Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "You want go to sex show?" he asked in broken English, handing th e c ouple a card.

  "Lookie at all these positions."

  He began to point to different parts of the card.

  "Woman on top.

  Two women with one man. Doggie. You name it. Lookie, big breasts.

  Use banana too. You like. Anything you want. Come with me. Live show."

  Mr. and Mrs. Old Macdonald studied the card as if it were the fine prin t o f a real estate contract, nodded eagerly, and then followed the Asia n b oy.

  The street was packed, waves of people heading in both directions.

  There were other neon signs too. Some in English, some written i n c haracters Michael did not understand. They were not, he knew, Chines e o r Japanese. Not Hebrew or Arabic either.

  No cars were on the road, but he could hear them close by. On his right , he saw tables set up with watches, shirts, pants, sweaters, cassettes , everything.

  "Three dollars for Lacoste shirt," one vendor cried. Another shouted , "One dollar for favorite cassette. Six for five dollars. All favorite s o f you. George Michael.

  U2. Barbra Streisand. You name, we have."

  What is this place?

  The door behind him opened.

  "Well, well, we're awake."

  Michael slid back to the floor. The man in the doorway was large an d s tocky. He appeared to be very muscular, though not as disproportionat e a s most weight-lifters. His hair was slicked back like Pat Riley, th e f ormer Lakers coach, and his suit looked like something off the cover of GQ.

  "Welcome, Michael," the man began.

  "My name is George.

  Did you read my note?"

  Michael nodded.

  "It was for your own good," George continued.

  "Escape would be very dangerous. You see, I have already killed a lot o f p eople.

  Killing your wife would just be one more."

  Michael struggled, but the chains held him in place.

  "Now just relax a second, Michael." George knew a lot about the art o f i ntimidation. Threatening a man's wife was one of his favorite tactics.

  It was connected to the whole possession thing, he guessed, and nothin g d emoralized a man more than the thought that his wife was ballin g a nother guy by force or otherwise.

  George grabbed the chair from the corner, sat down, and leaned towar d h is captive.

  "You look confused, Michael, so let me explain to you what's going on."

  His voice was relaxed, casual.

  A casual voice, George knew, was often more unnerving than the loudes t o f screams.

  "We are in Bangkok. That's right, we are in the Far East, just you an d m e, pal. In fact, this building is on Patpong Street, the red-ligh t d istrict. Twelve-year-old whores suck off guys in this very room all th e t ime, Michael, isn't that sick?

  Twelve years old and already they're hustling. A real shame."

  George shook his head solemnly.

  "I tell you, the world is falling apart before our very eyes and nobod y c ares. Fact is, we're standing over a topless bar right now bottomles s t oo if you pay the right price."

  George laughed maniacally at his joke. Michael stared back in horror.

  "Don't get so upset, Mike. Can I call you Mike? Good. Maybe later we'l l h ave time to see the sights. The Reclining Buddha is a must-see in m y o pinion. Same with the Grand Palace. Maybe well even take a little boa t t rip through the floating market. Would you like that?" Michael jus t c ontinued to stare.

  "But first, let's talk business. If you do what I say, no one will b e h urt and you will be free very soon. We might even have some fun. If , however, you do not cooperate, my reaction will be swift and painful."

  George smiled again.

  "Let me give you an example."

  Without warning, George's hand shot out. It moved so fast it was barel y a blur. His knuckles landed on Michael's nose.

  Michael heard a crunching, squelching noise and he knew that his nos e h ad been broken. Blood trickled out of his nostrils.

  "You see what I'm saying?"

  The pain engulfed Michael's entire face. Since his mouth was stil l c overed with the tape, he had no choice but to breathe through hi s b roken nose. What do you want? Michael tried to scream, but the tap e m uffled his voice.

  "Now let me tell you something else," George continued.

  "I have things to do so I can't sit here and watch you all day. Besides , it's too hot in here. Bangkok is always so humid, Michael, but you ge t u sed to it after a day or two. The thing is my employer told me to mak e y ou as comfortable as possible. So I would like to loosen some of thos e c hains and take the tape off your mouth.

