed to be celebrating the greatest moment of your life , right? So what the hell are you doing here?"
Tears glistened in the corner of his eyes.
"I don't know," he said.
"What do you want from me? You said everything was true in that file, s o i know you have a hundred bimbos to choose from "
"Sara ..."
"So what do you want from me?"
He lowered his head.
"Why are you so angry?" he asked, his tone almost childlike.
She stopped. Her reaction had surprised her. Why was she yelling at hi m l ike this? Why did she feel so strange whenever she was with him a s oaring and yet queasy feeling? Why was she acting so angry when, trut h b e known, she was so happy he was here?
"I'm just confused, Michael. I don't understand what's going on."
He moved closer.
"Neither do I, Sara."
"Why did you come here tonight, Michael? Why aren't you celebrating wit h y our teammates?"
"I don't know," he replied.
"I ... I just wanted to be with you, that's all."
And now he has AIDS.
AIDS. The word floated about the room like a poisonous vapor. Sara fel t t he tears come to her eyes and once again, she began to cry.
"It's okay," Michael whispered to her.
"Everything is going to be okay."
He had not cried a single tear since Harvey and Eric had told them th e n ews two hours ago, and somehow his lack of response was the mos t t errifying thing. His body had shook, but his eyes stared off, lost , confused, thoughtful. What are you thinking?
Sara wondered. What are you feeling right now and why won't you share i t w ith me?
Harvey and Eric had not yet left the room. Eric sat by the window , staring out over the impatient traffic on 168th Street.
Harvey paced.
"I want the truth," Michael said now, his hand tightening agains t s ara's.
"Can you cure this or not?"
Harvey stopped and turned toward Michael. His gaze met Eric's for a s plit second before resting on Michael's face.
"We want to give it a try. We believe it's very possible."
"Then lets do it."
Harvey nodded. ""I'll have you transferred to the clinic today."
"Today?" Sara said.
"Can't it wait ""No," Harvey replied.
"It can't wait. The earlier we start treatment the better. I want t o w ar
n you both now that this treatment is not pretty. You will be hooke d o n SRI and the side effects will be painful and unpleasant. For a whil e y ou will be a junkie, Michael. You will feel as though you need the fi x o r you'll die. And you'll be right."
The room slid gently back into silence.
"You two better go now," Michael said.
"You must have a thousand things to do."
Harvey signaled to Eric and they both moved toward the exit.
As Harvey opened the door, he turned back toward Michael.
"Think about what I said earlier, okay? You can do a lot of good."
Michael nodded. The moment they left, Sara threw her arms around Michae l a gain, but he stiffened, his body cold and hard ... like a corpse.
"Michael?" "I'm sorry," he said. His eyes shifted around the room , moving quickly from item to item as though looking for an easy exit.
Sara rested her head against Michael's chest, and they stayed that wa y i n silence for a very long time. The only sound Sara could hear wa s m ichael's steady breathing, her head rising and falling with his chest.
Finally, Michael spoke.
"You should go, Sara." he said.
"You have your story to do."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You have to," Michael said.
"The story is too important."
"I'll get Donald Parker to do it."
He shook his head.
"You should do it."
"To hell with the story, Michael. I want to stay with you."
Michael did not say anything for another ten minutes. He just remaine d s ilent, his lips curling around the teeth.
"Sara, I'm not sure I want you to go through this."
"You don't have any choice," she replied.
"And don't you dare play the brave martyr with me, Michael. You're no t g oing to die.
You're not going to leave me and the baby here alone without you."
He smiled sadly and patted her stomach.
"We have Junior here to think of."
"That's right."
"Sara?"
"Yes?"
"I've been thinking about this for the past few hours," he said.
"And I want to go public with this."
"What?" "What they said makes sense " "They should have never sai d a nything," Sara said.
"This is no time for you to be making decisions, Michael. You'r e v ulnerable right now." He smiled again, sweetly, sadly.
"What's the point of delaying the inevitable, Sara? You know we have n o c hoice."
Fear wrapped around her neck like a cold scarf.
"Please, Michael, think this through more. Don't just throw away ..."
"Throw away what?" he asked.
"It's over, Sara. There's nothing to throw away. I never let you do th e s tory on the physical abuse I suffered as a child, and that was a s elfish thing to do."
"Michael ..."
"No, let me finish. It's really strange, Sara. When Harvey told me th e r esults of the test, my thoughts became frighteningly clear.
I've been thinking this whole thing through. Harvey and Eric didn't sa y t oo much, but I know where they stand. They want me to go public wit h t his." "Give it a little time," Sara said.
"You just heard. There's a lot of things to consider here. Think for a s econd about the discrimination. People will hate you for it. The NBA w ill probably say you're too much of a health threat to ever step on th e c ourt again, even if the virus goes into remission."
"So what? Look, I'm not a brave man. Maybe you were right all thos e y ears ago. Maybe the story of my childhood would have helped peopl e u nderstand child abuse, but I don't know I just couldn't live through i t a gain. I didn't have the strength."
"It's okay," she said.
"It's not your fault."
"But, Sara, this is too big, too important. I can't just sit back again.
I think Harvey knows that. He sees what his cure can do for people an d s o he puts everything else on hold. You heard what he said.
The publicity from my case could have the biggest effect on the AIDS e pidemic since Rock Hudson died. I can't just walk away from that."
She just held him, her eyes squeezed shut.
