Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  Nice move, Sara. She had played right into his hands, allowing the butthead to get on his soapbox and preach. It was time to knock him off. “Reverend Sanders, why have you not filled out an income tax form in twelve years? Why have you and your wife, Dixie, not paid a penny of income tax in all that time?”

  Donald Parker sat back and watched. He did not want to interrupt. The show’s director signaled for a commercial break, but Donald waved him off.

  “Miss Lowell, you know the law as well as I do. This great country of ours works to protect religious freedom, despite what some communists and atheists try to do. You may have temporarily succeeded in throwing God out of school and murdering unborn children, but the tide is changing—”

  “Thank you, Reverend Sanders, but we were talking about your taxes. Please try to answer the question.”

  “I am answering your question, Miss Lowell. Dixie and I are law-abiding citizens. We pay our fair share of taxes.”

  “How much income tax did you pay last year, Reverend Sanders?”

  “Churches do not have to pay taxes. It’s called separation of church and state. You can read all about it in the Constitution.”

  Sara readjusted her spectacles. “I’ve read the Constitution, Reverend Sanders, but with all due respect, sir, you are not a church. You would certainly not suggest that people who work in the church should slide by without paying taxes, forcing hardworking Americans to carry the load for them, would you?”

  His smile wavered, and for a brief moment there was a crack in the facade, allowing a quick peek at the cold soul beyond the smile. “Of course not,” he said. “You twist everything around to suit your purposes, and the righteous know that. The righteous will not be swayed off the path of the Lord by your lies. I repeat what I have said all along. I have paid my fair share of taxes. This whole issue is nothing but a play by secularists to ruin my good name.”

  Donald Parker finally broke in. “Thank you, Reverend Sanders. Well take a break and be back after this message. Don’t go away.”

  “DR. Lowell? May I speak with you for a moment?”

  John Lowell looked up, obviously annoyed. “Can’t it wait until after the show, Ray?”

  “There’s a commercial on now,” Raymond said. Dr. Raymond Markey worked for the Department of Health and Human Services in Washington. A small man, his arms and legs looked too short for his body. Thick glasses magnified his small dark eyes fivefold, making him look more like a classic movie nerd than a medical doctor. In truth, Markey rarely practiced medicine anymore. His job as assistant secretary of the department threw him more into the political realm than he cared to admit.

  With a deep sigh, John Lowell stood and walked out of the room. The two headed down the hallway together. When they were alone, Lowell said, “Okay, what is it?”

  Raymond Markey’s giant eyes scanned the hallway like two searchlights across a prison courtyard. “He’s coming to your party tonight.”

  Lowell’s face turned red. “What? I don’t want that man in my house. I thought I made that clear.”

  “You did.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” he whispered. “The timing of this party, everything.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Markey said. “He’ll be here. I thought you should know.”

  Lowell cursed silently, his hands clenching into fists. “That son of a bitch is going to destroy us all.”

  AS the party got into full swing, the group of men surrounding Cassandra fought for center stage like vain actors. But Cassandra, used to such scenes, couldn’t have cared less. She merely smiled brightly, seductively, nodding now and again but never really listening. Yes, they were all important men. Randall Crane owned a large chunk of several conglomerates. He had been featured on the cover of Fortune magazine looking very distinguished and serious. But he was boring. They were all deadly boring. If these men had not possessed staggering amounts of money, nobody would even pretend to listen to their self-indulgent horse manure.

  The crowd of well-dressed patrons buzzed about Sara’s debut on NewsFlash. Cassandra’s eyes swept over the mansion’s large ballroom, recognizing most of the nearly three hundred guests. Hypocrites, she thought. Like they really gave a flying shit about fighting cancer. They were here to be seen, to mingle and impress. If that meant coughing up some money for charity, well, that was the price of admission. Being seen was the thing.

  Randall Crane interrupted her thoughts. “Do you know how I arrived here tonight, Cassandra?”

  She barely glanced in his direction. “No, Randall. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “By private helicopter,” he said proudly. “I just bought the bird. Seats eight. I have my own full-time pilot, copilot, and stewardess.”

  “Stewardess?” Cassandra repeated. “On a helicopter?”

  Randall Crane nodded. “We traveled from the roof of my high-rise on Forty-seventh Street to here in under an hour.”

  “I’m very impressed, Randall.”

  The older man beamed. “Do you want to take a ride in it? You won’t believe how fast it goes.”

  She had bedded Randall Crane more than three years ago, and he had lasted about as long as a fifteen-year-old boy on his first time out. The man had barely gotten his pants off.

  “You should learn to slow down, Randall,” she said with a wicked smile. “Speed is not always a good thing, you know.”

  Watching Randall’s face turn red, Cassandra spotted Michael in the back corner, standing in a corner with that nothing doctor friend of his.