  But I need your promise you won't try anything. Do you promise, Mike?"

  Michael nodded.

  "Good. If you leave this room or do something cute, my men will spo t y ou, and Sara will suffer. I am good at making people suffer. And Sar a i s such a delicate little flower, Michael. You wouldn't want me t o a ttach electric cables to her clit, would you?

  Juice her up good and then let my boys take turns with her?"

  Michael quickly shook his head.

  "I'm also pretty handy with explosives. If the police did by som e m iracle find you and decide to try a rescue," he paused, smiled, an d n odded toward the sticks of dynamite by the door, "ka-boom! Michael al l g one. Blood, limbs, screams very messy stuff. Follow me?"

  Another nod.

  "I'm going to take the tape off your mouth row. If you scream, I'l l b reak your jaw. No one will pay attention anyway. People are alway s s creamingvm this street." George reached out and ripped off the tape.

  Michael caught his breath. With some effort he worked his vocal chords.

  "What do you want?"

  "Don't worry about it."

  ""I'll pay you anything you want."

  "Forget it, Michael."

  Michael managed to sit upright.

  "Can you take off the handcuffs?" he asked.

  "They're killing my shoulders."

  "Sure, but the ankle chain stays on." George used a small key to unloc k t he handcuffs. They opened with a click.

  "Better?"

  Michael nodded. He rubbed his wrists, eyeing George in the process.

  His head still swam, his vision still blurred. George sat no more than a y ard away.

  Now; or never, Mikey boy.

  Later, Michael would claim that pure fear clouded his brain an d d istorted his rational thinking. It was the only explanation for what h e d id next.

  With something approaching horror, Michael realized that his finger s w ere forming a fist. His eyes watched helplessly while he cocked th e f ist and launched it toward George's face.

  The punch moved at a pitifully slow pace. The drugs George had pumpe d i nto Michael's body continued to extract a heavy toll on his physica l p rowess. George's right forearm knocked the blow to the side with a c asual wave.

  "You are a brave man, Michael Silverman," George said.

  "You are also very foolish."

  George's hand reached out and took hold of Michael's broken nose betwee n h is thumb and index finger. Michael screamed.

  Then George twisted.

  Tiny fragmented bones began to grate against one another, making a h orrid grinding noise like someone was tap-dancing on a thousan d b eetles. George increased the pressure. Tendons and tissue ripped.

  Blood sprayed in different directions. Michael's eyes widened and the n c losed, his body falling slack.

  "Try something like that again," George said, "and it will be Sara wh o p ays the price. Understand?"

  Michael could barely nod before he passed out.

  Cassandra looked at her sister. Sara's bright green eyes seemed to hav e s unk deeper into her skull. Dark circles surrounded them.

  The beaming look of life had been replaced by a bleak look o f i ncomprehension and shock. Three days had passed since she had bee n k nocked unconscious in Michael's r
oom three days of depression, sadness , fear, and confusion. But now it was as though those emotions ha d h ardened into something more concrete. During the last three days Sara's h urt had transformed itself into something more powerful, somethin g m ore.. useful.

  Anger. No, rage.

  "Hi ya, baby sis."

  Cassandra's smile was broad, too broad. It looked fake and Sara knew it.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Wrong?"

  "Just come out and say it."

  The smile fled Cassandra's face, leaving behind no traces it had eve r b een there. Her expression was hard, serious. She sat down on the be d n ext to Sara and took her hand.

  Sara looked down at their hands and then up into her sister's eyes.

  "What is it?" she asked gently.

  "I know I haven't been the best sister in the world," Cassandra said.

  "Neither have I."

  "But I love you."

  Sara tightened her grip on Cassandra's cold hand.

  "I love you too," she said.

  Tears began to slide down Cassandra's cheek.

  "I think Dad is mixed up in this whole Gay Slasher thing."

  Sara felt her body stiffen.

  "What?"

  Cassandra nodded.

