Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Hello, Dr. Riker.”

  Harvey turned toward the familiar voice. “Hey, Bradley, how you feeling?”

  Bradley Jenkins, the senator’s son, smiled at Harvey. “Much better, thanks.”

  “Any problems?”

  Bradley shook his head. “Right now I feel great. It’s like some sort of a miracle . . . I just don’t know how long it will last.”

  Harvey looked at the soft-spoken young man. Sara had introduced Harvey to Bradley years ago, well before Bradley had become his patient or even suspected he had AIDS. “Neither do we, Bradley,” he said in a serious tone. “The important thing is to continue the treatment. Stopping in the middle can be more dangerous than the disease itself.”

  “I’d be crazy to stop.”

  “When is your next visit?”

  Bradley never answered because his father stepped between them. “Not another word,” Senator Jenkins hissed at Harvey. “Follow me.”

  Harvey did as the senator asked. He followed him down the long corridor, keeping a yard or two between them. Senator Stephen Jenkins stopped at the last door, opened it, glanced back down the corridor to make sure no one was looking, and then waved for Harvey to enter. He closed the door behind them.

  They were in Dr. Lowell’s library now, a huge, two-level room jammed from floor to high ceiling with thick, leather-covered books. There was a sliding ladder to facilitate getting volumes from the higher shelves and a catwalk that circled the room like a running track. Dark oak was the color of the shelves, the floor, the furniture.

  Senator Jenkins began to pace. “You should know better than to speak to my son in public.”

  “We were just talking,” Harvey said. “This is a party. People talk.”

  “Do you know what would happen if people found out the truth about Bradley?”

  Harvey paused. “Peace in the Middle East?”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Riker.”

  “Nuclear Armageddon? The end of Friday the Thirteenth sequels?”

  “I owe you, Dr. Riker, but don’t push me.”

  Harvey’s tone was brisk. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You saved my son’s life.”

  “We don’t know that. Only time will tell for sure.”

  “Still,” the senator said, “it is encouraging. I’m very grateful.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “I also heard about the death of your partner, Dr. Grey. My condolences.”

  “Care to make a public donation to his favorite charity?”

  The senator chuckled without humor. “No.”

  “Then how about getting the Senate to vote us more funds?”

  “You know I can’t do that. The media and my opponents will tear me apart.”

  “For helping cure a deadly disease?”

  “For spending the voters’ hard-earned tax dollars to help a bunch of immoral, limp-wristed perverts.”

  “Like your son?”

  The senator lowered his head. “Low blow, Riker. Very low. If it ever got out that Bradley was . . .” He stopped.

  “Gay?” Harvey finished for him. “Is that the word you’re looking for? Well, it won’t. Not from me, at least.”

  “Then I’ll do what I can to help the clinic—discreetly, of course.” Senator Jenkins paused for a moment, thinking. “Besides,” he continued, “there are other ways to raise more money without involving me.”

  “Like how?”

  “Make your results public.”

  “It’s still too early.”

  “It’s never too early,” Jenkins said. “You don’t think there’re rumors about your success in Washington? How do you think I found out about it? All you have to do is show the media some of your test cases. Show them that Krutzer kid or Paul Leander.”

  Harvey almost smiled. “What about Bradley? The son of a senator would certainly draw more attention than a couple of unknown gays.”

  “You can’t use him.”

  “Even if it means saving more lives—or is your son the only homosexual worth saving?”

  “You cannot use Bradley, Riker. That’s final. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Senator. I understand that some things are more important than human lives—like reelection campaigns.”

  The senator stepped closer. He was a big man and he towered over the smaller doctor. “I’m getting a little tired of your moral outrage, Dr. Riker. You’re out of your league here, and I’ve seen smaller mistakes ruin a man.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No, I’m warning you. Someone might decide to step on you if you become too bothersome.”

  Harvey returned the senator’s glare. “You must be mistaking me for somebody who gives a shit,” he replied evenly. “If my clinic goes down the tubes, a certain right-wing, narrow-minded senator from Arkansas would go with me.”

  Senator Jenkins shook his head. “You’re so goddamn blind, Riker. You don’t even understand what you’re involved in here.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Your cause has more than its share of enemies,” Jenkins continued. “There are plenty of people who would not mind putting an end to your research. Powerful people.”

  “Like you?”

  Jenkins stepped back and shook his head. “I’m just trying to save my son’s life,” he said softly. “But there are important people who want the clinic closed . . . permanently.”

  “I’m aware of that. I can handle it.”

  Senator Stephen Jenkins walked toward the door and opened it. “No,” he said, “I don’t think you can.”

  SARA stared at Michael and Cassandra. Her hand gripped her cane to the point where her knuckles turned white. She fought off the desire to bash Cassandra with the same cane. She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Sara knew that she was playing into her sister’s hands, that Cassandra was just trying to bait her. But Sara still felt a flush of anger and jealousy that colored her cheeks red.

  Lord knew she should be used to Cassandra by now.