  Michael looked so damn handsome in his tux, the only man at the party who would dare to wear a purple flowered bowtie and matching cumberbund rather than the standard black. But that was Michael. He was always a little off center. Cassandra had not seen him for nearly six months, but he still looked fantastic.

  It was strange, really. Over the years Cassandra had stolen all of Sara’s boyfriends, starting with her first high school beau, Eddie Myles. Cassandra had orchestrated the seduction so that Sara would be sure to walk in on them.

  Which she did.

  Sara’s eyes widened when she saw her boyfriend’s pants lowered to his ankles, Cassandra kneeling in front of him. Her face had crumbled into anguish. But Eddie was only the first. It became a game to Cassandra. A new challenge. Every time Sara risked trusting someone, her sister would pounce on him. With each seduction Sara’s wounds bled anew. Insecurity began to nestle into her psyche. Sara became more self-conscious about her health problems. Her confidence withered away. Sarcasm became her defense. Cassandra watched her sister distance herself from the outside world. She dedicated herself to her studies, staying alone in her room, blasting that awful heavy metal music. Eventually, there were no boys left for Cassandra to chase away.

  But Sara had been playing possum. Somehow the sly bitch had landed the best of men.

  Michael, the bastard. The gorgeous, wonderful bastard.

  Cassandra stepped forward. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”

  The men parted to allow her to pass. Cassandra could not take her eyes off Michael. Six months had passed since they had last seen each other. And a lot of things might have changed in six months.

  Cassandra moved toward Michael.

  SITTING in the back of a studio limousine, Sara could not keep still. She tried to unwind from the excitement of the show, but the constant flow of adrenaline would not allow it. She rocked back and forth in the plush leather seat, her mind whirling with anticipation. She had moved from Blue Oyster Cult into the more contemporary sounds of Depeche Mode, but she still wasn’t slowing down. Midway through “Blasphemous Rumors,” the limousine driver raised the soundproof window between them.

  Good.

  Soon she would see Michael. Corny to say, but the best part of days like these was reliving each detail with her husband. Wincing, Sara snapped off her brace and rubbed her foot. Leg braces had improved dramatically over the years, from the days when she wore a heavy metal one that gripped like a power-
vise to the modern fiberglass kind that felt more snug than compressing. Still, the brace was cumbersome and her leg throbbed painfully when she wore it a long time. She massaged her foot and lower leg with knowing hands. The blood began to circulate again.

  Born two months premature, Sara had been a sickly child from the start. Infections settled into her lungs, causing pneumonia and a childhood of health complications. The difficult birth had also permanently damaged a nerve in Sara’s left foot. As a child Sara had needed a brace and metal crutches to walk. Now the crutches were gone, but the brace and occasionally a cane were still in evidence.

  Her youth was filled with constant hospital visits and trips to medical specialists and therapists. During endless sunny summer days Sara was forced to stay shut up in her bedroom rather than play outside with other children. Tutors visited the house or the hospital because of all the school she missed. She had few friends. Schoolmates never teased or taunted her, but they shunned the strange child and treated her like some sort of outsider. Sara was not allowed to take gym class. She had to sit on the steps during recess. Other children eyed her warily, almost frightened by the fragile, pale girl as though she represented death in a place that only understood immortality.

  No matter how hard she tried not to be, Sara was always different, always coddled, always behind. She hated it. As she got older, Sara learned that the limp and brace were not as difficult to overcome as people’s perceptions. Whenever she suffered a setback, teachers were quick to offer her health as an excuse.

  “It’s not your fault, Sara. If you were in perfect health . . .”

  But Sara wanted to scream every time they said that. She did not want to hear excuses or use them to justify her shortcomings—she wanted to overcome them. Check that. She wanted to blow them away.

  The chauffeur turned off the road and headed up the driveway. There were cars parked everywhere—Rolls Royces, Mercedes, stretch limos of all varieties, cars with special government license plates. Some chauffeurs stood around the driveway, smoking cigarettes and chatting with one another. Others stayed in the car and read newspapers.

  When the limo reached the house, Sara snapped her brace back on, grabbed her cane, and proceeded as gracefully as she could toward the front door.

  MICHAEL took another sip of Perrier. There was a steady ripping pain in his abdomen, but he did not mention it to Harvey. He had planned to say something, but Harvey was so distracted tonight that Michael decided to wait. He watched Harvey’s eyes shift nervously over the guests in the large ballroom. His overall appearance, always a touch disheveled, was a complete mess.

  “Are you all right, Harv?”

  “Fine,” he replied quickly.

  “Something on your mind?”

  “I . . . What time is Sara supposed to show up?”

  It was the third time he had asked. “Any minute now,” Michael said. “What the hell is the big deal?”

  “Nothing,” Harvey answered with a tight smile. “Your wife and I are having a torrid affair behind your back, that’s all.”

  “Again? I hate it when you steal my women, Harv.”

  Harvey patted his paunch and tried to arrange his wild hair. “What can I say? I’m a stud.”