  "I think he's involved in some kind of plot to destroy the clinic."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I overheard him arguing with Reverend Sanders in his study the mornin g a fter the charity ball."

  "But Dad said he didn't know him." "I know. Harvey told me that. So I b ecame suspicious. I went through his desk when he wasn't around. Ther e w ere letters saying that the funds Dad wanted for the new wing at th e c ance r c enter were going to Sidney Pavilion instead. One was from a guy name d m arkey "

  "Dr. Raymond Markey?"

  "That's him. Assistant Secretary of something."

  "Health and Human Services."

  "Right."

  Sara tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly dried up.

  "But that doesn't mean he's involved with Sanders." "That's what I t hought.. until the morning Michael was kidnapped. When Dad kept tryin g t o make sure I would be out of the house that morning, I becam e s uspicious. So I hid in his closet. Reverend Sanders came by again."

  Sara sat up and stared directly into her sister's eyes.

  "Tell me everything they said, Cassandra. Everything."

  Bangkok at night.

  The Thai locals approached every white-faced person who walked dow n p atpong, whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would have mad e a porn star blush. But no one approached George. One or two of the Thai s k new him personally; some had met him on occasion; many knew his name; all feared going anywhere near him.

  Despite the enormous crush of people the locals parted when Georg e w alked by, letting him pass, fighting to get out of his way.

  It was past midnight already, but Patpong was just beginning to stretc h o ut its arms and prepare for the evening that lay ahead.

  George brushed past a group of Japanese businessmen who were negotiatin g r ates and terms with a local pimp as if they were sitting in a Toky o c onference room.

  When George reached Rama IV Road, he hailed a tuk-tuk, the native tax i o f Thailand. A cross between a car and a scooter.

  The tuk-tuk had its good points it was small, quick, used up next to n o f uel, and was open air. It also got crushed in an accident, had n o h eadroom, and was open air.

  The driver gave George the customary Thai greeting. He clasped his hand s i n a praying position, bent his head forward until his nose touched hi s f ingertips, and said, "Sawasdee, hip."

  George returned the greeting, though not bending nearly as far as th e d river.

  "Sawasdee."

  "Where to?"

  "Wats," George barked.

  The driver smiled and nodded. George climbed into the bright blu e t uk-tuk. The driver continued to smile. Typical Thai, George mused.

  Thailand, Land of Smiles. Everybody smiling. They might be griping , whoring, thieving, murdering, but they always smiled.

  George liked that.

  They stopped at a traffic light on Silom Road. A voice shouted.

  "Hey, mate!"

  George glanced to his right.

  "Yeah, that's right, mate," a red-faced, inebriated Australian shouted , pointing at George, "I'm talking to you." The Aussie looked to be abou t f ifty years old. There were six prostitutes jammed into a taxi with hi m y oung Thai girls no more than thirteen, fourteen tops, giggling an d r ubbing the man with fast, vigorous hands.

  George's face registered disgust.

  "What do you want?"

  "Well, mate, it's like this, right. Seems I bit off a bit more than I c an chew here, you see. Wanted to know if you wanted to go halfsies."

  "Halfsies?"

  "You take three and I'll take three unless we want to do an eight-perso n t hing. Kind of a lick-em and luv-em orgy. Might be up for that."

  "Degenerate," George spat.

  "Hey, that's not a nice thing to say," the Aussie slurred.

  "

  "Specially as I don't know what it means."

  The man laughed hysterically at this. The young women (kids really) joined him. The Aussie laughed harder, spurred on by the realizatio n t hat the girls found him so amusing. The girls, George knew, did no t u nderstand a word of English, with the exception of some sexua l t erminology.

  "Go to hell," George called back.

  The light turned green and the tuk-tuk moved onto Charoen Road. I t n oisily began its journey along the Chao Phraya River.

  In Thai, wat meant temple or monastery, and Bangkok had over fou r h undred temples of breathtaking beauty. Color was the key word in Tha i a rchitecture. Red, yellow, green, blue, and most especially gold al l r eflecting the bright sun in an amazing kaleidoscope of nature and man.