  Sara cleared her throat and began to step toward them when somebody blocked her path.

  “Good evening, Miss Lowell.”

  Sara looked up, surprised. “Good evening, Reverend Sanders.”

  “Please,” the minister said, his famous smile spread across his face, “a moment of your time.”

  He escorted her toward the empty corridor and out of view.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Sara began.

  And what the hell are you doing here anyway?

  “The Holy Crusade is a large contributor to your father’s organization,” he explained. “Your father had no choice but to invite a representative from our organization. Since I’ve always wanted to meet the prestigious Dr. Lowell, I decided to be that representative.”

  “I see,” Sara replied.

  “Yes, Miss Lowell, despite your biased hatchet job on the Holy Crusade and what we believe as God-fearing—”

  “I did not mention beliefs in my report,” Sara interrupted. “I discussed finances and taxes.”

  Sanders smiled. “You think you are so clever, don’t you, Miss Lowell? Do you really think that your petty report can hurt my ministry? You are a stupid woman. In trying to destroy me, you have done the very opposite.”

  Sara leaned against her cane. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you’ll excuse me . . .” She began to hobble back toward the party, but Sanders reached out and gripped her elbow firmly.

  “The money has been pouring in since we went off the air, Miss Lowell. My eight hundred number is ringing like crazy. The free publicity from the show—”

  “Let go of me or start singing soprano.”

  His grip tightened. “Your attacks on me have mobilized my supporters. The righteous see a threat, and they are rising to help—”

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Sanders released Sara’s arm and spun quickly toward the voice. His smile was back in place. “Why, you’
re Michael Silverman! The basketball star! I’m a big fan of yours. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Sara watched as Sanders stuck out his hand. Michael’s eyes were burning, his temper just barely reined in. Sara moved toward Michael and caressed his shoulder. Michael’s muscles were taut and knotted. He continued to ignore the reverend’s outstretched hand. A few seconds later Sanders withdrew it, his smile faltering just slightly.

  “Yes, well, it was nice chatting with you all,” Sanders rambled, “but I really must be going back to the party now.”

  “Oh, must you?” Michael countered.

  Sanders was sweating profusely now. “I look forward to seeing you both at the party,” he said. “Good-bye, Miss Lowell.”

  “Good-bye, Reverend.”

  Sanders turned toward Michael. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Silverman, the Holy Crusade is a big supporter of Israel. I thought you should know.”

  Michael watched Sanders disappear down the corridor. “Permission to beat his head in.”

  “Permission denied . . . for now.”

  “You never let me have fun anymore,” Michael said, beginning to relax a little.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And he’s a big supporter of Israel. Isn’t that nice, hon? I bet some of his best friends are Jewish.”

  Sara nodded. “He probably wants to convert.”

  “I’ll perform the bris.”

  Michael hugged Sara tightly. “You all right?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Sara replied. She took off her glasses and wiped them with Michael’s handkerchief. “So what have you been up to tonight, my valiant hero?”

  Michael shrugged. “The usual—saving small children from fires, fighting crime in the streets, getting pawed by your sister.”

  Sara laughed. “Cassandra can be a tad aggressive.”

  “Just a tad—like Napoleon. You weren’t upset, were you?”

  “Me?” Sara asked. “Never. I did, however, feel this strong desire to bash her head in with my cane.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “You fought her off bravely, I suppose.”

  He put his fist to his chest. “My chastity remains intact.”

  “Good.”

  “By the way, you were great tonight.”

  She arched her eyebrows.

  “I meant on the show, silly girl. No wonder Sanders was pissed off. You tore his ass to pieces.”

  “But he’s probably right, Michael. All the exposé will do is galvanize his supporters and gain him a few new ones.”

  “In the short run maybe. But even imbeciles learn eventually.”

  “They’re not imbeciles. A little gullible perhaps . . .”

  “Whatever,” he replied, taking her hand. “Ready to face your adoring public?”

  “Not really.”

  “Good. Then follow me, my little kitten.”

  “Where?”

  “You mentioned something earlier in the evening about my having my way with you.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember.”

  “It was right after you referred to me as the Stud Machine.”

  “Oh,” she said, moving toward the stairwell. “Now I remember.”

  “SENATOR Jenkins!”

  Stephen Jenkins turned toward the voice. His painted, vote-getting smile, already applied to his jowly face, was holding up quite nicely. “Hello, Reverend. How wonderful to see you!”

  Senator Jenkins and Reverend Sanders exchanged firm handshakes. Sanders, the senator knew, was one of the most influential men in the South. Over the course of the past decade, the religious right had been crucial in Senator Jenkins’ reelection campaigns, and no one delivered their votes like the Reverend Ernest Sanders. If Sanders was on your side, he praised you as a descendant of the Prophets. If he was against you, well, Satan received kinder treatment in his sermons. Luckily for Jenkins, the reverend had backed him. Without his grassroots support, the senator might have lost in the last go-around to that upstart liberal the Democrats had pitted against him.