  Michael took another sip of his water. “What do you have planned for next week?” he asked.

  “Next week?”

  “Your birthday, Harv.”

  “Oh,” Harvey said, “that.”

  “You only turn fifty once, big fella.”

  Harvey sloshed down the rest of his martini. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Fifty years old,” Michael said with a whistle. “Five big decades.”

  “Shut up, Michael.”

  “Half a century. The golden anniversary. Hard to believe.”

  “You’re a pal, Mike. Thanks.”

  Michael grinned. “Come on, Harv. You’ve never looked better.”

  “Yeah, well, I do get tired of beating off the women with a stick.” Harvey glanced over Michael’s shoulder and spotted Cassandra walking toward them. “Speaking of beating them off with a stick.”

  “What?”

  “Sister-in-law alert.”

  “Where?”

  Cassandra tapped his shoulder. “Hello, Michael.”

  “Right behind you.”

  “Thanks.” Reluctantly, Michael turned toward Cassandra. “Good evening, Cassandra.”

  “Long time, no see, Michael,” she said, “Very long. Six months, I think.”

  “About that. You remember my friend Harvey Riker?”

  “Ah, yes. The doctor.”

  Harvey stepped forward. “Nice to see you again, Cassandra.”

  She nodded slightly, ignoring him, her eyes never leaving Michael’s face. “So how do I look this evening, Michael?”

  “Nice.”

  “Nice?” she repeated.

  Michael shrugged.

  “Kind of noncommittal,” Cassandra noted.

  He shrugged again.

  Cassandra turned her attention to Harvey for the briefest of moments. “Dr. Riker, do you agree with Michael’s assessment?”

  Harvey cleared his throat. “Uh, a lot of words come to mind, Cassandra. Nice is not one of them.”

  She smiled briefly, her gaze back upon Michael. “Michael, can we talk for a moment?”

  “Look, Cassandra—”

  “It’s okay,” Harvey interrupted. “I need to freshen my drink anyway.”

  They both watched him walk away. In front of the ballroom the band Dr. Lowell had hired finished their rendition of “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” and moved on to “Feelings.” The lead singer sounded like a cat caught in a Cuisinart.

  “Care to dance?” Cassandra asked.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not in the mood. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Stop being rude, Michael. I’ll get to it in a minute. Pretend this is foreplay. You’ve heard of foreplay, haven’t you?”

  “I think I read something about it in Cosmo.”

  “Good. How do you like my dress?”

  “Divine. What do you want?”

  “Michael—”

  “You’re not really going to start this shit again, are you?”

  “What shit?”

  “You know what shit, Cassandra.”

  “I do?”

  “I’m married to Sara, for chrissake. You remember Sara—blond, petite, gorgeous, lousy taste in music, your sister.”

  “So?”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “So why do you keep bothering me? Why do you always come on like some soap opera harlot?”

  She looked at him. “You don’t approve of me, do you, Michael?”

  “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.”

  “So what do you think of me, then?” she asked, sipping her drink. “Really.”

  “I think you’re great,” he said. “You’re beautiful and funny and smart, but when you act like this”—he shrugged—“you kind of make me sick.”

  “You’re so sweet.” Her hand reached out and rested on Michael’s chest. Then she winked at him, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  She winked and pointed behind him. “That.”

  Michael turned around. From the entranceway Sara stood watching them.

  A few hours ago George had successfully stolen a car and changed its license plate. He circled the area near the Lowell estate for a little while, making sure he knew every possible escape route before parking in an abandoned lot several miles away. He spread goose liver pâté on a piece of toast and poured himself a red wine. Very young. Beaujolais-Villages.

  A perfect picnic.

  When George had finished, he tidied the car, checked his watch, and drove back toward Dr. Lowell’s mansion. He reached into the pocket of his Banana Republic khakis and took out his stiletto. He pressed the spring-release button with his thumb. The long, thin blade shot out
with a sleek pop.

  Very nice.

  He closed the blade and put it back in his pocket. Enough games. Enough wine and song.

  It was time to go to work.

  3

  HARVEY Riker helped himself to another martini. His third. Or was it his fourth? He was not sure. Harvey was not a heavy drinker, but lately he had found himself eyeing the bottle with new respect and desire. So much had happened the past few weeks. Why now? Why when they were on the brink of cornering and even destroying the AIDS virus did all this have to happen?

  He handed the glass back to the bartender. “Another,” he said simply.

  The bartender hesitated but then took the glass. “Last one, okay?”

  Harvey nodded. The bartender was right. Enough was enough. He spun back toward the crowd. Michael was still talking with Cassandra. Man, she was something else. Talk about sizzle. A guy could get sunburn just standing near her. Make that sunstroke.

  And how old is she, Harvey? Young enough to be your daughter, I suspect.

  He shrugged. No harm in fantasizing, was there?

  But his mind quickly returned to the other matter. The matter. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, but there was still no sign of Sara.