  There was Wat Po, which housed the Reclining Buddha a statue so immens e i t stretched across an area larger than half a football field. Anothe r e normous Buddha image, cast in well over five tons of solid gold, sa t u pon the alter of Wat Traimit, and Wat Arum, the Temple of Dawn , appeared to be suspended above the Chao Phraya River as though hel d t here by the gods, its towering spires reaching up and scratching th e v ery heavens with pointy claws.

  But Bangkok's most spectacular temple was known to the Thai peopl e s imply as Wats, though it was far more than just a temple.

  Tourists knew it as the Grand Palace, though it was far more than tha t t oo. The Grand Royal Complex might be a better name.

  Everything King Rama I, ruler of the Chakri Dynasty, could have wante d w as housed within the walls which enclosed his palace, including one o f t he most sacred images in all of Buddhism the Emerald Buddha. In thi s b astion of awe-inspiring color and beauty, the Emerald Buddha stood ou t o nly for its rather startling un impressiveness The statue was only a f ew feet high, was made of jade, and showed no real signs of unusuall y b rilliant handwork.

  You could buy an exact reproduction for a few baht in any Thai trinke t s tore.

  "We're here, boss."

  "Swing around to the other side."

  "Okay, boss."

  At night, spotlights illuminated the many spires and pagodas of th e g rand Palace, creating an impression both bright and haunting. In a w ord: mysterious. Like the most seductive woman, Bangkok hinted a t u nparalleled delights while always keeping part of itself covered , hidden from view, a secret.

  "Stop here."

  "Yes, boss."

  The tuk-tuk chugged to a halt. George paid the driver and crossed ove r t oward the Chao Phraya River. He walked along the river's edge, watchin g t he wooden rice barges drift lazily by as though they had no particula r d estination in mind, the drivers still wearing their enormous straw hat s t hough the blazing sun had settled in the west hours ago. The Cha o p hraya was more than a river to Bangkok. It was her lifeblood. Th e w aterway was used for transportation, for floating food markets, fo r b athing. />
  Families had lived for centuries in huts that were more in the rive r t han on it.

  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 s kinny boy. An elderly man with only one arm and a wisp of a mustach e s at in the front.

  "George?" the man whispered.

  Right on time as always. George climbed aboard the sampan, sat an d c lasped his hands together. He bowed respectfully.

  "Sawasdee, kap."

  "Sawasdee, hip."

  "How is business, Surakarn?" "Brisk," the old man said.

  "But, alas, we have had to close down our profitable Malaysia n o peration. Too much heat from the state police. They are not, I'm a fraid, as receptive to gifts as they used to be."

  "So I've heard." George looked at Surakarn's weatherbeaten face, hi s s kin brittle like dry brown leaves. The former Thai boxing champion mus t b e nearing seventy now, George thought, and worth countless millions o f d ollars. Yet Surakarn did not slow down, nor, it seemed, did he d o a nything with his vast wealth.

  He still lived on a modest hut along the Chao Phraya, though he had lon g a go allowed creature comforts to enter his dwelling.

  From the outside the hut looked like something from a Vietnam Wa r d ocumentary; inside were two big-screen televisions, VCRs, a GE r efrigerator, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, a microwave, centra l a ir-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 slo w j ourney down the Chao Phraya. Surakarn's other arm had been sliced of f i n Chiang Rai almost twenty-five years before by a fellow competitor i n t he smuggling industry named Rangood. Rangood, however, had made th e m istake 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 t o h is shouts of agony, not his words. By the time Rangood's heart gave ou t s everal weeks later, his mind had long since snapped.

  Surakarn was as trustworthy as they came, but George did not tell eve n h im about Silverman's kidnapping. This was too big, too risky, to trus t a nyone. George had decided not to solicit the help of the usual loca l c ut-throats he worked with, despite what he had written in the note t o m ichael. He had even gone so far as to put a mask on Michael's face whe n h e sneaked him into the Eager Beaver.