  “Thank you, Stephen. Quite a party, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Jenkins replied.

  Without so much as a head nod or knowing glance, the two men stepped down the long corridor, out of earshot and sight. Their smiles quickly dissolved away. Ernest Sanders leaned toward Jenkins’ ear, his face tight and set. “I’m not very happy about the guest list for this party,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What the hell is Dr. Harvey Riker doing here?”

  “He’s very close to John’s daughter,” Jenkins explained.

  “This is not good, Stephen. His being here . . . it helps give him a certain legitimacy, don’t you think?”

  The senator nodded, though he really did not agree. He also knew his old friend John Lowell was a hell of a lot more upset at Sanders being here than Riker. John had made it very clear he did not want anyone to know of his association with the televangelist.

  “A lot has been happening lately,” Sanders continued. “We’d best prepare ourselves. I think we should all meet next week.”

  “Where?”

  “At Bethesda.”

  The senator nodded again. “Are you in town for long, Reverend?”

  “No,” Sanders replied. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. I only came up for the interview and . . . how should I put it?” He paused, thinking. “To keep the holy coalition together.”

  Jenkins felt something cold skitter down his back. “I don’t understand.”

  Sanders looked straight at Stephen Jenkins. “Nothing to worry about, Stephen,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  SEVERAL hours later Harvey Riker spotted Sara standing by herself near the bar. Finally, he thought, as something akin to relief drifted through him, a chance to speak with her alone. For the past fifteen minutes Harvey had watched Sara and Bradley Jenkins engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation. They were interrupted by Bradley’s father, who moved between them and pulled Bradley away. No surprise there. Harvey knew that Bradley confided in Sara. Senator Jenkins probably did too.

  Sara was leaning against her cane, sipping lightly at her drink. Harvey approached her. “There you are,” he began. “I’ve been looking for you all night. Congratulations on the show.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Harvey. How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “And the clinic?”

  Harvey shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Did Michael speak with you yet?”

  “About what?”

  “About his stomach.”

  “No,” he replied. “What about it?”

  Sara frowned. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “What’s wrong with his stomach?”

  “He’s been having terrible stomach pain for over a week now.”

  Harvey nodded, finally understanding. “That explains his grimacing all night.”

  “I can’t believe him,” Sara continued. “He promised me he would speak to you.”

  “Don’t blame him, Sara. I haven’t been the most approachable company this evening. He probably thought it was a bad time.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you about something important.” Despite Harvey’s earlier vow, he had gone well beyond that fourth martini. He took yet another swish, enjoying the feel of the cool liquid circling in his mouth before he swallowed. He might have been a little tipsy earlier, but his mind became sober and alert now. “It involves the clinic,” he began slowly, weighing each word in his head before it passed his lips, “and I think it involves Bruce’s death.” He stopped.

  He motioned with his hand. “Let’s take a walk.” They moved through the French doors and out onto the broad expanse of landscaped grounds. Many guests were outside now, the party spilling from the crowded ballroom onto the lawn and formal gardens beyond. The two strolled in silence past the pool, the cabana, the tennis courts. Sara led Harvey down toward the barn where her
father kept the horses. She opened the barn door, releasing the smell of hay and animals. They entered. A horse neighed.

  “This is a beautiful estate,” Harvey said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  He stroked the broad forehead of a large gray horse. “Do you do much riding?” he asked.

  Sara shook her head. “Cassandra’s the rider in the family. The doctors did not like the idea of me on a horse as a child, so I never got into it.”

  “Oh.”

  “So why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

  “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “Nothing new there.”

  Harvey chuckled and then scanned the area to make sure that no one was around. “All right,” he said slowly, “here goes. As you know, Bruce and I have been running the clinic for almost three years now, trying our best to keep all results secret and avoiding the press at all costs.”

  “I know,” Sara replied, “but I never understood why. Clinics and doctors usually crave media attention.”

  “Usually, yes. And I, for one, am never against seeing my smiling face on TV. But this is something different, Sara, something big. First, our treatment is experimental. In such cases even a rumor of success brings on expectations which probably cannot be met. Second, we are working with only forty patients, many of whom do not want their cases made public for obvious reasons. AIDS is still the evil plague in our society, one that inspires prejudice and discrimination of the highest order.”

  “I see.”

  “But a few new factors have entered the game.”

  “Such as?”

  “Money,” he stated flatly. “We’re running out of it and we need more badly. Without some public pressure on the federal government to extend our grant and without some outside donations, the clinic won’t survive much longer, and . . .” He stopped. “And there’s something else,” he said. “Something you have to swear to keep to yourself.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Swear.”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “I swear.”

  He sighed deeply. “You’ve probably heard some of the rumors, Sara. No matter how hard we tried to keep things quiet, the word began to leak out. It started with the success of the drug on the isolated virus in the lab. Then we injected it in mice. Over time, the HIV was destroyed in virtually every instance. The same thing happened when we moved up to monkeys.”