"So I want this story done, Sara. And I want you to arrange a pres s c onference for me for tomorrow morning."
"If that's what you really want," she said slowly, "then we'll do it.
But let's not talk about it right now, Michael. Right now, I just wan t y ou to hold me."
Jennifer Riker pushed open the glass door leading to Los Angeles' mai n p ost office. The air-conditioning pounced upon her. Poor Bruce, sh e t hought. He had been a wonderful person in so many ways. A lous y h usband, yes, but some men are just not built for marriage. Why had h e d one it? What could have been so horrible that Bruce had chosen to en d h is own life?
The tragedy had been hard on them all, especially young Tommy. No t s urprisingly, Bruce's son had blamed his mother for his father's s uicide.
"You killed him!" Tommy had yelled at Susan.
"It's your fault Dad died!"
And though Susan tried to argue with him, something inside her levele d t he same accusation; something could not help but wonder what part sh e h ad played in Bruce's demise. Jennifer watched the guilt etch lines ont o h er sister's lovely face. Susan could not sleep at night. She barel y a te. The situation reached the point where Jennifer began to raise th e p ossibility of seeking professional counseling to help them deal wit h t heir grief.
But in the end Susan decided against it. She thought that what she an d t ommy really needed was to get away from the world for a while and se e i f time and solitude could help them regain their ties and come to grip s w ith Brace's death. They had left two days ago for a quiet retrea t o utside of Sacramento where there were no telephones and no outsid e d istractions.
Jennifer walked up to the information counter.
"Could you please tell me where Box 1738 is?"
"Around the corner and to the left."
"Thank you."
A few minutes later Jennifer located the correct number, inserted th e k ey, and opened the box. It was filled to capacity with junk mail an d s oot. She waved away the particles of dust and began to transfer th e m ail from the box into her tote bag.
Ed Mcmahon's picture was on one envelope, telling Bruce that he migh t h ave already won $100,000. Alas, the postmark showed that the letter wa s m ailed last year. Too bad. Brace might have been rich and never knew it.
There were also several envelopes that looked like bank statements , postmarked seven years ago, and even a couple of medical periodicals , also from seven years ago. Nothing very interesting. Nothing ver y c urrent, for that matter.
Her fingers continued to sift through the box's contents when the y s topped suddenly at a large manila envelope. Jennifer paused when sh e s potted the familiar handwriting across the front. She tried to recal l w hose penmanship it was, but for a brief moment the name eluded her.
She closed her eyes, picturing the neatly formed letters in her head an d t rying to remember where she had seen them before. The answer came t o h er. Of course. It was Brace's handwriting. The careful shaping of th e l etters was unmistakable.
Jennifer turned the envelope around and tried to read the postmark.
When she was finally able to see the date clearly, her legs nearly gav e w ay. August 30th of this year. She tried to swallow but her mouth fel t t oo dry. August 30th. Bruce had died on August 30th. He must have maile d t his letter a few hours before his death. And even stranger, he ha d a ddressed the package to himself.
Why had Bruce mailed himself a package right before he committe d s uicide?
Jennifer quickly dropped the package into the tote bag as though sh e w ere afraid to hold it any longer. Then she finished unloading the pos t o ffice box and headed toward the exit.
She'd open the package later.
Chapter 11.
Harvey
felt the onset of another in what had become a series o f p owerful headaches. It was sometime around two a. m." and the hallway s o f Sidney Pavilion were silent, sleeping, recuperating. Harvey move d s lowly down a darkened, empty corridor with dim fluorescent lights tha t b uzzed like distant chainsaws. He opened the doors, each one soundin g o ff its own unique creak, and looked in on his sleeping patients. He c hecked their IVs, their charts, their medications.
He walked into the last room on the floor, Kiel Davis and Rick y m artino's room. Both men were sleeping soundly. The forty or so clini c p atients were broken down into two groups: in-patients who stayed i n s idney Pavilion and out-patients who came in on an almost daily basi s f or treatment. Usually, the members of these two groups rotated ever y t hree or four weeks so that no more than twenty-five patients were eve r i n the clinic on any given night. Right now there were almost thirt y p atients sleeping over.
Most had private rooms, but because of limited space, a few had bee n d oubled up.
The overnight schedule rarely worked exactly as planned because eac h p atient had different needs. Take Davis and Martino, for example. Kie l d avis, a homosexual from Indiana who had relocated in New York ten year s a go, had spent almost two-thirds of the last eighteen months in th e c linic, while over the same period of time, Martino, an intravenous dru g u ser from the Bronx, had slept over less than six months total.
Harvey scanned their charts, listening to the gentle, deep breathing o f t heir slumber. He closed the door behind him, headed toward th e s taircase, and jogged up one flight of stairs to the third floor his wa y o f getting exercise. He heard himself wheezing from the effort.
Out of shape, he thought. 7 should stop using the elevator all togethe r a nd always take the stairs.
But Harvey knew that the hitching in his chest was due to somethin g b eyond poor physical conditioning. The muscles in his forehead seemed t o s well now, bunching up against the sensitive nerve endings. A flutter y s ensation flitted sc ross his stomach.
He was scared.
Harvey stopped in front of the door that led to room 317, the only roo m o n the floor that held a patient. He pushed open the door and leaned hi s h ead through the frame. The patient was at long last asleep, which ha d b een no easy task in this case. Drugs had been necessary. Strong ones.
Harvey had finally convinced Michael to take a couple of potent sleepin g p ills. They worked.
